by Finch, Paul
“No. She’s just short of cash.”
“Do you want to run that by me again?”
Troy rolled his eyes. “Rick … try not to show your lino-filled council house roots too much, will you. This isn’t the 1920s. These aristocratic bluebloods are all skint. The cost of living’s gone up for them too. Fifty times more than it has for us. And most of them haven’t even got jobs. Lucille Ryder-Howe’s just one of a whole bunch who are seriously in the red.”
“She should admit people to her house,” I suggested. “Make it into a stately home, or something.”
“She can’t even afford to run it as a private home. Seen the top floor?”
“She could charge for entry.”
“What … you think charging people to look around her house would finance the playgirl lifestyle she thinks she’s entitled too?”
“So that’s why she’s trying to get her hooks into the rock business?”
“What do you think?”
Now it was my turn to sound contemptuous. “And she actually believed you when you told her that letting us camp out here while we wrote the new album would secure that for her?”
Troy noticed the enflamed mark on my cheek. He leaned forward to examine it. “Apparently not.”
“I was starting to think we were here purely because you had designs on her,” I said.
He shook his head. “Nope. It’d take more cash than she’s got to get me near a bird.”
“I was thinking all this Roman inspiration stuff was a con-job just for your benefit.”
He slammed the trunk closed. “You know me better than that, surely?”
“I thought I did.”
He laughed.
“I’ll tell you, Troy,” I added, “I may pull out of this venture.”
His laughter dried up quickly.
I shrugged. “It just … doesn’t feel right.”
“You’ll be making a mistake, Rick. A big one.”
I didn’t say anything else, just walked away. Not back towards the house, but down the lengthy drive in the direction of the main gates. I half-expected him to call me back, but he didn’t – and that was so like Troy. Even if he feared that he was going to lose out, he rarely got flustered enough to make quick or ill considered moves. He tended to think first, to consider all options. I glanced back over my shoulder when I was about a hundred yards away, and he was still beside the coach, watching me. He didn’t beckon or hail me back. So I kept on going. Ten minutes later, I was off the estate on a road that I assumed was the B3056. I followed it, and about half a mile later came to a pub, an archetypical wayside inn called The Cocked Hat . Outside it was all whitewashed brick, black beams and hanging flower baskets, inside a traditional mix of smoke-stained wood panels, horse brasses and hunt trophies.
I sat at the bar for a couple of hours, though in that time I drank only three pints of locally-brewed ale. I’d seen too many of Luke’s calamities to imagine that drowning myself in alcohol would actually make things better. Not that I entirely wasted my time while I was there. Various locals came and went, mostly farmworkers, and I spoke with a couple of them, wondering if the phrases “with these beans, I redeem me and mine”, or “one is chosen, one will go forth”, meant anything to them. Mainly, I received only blank looks. Later on, the landlord appeared – a portly, white-haired gent in tweeds and a smart waistcoat – and I asked him if they’d ever had any trouble around here with occultists and the like: damage to churches, desecrations, that sort of thing. Again, I got no satisfactory answer. Apparently, oddballs did pass through now and then – “travellers, tinkers, that sort”, and the mystical Rufus Stone, which was only about ten miles to the northwest, had “more than its fair share of eccentrics visiting it”. But there were no real problems that he knew of. Eventually, sensing that my presence at the bar was being tolerated rather than enjoyed, I retreated to a corner of the snug, where I ordered a ploughman’s lunch and one last pint.
It must have close on four o’clock by the time I headed back towards the estate. It could have been my imagination, but just before I passed out through the pub door, I sensed a gaggle of locals muttering darkly among themselves and casting relieved glances in my wake. Briefly, I wondered if it wasn’t just the fact that I was a stranger who’d asked a lot of silly questions that had made me unwelcome there.
9
“So when did this become part of the plan?” Rob was in the process of asking.
I’d entered the main hall and immediately found myself in the midst of a heated debate. Rob and Troy were not exactly squaring up to each other, but by Rob’s expression they weren’t about to get cosy either. No-one else appeared to have taken sides, at least not yet. Joe, Charlie and Barbara were watching with interest. There was no sign of Luke or Miss Ryder-Howe.
“Look … Rob,” Troy said, “you agreed to go along with anything I had planned for this week.”
Rob shook his head, seemingly lost for words.
“I haven’t camped out anywhere for ages,” Joe finally said, clearly feeling it was time that he chipped in.
“Me neither,” Charlie agreed.
“I did it when I was a girl guide,” Barbara said in a lighter tone.
Joe glanced round at her. “I bet that was a sight to be seen … you in a guide’s uniform.”
She winked at him. “You wouldn’t have believed your eyes, love.”
“I’ll bet I wouldn’t.”
“Look,” Rob cut in, “can we just talk about serious things for a moment.” He turned to Troy again. “Just answer me this … why ?”
Troy shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The Lamuratum is the reason we’re here.”
“I’ve already seen it,” Rob replied. “I don’t need to go and sleep next to it.”
“Whoa!” I exclaimed, shouldering my way among them. “What’s all this?”
Sleeping out at the Lamuratum? They had to be kidding – but then I saw the heaped camping gear at the bottom of the stairs: the tent poles, sleeping bags and bundles of rope and canvas.
Rob fixed Troy with another irritated glare. “You tell him, Troy. It’s your bloody idea.” And he turned and walked away.
Troy slapped me on the shoulder. “Hope you’ve got your warm undies with you, Rick. We’re camping out for the night at the Lamuratum.”
“Forget it,” I said.
“No stomach for it, eh?” someone asked.
I glanced up, and saw our hostess coming down the stairs towards us. She’d changed her miniskirt and vest for khaki pants and a sweat-top. Her hair still hung past her shoulders in glorious golden waves, but I couldn’t see her as anything more now than a scheming upper class strumpet. She returned my gaze with scornful amusement.
“I was joking about the undies by the way,” Troy told me. “It’s not really going to be cold. It’s May, for Christ’s sake.”
I looked back at him. “It’s not the last word in comfort, though, is it?”
“I don’t mind too much,” Barbara said. She at least seemed to be in a jovial mood. “We can get a fire going. Sing a few songs. Roast a few potatoes.”
“It’ll certainly be different,” Joe said.
“Going to play hell with my sciatica,” Charlie grumbled.
“Ohhh … ” Barbara rubbed at the base of his spine. “A night in nature’s bosom? Moss for a mattress, leaves for a quilt?”
Charlie pulled a disgusted face, but didn’t argue.
“So it’s agreed then?” Troy said. “Great. We’ll meet back here at six. Lionel will show us the way out there.”
“You mean before he dashes off home?” I asked. “Before it gets dark.”
Troy patted me on the shoulder again – yet another of his infuriatingly disingenuous ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ moments – then trotted away up the stairs. Soon everyone else had drifted off as well, including Miss Ryder-Howe. Which left just Rob and I.
“Where’s Luke?” I asked.
He grunted.
“In his bedroom. Off his head.”
“He wasn’t too bad this morning.”
“He’s had several hours to make up for it since then, hasn’t he.”
I surveyed the camping gear. It was old fashioned stock, but, by the looks of it, in good condition. Not that this was any consolation.
“So what do you think of this?” I asked.
Rob still seemed preoccupied. “This camping trip? It’s novel, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s up to something.”
“I know.”
“What?”
Rob shrugged, which vexed me.
“Come on!” I said. “You’ve been looking into something since last night. What’ve you discovered?”
“I don’t know.” He set off upstairs. “But you’ve got to balance apparently legitimate concerns against the prospect of appearing a complete dipstick. And it isn’t easy.”
“Rob …?” I said.
“Later, Rick.”
I stared after him until he’d vanished from sight. To anyone who didn’t know Rob, his attitude would be flummoxing. But I’d seen it before, many times. Normally such vagueness signified that he’d reached a key stage in a composition but was struggling to progress it further. In these circumstances, it suggested he was almost onto something but not quite able to nail it down. Or not quite willing.
At that moment, Luke’s recommended solution to all ills – namely, to get staggeringly pissed – seemed entirely sensible. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d wandered along the passage to the sitting room where the well-stocked drinks cabinet was located. No trace of the previous evening’s séance remained, but Mrs. Hacket was present, resplendent in a blue silk dress and scarf, and blue high-heeled shoes, and engaged in an energetic spot of housekeeping. She didn’t notice me in the doorway, and I watched with admiration as she went around the room like a whirlwind, plumping up cushions, straightening the upholstery.
“Hello,” I eventually said.
She looked sharply round. There was a pause, before she gave me a brusque nod. Hers was a refined, mature beauty, though there was a touch of the feline about it. And a distinct wintriness. “Can I help you with anything, sir?”
I made a beeline for the drinks cabinet. “It’s Mrs. Hacket, isn’t it?”
“It is. Can I help you with anything?”
Her tone was polite but curt, implying that she was quite busy and that if I did want something, could I please be quick about it and then go out again. This wasn’t a side of her we’d seen so far, so it also occurred to me that she was possibly one of those servants who are very close and very loyal to their master, or in this case mistress, and are privy to all plots and schemes, no matter how distasteful they might be.
“Maybe you can tell me a bit about Rillington Chase?” I said, as I poured myself brandy from a decanter. “The house, the grounds, that sort of thing.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Miss Ryder-Howe would be the one to speak to.”
“Really? I got the impression you’d been here quite a while.”
She eyed me coolly. “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“No.”
She collected a pile of linens from the coffee table and turned to leave.
“Oh … there is one thing,” I said.
She stopped and glanced back.
“I was just wondering who your mistress’s fiancé might be?”
And how her face fell. How pale her cheek suddenly went. How quickly that practiced haughtiness was replaced by confusion and uncertainty.
“I … I really can’t say,” she replied.
“You can’t say?” I maintained a pleasant if disbelieving tone. “Your mistress is to be married, and you don’t know who to?”
“Miss Ryder-Howe is my employer, not my mistress.”
“I stand corrected. Nevertheless, that isn’t the question I asked you.”
Mrs. Hacket watched me carefully. She said nothing.
“I meet a lot of people, you see,” I said. “Particularly when I’m up in London. It would be a marvellous thing if I ran into the lucky man somewhere. I’d be able to tell him how superbly his wife-to-be had catered to our every need.”
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes. I think that’ll be quite enough.”
She left the room, and I poured myself another generous tot of brandy, though I wasn’t drinking to get drunk; I was drinking in celebration of one small but very satisfying victory.
I revelled in it for another quarter hour, then went upstairs to get my anorak and to see if I could raise Luke. His room was two doors along from mine, and I entered it without knocking as it was unlikely he’d hear me anyway. Inside, it was much like mine in terms of layout and décor, and thus far even Luke hadn’t had enough time to transform it into the sort of pit that he was normally to be found in. He hadn’t unpacked yet, so there were no items of clothing strewn all over the floor, while the empties on view were still so few that they only managed to clutter up the tabletops. The bed was certainly messy and crumpled, especially as Luke was currently sprawled out on it, and there was a strong, sour odour; a typical post-party smell, like a combination of stale booze, ciggie smoke, sweat and maybe a faint hint of pot, though so far there was only one half-smoked roach in the ashtray. In fact, when I yanked the curtains open and had a proper look around the room, there was little evidence of major bingeing: a few beer tins and a Jack Daniels bottle with at least a quarter of its contents remaining.
None of this explained the state he was in.
I bent over him to look. He was semi-delirious, drifting in and out of a tortured sleep, froth on his lips, an ashen pallor in his cheeks. I knew that he’d used both heroin and cocaine at the same time in the past, but again, on looking around, I saw no evidence of such intensive abuse. It occurred to me that he might have been pill-popping. In fact that was probably what he had been doing. I remembered that he’d been calling for codeine the night before. This was very much the thing with Luke; his appetites were so wide-ranging that if he couldn’t get his hands on illegal drugs, prescription drugs would do just as well.
“Luke!” I said, tapping his cheek. “Come on, mate, snap out of it.”
When he finally woke, he gazed up through eyes that were like glazed pools. At first he didn’t recognise me, but then seemed to focus and a smile cracked amid his bristles. “Hey … Rick, man.” His breath was indescribably foul.
“What’ve you been taking to get into this condition?” I asked him.
“Er … no,” he mumbled. “Had a clean day, today, mate.”
He tumbled off into sleep again. Suddenly I was alarmed. I’d seen all manner of narcosis over the years, but this was something new. “Hey!” I shook him hard. “How can you have had a clean day? Look at the state of you.”
I continued to shake him until his eyes flickered open again. There was a yellow tinge to their whites; his pupils had shrunk to pinpoints. I was just wondering if it might be advisable to call an ambulance when he began to talk again.
“Need to walk,” he blathered, pawing my arm. “Get … get some air.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I said. “Come on.”
But he couldn’t walk. I managed to get him upright and stand him against me, but, as soon as we set off across the bedroom, he slumped down and it was all I could do to drop him into an armchair before he fell to the floor. Thankfully, at that moment, Joe sloped past the open door, a denim jacket draped over his shoulder.
He spotted us and stopped. “You lot ready?”
I indicated Luke. “He’s totally out of it.”
“Leave him then.”
“Uh-uh. Don’t like leaving him in the house all night. Not if there’s no-one else here.”
Joe considered this, then, deciding that it made sense, put his jacket on and came in.
“Really surpassed himself this time, hasn’t he,” he said, as we hefted our former stage-strutter between us and half-carrie
d him out into the passage. “He’s been like this all day, you know.”
Getting Luke down to the hall was more difficult than I’d expected. For all that he’d withered over the years, he was still heavy, and at least twice we almost collapsed in a heap. When we finally reached the ground floor, nobody else had arrived, so plunked him down in one of several sofas opposite the foot of the stairs. By the time the rest of the gang started to gather, he was asleep again, snoring loudly.
Charlie and Barbara turned up at the same time as Troy, all equipped for a night in the open air – carrying waterproofs, windbreakers, and plastic bags filled with booze and food. Shortly after that, Miss Ryder-Howe appeared in a cagoule. She joined the others without glancing at me, so it was difficult to tell whether my indirect threat had been passed on via her snooty employee; but the scornful smirk of before was notable by its absence.
Then, quite unexpectedly, a croquet mallet was pressed into my hands.
I peered down at it, puzzled, before looking up again. Rob was alongside me. He too was armed with a croquet mallet; he held it over his shoulder like a woodsman’s axe.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Just a precaution.”
“Against what?”
But we weren’t able to discuss it because everyone else was now ready, and Troy seemed eager to be off. I pointed out the state Luke was in, but Troy had prepared for this beforehand. “If you can get him to the front doors, it’s all sorted,” he said.
We did, Joe and I again hauling the sozzled singer between us. Outside, at the bottom of the steps, Lionel was waiting on his quad bike, its engine turning noisily. As earlier, he’d improvised a trailer by attaching the wheelbarrow to the back of it. The various items of camping gear had already been stowed inside this, but there was room for more. On seeing us, Lionel dismounted and lumbered up the steps to help with Luke.
“Put him on the barrow, Lionel,” Troy said.
I pulled a face. “It’s not very dignified.”
Troy gave me a pitying look, as though wondering – probably with some justification – when it was that I’d suddenly started caring about Luke Hennessey’s personal dignity. Besides, there was evidently no other way that we were going to get him into the Plantation. Troy nodded to Lionel, who picked Luke up in a mammoth bear hug and lay him down in the barrow, on top of the camping gear, where, typically for Luke, he promptly curled up and actually seemed to get comfortable.