by Chris Dolley
“Is it?”
“Henry told Lily all about it. It dates back to 1782 when Theodosia Baskerville-Smythe saw something unpleasant in the woodshed.”
“Did she say what?”
“Not a word. Though it must have been something to do with her nephew, because she cursed him and all his heirs. And she never ate a parsnip again for the rest of her life.”
The mind boggled.
“Ever since then she’s walked the Hall the night before the head of the family dies. And dragged him off to Hell on the very next day.”
Four
in my room, I stretched out in a chair and settled back for a bit of pre-prandial contemplation. I prefer to contemplate with a glass in my hand, but — the room being dry — the little grey cells had to rough it.
All in all, I thought things had progressed well. A bit of a mid-season wobble with the orang-utan, and I could have done without the ghostly Theodosia, but otherwise all was tickety-boo. I had gained entry to the Hall. The mystery of the missing letters had been explained. And Emmeline and I, although as star cross’d as ever, were still united in our desire to tie the matrimonial clove hitch.
“Would you prefer to return to London by tomorrow’s morning or afternoon train, sir,” said Reeves.
“What?” I said. “Steady on, Reeves. We’ve only just arrived.”
“My apologies, sir. I was under the impression that our mission here was complete. Miss Emmeline’s affections remain steadfast, and Mister Henry’s attentions are engaged elsewhere. I assumed our plan would be to withdraw at the first opportunity before our subterfuge was discovered.”
“You presume to assume, Reeves. This is the gift horse that doesn’t like its mouth prodded. Emmeline and I have the chance of spending a whole one and a half weeks together without anyone raising an objection or throwing a kilted gigolo in our path.”
Reeves may not have coughed, but one of his eyebrows quivered censoriously.
“A risky stratagem, sir. It is my belief that Lady Julia will be observing you extremely closely.”
“Then Emmeline and I shall go for long, brisk walks. Lady Julia can’t be everywhere, Reeves. She has to keep an eye on the other Emmeline, remember.”
~
I toddled downstairs a good twenty minutes before dinner. Everyone was gathered in the drawing room and all conversation stopped the moment I appeared.
“What ho,” I said, a little nervously as eighteen eyeballs swivelled my way.
“This is Robert’s nephew, Roderick,” said Lady Julia. “You’ll have to excuse him. He was hit on the head by a train.”
“Really?” said Henry.
“A glancing blow,” I said. “A little concussion. A sore ear. Right as rain now though.”
Sir Robert made the introductions. I recognised Henry from his entry in Milady’s Form Guide to Young Gentlemen. He was indeed dashing and well-turned out. He shook my hand enthusiastically.
“Welcome to England, coz,” he said. “Do you tread the boards? I’ve got just the part for you in my moving picture.”
T. Everett Spurgeon had a part for me in his moving picture too — if I was ever in New York. His fleshy hand enveloped mine and pumped it with almost as much enthusiasm as Henry had.
“Have you ever thought of investing in moving pictures, Roderick?” asked T. Everett. “Sir Robert says you’re big in diamonds.”
“Pretty big,” I said.
“You must be awfully clever to find all those diamonds,” said Ida Spurgeon, appearing alongside and sliding her arm through mine.
“One would think so,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to uncouple my arm from hers. “But, no, I’m not brainy at all. Instinct is what one needs for prospecting, not brains. Did Isaac Newton ever find any diamonds? I think not. Pretty hot with apples, not so good with gems.”
Emmeline annexed my other arm.
“I bet you still have funny turns, don’t you?” she asked, giving me a meaningful look. “Being hit on the head with a train must take its toll. Do you froth at the mouth every full moon?”
“Only those months with an ‘r’ in them,” I said, playing along.
Ida grasped my arm tighter and pulled me closer. The adjective ‘frothing’ was obviously a silent one when interposed between the words ‘rich’ and ‘husband.’
“I think you’re very brave,” she said. “Do you own a yacht?”
“No,” I said. “No yachts.”
“I expect you get terribly sea sick,” said Emmeline, “...in between the frothing.”
I had the feeling I was seconds away from having my continence called into question. My embarrassment was saved by the intervention of John Stapleford, one of Sir Robert’s neighbours.
“How do you find diamonds though,” asked Stapleford. “Do you have to dig them out of the ground with a pick?”
The salvation of my embarrassment was brief. How did you find diamonds? And where was Reeves in my hour of need? He’d know everything you wanted to know about diamonds, and quite a bit about what you’d rather not.
“I ... pan for them,” I said, looking longingly for the nearest decanter. Some chaps may swear by in vino veritas, but I found a stiff one worked even better when one was lying.
“Pan, you say?” said Stapleford. “How does that work? Are diamonds denser than the native rock?”
I shrugged — as much as a person with both arms securely pinned could. “Don’t ask me. All I know is that it works. Others may disagree, but I swear by it. One can’t make one’s fortune without getting one’s feet wet. Many a month I’ve spent knee deep in the Orinoco.”
“I thought you found your fortune in Argentina,” said Stapleford, looking more and more like Weaselly Beasley, the class swot from my old prep school. “Isn’t the Orinoco in Venezuela?”
“It’s a long river,” I said. The room was far from warm, but I could feel the first bead of perspiration forming on the Worcester brow.
“I expect Roderick gets very confused with names,” said Emmeline. “I know if I were hit by a train I wouldn’t know the Thames from the Severn.”
“I’m sure Roderick wouldn’t get confused about the name of his intended though,” said Ida. “You do have a fiancée back in Argentina, don’t you?”
I had a strong urge to feign a heart attack. This was the horniest dilemma I’d ever been impaled upon. If I invented an Argentinean fiancée, I wouldn’t be able to monopolise Emmeline without being labelled a bounder by the Baskerville-Smythes. And If I denied any betrothal, I’d spend the next ten days fending off the formidable Ida!
And I had a strong feeling that even a feigned heart attack would not dislodge Ida from my arm. She’d probably volunteer to nurse me back to health!
I opened my mouth in the vain hope that something clever might make an appearance.
It rarely does.
“Perhaps she was hit by a train too?” suggested Lady Julia.
“Or,” said Emmeline. “Perhaps she broke off the engagement because she didn’t like living in a shack over your diamond mine in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yes!” I said. I could have hugged Emmie. If I’d had a spare arm.
“You’re a veritable mind reader, Miss Fossett,” I continued. “Conchita — that was my fiancée — wanted me to buy an estate in Buenos Aires, but I’m too fond of my old home. We fell out over it, and parted brass rags. It was a painful episode. But I’m sure you’d appreciate my humble home, Miss Spurgeon. The way the corrugated iron catches the sun at dawn... And we rarely have yellow fever in the camp now.”
Ida’s grip slackened.
“I doubt you have that many head hunters these days either,” said Emmeline.
“Not since the crocodiles ate them all.”
~
I was free of Ida, and no longer the centre of attention. The Stapleford cove gave me the odd look or two, and Lady Julia unleashed a couple of withering looks that would have cowed a lesser man. But I was a chap whose skin had been thicke
ned by repeated exposure to disapproving aunts.
And I had Emmeline on my arm.
Ten minutes later though something odd happened. Henry was talking about his new moving picture when he suddenly stopped.
“Do you hear that?” he said, looking towards the windows.
Everyone stopped and inclined an ear. There was a faint wailing noise. Henry ran to the nearest window and opened it. The wailing noise grew. I’d never heard anything like it.
“It’s the siren,” said Henry. “Someone’s escaped.”
“Escaped from where?” asked T. Everett.
“Dartmoor prison,” said Henry. “It’s six miles away across the moor.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t come here,” said Sir Robert. “Grimdark Mire stands between us and the prison. Anyone heading this way will be swallowed whole and never seen again.”
“Aye,” said Stapleford. “Grimdark never gives up its dead.”
“I wouldn’t like to be out on a night like this,” said Henry, peering into the dark. “Berrymore says there’s a storm coming, and the wind certainly looks to be picking up.”
“Do close the window, Henry,” said Lady Julia. “Before we all perish from the cold.”
No sooner had Henry closed the window when the dinner gong sounded.
“Is that the dinner gong?” I asked. “Or has one of the maids escaped?”
Everyone laughed, except Lady Julia, who I suspected had taken an oath at an early age not to smile in public.
Presently, the door to the dining room opened and everyone began to file through. Except Lady Julia, who lurked in the doorway.
“A word, Roderick,” she said as I approached. “You too, Lily.”
I swallowed hard. Lady Julia waited until everyone else was out of earshot.
“I do not know what you are up to, young man,” said Lady Julia. “But I am watching you. Both of you. Come, Lily, dear. You will sit next to me at dinner. I feel as if I have been neglecting you of late.”
~
I had hoped to sit next to Emmeline during dinner but, with everyone already seated, I found myself down the other end of the table, wedged between T. Everett Spurgeon and Henry. Emmeline would have to face her inquisition alone.
“You look like a man who knows a good investment when he sees one, Roderick,” said T. Everett.
“I should say so,” I said. “I might take a spin around the moors tomorrow. See if the old nose can sniff out a gem or two. I thought I caught a slight whiff of emerald on the ride over.”
“Really? Well, I know of something even better,” said T. “A sure-fire winner just crying out for a little extra seed money. Ain’t I right, Henry?”
“I’ve been trying to get the governor to invest,” said Henry.
“In what?” I asked.
“Ride-in movies,” said T. Everett, writing the words in the air with a stubby finger. “They’re really taking off back home. You ever heard of Thomas Edison?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“He is the devil, Roderick. A greedier or more ruthless man has never lived. He’s sewn up the movie industry in New York. He wants to control everything — from the cameras you use to shoot the movies to the theatres where you show them. Anyone stands in his way, they get sued or bought out. That’s why people like me are looking to move out of New York.”
T. Everett paused while a footman placed a bowl of soup in front of him.
“Edison may have the East Coast sewn up, but he’s nobody out west. Or over here. And when you think about it, why do you need a theatre to put on a picture show? All you need is a screen and a projector.
“That’s the beauty of the ride-in,” continued T. “It’s like a travelling show. All you need is a projector and a roll of white canvas. You travel the country, set up your equipment on the edge of town, tell all the folks to come on by and charge them a nickel a time. You don’t even have to provide any seats because they bring their own.”
“They bring their own seats?” I said.
“Their horses,” said T. “That’s why it’s called a ride-in. And the best bit is you make more on the concessions than you do from admission.”
“What’s a concession?”
“Food and drink. And, boy, do those horses eat. We make as much money on the rolled oats as we do on the popcorn!”
“It seems a corker to me,” said Henry. “No draughty theatres to buy or maintain.”
“What about the weather?” I asked. “I can see these ride-ins being very popular in the sunnier climes, but what about when it’s raining?”
T. Everett positively beamed. “That’s the really exciting bit. And why England is just perfect for this new development. The fly-in.”
“With zeppelins,” added Henry.
“That’s right,” said T. “It may be raining on the ground, but it’s sunny above the clouds. Can’t you just see the possibilities, Roderick? All those zeppelins parked high above the clouds, enjoying the sun and Quarrywood’s next hit movie.”
“What about the screen?” I asked.
“We use the side of a zeppelin!” said T.
“Or a cloud,” said Henry. “If it’s one of those white, fluffy ones.”
“The possibilities are endless,” said T. “England’s the richest country in the world. And the cloudiest. Think of all those private zeppelin owners just crying out for somewhere new to go. We’ll make the fly-in the most fashionable place to be seen. All we need are investors.”
I slurped a contemplative spoonful of mulligatawny. I may not have had five diamond mines, but neither was I short of a few bob. As oofiness went, I was high to middling. Should I invest a few thou? I could see my fellow sloths being first in the queue for a fly-in over Piccadilly.
“And that’s not the best bit,” said T. “The beauty of the fly-in is that we can hold them anywhere. And if we hold them outside the three-mile limit, it’s all tax free! No tax. No duty. Everything we make is pure profit!”
I’m sure there was a downside, but dashed if I could see it. I’d have a word with Reeves at the first opportunity.
T. Everett was a veritable fountain of ideas. Over the next two courses he regaled me with all manner of money-making schemes.
“It’s all in the concessions,” he said. “And the better-heeled the customer, the bigger the profit. Have you ever been to the opera, Roderick?”
“Does Gilbert and Sullivan count?”
“If they have opera glasses they do. How can you see how fat the fat lady really is if you don’t have opera glasses? It’ll be the same at a fly-in, except ... how can you fly a zeppelin without flying goggles?”
All good questions.
“So we combine the two,” said T. Everett. “And sell everyone our very own fly-in movie goggles. No one’ll dare miss out.”
“Tell him about the cloud ice cube dispenser,” said Henry.
“Think of all those clouds up there, Roderick,” said T. “Full of the purest water imaginable. And all those thirsty patrons just crying out for ice in their drinks. I know a guy in New Jersey who has a patent for seeding clouds to make it rain. If he can make rain, he sure as shootin’ oughta be able to make ice too, don’t you think?”
Once again his logic was faultless.
“We’ll call it Cloud Ice,” continued T. “And we’ll add some kinda scoop to our concessions zeppelin to collect it all. It’ll be swell.”
“Of course,” said Henry, “None of this can get off the ground without a steady stream of hit movies to show. Which is where Quarrywood comes in. Have you seen any of our movies, Roderick? The Quarry That Time Forgot, The Quarry of the Apes. We’re shooting The Creature from 20,000 Leagues Under the Quarry at the moment.”
I sensed a theme.
“Isn’t it 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea?” I said.
“That’s the book,” said Henry. “But the sea’s twenty miles away and the quarry’s right here.”
“The movie is a very different cre
ature to a book, Roderick,” said T. “It takes days to read a book. A movie’s over in twenty minutes.”
“Exactly,” said Henry. “One can’t afford to dawdle. Being a moving picture director is a bit like producing a village show when one only has the hall booked for twenty minutes, and the audience is packed with the local toughs, each one armed to the gills with rotten tomatoes. One can’t send out old Mr Trumpington to stutter and repeat himself through all thirty-seven verses of Observations of Flowers in the Vicinity of Matterstock Parva. They’d kill him.”
I may never have met old Mr Trumpington, but I’d sat through many a recitation by a close relative.
“No,” said Henry. “One simply has to cut out all the Trumpingtons, and floral observations, when adapting a book for a one-reeler. People want action these days — lots of chases, monsters and murders. And if the book doesn’t have enough monsters then I say ‘add them.’ Don’t you think The Importance of Being Earnest would be improved by having a few more murders?”
“I didn’t know there were any murders in The Importance of Being Earnest.”
“I think you’ll find there’s one. Doesn’t Lady Bracknell brain someone with a handbag?”
“Not in the productions I’ve seen.”
Though I had to admit a certain desire to see one.
~
I caught a glimpse of Emmeline as Lady Julia led her and the other ladies into the drawing room after dinner. She smiled wanly in my direction before a tug from Lady Julia dragged her away.
Stapleford left soon afterwards too, citing the imminent storm and a prisoner on the loose as good reasons to head home. Apparently he lived a mile away at High Dudgeon Farm and the track home skirted the dreaded Grimdark Mire.
The remainder of the party gathered around our end of the dining table. Sir Robert bringing a rather fine decanter of port with him and Dr Morrow breaking out the cigars.
“How long are you planning to stay in England, Roderick?” asked Dr Morrow.
“Not long at all,” I said. “Two weeks and I’ll be pining for the Pampas.”
