To the Manor Born

by Peter Rimmer

  “I’m so sorry. Is she very sick, Harry?” asked Ignatius.

  “Not very. It’s me who is sick, Iggy. I need to go home to repair my soul.”

  “It will be a pleasure to go with you on the journey.”

  “This time we are taking a couple of engineers instead of passengers. Lots of spares. Onboard fuel. I need to get out of London. To breathe untainted air. To feel free again and walk in the bush. This new seaplane is a hybrid. It can land on water and an airfield. The small wheels are embedded in the floats.”

  “When do we go?”

  “Thursday.”

  * * *

  “Sod me,” said Barnaby St Clair putting down the newspaper on the breakfast table. He was sitting in his townhouse two days after his return from his journey to Scotland to clear his mind of clutter. The clutter of his old business and the people who made it possible.

  The morning newspaper had been brought to him at the table by Edward, delivered to the door. Instead of turning to the business section, he had read the day’s news before turning to the social columns to see if there was anyone he knew. The name Brett Kentrich leapt from the page. The poor girl was engaged. Ever since Harry had dunked him in the river, according to rumour, Harry had kept away from his old mistress. The article announcing her coming marriage to the man who had written Happy Times also reported Christopher Marlowe’s new musical was not to be staged for lack of a financial backer. Mr Harry Brigandshaw, chairman of Colonial Shipping, had withdrawn his patronage from the arts and was returning to his farm in Rhodesia to look after his sick mother.

  “Bollocks, Harry. You’re just cutting your ties with Brett.”

  Barnaby picked up the paper and reread the article properly. There was no mention of Harry’s family going out to Rhodesia despite the rest of the detail. There was mention of Marlowe looking for a backer. Oscar Fleming had also pulled away from Brett Kentrich.

  “Dirty old bastard isn’t getting his oats,” said Barnaby, the thought of which gave him an idea that might solve his boredom. When a man was too busy Barnaby had found out for himself, he dreamt of a life of leisure… Breakfast at ten in the morning reading the paper. Pacing the day to fill it out and prevent long gaps with nothing to do… He had known the then Barrie Madgwick in France. He had even had a brief affair with Brett to spite Harry Brigandshaw, which he had no wish to repeat… It might just work. The idea of all the showgirls was appealing. Seducing young women was the one amusement left in his life.

  A small part of his money would finance a West End musical. Hadn’t Christopher’s friend once confided in him he wished to put on a show from start to end…? Gert van Heerden who lived in a room close to Christopher, had said he was tired of painting the sets, managing the stage. He wanted to produce a show in all its glory. He wanted the job being done by Oscar Fleming… They had both been drunk in Clara’s telling each other their life’s ambitions. Barnaby knew he was lucky to always remember what he was told, even drunk, as he never knew when it would come in useful. He called it the dregs of his mind.

  Barnaby put down the paper to think. If nothing else, he would have some fun losing some of his money. If the new Marlowe show was as good as the last one he might even double his money.

  Barnaby began to smile as his hormones responded to temptation. A captive audience of pretty young things all wishing to please the man who put up the money.

  “Best of all it will poke a finger in Harry’s eye. Teach him to throw a punch when I wasn’t looking. With a bit of luck, it will make him mad when he comes back to London… Marrying old Marlowe. Now there’s a turn-up for the books.”

  With the idea fermenting in his mind, Barnaby picked up the paper and turned the page.

  “Bugger me!”

  Right in front of his eyes was a photograph of his brother next to a lengthy review of Holy Knight.

  Barnaby sipped his tea as he read the review, which centred more on the lost and found parchments hidden in the wall of Purbeck Manor, purportedly found by an ancestor having a silver goblet thrown at him by his wife. Barnaby read on chortling to himself, impressed with his brother’s acumen. The book, said the newspaper, had been a howling success in America. Brother Robert was going to make a fortune out of the book. The newspaper even told Barnaby Robert was back in London for the book launch the following week.

  The review gave Barnaby another idea to relieve his boredom.

  During the time his brother had lived in America, Barnaby had seen Portia Ramsbottom a dozen times. Each time she had asked about Robert while ignoring his flirtatious advances. Never being one who liked a girl’s refusal, Barnaby had bided his time aware each time they met of Portia becoming a beautiful young woman with exactly the type of sexuality he liked. He even knew the telephone number of the family home in London, Barnaby having made it his business to find out soon after Robert left on his extended visit to America… You never knew unless you tried, he told himself with a satisfied smirk.

  When Barnaby finished his breakfast, he got up and walked to the telephone in his study. He gave the Pimlico number to the operator and waited for someone to answer. Within a minute, the operator had put him through… Luck favoured the fortunate. It was the girl herself.

  “Portia, it’s Barnaby St Clair.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I recognised your voice. Just read Robert’s review. Thought I’d tell you to look it up in the today’s Telegraph. He’s over for the book launch… Are you still there?”

  “He hasn’t phoned me. Hasn’t written for months and months.”

  “Would you like a drink so we can talk about his book? Why don’t you come over here? There are some friends coming for drinks at six. Cocktails the Americans call it. Very civilised. I’m only five minutes away in a taxi. I’ll keep the paper so you can read the review. It’s very good.”

  “What’s the name of the book?”

  “Holy Knight. Spelt with a K. About one of our ancestors in Palestine during the Crusades.”

  “Thank you, Barnaby. That’s very sweet of you.”

  “Five o’clock. Just ring the bell. My man Edward will let you in if we are all talking too much.”

  When Barnaby put down the phone, he was smiling to himself with delicious anticipation. Best of all it would teach his brother a lesson in good manners. Both his brothers had been ignoring him for years. The seduction of Portia Ramsbottom might have to be put off until later.

  Barnaby picked up the phone and gave the operator another number from his memory. A girl with an American accent answered the phone.

  “Sorry. My memory for numbers must be wrong. I was looking for Robert St Clair, the author. It’s his brother here, Barnaby.”

  “He’s right here.”

  “Who’s that?” he heard his brother say down the line.

  “Barnaby.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Where on earth did you dream up the parchments in the wall? Really, Robert. Fiction is fiction. What would the newspapers say if they knew?”

  “Oh, God. I didn’t think Max was going to make such a song and dance. Most of what I wrote is folklore handed down the family through the generations. It just made better sense telling my publisher the family had found the stories hidden in a wall. We both know the stories were true about Sir Henri Saint Claire Debussy.”

  “Who was the girl on your phone, Robert?”

  “Freya Taylor.”

  “Who is Freya?”

  “She is a friend of mine.”

  “Then bring her for cocktails at five. And ask Merlin to be kind enough to come. We can discuss the review in The Telegraph. And the silver goblet thrown by our great-grandmother. You are lucky our father only reads the Farmers Weekly unless they reviewed your book... Where is Freya from, Robert?”

  “America. Denver. Colorado.”

  “Five o’clock. There will be other guests. Including Christopher Marlowe and Brett Kentrich. I’m going to back Christopher’s new
musical. I’m sure Miss Taylor would like to meet a star of our London stage. A big star.”

  “Harry backs Christopher.”

  “Not any more. He’s gone back to Elephant Walk.”

  “With his family?”

  “No.”

  “Will Tina be there for drinks?”

  “Robert! Really! Whatever are you thinking? She’s a married woman, for Pete’s sake.”

  “What are you up to, Barnaby?”

  “Have you taken Miss Taylor to meet our mother and father?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Five o’clock. With Merlin and whoever he is escorting at the moment.”

  “All right. Please don’t tell anyone about the parchments.”

  “Why ever would I do that? We are family, Robert. Families stick together. Had you forgotten?”

  “Fine, see you later.”

  The line went dead. Barnaby jiggled the telephone.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  Barnaby gave the operator Brett Kentrich’s number. The least he could do was convey his best wishes for her forthcoming marriage.

  “It’s just getting better and better. The cat and the mice.” Barnaby was chortling to himself.

  “Brett, darling. It’s Barnaby.”

  “What do you want? I haven’t woken up.”

  “When does Happy Times close?”

  “At the end of the month.”

  “Blimey... Congratulations on your engagement. Please bring Christopher and Gert van Heerden to my home at five o’clock for drinks.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To have a drink with an old friend, darling. Don’t tell anyone but I’m out of the market. Sold all my shares… You remember my stock market dealings? I once tried to explain to you the art of selling short.”

  “Please not again.”

  “You can all spend a couple of hours with me before you go to the theatre. I’m going to back Christopher’s new show which Gert is going to stage in its entirety.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Never more in my life… Five o’clock.”

  “Now I’m awake. How much did you get for your shares?”

  “Just over a million pounds after paying back the mortgage on this house and the bank manager his overdraft.”

  “Barnaby, be serious.”

  “I never joke about money. Never… Five o’clock.”

  “All right, fine. We’ll all be there.”

  Brett Kentrich had suddenly sounded wary. Barnaby clicked off his phone.

  “I wonder if the engagement came before or after Harry announced he was going back to Africa? That’s the trouble with sleeping with the boss. Once the affair is over people get fired.”

  With a trilby hat perched on his head, Barnaby left his townhouse for a walk in Green Park. It was a beautiful September day. He hoped all his guests were looking forward to their evening.

  “Money, old chap. It’s always about the money.”

  Then he crossed Piccadilly, dodging the traffic on his way to the park. Just in case it rained, he had brought with him his rolled umbrella.

  * * *

  Through the day, Edward prepared the canapés. Barnaby did not employ a cook. He ate lunch and supper in clubs and restaurants. Edward was well capable of cooking their breakfasts. Even with all that money in the bank, it was silly to waste it. So far as he could remember the only thing his great-grandfather had done in his life was waste the family money entertaining anyone at Purbeck Manor who liked to drink and eat good food. There was a family story about a silver cup thrown but nothing about an echo in the dining room wall.

  When Barnaby came back from his walk in the park and saw all the ingredients Edward had bought for the snacks he decided to skip lunch. A good gentleman’s gentleman was a real joy in a young man’s life.

  * * *

  The last person Robert St Clair expected to find in his brother’s house was Portia Ramsbottom, the girl who had once told him it was possible to love a man’s mind. Robert remembered writing her letters from America right at the start before his life had been swallowed up by Freya Taylor excluding all other romantic thought that wasn’t written into his book. Portia looked even prettier than he remembered. She was now a sophisticated woman who just looked at Freya with her American accent and smiled.

  Earlier in the afternoon, Merlin had had no sympathy for his plight. The whole idea had grown from his conversation with Max Pearl when he had given the finished manuscript of Holy Knight to him.

  * * *

  “Your family must have some written record of the knight?” Max had quizzed him again shortly before the book was published. “The publicity people will want some facts to promote a book like that. You seemed to imply the story was handed down by word of mouth but there’s so much detail. The American public will want to know they are reading a real story about real people. They won’t swallow seven hundred years of father to son word of mouth. No, sir. They want facts. You go and find the facts on which you based the story … Real facts, Robert.”

  “Of course some of it was written down.”

  “Where?”

  “I told you, on parchments.”

  “Didn’t Oliver Cromwell destroy your family’s castle in Dorset? Burned it to the ground?”

  “Well, yes.” At that point in the conversation, Robert remembered his writer’s mind going berserk, blurring family fact with family fiction. The natural born storyteller in the part of his mind that was Celt took over, spilling the storyline in a gush all over Max Pearl.

  Robert remembered the rapt expression on Max Pearl’s face.

  * * *

  There were often parts in his books that echoed his own past. This had just been one of them. Now Barnaby was threatening to catch him out and make a fool of him in the press on both sides of the Atlantic.

  To make matters worse, Robert had arranged to meet Max Pearl at Clara’s after the shows in the West End came out. Max had an early meeting with Robert’s British publisher to which Robert had not been invited. When people talked money about his books it was none of his business. They paid him a royalty, which is all he wanted to know.

  Christopher Marlowe walking into the room brought his mind back to the present, to his present very real predicament that could badly affect the men who had put their good money into his book. It was all typical of Barnaby. He always got his own way. Even as a child growing up. With all of them. He always seemed to find out something about each of them and demand his pound of flesh. In those days it was the threat of telling their mother about their indiscretions. Earlier, Robert had gone across to Merlin’s flat in Park Lane.

  “Barnaby is paying us back, Robert.”

  “He’s paying me back, Merlin.”

  “Well. Yes. Why I’m not going for drinks tonight. It’s your problem. Really, Robert. How could you possibly tell such a lie?”

  “I’m a fiction writer, dammit. The stories are not even meant to be true.”

  “He’s quite ruthless. Can twist anything to his advantage. Good luck, Robert.”

  “Merlin, will you stop laughing.”

  * * *

  Christopher Marlowe was pleased to see Robert. He watched the slight embarrassment with Portia, who had also just arrived, play itself out before moving towards Robert St Clair.

  “Thank you for helping Ralph with Rebecca,” he said as they formally shook hands.

  “You can thank Freya here,” said Robert. “She delivered the letter. Hello, Brett... All of you meet Freya Taylor from America with a big welcome. Portia, you look even more beautiful.”

  “Hello, Robert,” he heard his old friend Gert van Heerden say. Christopher looked around the room. There was his lovely Brett. Gert his old friend. Jane, Gert’s girlfriend. Portia. Robert back from America with a girl called Freya. And Barnaby, as he had been told by Brett, who was going to finance A Walk in the Woods.

  * * *

  Standing back, Barnaby watched the interplay between
his guests. To make his brother feel even more guilty than he looked, Barnaby gave him a wink.

  “Merlin did the duck I suppose,” he said to Robert. “Left you on your own. He always did that when I was growing up. Do you know in those days the only birds and animals that did not run from Merlin were those of the night? The fox. The owl. The weasel.”

  He could read him like one of his own books, he knew his brother so well. He had also checked with Clara’s whether his brother had a booking for a table any time that week soon after his visit to Merlin’s flat.

  * * *

  “Ten o’clock tonight, Mr St Clair,” Miss Clara had told him on the phone.

  “Is that Merlin or Robert St Clair?” Barnaby had asked.

  “The writer Mr St Clair.”

  “Thank you, Miss Clara. I’d like a table for four.”

  “Can I put you at your brother’s table? He has one male guest as well as his fiancée. His American publisher, I believe.”

  “That will be much better. My party will take in a show first. Ten thirty, shall we say? By then I’m sure my brother will have talked out all the business writers talk with their publishers. How are you, Miss Clara?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  * * *

  Pleased yet again with his own guile, Barnaby smiled to himself. He had also been right about Gert van Heerden bringing a girl. A tall girl he had seen somewhere before. Probably a showgirl. The perfect cover for himself to invite Portia to a show and to dinner. The cocktail party went into full swing.

  * * *

  At seven o’clock, Brett called for a taxi to take her to the theatre. Christopher was being dropped off at Clara’s on the way. Gert and Jane Tamplin did not have plans for the rest of the evening. That much Barnaby had found out soon after they had arrived. Smiling, he put his plan to seduce Portia into action.