by T E Kinsey
Mr Hughes began shouting angrily at the dog and its human companions. He tried to get to his feet, more effectively to remonstrate with them, but Hamlet interpreted the shouting – which must have just seemed like barking to him – and the sudden movement as an invitation to continue the game. He bounced over to the lead protester and knocked him flat on his back once more.
‘I think Mr Hughes might be a little busy,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Perhaps we should confine ourselves to visiting Mr Orum at the Dog and Duck.’
‘It might be best,’ I said. ‘Hughes seems to have quite a lot to deal with at the moment.’
As we turned away, Mr Hughes was still supine, with Hamlet’s forepaws on his chest. The happy hound stood with his head bent towards his unwitting playmate’s face, barking and drooling and, as always, completely oblivious to the chaos he had caused.
Chapter Seven
I hadn’t been entirely certain that the trip to the pub would be a productive one. Lady Hardcastle had wanted to speak to Mr Orum, and although we knew he was staying in one of the two rooms that Old Joe let out to paying guests, we neither of us had any idea where he would actually be. He might have been sitting in his room, reading an improving book. He might just as easily have been braving the November chill and striding manfully across the Gloucestershire fields, trying to further cultivate his image as a windswept romantic artist. That seemed the most likely possibility to me, actually. Anyone who wore that paisley cravat definitely had an image to cultivate.
He was sitting in the snug with a pint of Old Joe’s best cider, and a newspaper. He peered over the newspaper as we entered, but flicked it ostentatiously back up in front of his face as soon as he realized who we were.
Lady Hardcastle ignored him and proceeded to the bar. There was no one there to serve us, and so, in her finest schoolroom voice, she called out, ‘Mr Arnold? Are you there?’
Answer came there none.
‘He’s in the cellar, fetching . . . something or other,’ said Mr Orum, still concealed behind his newspaper.
‘Thank you,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Mr Orum, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ he said, finally lowering the paper. ‘You have the advantage of me, Mrs . . . ?’
‘Lady Hardcastle,’ she said. ‘How do you do?’
‘How do you do . . . my lady?’ he said.
‘You’re here for the moving picture shows?’
‘That’s right. Nolan Cheetham’s Travelling Whatnot.’
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘He’s staying at the house. I gather you used to be friends.’
‘Used to be, yes. What poison has he been spreading?’
‘He’s said very little, actually. We heard your story from the late Mr Newhouse.’
‘That old buffoon? I might have known. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut in a slurry pit, that one. He . . . ’ But he seemed to catch himself before he said anything further. ‘Shouldn’t speak ill of the recently deceased, though, eh?’
‘Especially not when one has provided the inspiration for their murder.’
His drink stopped on the way to his mouth. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.
‘My understanding was that you maintain The Witch’s Downfall was your idea. If you wrote the picture, then you devised the means of murdering Mr Newhouse.’
‘I didn’t invent the idea of witches killing their victims using spells cast on dolls.’
‘No, of course not. But you included it in your story, and it was acted out in gory detail in the churchyard in the wee small hours exactly as you scripted it.’
‘Unless a witch did it,’ he said.
‘We shouldn’t rule it out, I suppose. Although one might think it more than a little suspicious that you turn up out of the blue after falling out with your old friend and then one of his company is murdered.’
He looked momentarily alarmed, but was soon back to his sardonic self. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Euphemia Selwood to do away with him over some imagined slight. They’re very touchy people, actresses. They have enormous egos, but they’re built on fragile foundations. One little tap, and . . . ’ He mimed knocking something over with a gentle touch from his finger. ‘Or Zelda Drayton, perhaps? She was always trouble, that one.’
‘I got the impression that they were all the best of friends,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ he said, archly. ‘The absolute very, very closest and best of friends. Never a cross word between them. Not one.’
Joe arrived at that moment and said, ‘Good afternoon, m’lady. What can I get you?’
‘Ah, good afternoon, Mr Arnold, how lovely to see you.’
‘I keeps tellin’ you t’call me Joe, m’lady. Everyone does.’
‘Of course, Joe, I’m so sorry. I think it’s a bit early for brandy. I wonder, do you have any lime cordial?’
‘Sorry, m’lady, we ran out t’other month and I a’n’t ordered no more,’ he said. ‘I got some sarsaparilla, but it’s a bit old, mind – we don’t get much call for it. Tastes like medicine. Ginger beer? How about a nice glass of ginger beer?’
‘That would do splendidly. One for you, Armstrong?’
I nodded.
‘Make it two, please, Joe. Mr Orum? Would you allow me to treat you?’
He held up his pewter tankard. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said.
We took our drinks to his table.
‘And do you mind if we join you?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘It would be churlish to turn you away now that you’ve been generous enough to buy me a drink,’ he said, and folded his newspaper. He took a sip of his fresh tankard of cider. ‘Your very good health, my lady.’
Lady Hardcastle and I raised our own glasses.
‘Were you here last evening?’ she said. ‘After the show, I mean.’
‘Most of the village was in here,’ he said.
‘Well, quite. But were you?’
‘I was. Why?’
‘I’m interested to know when Basil Newhouse was last seen, that’s all.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I’d heard you fancy yourself as a bit of an amateur sleuth. Yes, I was here. I saw Cheetham and his eager minions in the other bar. Or, rather, I heard them. Full of themselves, as usual, and eagerly claiming all the credit for my work.’
‘Did you speak to them?’
‘I was going to go and give them a piece of my mind – I’d have set those fawning villagers straight about a few things while I was at it – but I was persuaded to keep my own counsel.’
‘By whom?’ I asked.
‘Miss Caudle of the Bristol News. She’s staying here. You saw her here on Monday, Miss . . . Armstrong.’
‘I did,’ I said.
‘And we both saw her again today,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘She bearded him this morning.’
‘In his lair,’ he said.
‘In my lair,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t want for impudence, that one.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll let her know. She’ll be delighted.’
‘You do that,’ she said. ‘You might also do me the service of telling her that she should make an appointment if she wishes to badger my guests any further.’
He laughed again. ‘She’ll be further delighted to know that she engendered such vexation, I’m sure.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Did you see when Mr Newhouse left?’
‘I’m afraid not. I heard the others leave shortly after midnight – lots of hearty congratulations from the assembled sheep, and beseechments that they should give another performance of my moving picture. I was so sickened by the whole experience that I went upstairs to my bed and left them to it.’
‘And Mr Newhouse remained?’
‘To the best of my knowledge. He was never one to turn down an opportunity to be adored and admired. Especially not if there were free drinks on offer.’
I don’t know if Lady Hardcastle had any further questions – I certainly did – but at that moment we were interrupted b
y the arrival of a panting Edna.
‘Beggin’ your pardon, my lady,’ she wheezed. ‘But there’s a couple of . . . gentlemen at the house. Says they’s expected. Musicians by the looks of ’em.’
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you.’ She turned back to our less-than-willing companion. ‘I’m afraid we shall have to abandon you once more to your solitude, Mr Orum – we should return to greet our guests. Are you recovered sufficiently to return, Edna? There’s a couple of half-finished ginger beers there if you’d like a few more minutes. I’m sure Mr Orum won’t mind.’
Mr Orum had already picked up his newspaper. Edna paused a moment, then poured what was left of my ginger beer into Lady Hardcastle’s glass.
‘If you don’t mind, my lady,’ she said, ‘I could do with a quick sit-down.’
Without waiting for approval, she carried her full drink into the public bar, leaving us to return home on our own.
Back at the house, we found a pile of familiar musical instrument cases on the front path.
‘That’s definitely our boys,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Who else would dump a drum set and a double bass outside a lady’s front door?’
I opened the door and stood aside to let her in.
Barty and Skins were standing in the hall, looking slightly bewildered.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How absolutely delightful to see you.’
‘Afternoon, Lady H,’ said Skins, holding out his hand. ‘You’re sure it’s no trouble? Your housemaid seemed a bit put out.’
‘No trouble whatsoever,’ she said. ‘I neglected to tell her you were coming, that’s all. Now, if I can leave you in Flo’s capable hands for just a few moments, I shall go and tell the film folk what’s what, and then we can get you settled.’
‘Wotcha, Flo,’ said Skins, grinning broadly. ‘Got anywhere we can stow our gear?’
‘Mr Skins,’ I said. ‘How lovely of you to drop by. And Mr Dunn. Good afternoon to you, too.’
‘Miss Armstrong,’ said the charming bass player.
‘Give me your hats and I’ll pop them over here on the hatstand for you, out of the way. Then we can get someone to see to your traps.’
‘“Someone”?’ said Skins. ‘You’ve got more someones now?’
‘We’ll tell you the tale later, I’m sure, but we have Dewi – you remember Dewi, the footman from The Grange? We have him on loan for a week.’
‘People on loan like library books, eh?’ said Skins. ‘How the other half lives, eh, Barty?’
Where Skins was a small, wiry bundle of energy, Barty was tall and loose-limbed, and had an altogether more relaxed and easy-going manner. He also had charm by the wagonload and I remembered his dalliance with a certain housemaid.
‘Dora is here as well,’ I said.
Barty looked blank.
‘Dora Kendrick,’ I said. ‘The housemaid from The Grange.’
He continued to look baffled.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Skins. ‘He has so many kitties on the go, he can’t keep up.’ He turned to his pal. ‘Dora, mate. Flighty bit. You “comforted” her when we played the party.’
The recollection slowly surfaced. Or stirred in the murky depths of his memories of amorous adventures past, at any rate. ‘Dora, yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Tall, blonde girl with a limp?’
I sighed. ‘No. You’ll see her later, I’m sure,’ I said. ‘She might not want to be remembered, but if she says anything, do at least pretend you know who she is.’
‘Right you are,’ he said with a cheery grin. ‘Will do.’
I sent them to the drawing room while I enjoined Dewi to put the double bass and the drum set in the orangery, and their suitcases in their rooms. Miss Jones put the kettle on and I asked Edna to bring a tray through when it was done. Dora, as always, was nowhere to be seen, but for once I thought this was probably a good thing. She was aggravating enough as it was, without stirring up whatever passions – or resentment – might result from the presence of the handsome bass player.
What with all the train shenanigans, the musicians hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The film folk, for their part, were keen to eat before another evening of entertaining the villagers. Lady Hardcastle and I had somehow missed lunch, too, and so we agreed that serving a hybrid dinner-lunch-supper at teatime would probably suit all our needs.
I worked with Miss Jones to put together a meal fit for artists. Her supper preparations were already well advanced by the time I sprung the change of plans on her, but the main dish – a venison pie – wouldn’t be ready in time. I managed to persuade her that this could be turned to her advantage since we could serve it on Thursday with most of the work already done.
‘I still a’n’t got nothin’ to give ’em right now, mind,’ she said.
‘What were you planning to serve for lunch?’ I asked. ‘Could we put it in a smart frock and turn it into something more elegant and dinner-ish?’
‘I was just goin’ to do cheese sandwiches,’ she said disconsolately.
‘Bung them under the grill and you’ve got Welsh rabbit,’ I said. ‘If we serve it with some vegetable soup and give it a fancy name, everyone will be impressed by your inventiveness.’
‘Cheese on toast?’ she said. ‘For dinner?’
‘With mustard. And pop a fried egg on top. We’ll call it . . . Lapin au pays de Galles.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Welsh rabbit,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘I’ll get a soup on, and you take care of the cheese on toast. You’re Welsh, after all.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But then so are you. Although I don’t think the dish is especially Welsh.’
‘It don’t ’ave no rabbits in it, neither.’
‘Touché.’
‘I i’n’t Welsh, though, mind.’
I goggled. ‘Not Welsh?’ I said. ‘You’re called Blodwen Jones. You couldn’t be more Welsh if you were wearing a tall hat and singing “Sospan Fach” while you bake laver bread.’
‘Our dad was Welsh. I was born in Littleton Cotterell,’ she said proudly.
‘I stand corrected.’
We were seven for lunch-dinner-supper-tea. I had been anticipating a sober mood, perhaps even sombre, but with the two musicians present things had taken a more buoyant turn. Showing a level of sensitivity I hadn’t expected from either of them, both Barty and Skins had encouraged the three film folk to talk about their old friend. Almost in spite of themselves, they had been coaxed from damp-eyed declarations of sadness at the passing of their dear friend to sharing stories of adventures, pranks, and triumphant stage performances. Laughter filled the room. No one mentioned the Welsh rabbit.
With the room nicely warmed up, Barty Dunn had turned up the wick on his legendary charm and focused the beam upon Euphemia Selwood. She basked in the warmth of its flirtatiously complimentary glow.
He noticed that the conversations around him had stopped and that we were all listening to him.
‘Don’t stop, Barty, mate,’ said Skins, resting his chin on his hand. ‘You carry on with what you’re doin’. We’re all just lookin’ for tips, like. We come seekin’ wooing wisdom.’
The look on Barty’s face suggested that, in other company, his pal might get a smack in the chops rather than a class in the art of courting, but when both Lady Hardcastle and Zelda copied Skins’s attentive posture and looked raptly at him, he laughed and held his hands up in surrender.
‘You can’t blame a bloke for trying,’ he said.
Euphemia blushed and took a spoonful of soup, but she was smiling, too.
Despite the teasing, Barty clearly didn’t want to have to stop talking to Euphemia. ‘It must be peculiar, though,’ he said, ‘just performing for a camera. I can’t play my best without an audience.’
‘You get used to it,’ she said. ‘I done a bit of work in the music halls with me mum when I was little, and a few plays when I started out on me own. So you
know where the reactions is gonna be. You just sort of play it as natural as you can, but imagine the audience in your head.’
‘We tried something similar,’ he said. He turned to Skins. ‘You remember that time we tried to make a gramophone record with Roland Richman?’
Skins laughed. ‘Disaster. There were more blokes in overalls carryin’ spanners than there were musicians. And we only ’ad one go at it. So we spent all mornin’ rehearsin’ the blessed thing. It was rubbish by the time they started the machine up. No life in it at all. No spark.’
Barty nodded.
‘But double back a bit,’ said Skins. ‘Did you say your mum was in the music halls?’
‘That’s right,’ she said.
‘She’s Millie Selwood,’ I said.
‘Millie . . . ?’ said Skins. ‘Straight up? We worked with her. We was in the pit orchestra at the Alhambra for a couple of months a few years back. Remember that one, Barty? Classy gaff. Best bib and tucker, even in the pit. She was fantastic, your mum. Sang like an angel. Mouth like a docker off stage, mind you. Well I never.’
‘That was her,’ said Euphemia proudly. ‘Even the stage hands is terrified of her.’
‘She’s still working, then?’ said Skins.
‘Not so much as she used to, but she keeps her hand in.’
‘But you didn’t fancy followin’ in ’er footsteps?’
‘She wanted me to,’ she said. ‘Me dad did, too – he’s her manager – but I inherited her looks and his ear for music. And he’s tone deaf, love him. Can’t sing a note. So I had to turn to proper actin’.’
‘The music hall’s loss is cinema’s gain,’ said Mr Cheetham.
‘“Cinema”?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Oh, I say, what a splendid name for it. We’ve been stumbling around “moving pictures” and “kinematograph” and who knows what else for weeks. “Cinema” has a ring to it. I do hope it catches on.’