by Deryn Lake
‘I tell you, gentlemen, that I was on a par with Sammy Davis Jr – even more so, though later of course – but on this side of the pond I would hardly be recognized. You see, I signed a contract to do two films about the Wasp Man . . .’
Nick and Kasper looked at him blankly.
‘Well, they were such a smash hit in the States that I was asked to do several more – Return of the Wasp Man and Son of the Wasp Man Strikes Back being two of them. Reverend, Doctor, I was trapped in the Wasp Man’s persona. What was I to do? I disappeared for a month or two – went to Vegas actually – and returned to Tinseltown as a film director. Well, could you blame me? I mean, what would you have done?’
Kasper asked timidly, ‘Who exactly was Wasp Man? Forgive me, but I am Polish and do not know these things.’
Gerry gave a smile. ‘Of course, I quite understand. Things are very primitive in your country. The Wasp Man was a hip-hop dancer with a hidden secret weapon. One sting from him was lethal. You see he was stung within minutes of his birth and it left him with this legacy.’
‘Of hip-hop dancing?’ asked Nick innocently.
‘No,’ answered Gerry, just a shade nastily. ‘Of having this murderous sting.’
‘Golly!’ Nick answered, while Kasper looked very po-faced.
Gerry rambled on regardless. ‘When I returned I decided to make films for television not the big screen. So I directed a long-running soap opera called The Fortune. It was a smash hit. A family saga with all the usual complications. You know the kind of thing.’
‘I believe I saw an episode once in Poland. It had subtitles and was shown very late at night.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’ asked Gerry eagerly.
Kasper shook his head mournfully. ‘Unfortunately I fell asleep.’
‘It wasn’t shown over here?’ asked Nick.
‘No. Too sexy, I reckon. Not quite British, you know.’
There was no answer to that so the conversation came to rather an awkward halt. Gerry drained his glass and looked at his Rolex.
‘Well, guys, I must fly. It really has been an enormous pleasure. I intend to plunge into village life with a vengeance.’ He stood up and pumped the vicar’s hand. ‘Toodle-oo, see you in church as they say. Bye, Doc.’
And he was gone. Kasper and Nick gazed at the door, then stared at one another, speechless.
‘Oh dear,’ said Nick.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I wonder how the village will take to Wasp Man.’
Kasper shrugged eloquently. ‘That we’ll just have to wait and see.’
TWO
True to his word, Gerry Harlington made a spectacular entrance into church, waiting until the last possible second before appearing, then making a slow progress up the central aisle, looking both to his right and left and nodding graciously, before taking a seat in the front pew. All but the very elderly stared in amazement and a positive buzz of ‘Who is that?’ was only hushed by the start of the holy procession. Nick, having taken his seat before the altar, was amused to see that for this occasion Gerry was wearing a soft suede suit in a colour that the vicar could only think of as pink champagne. Beneath it he wore a purple shirt, open at the neck, displaying a vivid gold chain nestling amongst the greying chestal hair.
Afterwards Nick stood outside the ancient church, shaking hands and greeting his parishioners. Further down the steps Gerry had taken up a place in the middle of the path and was stopping everyone who passed him with a brilliant smile and a positive broadside of goodwill. Most of the inhabitants of Lakehurst looked embarrassed, muttered a hasty greeting, and hurried quickly on. But to his surprise Nick saw that Mrs Ivy Bagshot, chairwoman of the local Women’s Institute, had actually stopped and was engaging Harlington in an animated conversation. Even though Nick was conversing with an elderly churchgoer at the time he, rather naughtily, strained his ears.
‘. . . I knew you were in showbusiness, lady. You have that look about you.’
Mrs Bagshot’s claim to the stage had been limited to playing an ageing principal boy in the WI’s annual pantomime production, the reason being that she had the longest legs. The fact that facially she had a certain resemblance to a parrot had not come into consideration.
Nick hastily said farewell to the last of the congregation and turned towards Gerry.
‘Mr Harlington, I was delighted to see you in church. I heard you singing the hymns with gusto.’
‘I was trained vocally, Vicar. I had to sing in the Wasp Man pictures.’
‘You were in films?’ interrupted Ivy, impressed.
‘I certainly was, ma’am. In fact at one time I was the toast of Hollywood.’
Unbelievably Mrs Bagshot swallowed it.
‘How very interesting.’
Gerry bowed. ‘Most kind, I’m sure. Could I buy you a drink, ma’am? Do you have a spare half-hour?’
Ivy looked at her watch, a gold one on a thin strap. ‘Well, I . . .’ She glanced at the vicar as if for approval but he kept his face expressionless. ‘I really ought to be getting back.’
‘Oh, come now. Surely you can spare half an hour.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said Ivy capitulating.
The last view that Nick had of them was as they headed purposefully towards The Great House.
As it was not yet one o’clock the public house was relatively empty and Gerry quickly found a small table and seated Ivy at it with a great show of courtly old-world Southern manners.
‘What can I get you to drink, ma’am?’
‘A sweet sherry, if you please.’
‘Coming up.’
He went to the bar and returned a few minutes later with a schooner full of a deep-brown liquid and a large Jack Daniels on the rocks. Taking a seat opposite her, he said, ‘May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?’
‘Ivy Bagshot,’ she answered, her glasses misting slightly.
‘Gerry Harlington, at your service. May I say that your name is most becoming, Miss Bagshot.’
‘Mrs.’
‘Of course. How could I think that an attractive woman like you could have slipped through the net.’
‘Are you married, Mr Harlington?’
‘Yes,’ Gerry answered, somewhat surprisingly. ‘But my wife is a regular homebody. She’s never happier than when she’s in the garden – or polishing something. Of course, we’re looking for a cleaner but meanwhile she has Abbot’s Manor to care for all by herself.’
‘You live there? In the moated manor?’ asked Ivy, clearly impressed.
‘Yeah. And you know the reason why I temporarily left America and came to England, Mrs Bagshot?’
‘No.’
‘I want to make a documentary on village life. The good, the bad and the ugly. Every aspect of what goes on behind the respectable facade.’
‘Oh goodness! Do you direct for television then?’
‘Sure. I directed one of the most popular soaps on US TV. And I have also had a most interesting career in films. Let me tell you about it – that is if you would like to hear.’
‘Oh yes, I would. Very much.’
Nearly an hour later, cheeks flushed from too much sherry, Ivy was sitting agog, listening to the exploits of the Wasp Man. She even tittered broad-mindedly at the mention of a hip-hop dancer.
‘Can you really do that, Mr Harlington? I mean dance in that fashion?’
‘Lady, I can do anything when it comes to the stage. I am what you Brits would call a good all-rounder. And what about you? What parts have you played?’
‘Nothing in your league, I’m afraid. I usually get cast as principal boy in the local village pantomime. But I was to have been the Lady Marguerite Beau de Grave – amongst other things – but, alas, that is now not to be.’
‘Why is that? I don’t understand.’
‘Do you really want to hear about it? I mean, it’s all local stuff.’
Gerry narrowed his eyes. ‘Mrs Bagshot, everything is of interest to me. Yes, siree.’
‘Who he?’
‘Well, he was a sort of white version of you,’ Ivy babbled on tactlessly. ‘He had been an actor, director, writer, everything. He just happened to retire to Oakbridge . . .’
‘He was an elderly man then?’
‘Oh yes, well into his seventies. Not a bit like you really,’ she added, sensing that Gerry was fractionally put out.
‘I’m pleased to hear that, Mrs Bagshot. Do go on.’
‘Well, he had conceived the idea of writing the script for a Son et Lumière to be performed at Fulke Castle.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know where that is. But first, would you like another sherry? I see that your glass is empty.’
Ivy giggled, something she hadn’t done for years. ‘Well, I oughtn’t to.’
‘Oh come on, lady. You’ve had hardly anything.’
Ivy fished in her small handbag and produced an even smaller purse. ‘It’s my turn but I would rather that you went to the bar.’ She handed him a ten-pound note which he was busy refusing when at that moment the door opened and the vicar, dressed in jeans and a sweater, appeared. ‘Oh Vicar,’ Ivy called gaily. ‘What are you having? It’s my round.’
Thinking that wonders would never cease, Nick walked over to her table. ‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs Bagshot. I’ll have a pint of Harvey’s please. May I join you?’
She nodded and he sat down and looked round. Jack Boggis was in his usual place, back to the throng, facing the wall, nose in the paper, contributing nothing. Giles Fielding was sitting at the bar, eyeing up Gerry, as were a great many of the other regulars. Kasper had been invited out to lunch and was conspicuous by his non-appearance. In fact, other than for the absence of the doctor, things were very much as normal.
The door of The Great House opened once again and in walked Madisson, a very tall, very thin, very blonde girl who had opened a beauty parlour some six doors up from the church. She sailed up to the bar and stood next to Gerry, who glanced at her with a great deal of admiration.
Nick waited for the line, ‘Say, honey, you ought to be in pictures,’ and was almost relieved when out it came.
Madisson looked Gerry up and down with a cool regard. ‘No thanks, I’m quite happy with my life.’
‘But, darling, you could be a big star.’
‘Get you!’ she said, and went to join her friends who were sitting at a table nearby.
Looking slightly crestfallen, Gerry came back with the drinks and turned on Ivy Bagshot a beaming smile. ‘Now, Mrs B., you were telling me about the adventures of Mr Merryfield.’
The vicar came in on the conversation. ‘Wasn’t that the poor chap from Oakbridge who died recently?’
Mrs Bagshot looked earnest. ‘Oh yes, indeed. And as I was telling Mr Harlington he has left the Odds in a state of confusion.’
‘Odds?’ Nick repeated, puzzled.
‘Yes. The Oakbridge Dramatists and Dramatic Society.’
Nick thought this title was rather overdoing things but said nothing and prepared to listen as Ivy launched into her tale.
‘He’d written the script for and was going to direct a Son et Lumière at Fulke Castle. That is a stately home about twelve miles away in the middle of the countryside, Mr Harlington. Anyway, it was such a big cast that they asked the WI if they could provide any actresses to help them out. Naturally I stepped forward as did Mrs Howes and Mrs Emms. But, of course, it was men they were desperately short of. And now, as fate would have it, the director himself.’
‘But surely he had an assistant?’ This from Nick.
‘Well, yes. Young Oswald Souter, who applied for the position in order to learn how to direct. In other words, I fear he is a trifle youthful and inexperienced to take over such a huge project.’
Nick nodded and Gerry sucked his teeth audibly.
‘Tell me about Fulke Castle.’
Mrs Bagshot sipped her sherry. ‘Well, in parts it goes back to 1067, so it was built right after the Norman invasion, though there have been tons of additions since. The part that is lived in is mainly Victorian. But it’s all open to the public.’
‘So it’s not National Trust?’ asked Nick.
‘No, believe it or not it is still in the hands of the original family, though goodness alone knows how. The present owner is Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, his ancestor having come over with William the Conqueror. Anyway, he lets the castle out for films and television – that sort of thing – and has hordes of people poring over the staterooms and so on, and in this way somehow manages to keep the place going.’
‘So was he hiring it out to the Odds?’
‘Yes, but I believe he gave them a cut rate because Mr Merryfield was going to tell its story – and a very fascinating one it was too – but with actors and horses and dogs and sound and light. Oh, it was going to have been so wonderful.’
And Mrs Bagshot’s eyes, big behind their glasses, suddenly welled with tears.
Gerry spoke. ‘Come now, ma’am, there’s no need for that. Wasp Man to the rescue.’
She and Nick stared at him blankly.
‘While you were speaking I felt the pull of your old Castle Fulke. I shall be happy to offer my services as director to your friends in Oakbridge. If they’ll have me, of course.’
This last was said with a sly expression that reminded Nick of a dog stealing sausages.
Mrs Bagshot’s throat flushed scarlet and a tear trickled down and left a rivulet in her powder.
‘Oh, would you?’ she cried ecstatically, her hands clasping as if in prayer.
‘Yes, ma’am, I will. If I may put a new spin on the words, “I didn’t call the castle; the castle called me”. Now you just go home and phone those Oakbridge oddities and tell them that help is at hand. Give them my professional details and I’ll wait to get the OK.’
Inwardly Nick shuddered at the thought of the Wasp Man let loose on something as ancient and as precious as Fulke Castle but he kept quiet and concentrated his mind on what he was having for lunch instead.
That night, when evensong was over and Nick was just relaxing, putting his feet up and attempting a brute of a crossword in one of the Sunday papers, there was a ring at the front door. Pulling a face at Radetsky, who gave him a look of pure disapproval in return, he went to answer it and was surprised to see a strange young woman standing there. She gave him a big apologetic smile.
‘Good evening, Reverend Lawrence, I’m so sorry to disturb you and I do apologize for calling so late.’
‘How can I help you?’ he said, opening the door and ushering her into the hall.
‘Well, it’s a bit of a delicate matter.’
Inwardly Nick sighed, wondering what was coming next. Ahead of him the girl walked into the living room and pulled a beret from her head so that a great mass of crocus-coloured hair came tumbling round her shoulders. She smiled once more.
‘First I think I’d better introduce myself. I’m Jonquil Charmwood.’
‘Is that really your name?’ Nick said.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘It’s just that it’s so unusual.’
She laughed. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘I do. Very much. Now what can I do for you, Miss Charmwood?’
He motioned her to a chair and as she sat down there was a sudden creak of floorboards from above. They both looked up.
‘William,’ said Nick with a grin. ‘He’s my resident ghost. Nice old fellow. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Really? I’ve always wanted to meet a ghost. Do you see him?’
‘Very occasionally. But anyway, you haven’t come here to talk about him I take it.’
‘No. It’s actually about the Son et Lumière at Fulke Castle.’
‘Not trouble alrea
dy?’ Nick said without thinking.
‘No, not really. You know, of course, that Mr Merryfield died of a sudden heart attack. Well, the show was due to be cancelled and then Mrs Bagshot of Lakehurst rang the secretary of Odds – me – and said that this most marvellous actor and director had recently moved into the village and was offering to save the day.’
‘Yes, it’s true enough.’
‘Do you think he’s capable of doing it?’
Nick sat down opposite her and decided to be honest. ‘Look, I’ve only met the man twice but he has had a career in Hollywood out of which he must have made a great deal of money because the house he bought, which is just outside Lakehurst by the way, was on the market for a considerable fortune. As to his talents, I really can’t say. I’ve never seen any of his films or any of his television series so it’s not possible for me to comment. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Jonquil, and shook her head from side to side so that her lively hair flew. ‘Well, we’ll just have to judge for ourselves I suppose. He’s coming along to the next rehearsal.’
‘That will be your chance then.’
‘Yes, it will.’ She stood up. ‘Thank you so much, Vicar.’
He rose as well. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’
Jonquil made her way to the front door. ‘It’s a lovely place you have here,’ she said, looking around.
‘Yes, I like it. You must come and see it in the daylight.’
Why did I just say that? He asked himself.
‘Thank you, I will,’ she answered, and disappeared into the street.
There was a thump on the landing.
‘Glad you approve, William,’ the vicar called, and went back to his crossword.
THREE
It was not destined to be a peaceful evening. At 10.30, just as Nick was preparing to go to bed, the telephone rang again. This time it was Ivy, definitely tipsy and slurring her words.
‘Hello, Father Nick, hello.’
Oh really! thought Nick, having been brought up to believe that phoning anyone after nine was rude.
‘I just thought I’d give you a little call to thank you for introducing me to Mr Harlington.’