by James Anson
"Everyone loves a romance even better when it doesn't work out. Can't beat an unhappy ending. Always a bit of a let-down - lived happily ever after ..."
"Not to me," said Jack. "Now how are we going to set this up properly?"
"We need to make a tasteful selection," said Michael. "Let some details leak out, whet people's appetite. And we need to have something exciting in the grounds. I'm working on that. Thought I'd rope Rob in when the time is right - and his mood. Also, Captain James Faulkner needs more 'body'. We could ask Bessie who was around at the time, so he can casually refer to them in his letters. She's well up on the times. Rob is always on about places and dates - lends authenticity, he says. Now we mustn't have anyone in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's been very helpful, has Rob - not that he knows it, of course."
"It's alarming, this talent you've suddenly discovered for intrigue, Mike," said Jack, grinning.
"Now," said Michael, "we need some authentic-looking paper and someone to do the copying in the writing of the time so they will look good in the glass cases in your hall. Those stuffed birds are ready for burial anyway."
"Thank God," said Jack. "I've been going mad, wondering how to get rid of them. Don't worry about the paper. I'll have a hunt in the Muniment Room, and Bessie can write them for us. She's a whiz at that calligraphy thing. Mike, what will we do with the stuffed birds?"
"Bonfire!" said Michael. "Give the poor buggers a Viking funeral. What Muniment Room?"
"Gunroom, actually," said Jack. "Stacks of old books in the cupboards there. We can take out the occasional flyleaf - shouldn't think Captain James had a quire of vellum with him."
"Now you're getting the idea!" said Michael. "We must improvise and find out how he could get the letters here, too. Now let's go and see Bessie - and pick out our heroine."
Bessie seemed delighted to be co-opted and joined them on a tour of the picture gallery. A row of badly painted Fanshaws and their kin looked back in dough-faced complacency. Michael finally paused.
"This one," he said. "Looks a shade more spiritual than the rest. She'll do fine."
"Don't see how you can tell through the grime," said Jack. "They all need cleaning. Can't afford it, of course."
"Rob knows someone who will do this one for us," said Michael. "I'll put it to him when the time is right. Pity we couldn't have James hanged locally, buried on the estate, and her weeping over his grave in secret. Would make a lovely touch. What about that stone by the lodge - looks like a gravestone. Who knows what is underneath?"
"I do," said Jack. "It's a septic tank. The stone used to be over Great-Uncle Edwin's hunter, Derville. Don't get too fancy, Mike. Plenty of people remember the trouble we had burying that damned horse. Who are we going to get to print out the booklet? Has to look good to have 'em pouring in with their hankies - and be cheap at the price."
"Let me think about that," said Michael with confidence.
"We," said Bessie, "are now going down for tea, and Mike is getting off that leg or I shall inform on you both to Rob!"
* * * * *
An unaccustomed air of tranquillity hung over the kitchen at Parsons Farm. Michael was carefully counting the lines of his poem while munching a large sandwich; Robert, feet against the oven, struggled with a weighty historical tome. There was a pleasant fug in the air, composed of drying socks and a pan of stew and dumplings simmering away on the Aga.
Robert sighed and put down his book. "What are you doing?" he inquired.
"Just finishing my sonnet," said Michael truthfully.
This was greeted with a snort of amusement. "I thought you were writing a review of Edgar's latest," said Robert.
"I was. Couldn't think of a decent way of saying that even in a grass skirt or sarong many of the positions he describes are either impossible or downright dangerous. Pity he ever discovered sex. How are you getting on?"
"Sick of this book," said Robert. "Not only does it make the twelfth century boring - no mean feat - but it's full of bad proof-reading or misprints. Listen to this. It says that a handsome man was distinguished by a very large crutch and that was seen as beautiful by aristocracy of the middle ages. Doesn't make sense - sounds like Tiny Tim. But what do they mean?"
"It's not a misprint," said Michael, after a pause. "More a convention not to shock a casual reader."
Their eyes locked.
"Ohhhh ..." said Robert. "You mean ..." He began to stutter.
"That's right," said Michael. His eyes drifted down Robert's body.
"You cut that out!" said Robert. "Disgraceful, what you find in decent history books these days. Anyway, I would have thought a large crutch more of a handicap myself."
"I've never found ..." Michael began, then deftly caught the book flung at him.
"You're getting better at that," said Robert cheerfully. "Oh hell, is that Colonel Heaton hooting away? I'd better head him off before he starts telling me about his great mole campaign again. It's criminal, what he's doing to the poor beasts."
"They were winning last I heard," said Michael. "Look, why don't you come over? You'll soon pick the game up and they are a very friendly crowd."
"No," said Robert. "You know me - if my partner led wrong I'd probably kill them. Who is your partner today then? Afternoon, Colonel, he won't be long."
"Oh, just Amy," said Michael vaguely. "She's staying at the vicarage at the moment. Her mother is laid up and Amy thought she'd come over and jolly her along, get her on her feet again."
"Poor Nettie!" said Robert. "She was probably counting on a good rest - the vicar has her trotting round the parish till all hours chivvying the faithful. Trust Amy to spoil it for her. Oh well, just see she keeps her mind on the cards. Who's bringing you back?"
"Amy said she would," said Michael. "I'll send regards to her mum from you."
"I'll do that myself," said Robert, "and pick you up. Not having that harpy with you at her mercy in that minute car. Six o'clock all right?"
"Should be," said Michael. "Oh, Jack might be ringing. Would you take the message for me?"
"Right," said Robert, steering him carefully in the direction of Colonel Heaton who was inspecting the large 'pool' excavation with interest. "Here he is, Colonel. I'll collect him round six. No, it isn't going to be a swimming-pool. Tell Alice I'll see her about the plants on Wednesday."
He waved them off with relief and returned reluctantly to his writing. Never knew Mike wrote poetry. Oh well ...
The phone went.
"Hello, Jack," said Robert. "Of course you're disturbing me! No, Mike has just left. Bridge at Colonel Heaton's. All right, what's the message? Desktop publishing. Mrs Perkins' Gladys, you mean, at the butcher's? I'll tell him." He replaced the phone and sighed. Better get my head down before anyone else rings. Desktop publishing?
* * * * *
"Hello, Amos," said Mr Halliwell, "you look very well. Is your master in?"
As Amos did not deign to reply, he tapped at the side door knowing full well it was no good banging on the official front one. No answer. Garden, he thought, it being early summer, then crossing the yard, heard a familiar murmuring from the stables.
"Good morning, Mr Faulkner," he said, noting with approval his vastly improved appearance.
Michael paused from talking to his horse and grinned. "And it's a grand one," he said. "Robert went down to the village to pick up some groceries with Sarah. He'll be back presently. Fancy a cup of tea?"
"Always," said Mr Halliwell. "The garden is looking very well, even better than last year, I think."
"We are opening with the village next month for the National Gardens Scheme," said Michael. "Be sure you go down and see Robert's pond while you are here."
Mr Halliwell shortened his stride to match Michael's now slower pace. "You're looking much better too," he said truthfully.
"Coming on," said Michael. "I took Flash out yesterday - he's a smoother ride than my old fella. Felt fine. Is it true a film company want to do his murder mystery?"
"It is," said Mr Halliwell. "I've come down to discuss that, how the book is going, and also because I fancied getting away from my office. Lady Sligo wishes to be remembered to you and will be visiting Agnes next month. She came to tea at the weekend with young Venus. Dear girl seems very happy."
"Anyone getting away from Giles Burke is happy," said Michael. "Here we are. Now where has Rob hidden the whiskey?"
They were comfortably settled with mugs of tea and several slabs of cake apiece discussing horses, books and life when there was a clatter of hooves in the yard.
Robert entered. "Might have known," he said. "Stuffing yourselves as usual." He took a sip of tea. "Yuck - stewed. Make fresh for me while I unpack Sarah. Wonderful trolley basket she makes - people press veggies on me as a bribe to pet her."
Mr Halliwell went out and presented Robert with a large red apple. "Present from Sally," he said. "When she heard I was visiting you, she insisted I brought this for Sarah, and says thank you for the autographed photo of her."
"She's in great demand," said Robert. "Has quite a fan club after her appearance at the vicarage fête. With luck she'll keep Mike and me in vegetables in our old age. Which reminds me ..."
He headed back into the kitchen while Mr Halliwell patted Sarah and passed on all the news from Sally. He could hear some disputation from the kitchen. When he re-entered, Michael had left.
"He's having a lie down," said Robert. "Doctor's orders. I'm being the heavy at the moment insisting on him doing it."
"He does look much better," said Mr Halliwell. "Mentioned he had been out on a horse again."
"Didn't say he was grey when he came back, I bet," said Robert. "He is coming along, but you know Mike - I'm not having him start rushing about and put himself back being stupid. Told me he was packing in most of his hunting. Thought light had dawned but it turns out he's paying towards young Miranda's school fees. As she's the only one in that family with a brain, he thought it was a pity she wasn't getting a better education. He doesn't know I've found that out, by the way."
"Ah," said Mr Halliwell. "I don't know this watercolour of the house, do I? Not Mr Faulkner, I know his style."
"Young Denis," said Robert. "Came over to see us when I got Mike back from Ireland, and started painting with him one weekend. Did that for my birthday. I always wanted a good one of the house. He's a nice lad - pretty talented, too. Wants to take it up full time when he gets out of the army. He didn't get in touch before in case I was offended. I'd no idea people found me so terrifying. Ashley and Miranda never seem to be bothered."
Mr Halliwell cleared his throat and tried to look noncommittal.
"All right," said Robert, "but you know I don't mean half of it - most of the time. You'd better look over the work so far. I'm up to chapter twelve now - it's like rolling that damned boulder uphill. And I don't think you are going to like it. Mike doesn't. I'm not entirely happy myself."
"I see," said Mr Halliwell. "I'll just read it through then. No need for you to stay."
"Meaning shove off and stop breathing down my neck," said Robert. "I'll go and potter in the garden."
After ten minutes he was back in the kitchen. Mr Halliwell gave him a look over his spectacles so he went into the parlour. Michael was stretched out on the sofa looking through a seed catalogue.
"You've got two hundred and twelve items marked up so far," he said. "Do you really want a grove of twelve-foot bamboo?"
"That's my wishful thinking list," said Robert. "They'll come down to about twenty-five -in that catalogue anyway. How's your good self then?"
"Bored," said Michael. "Can I have a drink for being a good lad?"
"I think we both deserve a small one," said Robert, unlocking the cupboard.
"Halliwell's going through my deathless prose out there with a cheesy look on his face which means, 'You know, March, I think chapter twelve could do with a little more work' - and don't say I told you so."
"I told you so," said Michael. "You were in a shocking mood when you wrote that. But I was delighted when you yelled at me - felt I was really home at last."
"Liar!" said Robert affectionately. "Did you get through those manuscripts he left with you?"
"I did," said Michael. "And filled in my opinions on the sheet provided, except for that one which I thought merited a further page from me."
Robert picked up the sheet and started to read. "My God," he said, "let's hope the author never reads this. I liked The Secret of Hags Nook, myself."
"It only had five errors of fact in the first eight pages," said Michael austerely. "Rob, have we the room for twelve Chinese oaks?"
"No," said Robert, "but I rather liked the sound of them. Ah, that's Halliwell tapping discreetly."
"Wish there was some reason for his discretion," said Michael sadly.
"Ahh ... Perk up, chuck! I'll give your back a good rub tonight," comforted Robert.
"Better go and hear the dread verdict."
"Before you say anything ..." Robert began as he entered the kitchen.
"Chapter twelve," said Mr Halliwell. "Written under a degree of strain, I would say."
"Yes," said Robert. "I'd just flung a boot at my better half. We had a difference of opinion on my interpretation of the facts as presented. Mike took an opposing view. All right, I'll rewrite. Had second thoughts myself. Now, here are the manuscripts you left with Mike, and his comments. I rather liked the one on Ethelred the Unready, myself - especially the Anglo-Saxon dialogue. Mike kept muttering darkly then ringing an erudite friend."
"I agree that book does have some very risible moments," said Mr Halliwell. "Now, as you may have read in the press - most of it was not correct - we have had an offer for your detective story. They would like to make it into a film. It's a good offer."
"From whom?" said Robert suspiciously. "I watched some poor sod’s effort with Mike. Had to turn it off - afraid he'd damage his ribs some more, he was laughing so much. I just happened to have read that book. It's a long story, you wouldn't believe it. Wouldn't want my book murdered like that."
"Oh no," said Mr Halliwell. "I understand they wish the proper period feel and everything. They did inquire if you would consider writing the screenplay, but I wouldn't advise it. Remember the BBC?"
"Quite," said Robert. "Still think they were unreasonable. And I won't have to watch it. All right, let me know what they are offering and I'll consider it. Nice lump of cash would be very handy - couple of things I'd like for my garden."
"Good," said Mr Halliwell, "I'll send you the full details. We are still working on the finer points. What's been happening round here, then? I picked up the brochure about Lord Bourton opening his house to the public, Muriel and I must come round to see it. Have you seen it, Mr March? It's a delightful booklet. Mrs Bleavins gave me a copy when I picked up some of her excellent cheese." He passed it to Robert.
Robert picked up the brochure and began to read. "Fancy that now," he said. "I must ask Mike about this."
Michael entered the kitchen. "Thought I'd have a trot down to the stable," he said.
"Don't even think it," said Robert with menace. "You've trotted enough today. I'm just going to put our dinner on the table and then we can have a nice chat."
"Oh," said Michael, catching sight of the booklet.
As Mr Halliwell was a dinner guest, having come prepared with a decent bottle of wine, nothing further was said till Robert waved him off towards his home.
"Now," he said as they settled in front of the Aga, "let's start at the beginning, Mike. Why are you forging love-letters for profit? And take that innocent choirboy look off your face - I've seen it far too often over the years when you've done something awful."
"It's for a very good cause," said Michael virtuously. "To keep the roof over the head of my poor destitute sister and her fatherless brats. Not to mention Bessie and the gee-gees. How did you guess?"
"A touching phrase in that long letter extract is one you often whisper in my ear," sai
d Robert. "I remember it, as it's one of the few sweet nothings you use to me I can actually understand! When did Jack expire?"
"Figure of speech," said Michael. "I think that's rather nice you remembered. Rob, could you design a knot garden for us? We have the perfect space for it where the tennis court was. I know you've been looking them up, and I said to Jack, As soon as the right moment occurs, I'll ask Rob. He's a good sport and will want to help."
Robert tried to look outraged, gazed into blazing blue eyes, sighed, got up and poured himself a drink and, after a plaintive murmur from Michael, one for him too.
"How," said Robert, "did this all start? And please don't go into the plight of the over-privileged ... again."
"When I was convalescent," said Michael. "We had been thinking of ways to make money -short of highway robbery - and Jack found this leaflet. A family in the New Forest area - they have a small manor and need funds. Well, they claimed that a secret deed-box had been found in the house containing marriage lines and love-letters handed down through the family. Apparently some general, distantly connected, secretly married royalty. They had a son, all hushed up, but he used to go round and see his poor old mother, blackmailing her. No way to behave. Still, what could you expect from that lot?"
This was said with all the hauteur of one descended from Irish kings and Norman freebooters. "So I thought what Jack's place needed was a touch of romance - never got attacked in the Civil War, they probably thought it wasn't worth the effort. Trouble is, the Fanshaws have always been an incredibly boring family, even in their love lives, so I had to improvise."
"Of course," said Robert. "Naturally. And so?"
"Took a look round the portrait gallery," said Michael. "Awful paintings. Then found Emily - she has a very sweet face. Didn't marry, ran away to France and became a nun after her sweetheart was executed in the Civil War."
"Indeed," said Robert. "Well, who was her Romeo?"
"Distant relative of mine," said Michael. "Captain James Faulkner, executed by Cromwell's troops in Ireland. He didn't leave any legitimate descendants so that's safe enough."
"Ah," said Robert. "I have to agree, he does write an affecting letter."