Eat, Drink, and Be Buried

by Peter King

  The crack of the rifle merged into a hollow whine. A bullet smacked into a tree near us and I stood for a second, rooted to the spot. I looked around for some better shelter. The big oaks were of limited use, for if the person with the gun moved to change the angle, we would be exposed. A matted tangle of high bushes caught my eye. I grabbed Angela's hand and dragged her in that direction. I was expecting to hear a further crack of gunfire at any second. We dived into the bushes, less concerned about thorns than bullets, but we encountered neither. I realized that these were ferns, soft and comforting. We scrambled deeper, pushing the ferns aside, then collapsed onto a flattened area.

  As we rolled over closely entwined, Angela squeezed against me, breath coming in gulps, the danger of being shot declining in importance. Her large dark eyes searched my face. She squeezed closer. We kissed, then again more passionately.

  Then several times more ... I was floating in a sensuous world of soft flesh and a faint but indeterminable perfume. Perhaps it was not perfume at all but a natural and delightful personal fra grance. I was swallowed up in that world and sank deeper and deeper into it. Hazy, exciting mental images swam through my brain and I lost track of time as I floated through space ...

  My vision cleared. I found myself gazing into a pair of eyes. They were large and brown and beautiful. I was prepared to lose myself in them again when I felt a vague stirring of something wrong ...

  I tried to push the notion aside but it would not go away. Something was amiss. I struggled to think what it could be, then the thought crystallized. Those eyes!

  What had happened to Angela's eyes? They were darker but not as large. They were even a different shape.

  The eyes examined me with mild curiosity. A pink tongue appeared, the tip moving slowly and provocatively. It was when a small nose, twitching very slightly, appeared below it among the ferns that I came out of my romantic haze.

  The face that was inches away belonged to a fawn, a baby deer. It must have been very young and its parents had not yet taught it to beware of those dangerous beings-humans. The shapely head half-turned as another appeared beside it. This one must have been a few months older, for it was larger and looked more suspicious. Another head poked through and studied us. We might have been models for a class of student deer.

  I shook Angela. She gasped some words. I didn't catch any of them except for "again," then she became aware that I was being distracted. She was starting to get critical about my attention span when she realized that parts of our surroundings were displaying movement. Her eyes widened. The ferns had parted to admit one more curious face and then another.

  Angela struggled to her feet, making scathing and unladylike criticisms of the dainty creatures around us. It dawned on me that these ferns were their favorite eating and the parents had probably deposited their offspring here as a sort of Nature's day nurseryone with a built-in food supply.

  Slowly and carefully, I parted the ferns to see a clearing where a dozen of the tiny, graceful creatures were nibbling away. Food was of more interest to them than two members of a strange subspecies engaged in some bizarre ritual.

  I hated to disturb their tea party but neither could I make it clear to them that this was a matter of life and death. It was probably just as well, because it would be too complicated to disassociate ourselves from those other humans out there with guns. Given some means of communication, I could at least have clarified that those men shooting at their parents were shooting at me too.

  Deer, I was beginning to appreciate, were not unlike other species of animal life. They varied from one to another; they had different reactions. A couple of them were flicking their tails in an edgy, twitchy sort of way, unhappy at this invasion of their haven. One of them looked downright aggressive, though disqualified, by its size, weight, and lack of horns, from doing anything about it. A couple looked genuinely curious and slightly puzzled. The others just couldn't care less as long the stock of ferns held up.

  Angela was fastening buttons, pulling zippers and brushing off her clothes, giving small sighs of exasperation. She blew out her cheeks in one final gasp, then became very matter-of-fact.

  "I think the shooting party has moved away," she said.

  "What makes you think that?"

  "I haven't heard any gunfire for some time."

  I thought there might be another reason why she had not heard anything for some time, but decided not to infringe on her irritated mood.

  We made our cautious way back to the edge of the thicket. There was nothing and no one in sight. The crack of a rifle sounded and it was a long way away. "It's safe," said Angela authoritatively. "Come on."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Culling a deer herd was no longer as interesting as it had been. We were first to return to the vehicles and we stood by one of the Land Rovers.

  "It was only one shot," Angela said. She had been making the point that it could have been an accidental discharge of a weapon or a shooter becoming disoriented and not realizing that we were in his line of fire.

  "There was only one arrow too," I reminded her. "At Felicity and me."

  "What's your point?" she asked, turning to face me. She had been argumentative and confrontational since we left the fawns' picnic ground, perhaps in frustration. A frolic in the ferns was probably her intention-or was there more to it than that? I didn't feel like debating the meaning of it, suspecting that it would be a debate I would lose.

  "Either one alone could be an accident. Two of them becomes downright suspicious," I said.

  "Aimed at who? You, me, or Felicity?"

  Before I could answer, she said, "It's preposterous that anyone would want to kill me." With a sulky pout, she added, "Or Felicity"

  "I can't really think why anyone would want to kill me," I said slowly, "but perhaps there's more to my job here than meets the eye, at least someone thinks so."

  "All you're doing is changing some menus," she said scornfully.

  "True," I said, "but you must admit I'm doing it with a flair."

  "That is all you're doing, isn't it? Changing menus?" She was pressing seriously now.

  "Of course," I said, but she was eying me in a judgmental way.

  When the others returned, she delivered a scathing attack on the unknown marksman. Her eyes flashed and her vocabulary was remarkable in its range--all the way from Anglo-Saxon expletives to current gutter slang. They looked taken aback at the onslaught and all denied having fired in our direction.

  "Well, someone shot at us, and it must have been one of you careless idiots! We could have been killed."

  They had a mini-inquest right on the spot, but it was inconclusive. In order to make sure they all had clear fields of fire, they had kept so far apart that they remained out of sight of one another. As a result, not one of them could act as an alibi for any other. There was nothing to suggest who fired the shot.

  "Could it have been someone else?" asked Felicity. "Richard, could there be someone else in the grounds?"

  "Hardly," he said.

  "One of us would have seen him," Norman said.

  We broke up. Norman and Neville took the pickup truck, which I noticed had a winch mounted behind the cab. They were to retrieve the deer. They had shot eight, they told us, which was the limit set by the Forestry Commission. The rest of us went back in the Land Rovers in uneasy silence.

  One of the servants intercepted me as I entered the hall. He lowered his voice to cut down the volume-echoes rolled around the vast dome and came back down.

  "Inspector Devlin would like a word with you, sir. She's in the billiard room."

  I hadn't seen that part of the castle, so he told me where it was. The two billiard tables took up only a part of it, and the inspector had moved in two desks; constables sat at each with telephones and laptops. A paperless society might be the aim, but it had clearly not yet been achieved here as each man had stacks of what were presumably reports.

  The inspector was sitting on a small, uncomf
ortable-looking chair at a clear desk. She was on another telephone, but grunted a few words and hung up. She regarded me with a baleful look. "Anything to tell me?" she rasped.

  "I have just been watching the culling of the deer herd," I told her.

  She didn't change her expression. I concluded that it was part of her normal repertoire and not aimed specifically at me.

  "I was with Angela Harlington; we were by a clump of trees. A bullet hit a tree very near us."

  She rapped out a series of questions: who was there? where was everyone? how far away? what could we see? She had the whole picture in two or three minutes. I was impressed by her ability to gather information rapidly and assemble it.

  "What's your opinion? A deliberate attempt, or carelessness?"

  "I don't know," I said. "I assume they are all experienced hunters, so carelessness seems unlikely. If it was deliberate, then who were they shooting at, and why?"

  She kept her steady stare directed at me. "Is there something you're keeping back from me?" she asked sharply. "Are you sure you're only here for this business of changing the menus?"

  It sounded like a very trivial pursuit, the way she put it. "Changing the menus is one of the missions that make up my job," I told her. "It may not sound very important to you but-"

  She waved a hand dismissively. "But it is to you. Yes, all right. My question is, are you here for any other purpose?"

  I could explain that Sir Gerald had asked me to stay on and see what I could find out about the death of Kenny Bryce, but I didn't think she would take kindly to the idea of my acting as the detective after I had assured her I was not. I stuck to the literal truth. "Inspector, I came here for one purpose only-to advise on the menus."

  She cleared her throat. It served as a comment better than words but I didn't mind; it was getting me off the hook, or so I hoped.

  "Nobody wants to shoot you, then?"

  "I can't believe they do, no. Nor could I think of a reason why."

  She shifted her body to an even more awkward position in the uncomfortable chair. "In that case, and if it was deliberate, then they were shooting at the girl."

  "I don't know any reason for that, either."

  "H'm," she grunted. "I'll talk to them all." I was a little surprised. i had thought she might dismiss it, but she added, "Coming after that bow and arrow business, we need to know more about it."

  "You heard about that?"

  "Lord Harlington told me. Just missed the other daughter."

  I decided not to say that it just missed me, too. The less I said the better.

  One of the constables came over. "Excuse me, Inspector, could you take this call? It's-" She cut him off with a chopping motion of one hand. It wouldn't do to let me hear who she was going to talk to.

  I took the opportunity and said quickly, "I'll be gone this afternoon for a few hours. I'm having lunch with a former police officer, an old friend."

  She hesitated, then nodded and went to take the call. I decided to get away before she could ask me anything further.

  The London Heralds' Society is in the area known as the City. Most of the financial institutions are here, crammed into this relatively small area. Here banks, insurance companies, stockbrokers, and commodity exchanges conduct worldwide business; the society met on Throgmorton Street near the Bank of England.

  Stone steps led up to highly polished wooden doors with large brass handles. I pushed a brass button and one door opened to reveal an elderly but dignified man in a smart uniform. I told him I was to meet Edgar Sampson here and he conducted me into a glass-walled cubicle where Edgar was already waiting.

  We were both taken into an adjoining room. It was large, airy, and had a skylight that took up a major part of the ceiling. Shields and banners covered the walls, but they were widely spaced, minimizing ostentation. One half of the room was raised from the rest and on this half was a circular table with a shiny wooden top. A man sat there waiting for us. Edgar introduced me.

  Francis Somerville was the Knight Pursuivant, I learned. It was one of the highest titles in the society, the purpose of which was to maintain the traditions of heraldic symbolism and aid persons in tracing their genealogical roots. He was a large man and his blue velvet jacket had been tailored for him before he had put on weight. His face was florid and his hair was white. His pudgy fingers fluttered as he talked through oversized white teeth. His voice was sonorous; he obviously loved being the center of attention.

  Edgar buttered him up with a glowing description of his prominence in the field, then cleverly introduced me with a minimum number of words, ending with "This is a highly confidential investigation, you understand, Francis." That blocked the Knight Pursuivant from asking any questions and at the same time preempted his using similar phrasing to decline to tell us about the Harlington family. Not that any likelihood of that seemed probable-Francis Somerville liked to show off his knowledge, and once he was absolved of any suggestion of breaking confidences, he was only too ready to talk.

  First, though, he insisted on taking us on a tour of the large room, pointing out the shields on the walls. They were carefully chosen, he explained, in order to show how shields tell the story of a family through generations. He pointed out the "tinctures," the name given to colors used in the coat of arms. Gold and silver were the most prominent, then came sanguine for blood, sable for black. Animals and birds featured extensively, particularly lions, wolves, and eagles.

  "Heraldic symbols," he told us in his fruity voice, "developed in the Middle Ages with the use of armor. The suit of armor made it difficult to distinguish friend from foe during violent, hand-to-hand combat and knights developed heraldic symbols so that they could identify each other." He took us, step by step, through several of the shields on the wall, telling us of the significance of the symbol of a tower-the family home; three arrowheads-a battle won by archers; a lion wearing a crown-loyalty to the king, which brought honors to the family.

  I found it fascinating. Edgar listened with rapt attention even though he had obviously heard it all before. It was Edgar who thanked Francis for his exposition and then brought him gently back to the Harlington family.

  We went up to a vast, highly polished table. Francis nodded to us to take places and he took an imposing chair with a red silk seat and intricately carved arms and back. He pulled forward a large leatherbound book that was lying on the table. He opened it at a tasseled bookmark. "This is the Harlington crest. It is a very old family. In the fourteenth century ..." Edgar politely let him finish a couple of sentences, then eased him into the present.

  "Oh, yes," Francis said in his rounded tones, "we don't dwell only in the past here, you know. We keep abreast of all of our families. Many are still prominent and successful today. Harlington is one of them. His father did a magnificent job of saving the castle when it was in danger of becoming a ruin after the Second World War, and the present Lord Harlington has continued that policy. The idea of having jousts and banquets and things-and letting hordes of people in every day-raised a few eyebrows at the beginning, as these things did in a few other landmark build ings. But Harlington Castle has been saved from decay and dilapidation and is preserved for posterity, for a few more decades at least."

  "I have found Lord Harlington to be extremely friendly," I said. "I haven't met his wife, though. She doesn't seem to be around at all."

  "Poor Sylvia. She'll never be able to take her place at the castle again, I'm afraid." He shook his white head sadly.

  "I thought she was recuperating in a nursing home and coming home soon," I said.

  "I doubt she'll ever be able to return," said Francis.

  "Cancer, isn't it?" asked Edgar innocently.

  "Yes, but her earlier affliction is more of a problem," Francis said. He looked from Edgar to the. "Terrible thing."

  It was clear he wanted to tell us. We gave him a moment, then Edgar leaned forward. "Earlier affliction, Francis?"

  "She is quite insane, poor woman."<
br />
  "I didn't know that," Edgar said, appalled.

  "Violently so," Francis added. "Very sad. Hereditary: her mother died in an institution. Lord Harlington's first wife died of cancer too, you know. The onset came very quickly, she died in six months."

  "Yes, I remember," Edgar confirmed.

  "Yes, Gerald did very well to take on two more childrenthough, of course, they were almost grownup by then." Francis saw my look of surprise. "Oh, didn't you know? Richard and Felicity were his children by his first wife, Marion. When Gerald married Sylvia, she already had Norman and Angela."

  "I didn't know that," I admitted.

  "I didn't either," said Edgar. "I've been out of touch with the family for some years."

  "They seem to get along very well," I remarked.

  "I believe so." Francis chatted on for some time, a fountain of knowledge about the aristocracy, royalty, and stately homes. Then he asked me casually, "Is he coping all right, Sir Gerald?"

  "Coping? With the running of the castle and the jousts and all that, you mean?"

  "Yes. It's an awful lot of work."

  "He certainly seems to be. He's involved in everything. Knows what's going on."

  Francis nodded imperturbably. It was Edgar, knowing him much better than I did, who said, "Why do you ask, Francis?"

  The Knight Pursuivant drummed his fingers on the carved arm of his chair. He had what would have been, on another, a coy look. On him, it was a look of careful consideration as to whether this tidbit of knowledge could be entrusted to our small assembly.

  Edgar leaned forward expectantly. "If it's something that will ease the task of our friend here," he began.

  "We wouldn't want you to betray any confidences," I added. "On the other hand, I like Lord Harlington, and if there were any ways in which I could help him.. .

  "Under those circumstances, I am sure," said Francis in a pontifical tone, "that I am justified in telling you this. I don't doubt that you have his best interests at heart. Everybody who knows him feels the same way." He drummed his fingers again. Edgar still leaned forward expectantly. Francis nodded, sat back, and spoke.