by James Anson
Robert gathered the brothers were now exchanging the sort of remarks common to those who have had too much to drink and too many old grudges to remember. He decided he'd better go and referee if nothing else and made his way to the dining-room.
He entered just in time to hear Charles make an unpardonable remark about Ashley's parentage and be immediately floored.
Charles leapt up, nose streaming, and counter-attacked.
Robert made a grab at Michael, was flung aside and stumbled against a chair which fell over, taking him with it. Robert was just getting himself together and waiting for his leg to calm down when there was a great splashing noise and some very colourful language. Agnes had emptied the wine cooler over her battling brothers. As she said later, there was nothing like several pints of icy water and half-melted ice cubes down your back to dampen anyone's martial spirit. As the two gasped for breath, she grabbed two sets of cropped hair and expressed her opinion of their behaviour.
Robert, now standing carefully, was considering going over and landing one on Michael himself when Miranda appeared.
"Oh Robert," she wailed. "Please come. Amos is being dreadfully sick."
Robert swore and limped after her, to find poor Amos uttering distressed mews in the kitchen.
"The poor love," said Cook. "They've been feeding him chocolate marshmallows. Upset his poor little stomach."
"You stupid girl!" said Robert to Miranda.
She immediately burst into tears. "He won't die, will he?" she wailed.
"No, he won't," said Robert. "All the same, Persians love sweet things and haven't the digestion for it. Very neurotic about their health, too. All right, pet. I'll take you home. Miranda, stop howling. I know you didn't mean any harm. Tell your dad I'll be back in the morning."
Robert went to his room, Amos under his arm, plus "a piece of nice cake" from the cook, "for the poor little love". He was sorely tempted to have it himself.
There was a knock on the door as he was packing.
"If that's you, Mike, sod off," said Robert.
"No, it's me," said Lord Bourton.
Robert let him in.
"Had enough, have you?" said Jack, watching him pack. "Mike’s having his head bathed by Amy."
"Yes," said Robert. "I need some peace and quiet and a good night's sleep. I hope it didn't alarm your guests?"
"Oh, no," said Jack. "I just convinced them that all they'd heard about English country house parties was true. You missed Polly Gould having words with Amy, and Winifred wanting Mike arrested for assault and battery. Charles told her not to be a damned fool and did she want their family affairs broadcast all over Gloucestershire?"
"And as far as Bristol on a clear day," said Robert vaguely. "I'll be back tomorrow to see the guests on their last day - and collect Mike. I'd chain him down somewhere if I was you."
"Agnes wants to feed him to the hounds in small pieces," said Jack. "She's got a cold compress slapped on the colonel's nose."
"I'm all for feeding him, too," said Robert. "Tell the bastard not to come home till he's stone-cold sober. I'll take Sam with me now."
"Decent of you to help out," said Jack. "I'll see Mike stays put."
"It was, but I've plenty of nice local colour for my book. I'd better say goodnight to my group."
He found them having a peaceful chat over their coffee in the drawing-room. Robert said yes, he was glad they enjoyed their day and he would see them in the morning. He just had to nip off home now and sort some things out. They seemed to be oblivious to the drama which had taken place in the dining-room, probably because they'd made a beeline for the drawing-room early on.
Robert then collected Amos and Sam, the latter rather regretful about being dragged from the fleshpots, and set off home. Amos, after a mild burst of complaint, retired to his basket, while Sam stretched on the rug, showing the whites of his eyes. Robert looked through the Radio Times and decided on a hot drink and 'Book at Bedtime'. He was just thinking of retiring there himself when the phone rang; he almost didn't answer it.
"Rob, it's Jack. I think Mike is on his way home. Told him you'd left and he was to stay put. Soon as I turned my back he was off out to the stables where he saddled up Piper. Don't know what the hell he thought he was doing - still over the limit, I'd say. Dashed out in time to see him taking the park wall. Isn't even wearing a hat, damned fool."
"Oh hell," said Robert. "Thanks, Jack, I'll be in touch."
Robert looked out. At least there was a good moon. Hope the fool isn't coming along the road, too many drunken drivers about - and Piper won't even have a tail-light. If he's cutting across country he'll be jumping God knows what in the dark. Probably safer on the M1. I'd better ring Jess in case he lands up there.
Jess took the news calmly, apart from remarking, "How like Mike," and would they like to come over and see the New Year in at her place? Just a few friends; none of Michael's family would be there.
Robert considered this a definite point in favour and said Yes, they would be there if Michael didn't break his neck on the way home.
It was almost three hours later - it felt more like ten - when he heard a horse clatter into the yard. Robert went out. Michael, looking very much the worse for wear, slid off his horse and sat down in the yard.
"Never again," he said, holding his head.
"Get inside," said Robert, "while I attend to this poor horse."
He took the reins from Michael and led Piper to his stall. He seemed none the worse for his late outing and submitted to being rubbed down, having his rug put on and a tasty snack for his supper, including a handful of horse-nuts. He gave Robert a friendly shove with his nose, snickering away.
"You're a good lad," said Robert. "He doesn't deserve you - or me, come to that. I'll bring you another drink when you've cooled down more."
When he returned to the kitchen Michael was sitting on the sofa. Not only did he have some impressive facial bruising and a cut head, but he appeared to have been rolling about in a field somewhere.
"Couldn't you at least get cleaned up?" said Robert.
Michael looked at him. "How the hell did I get here?" he said. "Arm's funny. I need a drink."
"The last thing you need is a drink," said Robert. "And stop rubbing your head with that hand, it's filthy."
Michael looked at it vaguely. "Better wash," he said, got up and staggered.
"Down, boy. Better let me do it. Apart from everything else you're bleeding all over our sofa." He went and got hot water and TCP. "Now sit still and let me clean you up," Robert commanded.
"Rob?" Michael looked at him anxiously. "Are you mad at me?"
"No more than usual," said Robert, dabbing away. "This is going to need stitching - looks worse now I've cleaned it. Just like you. You're going to ruin Casualty's Christmas."
Robert moved to the phone and rang the local hospital. He was waiting for them to answer, watching Michael.
Look at you, he thought, sitting there pissed half out of your brain. Nothing but a damned nuisance. One day I know you're going to break your bloody neck and my heart jumping one wall too many.
"I'm going to kill you when you're sober," he said.
Michael tried to grin and went even paler. "Giddy," he said, and rolled onto the floor unconscious.
Mercifully the ambulance men made good time and Casualty had been having a fairly quiet night.
"Phew!" said the doctor on duty. "Hope it's not concussion. How much has he had to drink? Smells like a distillery."
"Too damned much," said Robert. "I didn't try and get his jacket off - think his arm is broken."
On being dismissed, Robert settled in the waiting-room with a cup of coffee, which was vile, and his thoughts which were not much better. The doctor finally emerged.
"No real harm done," he said. "Well, his collar-bone has fractured - must have had a fall. Sprained wrist, and his head needed stitching. Seemed to have more alcohol than blood coursing through his veins so we didn't risk an anaesthe
tic. Mind, he's going to feel really awful over the next twenty-four hours. He isn't likely to come round before morning."
Robert, after further discussion and reassurance that Michael, though battered, wasn't likely to expire suddenly, set off home. Next morning he rang to find the patient had not spent a peaceful night and was suffering the torments of the damned with his hangover.
Robert said, "Good", and that he'd collect Michael late that afternoon.
On returning to Old Hall he found his group all a-twitter at the prospect of another country house visit. He had tea and buns with them and said his farewells, remembering to add that Michael deeply regretted he couldn't be with them, but a family commitment ...
"You know, I heard a horse galloping in the night," said one old lady. "Just like the story Mr Faulkner told of the Phantom Fanshaw horseman."
Robert nearly choked on his coffee, knowing too well whose hoofbeats they must have been. "Mr Faulkner can tell a good story," he said acidly.
"Oh, yes," she said. "I could just see him with his cloak and sword."
If she knew the bastard was in hospital - suffering, I hope - she'd probably want to go and wrap him in thermogene, thought Robert savagely.
When he returned to the drawing-room, Colonel Faulkner was there, looking about, his normally saturnine expression that he had in common with his brother heightened by a swollen nose and a black eye, which Robert was delighted to see.
"Mr March," he said frigidly. "You don't happen to know where Michael is, do you?"
"No idea," said Robert. "Unless he's taken a plane to Sidi Bel Abbes to join the Foreign Legion. Very down, was Mike. Talked about going away to forget."
"They are not there any more," said Charles. "They are now based in Corsica."
"Is that so? Well, Mike is in for a surprise when he lands, isn't he?"
"I do wish," said Charles testily, "you'd stop calling my brother 'Mike'. Makes him sound like a used car salesman."
Robert smiled sweetly across the table. "Charles, mind your own damned business," he said.
"Now see here - " Charles began, an unbecoming flush to his face.
Agnes entered, bearing a toast-rack as if it were a severed head: one she'd removed personally.
"Good morning, Robert," she said. "Have some more toast. Miranda will be through with the marmalade shortly. Still here, Charles? Surely you should be helping poor Winifred with the packing?" She turned to Robert. "How is the invalid? Tell him to come over when he's fit and I'll black his other eye. Charles, shove off," she added.
Charles left, muttering.
Agnes took off her dark glasses and helped herself to a large mug of coffee. "Well, how is the bastard?"
"Suffering from a severe hangover, a broken collar-bone, sprained wrist, multiple bruising and a mild concussion," said Robert. "And you'll have to stand in line to belt him."
"All the guests departed safely," said Agnes. "I thought they were charming. Next time the damned family can stay away. Still, we can get the chimneys plastered and Toby's school fees paid for a year. Thank God I don't have to worry about educating Miranda. Oh good, marmalade."
Chapter Fifteen
" Yes, the publishers are happy with the book so far," said Mr Halliwell bracingly.
"However, they do have reservations about chapter fourteen and a few other matters. I have made out a list and possible suggestions to overcome some of the difficulties - those where there could be legal problems. But they feel the story has good continuity, holds the interest well. And few have actually guessed whodunit, and then only in the final pages. I must say, I enjoyed it, both the background and the lack of the usual sexual calisthenics all over the place. My wife complains, though, that you overdid the menace in chapter three. She couldn't bring herself to put the light out for some time. Considering what she normally reads in bed without turning a hair, you're to be complimented."
"Good," said Robert absently, looking through the suggested list of amendments.
"Oh, I forgot. Happy New Year and all that stuff."
"You already wished me one," said Mr Halliwell dryly. "At two-thirty on the morning of the first of January."
"Oh God, you too?" said Robert. "Mike said he kept trying to wrest the phone from me. We went to this party at Highgreen Farm, had a great time. No idea what I'd been doing when I woke on the sofa of the farm parlour next morning. Apparently I was higher than a kite, and Mike had his arm in a sling and couldn't drive. Mind, I was delighted to hear I'd rung Jack and two old Met. colleagues who I never liked very much. Mike got the phone away from me before I could get through to the Prime Minister."
"I could hear Mr Faulkner in the background expressing caution," said Mr Halliwell.
"From the thickness of his accent I imagined he was having a worrying time."
"So he said," said Robert, grinning. " Mike's on the wagon. He's being a good lad at the moment. Dr Ryan read him a stiff lecture on his liver and wouldn't he rather go out on the hunting field via a broken neck than cirrhosis?"
"And now," said Mr Halliwell, "I'm afraid we must discuss the matter of publicity for the book. It would help if you gave at least one interview, you know."
Robert shrugged. "Why can't I go on being a man of mystery? A frail, reclusive figure, haunted by the tragic ending of my great love affair. Poor Madeleine, her memory is still green, you know." He gazed sadly into the distance.
"No doubt," said Mr Halliwell. "Well, it does sound rather good, but I'm afraid they'll require a little more fact and less fiction for the blurb on the book jacket."
"Can't see why," said Robert. "It's a lot more interesting than the truth - that I'm a short, bad-tempered ex-cop, with a leg that gives me gyp, living in a non-picturesque village in deepest Gloucestershire with a horse-mad mick."
"I'm sure we can arrange something tasteful," said Mr Halliwell helpfully. "You know, the man of mystery pose is bound to get someone sniffing round eventually. Much better to give the impression that like most writers you're rather boring and devoted to something rural like growing tomatoes or the biggest leek for miles."
"I expect you're right," said Robert gloomily. "Joking aside, I don't want myself or Mike having to put up with the likes of The Sun. But, please, not tomatoes. I can't stand growing them - no need to anyway. Everyone else in the village does - practically giving them away at the end of the season. Careful who you send, mind. I can just see me trying to sound civilised with a snotty young lady from The Tatler in our parlour and Mike wanders through in his green wellies, muttering about roundworms and bots. Must have him do that if The Sun ever calls. Mike's lectures on intestinal worms in horses can clear the bar in the Brewers."
"Er, yes," said Mr Halliwell. "He gave me an excerpt once. He's over his accident, I trust?"
"More or less. He has an idea I nearly had my bag packed to leave at Christmas and he's being very careful. Waste of time, of course. I'd only have had to come back. Miss him and the damned place too much. Anyway, he's after a good job now. Jack tipped me off about it, but as Mike hasn't told me himself I can't make encouraging noises."
"Give him my regards," said Mr Halliwell. "And I'll let you know about that interview. I think we can leave it until the spring. It's looking bleak out. They say there could be a heavy snowfall in your part of the world."
"They are always saying that. It's positively balmy in Gloucestershire at the moment.
All my idiot bulbs are starting to come up. I keep yelling, Back, you fools! Well, better be on my way. I'll get to work on this lot tomorrow. Must speak to your girls. I've brought a cake from Jess for them."
* * * * *
"I'm back!" yelled Robert, dumping his heavy bag with relief in the passage. He sniffed. "That smells good. It's getting really parky out." He entered the kitchen and started to warm his hands by the Aga, then peered into the large stewpan. "Dumplings! Just what I need." He slipped an arm around Michael, who was stirring carefully, and hugged.
"Had a good day?" asked Mic
hael. "It's nearly ready."
"Not bad," said Robert, pulling his boots off. "The firm is pleased with the book. They want some rewriting done, mostly chapter fourteen - you were right about that. Anyway, we'll go through it all after dinner."
"Funny look to the sky tonight," said Robert as they ate apple pie.
"Going to snow," said Michael.
"Oh, not you, too. Every year since I came here they've been forecasting another Ice Age. Hasn't happened yet."
"You'll see," said Michael.
Later, over several glasses of wine and cider, they looked over chapter fourteen.
"Well," said Robert, "I agree it needs a good rewrite, but how can Lord Crampton be actionable?"
"Because," said Michael, "he is the spitting image of a certain well-known sporting peer."
"Can't be," said Robert. "No-one is this lunatic."
"You remember that time they brought me home with a broken ankle?" said Michael.
"After a day out with the -----? Well, he was the MFH."
" Him! " said Robert. "Oh hell, I must have taken it in without realising it. I never listen properly when you're burbling on about your dreadful friends. I'm going to have to alter the bastard, aren't I? Then I'll check with you. I had a letter from Mrs Briscoe this morning: one of the party that came to see Larton. She sent me some seeds. She loved our Aga: seemed deeply attached to it."
"I know how she feels," said Michael, warming a socked foot. "Rob, about Christmas. I made a right berk of myself, didn't I? Need to apolo - "
"Hey!" said Robert. He patted a corduroyed knee. "You did; now forget about it. What with Charles, the job going wrong on you, your bloody relatives, and me in a snit ... Besides, we were due for a really good row."
"Wish I could feel that hand," said Michael sadly. "My leg's numb with the cold.
Jack decided he couldn't afford Terry Porter any longer. Very ornamental and a good lad at the bar, but not what you could call a hard worker. I said I wanted to sit in when he does the interviews for the job so we don't get another lemon. Terry wasn't bothered. His wife's family have money and he didn't like the village."