"Hmm." Trevor takes a sip of his wine and considers my uncle's answer. "I hate to say it, Harold, but my first guess would be that it is someone on your crew. From what you've described, it would be difficult for a stranger to wander around unnoticed."
Pale, Harold can't do anything other than nod his agreement. "I fear you're right, but for the life of me, I can't imagine who it would be. These are people I've known for years. We're all invested in the film's success."
"Maybe you need someone to come in with a fresh set of eyes, someone who isn't connected with the production and won't be swayed by their history with the crew," I suggest.
"Someone like you?" Dominic asks.
"No, I was thinking of someone with more relevant professional skills."
One by one, all eyes move over to focus on Trevor.
"Me?" He shakes his head. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm a major crimes detective. Most of the people I deal with are hardened criminals. I'm sure there is someone else who would be better suited." Trevor glances left and right, but none of us are moved to offer him a way out.
"At least come by the set," Dominic suggests, ever ready to take control of a situation. "You can get a behind the scenes tour, meet the actors…"
"And if you wait a day, you could also see the inner sanctum of one of Oxford's oldest colleges," I add. "Tomorrow is our last day in the Botanic Garden. After that, we'll be at Somerset College for the next ten days."
Trevor looks like he is wavering, but we need one more thing to push him into saying yes. I wrack my brain, but Mathilde comes in with the surprising win.
"Err, I could come along… With you, that is. I know quite a lot about Somerset's history." She stops awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "Or I don't have to come, if history isn't your thing…"
"No, I'd like that," Trevor interrupts, smiling at her.
I catch Dominic's attention, wondering whether he is seeing the same thing I am. He gives me a small smile and wink before turning his gaze back to Trevor.
That's all the confirmation I need. Mathilde and Trevor? Who would have seen that coming?
Chapter Three
On the way to the Botanic Garden the next morning, I mull over the question of whether I should tell Kate about Mathilde and Trevor. It might seem like a silly way to pass the time on my cycle to the set. However, it's nice to have a completely innocuous question to ponder for a change.
As I lock my bike to the cycle stand, I land on a decision. I won't say anything to anyone yet, not even Edward. After all, I may have been reading too much into their small exchange last night at dinner. It would be better to wait until tomorrow, when we meet at Somerset, to see if a tendre between the two actually exists.
"Natalie? Natalie Payne?" an unfamiliar voice calls from the garden's main entrance.
I spin around, tucking my bike keys into my handbag. "Yes, that's me."
A young woman approaches me, her long stride eating up the ground between us. Dressed in jeans and a short-sleeve top, the clipboard under her arm and headset draped around her neck immediately identifies her as a member of the film crew. Her chestnut brown hair swings in time with her steps, a long fringe covering her eyes. She carelessly brushes it out of her face, revealing a youthful countenance and a friendly grin. She holds out her hand for an introduction. Although she looks vaguely familiar, I can't place her.
"Hiya, I'm Joyce, Harold's production assistant," she says, squeezing my hand in a surprisingly strong grip. "He asked me to take you to meet everyone today."
"Thanks," I reply. "I had planned to make my way around yesterday, but after the incident with the lighting rig, everyone was scrambling to get back on schedule."
Joyce flinches and the shivers. "Yes, that was a close one. I was lucky."
Lucky? "Wait, were you the other person who was almost hit?"
A flash of anger crosses her face and disappears so quickly that I wonder whether I saw it. "Yes, Vivian shoved me into the flowerbed when she leapt out of the way. I had to go back to my room at Somerset to change clothes afterwards. I had dirt ground into everything."
"Everyone was talking about how quickly she reacted. Good thing she did since I heard that lighting fixture weighs a tonne. You two could have been badly injured or worse."
"All's fine and today's a new day," she declares, drawing the subject to a close. "The main cast and entire crew are on hand as we have multiple scenes to film and several costume changes are required. Shall we make our way inside?"
Joyce breezes past the gate guards, but they stop me in my tracks.
"We need to see your ID, please." The guard holds out his hand in readiness.
Joyce backs up. "She's with me, Donald. She's Harold's niece."
Donald, the no-neck security guard, refuses to budge. "I don't care who she is," he grunts. "We're checking every ID, and we aren't letting anybody on set if they aren't on the list."
He shifts sideways, using his beefy frame to block the entrance.
I smile at Donald as I pass him my university badge. My name, picture and title are clearly printed on the front. "I don't mind, Joyce. I'm glad the team takes security so seriously."
Donald checks my name against the list and then steps aside, allowing me to enter the gates.
Joyce proposes we get a coffee from Craft Services. Sam, the lanky man I met yesterday, is the barista manning the window. He gives me a friendly welcome and goes to work at the coffee machine, spinning dials and steaming fresh milk. In the meantime, Joyce surveys the scene on the events lawn with an experienced eye, her gaze skipping around as she assesses who might be free.
I expect I'll spend a fair amount of time with Joyce over the coming days, since Harold has seen fit to pair her with me. I might as well strike up a friendship. "How long have you been a production assistant?"
"Four years now, most of them spent working with Harold's team." She turns to look at me. "He's lovely, really. He always has a clear vision for the production and keeps everyone on track."
I search her gaze, but her comments seem authentic. If she is a fair representation of the other crew members, I can see why Harold would have trouble believing one of them could be responsible for the problems.
Sam hands us our drinks and sends us on our way. Joyce does a final scan, landing on the tall male figure standing alone on the garden path. He's dressed in period clothing, so he must be one of the actors, but with his back to us, I'm not sure which one.
Joyce nudges me with her elbow before setting off in his direction. "Follow my lead," she instructs.
I struggle to make sense of her words as I walk behind her. She circles around and stops in front of the man, clearing her throat to get his attention. Now facing him, I can see it is Caleb Farrow, lead actor in both the show and Harry's wildest dreams.
Up close, he is just as handsome as he appears on screen. His hair gleams with chestnut highlights, his blue eyes twinkle with some secret delight. If I look closely, I can see hints of make-up, expertly applied to accentuate his natural good looks without showing up on camera. Harry would swoon with delight if she could stand in my shoes right now.
He strikes a casual pose with his shoulders thrown back and his head held high, reminding me of Gaston in Beauty and the Beast. With his lazy smile, he looks every inch the entitled 17th century Lord. That impression solidifies as soon as he opens his mouth.
"Good morn to you, Joyce," he says with a regal nod. His smile slips, replaced with a concerned look. "There was much by the by yesterday. Are you well?"
"I'm fine, Sir Christopher. Thank you for asking," Joyce replies, throwing me for a loop. "Might I beg a moment of your time to make an introduction?"
"By all means, Joyce," he booms.
She angles in my direction and tilts her head, encouraging me to step forward. "This is Lady Natalie. She is Lord Harold's niece. She is a local to Oxford and has kindly offered to share her knowledge of the area and the institutions with us."
"How do you do, Lady Natalie?" Caleb intones, his voice full of respect. He gives a slight bow, and I find myself sinking into a shallow curtsy, my hands holding wide the skirt of my floral summer dress.
I side-eye Joyce as I rise, completely confused and out of my depth. She rushes in, preventing me from saying anything.
"Lady Natalie, this is Sir Christopher Wren. Perhaps you have heard of him?"
Her expression practically begs me to play along. I frown, searching for a proper 17th century response. "Err, yes. Of course. How do you do, Sir Christopher?"
"I am splendid, Lady Natalie. Absolutely splendid. These Botanic Gardens are a favourite of mine, and I intend to make good use of my time here. I have many herbs to collect now, and mayhap later, I shall have the chance to escort my beloved along these very paths." Caleb beams again, evidently pleased with himself. "Now, if you don't mind, I must excuse myself. I have much to do." He doesn't wait for a reply, sweeping past us to walk deeper into the garden.
Joyce takes one look at my face and begins to laugh. "Sorry about that, Nat. I should have warned you, but honestly, it is more fun to see how people react. Caleb Farrow is a method actor."
"A method actor?" I ask, raising my eyebrow. "Are you saying that he is staying in character throughout the entire shoot, even when he is off camera?"
"On camera, off camera and even when we're on a production break," she admits, still chuckling. "I would not want to be his family. It must drive them around the bend having to keep up the period lingo for weeks on end."
I can't help but grin as I realise that my months of chatting with centuries-old Eternals might finally come in handy. If anyone can carry on a conversation with a historical figure and keep a straight face, it's me.
We're still laughing when another man crosses over to join us. His shoulder-length salt and pepper hair is pulled back by a leather thong, accentuating his thick eyebrows and ruddy cheeks. The lines around his eyes speak to a life well lived and add to his appeal. Although he is also dressed in the billowy white shirt and fitted trousers common in the 17th century, his introduction is decidedly modern.
"What a ridiculous fool," he mutters, shaking his head with annoyance. "If he were half the actor he thinks he is, he wouldn't need to spend all of his time in Lalaland. He could slip in and out of the role like the rest of us professionals." He pauses, suddenly realising he hasn't introduced himself. "I'm Gideon Pomerance. You must be Harold's niece."
"Nice to meet you, Gideon. Yes, I'm Natalie, but please, call me Nat." I give him a smirk, "Shall I call you Gideon or Wilkins?"
"Gideon, by all means. This is my first time working with Farrow. I'd heard through the rumour mill that he was a method actor, but I didn't expect him to take it this far. Do you know that the man is actually staying in a 17th century farmhouse? It doesn't have electricity or indoor plumbing!"
I pull a face of disgust at the very thought of it, causing Joyce to crack up again. Someone calls Gideon's name, pulling him away before he can tell us anything else. He makes me promise to meet with him once we get to Somerset, curious to know more about my role at Oxford and what insights I can share that will help him in his role of John Wilkins, mentor to Sir Christopher.
"There's only Vivian left to meet, and I expect she is in either wardrobe or make-up. Shall we head in that direction?" Joyce asks.
"Lead the way," I answer. "Thanks for making time to take me around this morning. I imagine you have plenty to keep you busy."
"No worries," she breezes as we wind our way through the field of cables snaking across the events lawn. She guides us towards a long, narrow trailer, stopping in front of the small set of risers in front of the door. "I do have a few things I need to take care of before filming starts. Vivian should be inside. I'll leave you here, if that's okay? We can meet up again when we break for lunch." With that agreed, she dashes off.
I pause before I go in. Caleb Farrow and Gideon Pomerance were certainly sitting at opposite ends of the spectrum. I wonder where Vivian will fall. I take a deep breath and climb the steps into the trailer.
"Hello?" I call out when I fail to spot anyone. Since this is one of the larger trailers, I expected to find a brightly lit, spacious interior. Instead, a row of tall white changing cubicles sit to my right while racks and racks of clothing are crammed together, creating a maze on my left.
"We're in make-up, bella," a heavily accented female voice replies. "Come on through."
Looking more closely, I spy a narrow corridor in between the racks, and follow it. I emerge on the other side, feeling as though I've stepped through Narnia's wardrobe and arrived into an alternate magical universe.
Staring in wonder, I skim my gaze over all the details. The far end of the room is obviously make-up, with its brightly lit mirrored wall and tall director's chairs. The countertop is covered with every face and hair product imaginable. How anyone makes sense of the mess is beyond me.
But that isn't the strange part. What catches my interest is the sitting area located in between the costumes and the make-up.
There is an elaborate crystal chandelier casting a scattering of light over the deep red tones of the plush Persian rug. Matching armchairs anchor one side of the space, upholstered in royal blue crushed velvet, their ornately-carved legs sinking into the rug. The oak coffee table has a silver platter with two demitasse espresso cups and a bowl of sugar cubes sitting on it. Renaissance prints line the walls. It looks like someone picked up a sitting room from an Italian villa and plunked it down in the middle of a filmset trailer.
"Ciao, bella. Can we help you?" the voice asks, pulling me from my reverie. I skim the rest of the trailer, finally spotting the small cluster chatting in the far corner. There is a woman seated, her eyes closed while a man applies liner and mascara. Beside them stand an obviously Italian middle-aged couple. Between their dark hair and eyes, designer clothing and rapid hand gestures, they have no hope of hiding their heritage.
"I'm Nat Payne," I explain, halting my approach when the Italian woman splits off from the group, coming over in a flurry.
"Harold's nipotina! Certo! Welcome, bella." She pauses only long enough to air kiss my cheeks. "I am Ilaria, and that is my husband, Marcello. We are in charge of set design and costumes."
Suddenly, the Italian sitting room makes sense. With their expertise and industry connections, the couple can create any room they want for themselves.
Ilaria wraps her arm around mine, and practically drags me over to the group. "Vivian, you must know. She is our lead actress," she explains, pointing to the woman in the make-up chair. "And the genius behind the production's hair and make-up is Joe."
Joe is dressed in solid black, the only colour coming from the pink streak in his hair and the matching neon pink shadow on his eyelids. Even close up, I can't tell whether his cheekbones are actually that sharp or the product of a professional hand. I make a mental note to ask if he offers tutorials.
Somehow, Vivian is the most normal in the bunch, her hair piled high in a riot of curls and her body encased in a fluffy pink housecoat. She flutters open her eyes and starts to say hello, but Joe shushes her. "Your make-up hasn't set yet, Viv! Don't move your mouth!"
She barely manages an apologetic smile and shrugging her shoulders before Joe returns to his task.
"Nice to meet you all," I say, glancing around the group. "Sorry for interrupting. Joyce told me to go on in."
"Nothing to worry about, cara," Ilaria reassures me. "Let's have a caffè and get to know one another while Joe finishes making our Viv even more gorgeous."
She leads me back to the sitting area, motioning for me to sit on a small loveseat. Marcello settles into one of the armchairs while Ilaria bustles around, preparing espresso in a tiny Italian coffeepot using a single electric hob. The warm scent of fresh coffee fills the space followed by a burbling sound that signals the drink is ready. A third demitasse cup is found, and the three of us are soon sipping away with delight.
Il
aria and Marcello move to the top of my list of filmset favourites. The couple are flamboyant, hilarious, and perfect matches for one another. Half the time, they finish each other's sentences. When we're done with our coffee, they pull me to the other end of the trailer, showing me all the costumes and set decorations and peppering me with questions about the colleges.
Swimming in a sea of bustles and bonnets, I lose all track of time. When someone opens the door and announces the start of the lunch break, I'm amazed to discover two hours have gone by. The colour drains from my face when I realise I completely forgot someone.
H is due to arrive at any moment. He was taking the morning to visit Eternals around town to see if anyone has spotted any signs of strangers but promised to turn up by mealtime. No surprises there. I say my goodbyes to the friendly Italian couple, happily agreeing to visit again in the coming days, and rush outside. Hopefully I can find my favourite Eternal before he eats his way through Craft Services.
❖
"There ya are!" H shouts as soon as I step out of the wardrobe trailer. He dive bombs from his perch on top of a nearby trailer, zooming to land at my feet. "Lor luv a duck, Nat, I'm starvin'! Wot took ya so long?"
"Sorry, H," I cry, reaching down to stroke his head in apology. "I lost all sense of time inside the trailer. I didn't mean to leave you waiting. Let's go to Craft Services. To make it up to you, I'll ask them to make a second plate with whatever you want on it."
H pretends to think about it, but we both know he's going to forgive me for the delay. He flaps up to hover at my side. We mark time in the long line waiting in front of the food trailer, updating one another on our morning activities. Thanks to the magic of Oxford, no one around us thinks anything odd about a woman and a wyvern having a conversation. The magic convinces them they're seeing a woman with a cute black and white cat by her side.
"No luck at all? No one has seen anything or anyone out of the ordinary?" I ask as we near the front of the line.
H pauses his review of the lunch offerings to give me a negative shake of his head. "Nuffin' at all. Oi, do ya think they'd let me 'ave both tha chicken and tha sausages?"
Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4) Page 4
