Eat, Drink, and Be Buried

by Peter King

  "When you know it, maybe it is." I turned to Neville. "Are you active in the castle operations?"

  "Good Lord, no!" He was emphatic.

  "Neville's a trader, in foreign currencies."

  "Are you with one of the banks in the City?" I asked.

  "No. I'm an independent." He had a slightly languid air that fitted his answer. I supposed it was one of the curses of the nobility.

  "He makes lots of money, don't you, Neville?"

  I was not sure whether Angela was praising him or being caustic at his expense. His reply did not support either view. "Like all traders, my dear, I do, at times ... then one experiences those other times."

  "I hear the deutsche mark is on the rise," I said.

  "For a while," he said dismissively. "Until the chairman of their central banking system makes his speech next month at least."

  I had no idea what the deutsche mark was doing, but I wanted to see if he really was in currency or if it was just a pose. A murder on the premises makes me suspicious of almost everybody. I would have to call a knowledgeable friend and check on that answer.

  We chatted about the castle and the ramifications of its myriad activities before Neville became noticeably impatient to leave. Angela darted him a swift glance, evidently recognizing the symptoms.

  "We'll be off then," she said brightly. "Next time you feel like a prowl around the maze, let me know. There's a secret corner of it, called the Bower. It used to be a trysting place in the old days."

  "But no longer? You mean people don't tryst any more?"

  She gave me a provocative pout. "I'll take you there soon. We can find out."

  Before they were out of sight, Neville's arm was around her and they were kissing. Maybe it was for my benefit or maybe cousins were closer in the country. I wondered if I had a knowledgeable friend who could answer that one, too.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Leave liaison with Inspector Devlin to me" had been Hemingway's parting words. I knew him well enough to know that meant I did not have to tell Devlin that I was reporting to Hemingway. It was not that Hemingway was a devious man-well, that's not true, he could be extremely devious-but it was not a matter of keeping Devlin in the dark so that the Food Squad could grab the glory. The specialized involvement of the Food Squad meant that any information I unearthed could be better interpreted by them rather than the local police. "A little rationalization does wonders to clear the mind" was a suitable dictum, I reminded myself.

  My intended visit to the supplies office had slipped in priority since I had been conscripted by the Food Squad. I still needed to talk to Donna Rowlands, but a morning spent in getting better acquainted with the castle and its occupants was surely more immediately useful.

  The grounds were festooned with banners and flags proclaiming today as being a "Children's Festival," and figures in brilliantly colored costumes were already flitting all over the lawns, which still glistened with the remains of a morning dew. I saw Don McCartney in his role as Entertainments Director giving instructions to a group of minstrels, radiant in bright yellows, greens, and reds. Over by the tents, several horses broke into a canter, urged by leather-clad riders, apparently practicing some maneuver. The thump-thump of their hooves on the grass and an occasional snorted cloud of steam lent an authentic air to the proceedings.

  McCartney finished speaking to the minstrels and came in my direction. "Morning," he said. "You'll enjoy today. Oh, I know it's mainly for the kids, but it's always a great day's entertainment. Adults love it as much as the kids. You're going to be around, aren't you?"

  "Absolutely," I said. "Looking forward to it."

  "We don't have any violent stuff, as some of the kids are quite young. A few sword fights, some wrestling with the bears, minstrel shows with some slapstick and a few pratfalls-that kind of thing. A couple of Punch-and-Judy shows, they're always popular. Don't miss the archery display, by the way. On the stage over there, we're putting on reenactments of fairy tales, and the local Shakespeare Society is doing excerpts from plays-"

  "Midsummer Night's Dream, no doubt."

  He grinned. "Naturally. They take a lot of liberties with it. Bottom dons his ass's head several times more than the script calls for, so if you're a purist ..."

  "Not on Children's Day," I told him.

  He went to assist two young women in flowing robes who were having a problem locating the place where they were due to perform. Before they had gone, a man dressed as a woodsman and carrying a plastic ax came to protest that Red Riding Hood had failed to appear. "But she doesn't have any lines, does she?" asked McCartney. The woodsman admitted that she did not, whereupon McCartney rapped, "Then get any girl!"

  Children were now flowing in, bringing their parents, who looked just as eager. A group of musicians was circulating. One had an instrument like a viola, another a harp, a third a flute, and a fourth tambourines. They mixed in some tunes that sounded medieval with a few Beatles numbers.

  A crowd was gathering and I went over to join it. Felicity, the elder of the two Harlington girls, was the first familiar face I saw. "You're just in time," she said, helping me to squeeze through to a clear space with a good view. "I love this show. We put it on all the time, of course, but this is a special version of it for chil dren." She pointed. "That's Daniel-and here come his Dancing Bears."

  Daniel was a youngish man with a thick bush of curly hair. He had appropriately classic features and wore an outfit in light gray with scarlet piping, collar and cuffs. On his head was a peaked hat with a scarlet plume. He played a small flute with a limited range, but the bears apparently understood it. They reared on their hind legs, making the children press back with small cries of excitement. The bears twirled, dropped on all fours, and repeated their performance.

  "Aren't they great!" said Felicity, clapping her hands in delight. She wore a dress in a salmon color that made her look like a slightly older version of the children around her. "I love this show."

  I decided not to recount the conversation with Victor Gontier and Madeleine Bristow when I had suggested bear meat as a suitable food for the banquets. Watching the gyrating animals, I knew that the whole idea of serving bear was doomed to oblivion. They were small enough not to be menacing. They were brown and fuzzy and the children were loving them.

  Felicity waved to someone on our left and a man in his late twenties came through to us. "Have you met?" Felicity asked. She introduced me and said, "This is Frank Morgan, he worked with Kenny."

  He was dark and athletic-looking. He nodded.

  "You're the stuntman who plays Sir Harry," I said. "Nice to meet you."

  "He's on tonight, aren't you, Frank?" asked Felicity.

  "Yes. Having to double up now there's only the two of us."

  His complaint brought a disapproving look from Felicity, but instead of reprimanding him, she said lightly, "We're looking for a replacement. Don McCartney has an old friend coming in to talk about the job."

  "Sooner the better," the stuntman said. "Can't rely on that irresponsible brother of yours. He's likely to go streaking off into the village to see that girlfriend of his and leave us all in the lurch any time."

  "At least Richard is more concerned about poor Kenny's death than you are," Felicity retorted.

  "He should be," said Morgan. "Kenny's death is his fault."

  Felicity was about to come back with a biting response, but she glanced at me and her upbringing as a polite young woman prevailed. "This isn't the time for an argument of this nature," she said. "We'll see you later."

  She took my hand and pulled me away. Frank Morgan gave me another nod and pushed his way through the crowd in the opposite direction.

  "I'm sorry," she said, when we stopped after a few paces. "Richard is a little reckless, I know, and he seems to have lost his head over that girl." She stopped as she realized the unfortunate allusion, but she went on, "He really is a feeling person and he is still devastated over Kenny's death."

  "I haven't s
een him around at all."

  "No, he's been staying out of sight. He'll be here today, though."

  A troupe of stilt walkers came waddling toward us, Pied Pipers with a stream of admiring children behind them. More wandering minstrels appeared, their flute notes shrill and their drums persistent. Felicity was silent and I sensed she was depressed. "Cheer up. Try and get into the spirit of the day. It might help."

  She gave me a grateful if wan smile and we turned to find people moving toward a Punch-and Judy show that had just begun. I steered Felicity in that direction and we watched for a few minutes. "We criticize television," I said as the policeman beat Punch over the head with his truncheon, "but perhaps its violence had some origins here."

  "At least this is quieter," Felicity said. "No explosions, no gunfire, and no burning buildings collapsing."

  Judy was comforting Punch now that the policeman had left. "I think Punch is faking," I said.

  "No, no, he's hurt. Just because he isn't bleeding-"

  "He's enjoying all the attention he's getting. I'm sure I saw him wink at the audience."

  "Is that your technique?" Felicity asked. "Pretending to be hurt?"

  "As a technique, it has its place. It works very well."

  It was good to hear her laugh, even if it was only a small chuckle. "I'll remember that-Oh, listen-" The public announcement system was telling as that the archery contest was to commence in about five minutes.

  "I want to see that," Felicity said. "Richard is in it."

  We passed two jugglers throwing clubs to one another and they made mock-threatening motions of throwing a couple at us. "Stop that, Carlo!" Felicity called out to an Italian-looking fellow in blue and yellow pantaloons and blouse. He grinned and threw a club straight up into the air. Another club flew at him from his partner. He deftly caught and returned it with one hand, then with the other scooped up the falling club almost as it was about to land on the grass.

  "I think we'd better take refuge here," laughed Felicity. We were passing a wooden hut with a sign outside proclaiming: "Madame Kravatsky-Fortunes Told." Colored drawings of the heavens adorned the hut. "The children at the local school did all of these," Felicity said. "One of their many contributions to this fair."

  We stopped to admire the drawings, nearly all of which were remarkably imaginative. One in particular had a moon with human features. I took Felicity's arm. "Look at this one," I said, and I was pointing when-

  A whistling sound seemed to come out of nowhere. It turned instantly into a whirring like an overstretched spring, then, as if by magic, an arrow slammed into the wall of the hut. The head disappeared, buried deep, and the shaft still vibrated.

  Felicity gasped in fear as she stared at me, eyes wide. The arrow had passed between us, missing us by inches.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Everything else forgotten for the moment, Felicity flew toward the archery range. I followed. Bales of hay had been stacked in a rough semicircle behind the targets to absorb stray arrows. A hundred paces away, a large tent had one side open. Displays around the inside held different kinds of bows and arrows and showed the assembly from individual components. Reproductions of old woodcuts and drawings depicted archers of various nations locked in battle through the centuries.

  The local Archery Society had posted a large sign which stated that they were responsible for this exhibit and demonstration, but when Felicity arrived they must have wished they had kept a lower profile. Staying just barely short of profanity, Felicity gave her razor-edged opinion of their safety and security arrangements. Her eyes blazed, her hands were in constant motion, and her voice lashed them like a bullwhip. All activities ceased and everybody listened.

  When a tiny fissure opened up in her tirade and one member of the society was able to get a word in, several of them went pounding across the grass to look at the offending arrow. They returned, frill of chagrin and apologies, and an impromptu inquiry was immediately opened.

  It was quickly evident that nothing was going to come of it. Several of them had been standing around, archers in the contest and members of the society, as well as numerous interested visitors. Some had gone outside the tent to test the pull of this or that bow, and although the society members were reluctant to admit it, it was quite possible that someone could have taken an arrow and shot it. With all the coming and going in and out, no one was sure of anything.

  "Who is or has been here, I wonder?" I murmured to Felicity, half musing, but knowing that she would pick up on it. The list included Frank Morgan, the stuntman we had left a while ago; Norman and Richard, who were both accomplished archers; and Don McCartney, who occasionally participated in contests. Norman was still here, but Richard had gone, no one was sure when. Everyone present denied loosing off an arrow or seeing anyone with one in their bow.

  "What's the range to the fortune-telling booth?" I asked the vice president of the Archery Society, a nervous, twittery man with bony features, doubly agitated now.

  He peered beyond the tent flap. "About a hundred paces."

  I looked at the targets lined up in front of the bale of hay backwall. "About the same as to the targets."

  "Well, yes," he agreed. He twisted his fingers together. "I can't understand it, though. It couldn't have been anybody here, none of them would-"

  "A mischievous child?" I suggested.

  "Yes!" He seized on that eagerly. "It must have been."

  "There are a few of them here," I noted.

  "Quite a lot."

  "They all seem to be with adults, though," I said. Another thought struck me. "What is the pull on these bows?"

  "Forty, forty-five pounds-why do you ask? Ah, I see, yes." His face clouded. "He'd have to be a strong boy, wouldn't he?"

  Felicity rejoined me. Norman was with her. "Funny business, this," he said. He was regarding me suspiciously, I thought. "An accident, don't you agree?" he asked.

  "I'm not sure you really think that," I said.

  Norman hesitated, rubbed his cheek, then half-smiled. "As a matter of fact, I don't. The problem is-if it wasn't an accident, what was it?"

  "Kenny's death throws doubt on any incident like this." I hoped the noncommittal comment would draw him out. Was there something he wanted to tell me? I had the feeling there was, but what was holding him back? His glance flickered to Felicity but only for a split second. Why was he afraid to speak in front of her?

  "I was just talking to the vice president over there," I said. "Forty pounds pull or more on those bows means it couldn't have been a child."

  Norman nodded. He seemed glad to be able to be decisive on some point. "No question about that, I'd say."

  "You didn't see anybody yourself? Hanging around the tent entrance? Waiting for an opportunity to step outside and let off a shot?"

  He shook his head firmly. "No. I was talking to Richard about the wind. He thought we ought to delay the start till it dropped. It can spoil an event like this."

  "Did it drop?" Felicity asked.

  "Well, yes, it did." His eyes searched her face.

  "That's really important, isn't it?" She was trying to get out of him what he knew or what he thought, just as I was.

  "I see what you're saying," he said slowly. "If the arrow was aimed at either one of you, just a breeze could have caused a miss."

  "Which brings us to the other question." She turned to me. "Which of us was the target?"

  "I can't believe anyone wants to stop the menu being changed," I said lightly. I wanted to retract the words as soon as they were out of my mouth but life doesn't provide reruns. I saw her mouth quiver, and added quickly, "But then nobody could want to kill you either. No, it must have been a silly accident."

  I saw another familiar face coming out of the crowd around the tent. It was Neville Woodward, whom Angela had introduced as her cousin. "You both okay?" he asked, but he didn't appear too solicitous. We assured him we were, but before we could say anything more, Lord Harlington came striding across the lawn.r />
  "I just heard. What is this all about?"

  Heads turned and conversation quieted as everyone wanted to hear what the lord of the manor had to say. He noticed the change his arrival had brought about and waved to the people around the tent. "It's all right, no harm done," he called out. "Don't want this to spoil the festival."

  He took us aside and asked for a detailed account. Felicity gave him one, keeping it brief but not sparing the criticism. "I just stopped by the fortune-telling booth on the way here, saw the arrow," Lord Harlington said, appalled. "My God, it could have killed you!"

  "Well, it didn't, Daddy, so stop worrying. Just an accident." Felicity had recovered her composure and was making light of the incident. We talked for a few more minutes, Felicity steering the conversation further and further away from archery.

  Her father left us, counseling us to be careful. Norman went with him. "I'm going to watch the dance troupe," Neville said. "They're doing sarabandes and gavottes and some of those other real old dances. Want to come along?" He ignored me, directing his question at Felicity.

  "Go ahead," I told her. "Have a good time."

  She smiled and the two of them walked away. I watched an acrobatic team that strolled across the grass, tossing their smaller members into the air and catching them expertly. I might have spent more time here at the Children's Festival, but I decided it was too dangerous a place for me. I walked off toward the castle where the supplies office sounded safer.

  The business wing of the castle was just like the interior of any large and busy company. Some rooms had been converted into offices, the larger ones partitioned to provide working cubicles. Phones rang, computer screens glowed, keyboards rattled, and men and women bustled around, some with papers in their hands, others with cups of tea.

  "Supplies" was a fair-sized operation, handling such diverse commodities as toilet paper, feed for the horses, wax for the wooden floors, stationery and candles for the chapel. Donna Rowlands was telling me this after accepting my visit without question. She was a plump girl with horn-rimmed glasses and a crowded but not untidy desk.