by T E Kinsey
Edna arrived with the wine, closely followed by Miss Jones with the first platters of food. We had agreed that Mr Holman’s pork pies would be just the ticket but I had been disappointed that salad season was long gone. Miss Jones, though, was not daunted. She had some ‘winter salad’ ideas involving cabbage and other raw vegetables. With bread and a selection of her delicious chutneys, it made a splendid autumn lunch. Even with Edna’s help, it took three trips to bring it all through.
‘This looks gradely,’ said Mr Cheetham. ‘But I hope you’ve not gone to too much trouble on our behalf.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s no trouble at all. And you’re doing our little village a great service by bringing your moving pictures to us. I remember seeing travelling shows everywhere a few years ago, but they seem to have rather fallen from favour. One has to go to the big towns now. It’s a rare treat for us to have such wonderful entertainment.’
‘Then I hope we shan’t disappoint,’ he said. ‘We gave a few private screenings of our new show to people in “the business” and it was quite well received. We’re hoping that the public will take to it just as enthusiastically. To tell the truth, we’re rather depending on it. It’s an expensive business, making moving pictures. We need to attract the paying public. But we have high hopes – it’s quite appropriate for the time of year.’
‘Oh? The coming of winter?’
‘No, my lady – witchcraft,’ he said, with a mischievous grin.
‘Oh, I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How wonderful. And you others are the stars?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ said Zelda. ‘I play the witch, young Phemie here plays the village girl, and dear old Basil is the Witchfinder General.’
‘Perfect time of year for it,’ said Basil Newhouse. ‘Halloween and all that. And the mysterious fire up at Lady Farley-Stroud’s place—’
Zelda reached out and grabbed a pinch of salt, which she threw over her left shoulder.
‘—we should be able to get quite an audience, I’d have thought,’ he continued.
Euphemia gave him an oddly disapproving look.
‘I can hardly wait,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Lady Farley-Stroud tells me that you’ve made a moving picture of your own,’ said Cheetham.
‘Oh, just a little experimental piece,’ she said. ‘We met Monsieur Méliès in Paris a few years ago at a special presentation of his A Trip to the Moon. I was quite taken with it and asked him about his techniques. Ever since then I’ve been dabbling. Just as an enthusiastic amateur, you understand.’
‘Nonetheless, I look forward to seeing it. We’ve left a spot for you in the show.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You have your own equipment, I take it?’ he said.
‘I keep a little studio in the garden,’ she said. ‘It was originally intended as an orangery, but the light is excellent and it serves me well.’
‘I should like to take a look before we leave. If you don’t mind, of course.’
‘It will be a pleasure to show it off to a professional.’ She turned to Euphemia Selwood. ‘Have you been acting long, Miss Selwood?’ she said.
‘Since I were a nipper,’ said Euphemia. ‘My old ma works the music halls. I was born to it, you might say.’
Whereas Zelda had the well-modulated tones of a classically trained actress, Euphemia’s voice was that of a stall holder from one of London’s less salubrious markets.
‘Your mother is Millie Selwood?’ I said with some surprise.
‘That’s right, miss,’ she replied. ‘You’ve heard of her, then?’
‘We’ve met her,’ I said.
Lady Hardcastle raised a querying eyebrow.
‘At the Hackney Empire, my lady,’ I said. ‘1903. The Portuguese Affair.’
Lady Hardcastle nodded. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said.
Euphemia’s mouth fell open in surprise. ‘I knew I’d seen you two before,’ she said. ‘You come backstage, didn’t you? Oh my stars, that was the night Jimmy Brownlow got shot. I was there visitin’ me mother.’
‘I fear that was us, dear, yes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Though to be fair, it was only a matter of time before someone shot Brownlow.’
‘They said he was a spy. It was in the papers,’ said Euphemia.
‘He was quite a good comedian, as I recall, but not an especially talented spy,’ said Lady Hardcastle dismissively. ‘More of a weaselly chancer, really. The stupid little man imagined he could make himself wealthy by playing both sides against each other in a game of international intrigue. He was in way over his head. Sooner or later someone was going to tumble to him – it just happened that we got to him first.’
‘And you shot him?’ said Basil, his astonishment making him drop a forkful of food. ‘I say.’
‘He left me no choice, I’m afraid. Armstrong had relieved him of his pistol but he had a derringer concealed in his sock, of all places. He levelled it at her. One simply doesn’t do that sort of thing and expect to get away with it.’
‘Oh my stars!’ said Zelda, fanning her face with her hand. ‘You didn’t really?’
‘Course they did, Zel,’ said Euphemia. ‘Saw it with my own eyes.’
‘In the theatre?’
‘You make such a fuss, Zel. You act like you’ve lived in a convent all your life, but you’ve seen more than all of us put together.’
Zelda harrumphed but said nothing further. I confess I tended to agree with Euphemia to some extent – Zelda’s reaction did seem a little . . . actressy.
‘There’s more to you than meets the eye,’ said Cheetham. ‘I thought we were the storytellers, but I’d wager you have a few tales of your own. I wouldn’t wish ill upon Lady Farley-Stroud and her household, but I can’t say as I’m disappointed to have ended up billeted with you, my lady.’
He steered us back to calmer conversational waters, and we all shared lighter anecdotes and memories as we demolished Miss Jones’s ‘winter salads’. By the time Edna brought in the coffee, things were wrapping up and Lady Hardcastle was offering Cheetham a tour of her orangery studio.
‘You’re all welcome, of course,’ she said. ‘Although I don’t suppose it will be particularly impressive after some of the places you must have worked.’
The actors politely accepted, though the glances they shared seemed – to me, at least – to indicate that she might be overestimating the glamour of the world of the kinematograph.
‘I think we’d all like that,’ said Cheetham. ‘I think it’s grand that people are getting interested in moving pictures again. It used to thrill everyone so. But not so much any more. Time was when I used to do shows up and down the country where I’d photograph folk going about their daily business in the morning, then I’d process the film in the afternoon and show it to them in the evening. It used to go down a storm. Not so much these days. Folk have got a bit blasé about it, I reckon.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you mentioned that – I’d been wondering how to broach the subject. I was talking to the butcher’s wife this morning and she was reminiscing about a chap doing exactly that in Weston-super-Mare a few years ago. I did wonder if we might be able to persuade you to do it for us.’
‘No need to be shy when it comes to asking me to show off, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘I can certainly get my equipment sent down if you think they’d like it. I’m sure we could find the time to make the film, but . . . ’
‘If time is a worry,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘perhaps I could do some of the work for you? I can certainly process the film here and, if you were to show me how to use your camera, I could capture some of the images for you.’
‘That would make it very possible. Very possible indeed. I do love watching people’s reactions when they see themselves on the screen. I just didn’t think anyone was interested any more so I’ve not allowed any time for it.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad you mentioned it, Armstrong. What fun.’
>
I smiled.
‘Right,’ she said decisively. ‘Let’s take a look at the orangery before it starts to rain, and then we can leave you good people to rest. A long journey and a hearty meal should be enough to knock anyone out. Dinner shan’t be until eight, so there’s plenty of time to recuperate.’
We all rose to leave.
I left them to their tour while I returned to the kitchen to offer my help there.
A short while later, having had my offer of help politely declined, I was upstairs on the landing. I was on my way to fetch a dress from Lady Hardcastle’s wardrobe whose lace collar was in need of repair.
I had my hand on the bedroom doorknob but the sound of a heated conversation from one of the guest rooms made me stop. I was unable to make out the details of the exchange, but it seemed to be coming from Basil Newhouse’s room further along the landing. Mr Newhouse was arguing with a woman.
Mr Newhouse’s door opened and I hurriedly stepped into Lady Hardcastle’s room. Before I closed the door behind me, I very clearly heard Euphemia Selwood’s voice saying, ‘You want to watch out, Basil. You could find yourself dead.’
She slammed the door and stomped to her own room, where she slammed that door as well. I had no idea what it could all be about, but whatever it was I judged Euphemia’s reaction to have been as melodramatically actressy as Zelda’s had been earlier. Still, they livened up the place.
With the dinner preparations well in hand and the collar repairs done, I sneaked off to hide out for a few moments in the sitting room with a cup of tea and a book. I curled up on one of the comfortable armchairs and quickly lost myself in a copy of E Lynn Linton’s Witch Stories that I found lurking on the bookshelf.
I was skimming through the account of ‘Elspeth Cursetter and Her Friends’ when I heard light footsteps in the hallway. With a rattle of the doorknob, the door opened and Mr Newhouse peered tentatively round it.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Sorry to disturb you, my dear.’
‘Not at all, Mr Newhouse,’ I said. ‘Please come in. I’m just taking a little break. I’m not sure the tea will be up to much, but it’s no trouble to make a fresh pot.’
‘Very kind. The truth is, I’m actually looking for somewhere to enjoy a cigar. Would here be all right?’
‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ I said, ‘but Lady Hardcastle isn’t terribly fond of cigar smoke.’
‘No matter, no matter,’ he said affably. ‘Often the way in ladies’ houses. Quite understand. I’ll nip out into the garden.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feeling guilty that we were such unaccommodating hosts. I was also mindful of his recent falling out with Euphemia and wondered if he might be in need of a chance to settle himself a little. ‘But it’s raining. I’ll tell you what, how do you fancy a stroll to the village pub? I could do with having a word with my pal who works there and you can puff away on your cigar with no one to complain. I can introduce you to some of the villagers, too – I’m sure they’ll be excited to meet an actor.’
He laughed. ‘Always happy to meet my public,’ he said. ‘Though I doubt anyone will be too impressed. And’ – he paused for a moment – ‘won’t we get just as wet walking into the village as I would in your garden?’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But in the garden you just stand in the mud on your own. If we do it my way, I get to show you off to my pal Daisy.’
‘You make a good case, Miss Armstrong,’ he said. ‘Will you not be missed?’
‘Terribly,’ I said. ‘The place would grind to a shuddering halt were I away too long. But under the circumstances, I feel it’s also my duty to act as guide to the local sights and attractions.’
‘Aha, a “bear-leader” they used to be called,’ he said with a nod. ‘The Grand Tour comes to Gloucestershire. And the villagers shan’t be aghast at the sight of a young lady accompanying a disreputable old actor unchaperoned?’
‘Much of what I do and say leaves folk aghast,’ I said. ‘I tend not to take any notice these days.’
‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘Now if you can help a chap find his hat . . . ’
I got up from the armchair and led him back into the hall. I was helping him into his overcoat when the telephone rang.
I answered it. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Chipping Bevington two-three.’
‘Hello?’ said a certain, familiar, loud, female voice. ‘Armstrong? Is that you again?’ It was Lady Farley-Stroud.
‘Yes, my lady,’ I said. ‘If you’ll wait one moment, I’ll fetch Lady Hardcastle for you.’
‘Right you are, m’dear,’ she shouted. ‘Thank you.’
Her hearing seemed to be improving.
Lady Hardcastle, meanwhile, had already emerged from her study.
‘Gertie?’ she said.
I nodded as she took the earpiece from me.
‘My own coat is still in the boot room,’ I said to Mr Newhouse. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’
I returned a minute or two later in hat and raincoat. I grabbed two umbrellas from the stand by the door and turned to catch Lady Hardcastle’s attention. She was reassuring Lady Farley-Stroud that Mr Cheetham and his associates were settling in nicely. She had to hold the earpiece away from her head to avoid being deafened by the reply.
‘Good show,’ shouted the crackly voice. ‘Might drop in later. Show my face. Will that be acceptable?’
While she was talking, I mouthed the word ‘Pub’ to Lady Hardcastle, who gestured her understanding and sent us on our way with a cheery wave. We heard her offer an open invitation to both of the Farley-Strouds as we left.
The Dog and Duck was a lively village pub. The landlord was ‘Old’ Joe Arnold, whose family had owned the inn for several generations. He was a generous soul with a heart uncluttered by malice and a mouth uncluttered by teeth. Lady Hardcastle and I had lived in the village of Littleton Cotterell for over a year and had yet to set eyes upon the woman whom Joe referred to as ‘our ma’. We presumed she was his wife, and that the honorific indicated that there might be junior Arnolds somewhere in the world, but we knew nothing of them, either.
We passed the door to the public bar and entered the snug. Through the open door between the two sections of the pub we could see the usual collection of local farmhands crowding the tables in the public bar. They filled the room with loud chatter, raucous laughter, and a thick fug of tobacco smoke. Old Joe was chatting to a couple of his regulars in one corner.
The snug, by contrast, was almost deserted. Mrs Grove, the vicar’s housekeeper, was sipping a small sherry while she listened with rapt concentration to her friend’s account of her own tribulations. I thought I recognized her companion but I didn’t know her name. I had a vague inkling that she was a farmer’s wife from the other side of the village, and her frustrated description of the travails of milking time seemed to confirm my assumption.
The only other occupants of the room were a man and a woman whom I didn’t know at all. She was young, slender, blonde and dressed in a very expensive-looking, dark jacket with a matching skirt. It was tailored from fine wool in a cut so fashionable that it labelled her instantly as a city girl. Her companion was a gentleman who looked to me to be in his mid-forties. Like the young woman, he was conspicuously not a country dweller. But whereas she had the look of a well-to-do socialite dressed up as a professional person of business or commerce, he was more bohemian in appearance and was dressed up very much as an artist. His greying hair was wild and unkempt. His van Dyke beard was long, with the moustache flamboyantly twirled. His velvet jacket was of a rich emerald green, and a silk cravat in a garish Paisley pattern seemed to bubble up from the collar of his shirt. These were not locals.
‘Great merciful heavens,’ muttered Mr Newhouse under his breath. ‘That’s all we need.’
I didn’t get a chance to ask him what he meant before Daisy appeared behind the bar.
‘Flo!’ she squealed. ‘I was wonderin’ when you’d come in.’
‘Prynhawn Da, Daisy, fach,’ I said.
She and Mr Newhouse looked at me quizzically. ‘Good afternoon, Daisy, dear,’ I translated. ‘Honestly, if you stand on the church tower you can spit on Wales from here, but not one of you speaks Welsh. Even Blodwen Jones doesn’t understand half of what I say. Blodwen. How much more Welsh can you get without actually having a dragon tattooed on your forearm?’
‘It’s all sing-song gibberish and throat-clearing to me, my lover,’ said Daisy.
I harrumphed. ‘It’s lucky for you that you’re so pretty, you heathen. There’d be no hope for you otherwise.’
She flashed me an insolent grin and bobbed a curtsey. ‘And what brings you to Joe’s fine establishment on this rainy afternoon?’ she said.
‘Mr Newhouse,’ I said by way of reply, ‘please allow me to introduce my good friend Daisy Spratt. Daisy, this is the celebrated actor Mr Basil Newhouse.’
‘How do you do, my dear?’ said Mr Newhouse with a gracious bow.
‘Oh my stars,’ said Daisy. ‘It’s really you, i’n’t it?’
There was a loud and very obvious ‘tut’ from the gentleman at the table.
‘I am certainly he,’ said Mr Newhouse. ‘Am I to take it from your response that you’ve heard of me?’
‘Everyone’s heard of you, you ridiculous old ham,’ muttered the bohemian. ‘Your thieving master has seen to that.’
I turned towards the table. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I said. ‘My name is Florence Armstrong. I gather you know my mistress’s guest, but you are . . . ?’
‘Aaron Orum,’ he said with a sneer. ‘At your service.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Orum, I’m sure,’ I said, and returned my attention to Daisy.
‘I most certainly have heard of you, Mr Newhouse,’ she said. ‘I reads all the magazines and I knows all about you.’
There was another loud tut from Mr Orum.
‘Is it busy in the public, Daisy?’ I said.