Bunburry--Murder in High Places

by Helena Marchmont

  “He’s jealous,” explained Oscar. “Understandable under the circumstances.”

  Marge stood to one side of the front door. “Pass, friend,” she said.

  Moments later, Oscar was installed on a chintz-covered sofa in a room from a bygone age, under the eye of the china shepherd and shepherdess who prettified the tiled mantlepiece over the fake-flame electric fire. A gin and tonic sat on the mahogany occasional table at his side. Bliss.

  “So, Alfie, this party,” said Marge. “I hear you’re taking Betty Thorndike as your partner.”

  Oscar detected disapproval in her tone and noted that Alfie looked slightly uncomfortable.

  “Not partner, exactly,” Alfie said. “It was actually Phoebe who persuaded her. She wanted to show Betty her plans for making the house more energy efficient. Betty wasn’t at all keen on the idea of a black-tie dinner.”

  Marge sniffed. “I can imagine. Not really her sort of thing. She’d be more at home in a tepee in the woods with people playing Polynesian nose flutes.”

  “The party will be wonderful,” said Liz in what Oscar felt was a deliberate interruption. “You’ll be mixing with the stars.”

  “Not all of them,” said Marge, perched on her rocking chair. “Dorian hasn’t invited his co-star – they never got on. They wouldn’t even talk to one another between takes.”

  “No!” gasped Oscar. “I had no idea. There’s such chemistry between them on screen that I thought they’d got together in real life.”

  “Absolutely not. She definitely wasn’t the one Dorian was having the affair with,” said Marge.

  Alfie raised an eyebrow at Oscar. “What did I tell you? There are no secrets in the country.”

  “Oh, but there are,” said Oscar. “You three have uncovered all sorts of secrets and dark deeds. Perhaps you’ll have the chance to investigate a murder in a country house tomorrow.”

  “That would be no challenge at all for the Bunburry Triangle,” said Marge. “Whenever anyone’s murdered in a country house, it’s always the butler who did it.”

  It was a remark Oscar would remember the following evening.

  But almost as soon as he had finished his G&T, the ladies were apologetically ushering their guests out.

  “Loads of fudge still to make,” said Liz. “Rosemary Savile doesn’t just want to serve it with tea and coffee, she wants to give everyone some to take home. At this rate, Marge and I will be able to afford a round-the-world cruise.”

  “If we don’t drop dead of exhaustion first,” muttered Marge.

  The walk from Jasmine Cottage to Windermere Cottage was like a royal progress. Everyone they met already knew who Oscar was, and insisted on being introduced to him. He learned that Elsie’s grand-daughter had been hired along with her friends to be a waitress at the party; Tom Lindsay had seen Dame Evadne Foster on the stage in Sheffield in 1974; and Agnes had won the two pounds the previous month by guessing a tin of biscuits, although she hadn’t identified them as amaretti.

  At last they reached the cottage. Oscar had already dismissed many of those they passed as chocolate-box twee-ness. Windermere Cottage wasn’t the largest he had seen, but it had character: the purple door and window frames were a bold contrast to the honey-coloured stone. The three carriage lights were authentic rather than the cheap reproductions he had spotted elsewhere.

  But what he really wanted to see was the parlour. He stood in the doorway, gazing at the 1970s psychedelic wallpaper with its whorls of pink, purple, black and white.

  “Oh, Alfie,” he whispered reverently, “it’s divine. I can’t believe you would consider changing it. I swear, if you ever attempt such a thing, I shall lie on top of the wallpaper stripper to prevent you using it.”

  He had no quarrel with the kitchen, the bright tiles round the purple painted units, or the guest room, with slightly more restrained 1970s wallpaper and an original lava lamp. But he baulked at the avocado bathroom suite.

  “This has to go,” he declared. “There’s retro and there’s utterly tasteless.”

  The bedroom was unexpected, lavender, grey and white. It was austere enough to avoid being feminine, with a Roman blind at the window rather than anything ruched, and plain white bedside tables.

  He glanced at the double bed. “So, tell me what’s happening with you and the Green goddess?” he asked.

  “Nothing to tell,” said Alfie, taking him back to the parlour where they settled themselves in the enormous black leather armchairs. “Just good friends.”

  Oscar nodded. “Of course.”

  He leaned back and studied his friend through half-closed eyes. He remembered how Alfie had looked after Vivian’s death, haggard, emaciated, with dark rings round his eyes, not caring whether he survived another day.

  Something of the old spark was back now. Alfie looked well, had regained some weight. It was bizarre that he wanted to pursue a relationship with an American tree-hugger, but if that was what got him up in the morning, or to bed at night, it had to be a good thing. Oscar wasn’t sure how he would cope with meeting a swivel-eyed zealot, but for Alfie’s sake, he would be polite.

  It turned out that Betty was evangelising in Cheltenham that evening, and Oscar didn't meet her until they set off for the party the next day.

  Alfie had loaded the Jag with Oscar, the luggage, and the final consignment of fudge. They drove through the village, beyond the outskirts, along a rough track leading to an isolated cottage. As they approached, a tall slim figure emerged and began walking towards them.

  For one shocked moment, Oscar thought he was looking at Vivian. The long fair hair, the fine features, the easy stride. Then she came closer and he saw this was no revenant.

  Vivian had been much younger than Alfie, full of coltish exuberance. This woman was mature, self-possessed, and, as they pulled up beside her, Oscar could see she was studying him as closely as he was studying her.

  Alfie jumped out of the car and took her bag, a woven hold-all, which looked North African. It also looked remarkably small. In Oscar’s experience, very few women travelled light. He couldn’t see how an evening gown, high heels, jewellery, make-up, toiletries, hairdressing equipment and whatever else was required could fit into that tiny space.

  Betty was wearing black leggings, a chunky woollen polo neck, and no make-up that Oscar could discern. More casual than he would have expected for a country house party, but he had to admit she looked good. She would look good in a potato sack. Perhaps that was what she had in her overnight bag.

  He could see the resemblance to her supermodel mother. But while Elisabeth Thorndike’s trademark look was glacial detachment, this girl looked energetic and feisty.

  He scrambled out of the car to greet her.

  “Hi, I’m Betty,” she said, shaking hands. Unmistakably American, but not one of those raucous, grating accents that set his teeth on edge. It made him think of a line of Shakespeare’s: “Her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.”

  “Oscar de Linnet. Charmed.” Charmed by her looks, maybe, but looks weren’t everything.

  He took hold of the passenger seat, planning to move it so that he could sit in the back of the car and she could sit with Alfie in front. But she pre-empted him, lithely easing herself into the cramped back seat.

  They set off again. Marge had been sceptical about the party being Betty’s sort of thing. Oscar turned round to ask: “Are you looking forward to this evening?”

  “Immensely,” said Betty. “The place will be full of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics.”

  Oscar was amazed. She was quoting from Oscar Wilde’s An Ideal Husband.

  “You like the theatre?” he asked.

  “We Americans are mad for it. President Lincoln couldn’t think of a better way to spend the evening.”

  Her tone was so bland that he wasn’t sure whet
her he was being mocked.

  His smile was equally bland. “This is the first time I’ve seen the Jaguar. Magnificent beast. I don’t imagine she’s very environmentally friendly, though.”

  Betty’s brows drew together. “Cars are responsible for global warming, depleting the ozone layer, creating smog and acid rain, and they release neurotoxins and carcinogens into the atmosphere. This is all your fault, you know.”

  Oscar looked to Alfie for support, but his friend seemed oblivious, concentrating on the road.

  “How so?” he asked.

  “We would have come on the tandem if we hadn’t had to bring you as well,” said Betty. “Just as soon as Alfie drives me back to Bunburry, I shall launch a petition banning cars from the Cotswolds.”

  Oscar relaxed in his seat. Betty would be An Ideal Girlfriend for Alfie.

  David’s mansion looked just as it did on the Pride and Prejudice posters, completely isolated. Oscar couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to live there, with no shops, restaurants, theatres or galleries close by.

  But the welcome was warm: David and Rosemary shepherded them into the vast entrance hall with its grand staircase while their bags were whisked out of the Jag.

  “I never thought I would see the day that Oscar de Linnet emerged from London,” said Rosemary, hugging him. “A fish out of water.”

  “Yes, I can feel myself beginning to suffocate in all this dreadful fresh air,” said Oscar.

  “Let me show you to your rooms, and then join us in library for drinks – Dorian’s already here,” she said.

  This was why he had come, to meet the finest actor of the age. It would make up for all the discomfort of being in this godforsaken part of the world.

  He barely paid attention to his room, beyond noting that it was large and comfortable. His Louis Vuitton bag was waiting for him, and he retrieved his hairbrush, anxious to look his best.

  He looked at himself critically in the long mahogany-framed mirror. The lilac shirt might look better. He changed quickly. Or did the original blue have the edge? He changed again. He fastened the brass buttons on his blazer, then unfastened them again.

  He was standing staring at his reflection in an agony of indecision when there was a peremptory knock at the door.

  4. Meeting Dorian

  In the room next door, Alfie’s and Betty’s overnight bags stood side by side at the end of the double bed, unlike their owners. Betty was by the window, apparently putting as much distance as possible between herself and Alfie, a sardonic expression on her face.

  “Sharing a room? This is your idea of not rushing into anything?” she said.

  It wasn’t the time to remind her that not rushing into anything was her idea, not his.

  He gave a rueful smile. “Rosemary must just have assumed we were a couple. Not much we can do about it now – it’s a full house.”

  “There’s certainly something you can do about it.”

  “Of course. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “Not in this room.”

  She walked over to his overnight bag, picked it up and held it out to him.

  He stared at her disbelievingly, then took the bag and turned on his heel.

  Rosemary had put Oscar in the neighbouring room.

  “What have you forgotten?” asked Oscar when he answered the knock at the door. “I don’t have a spare bow tie.”

  “Rosemary mistakenly put Betty and me in the same room.”

  Oscar’s gaze fell on the overnight bag. To Alfie’s intense annoyance, he burst out laughing.

  “So the Green goddess found you utterly resistible? I like her more and more.”

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” Alfie growled.

  “Oh, my poor boy, don’t look so glum. The night is young. You know what these country house parties are like – you can’t get a wink of sleep because of the noise of bedroom doors opening and closing. The goddess is expecting you later as her secret lover. Much more thrilling than sharing a room like an old married couple.”

  Alfie shrugged off his coat and flung it on the couch. He might end up having to wrap it round himself in lieu of a quilt.

  “No time for moping,” said Oscar. “Hurry up, I want to meet Dorian.”

  In the oak-panelled library, they picked up glasses of champagne from the waiter at the door and surveyed the throng. It was easy to tell the actors from the civilians. Each actor was at the heart of a group, poised, graceful, presenting themselves to best effect.

  Alfie remembered a quote from the Oscar Wilde book Oscar had given him: “An actor is part illusionist, part artist, part ham.”

  He was about to mention this when Oscar clutched his arm. “This is too wonderful. The crème de la crème of the British acting profession.”

  “You want me to cover you in chocolate and throw you to the thespians?” asked Alfie caustically. He still hadn’t forgiven Oscar for making light of his predicament. There was no sign of Betty, for which he was profoundly grateful.

  At the far side of the room, Dame Evadne Foster, octogenarian and national treasure, was the sole occupant of one of the large leather sofas, her back ramrod straight, surrounded by acolytes. Give her a lorgnette, and she could play Lady Bracknell right there, Alfie thought.

  Her RADA-trained voice reached them even at that distance. “Dear, dear Larry …” Alfie guessed she was reminiscing about Sir Laurence Olivier. Or perhaps Larry was the name of her cat.

  “Dame Evadne,” breathed Oscar. “I’m in the same room as Dame Evadne.”

  “What joy,” said Alfie. He was a huge admirer of Dame Evadne, but in no mood to appreciate being in her presence.

  Oscar was threading his way through the crowd towards David Savile, and since Alfie didn’t feel like talking to anybody, he followed in his wake.

  “Oscar, Alfie.” David waved a welcoming arm. “Come and meet Dorian. Dorian Stevens, Oscar de Linnet. Oscar was a Popper as well.”

  Alfie bristled. Overprivileged Old Etonians. He knew from Oscar that Pop was the name of the prefects’ club at Eton, whose members were allowed to wear flamboyant waistcoats under their black tailcoats. Alfie never reached the sixth form of his East London comprehensive – he had to get out and start earning.

  Dorian Stevens was shorter than Alfie expected. Alfie wondered who would be taller if you put him back to back with Tom Cruise. But he had to concede that Dorian was classically handsome, his perfectly chiselled features ideal for playing aristocrats, princes and action heroes.

  Oscar, gazing wide-eyed in admiration at Dorian, didn’t seem to mind that he was a good sixteen centimetres taller than his idol.

  “And our friend Alfie McAlister,” said David.

  “How do you do?” said Alfie.

  “And this is my wife, Paige,” said Dorian.

  Alfie hadn’t even registered that there was somebody else there. Paige Stephens was shorter than her husband, pretty enough, but definitely not glamorous. Her auburn hair was styled neatly, and she was wearing a simple knee-length skirt with a long-sleeved blouse. Alfie couldn’t imagine her parading on the red carpet alongside her dazzling husband.

  Oscar greeted her politely – Alfie sometimes thought Oscar was incapable of being anything other than polite – but while he positioned himself to ensure that Paige was now included in the conversation, his quarry was Dorian.

  “I thought you were absolutely superb-” Oscar began, and Dorian adopted a modest “who, me?” expression.

  “-when I saw you ten years ago in Stratford,” Oscar went on.

  Dorian’s expression changed to genuine delight. “In the Scottish play?”

  It was the first time Alfie had experienced the lengths superstitious actors would go to avoid saying “Macbeth.” An unwary listener might think it was the only Scottish play that had ever been written.

 
Oscar nodded. “You had star quality as Malcolm. I was completely electrified by your performance.”

  Alfie tried to remember who Malcolm was. He had a vague memory of a minor character who came on shortly before the end.

  “You had what, thirty lines in a two-hour production?” said Oscar.

  “Twenty,” said Dorian. “The director cut some of them.”

  “And you stole the show. I can’t even remember who played Macb … the lead role. I knew then you were destined for greatness.”

  Alfie turned to Paige Stevens, detaching himself from Oscar’s enthusiasm.

  “Are you involved in acting as well?”

  She shook her head. “Not any more. Dorian and I met in college.”

  Alfie could now hear that she was American. “Was that in the States?”

  “No, I came over here to get semester credits, and I got a husband and a new address instead.” She gave a laugh that sounded nervous rather than amused. Alfie wondered how she was coping with Dorian’s celebrity. She seemed ill at ease, but then she was neither part of the acting fraternity nor the group of guests who had come to meet the stars. Even while she spoke to Alfie, she was glancing anxiously around her.

  Alfie gave her his most reassuring smile. “This is the first time I’ve visited David’s home, but you must know it very well.”

  Her brow furrowed. “This is my first visit too.”

  “I thought since Pride and Prejudice was filmed here-”

  “I never go on location with Dorian. He doesn’t like distractions.”

  Alfie remembered Marge’s allegation that Dorian had had an affair while he was filming in the Cotswolds. Perhaps it was just the distraction of a wife that he didn’t like.

  At that moment, Dorian looked towards them and gave his wife a smile of such affection that Alfie felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. The actor held out his hand, and the next thing, Paige Stevens was nestled into his side and he had a protective arm round her.