Staging Death

by Judith Cutler

  ‘You’ve got the ear of someone casting Antony and Cleopatra, have you?’ I wasn’t quite joking.

  ‘Would that I had. Mind you, they seem to be casting younger and younger Cleos, don’t they?’ he added with more accuracy than tact. And this was the man for whom I was cooking supper.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I was getting desperate, even though at last there was the distant promise of some money. There must be some proper work for me somewhere. Anywhere. Surely there must. I didn’t want to be beholden to people like the Brosnics the rest of my life. I was an actress, not some insignificant woman to be bullied with impunity. His threats might have been no more than implicit – though his wife’s arms suggested that he was capable of actual violence – but I was finding details of our encounter popping uncomfortably back in my head.

  I dialled Caddie Minton’s number again. It was now twenty-four hours since I’d tried to talk to her, but, despite her machine’s promise, she hadn’t called me back. She must be able to find me something. Anything. But all I got was her relentlessly cheery answerphone.

  For a while I stared at the rain dripping off next-door’s gutter on to my bin. Then I made the call I’d really wanted to make first.

  ‘Have the Sedgwicks bitten?’

  ‘I think so,’ Greg said.

  ‘What do you mean, you think so? Surely they have or they haven’t.’

  ‘Their immediate response was a flat negative. But then I pointed out how long the place had been on the market, the way prices were still dropping – you know, all the things people forget.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the Wimpoles?’

  ‘I’m letting them stew a little longer. It might raise another ten thousand, mightn’t it?’

  ‘No more than five,’ I said. ‘And don’t forget, they could buy The Zephyrs and furnish it for what they’ve offered for Little Cuffley. Perhaps you should remind the Sedgwicks of that.’

  He said he would but with Greg you could never tell. ‘Meanwhile,’ he said, ‘there’s another punter interested in Knottsall Lodge. Have you got time?’

  I made the sort of noises one might make if one were thumbing through an overfull diary. ‘When were you thinking of?’

  ‘Two this afternoon.’

  ‘OK. I should be able to manage that. Who am I to meet?’

  ‘A couple called Gunter. He’s big in the City.’

  ‘Is that just what he says or have you checked him out this time?’

  There was a heavy sigh, full of exasperation. ‘I have his London address. I have his solicitor’s address. I have his estate agent’s address. Does that suit you, your ladyship?’

  Hardly had I cut the call than another came through. It was a cool female voice I didn’t recognise, who announced herself as Mrs Frensham’s secretary, though she did not favour me with her name.

  No wonder the poor woman needed pampering, with such a huge staff to keep an eye on.

  ‘Mrs Frensham was wondering if you would like to call round this afternoon to discuss the decor of the remaining rooms. Shall we say two?’ Clearly a negative was not expected.

  Again I pretended to be checking my diary. ‘I could squeeze her in at about three-thirty. Or this morning, at eleven-thirty,’ I added, in the voice of one making a great concession. I was hardly going to say I could nip straight round, was I?

  Perhaps she was playing the same game. ‘Mrs Frensham has a very tight schedule, Ms Burford. She does expect cooperation from those she employs.’ Such as her poor secretary, no doubt.

  I would have given much to be able to retort to that, if that were her attitude, I did not consider myself her employee any longer. Not that I was. I was self-employed. I was independent.

  Despite the steel entering my spine, wiser counsels prevailed. My tone was almost conciliatory. ‘Assure Mrs Frensham that I have her best interests at heart. The reason that I cannot come at two is that I am sourcing carpets for her.’ I was sourcing carpets and I was busy at two, but of course, there was no connection. Did that make it a lie? ‘There are some appointments one cannot break,’ I added with regretful firmness. ‘I can clear my diary for Monday, however.’ Best to end on a positive note.

  ‘I’m afraid Monday is not possible.’

  I sensed a subtext. What was going on here? ‘Would you like to tell me when Mrs Frensham is free? Then I can try – as far as I can – to reschedule. I should tell you, by the way, that on the basis of the instructions Mrs Frensham left yesterday with Mr Frensham, I have several weeks’ work planned already. Another few days’ delay in our meeting will not affect our overall timing. But I do need to know when I can book a carpet viewing for her.’ I was beginning to hate this third-person conversation. It might have worked for Jeeves but it was tiring my brain.

  ‘Hmm. Very well.’

  Why was she oozing disapproval? Was it something to do with wet and then dirty boys? Was Allyn planning to sack me for that offence under the guise of non-cooperation in the work for which I was contracted? Or – and to my intense fury my face went hot at the thought of it – had she seen the way Toby touched my hair?

  ‘Ah, Ms Burford, I see a slot here at eight this evening.’

  ‘In that case I am more than happy to fill it,’ I said promptly.

  I had been waiting about ten minutes in fitful sunshine when a silver Mercedes newer than Greg’s quietly joined the Ka on the gravel in front of Knottsall Lodge, parking without fuss and flurry. The occupants took a moment to sort themselves out, she reaching for a bag and he checking a file from which they removed the particulars. All this seemed very businesslike and I prepared to warm to them.

  Mr Gunter was much smaller than Mr Brosnic, but exuded the same sense of power. For a moment I had a frisson of fear, but if he was armed he did not show it. He was sprucely dressed, but his Italian jacket was cut so tight and high in the chest it gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a pouter pigeon. He was about forty-five, which in my ignorance I thought a bit old for a venture capitalist – I’d always had a mental image of them as thrusting young lions, likely to burn out by the age of thirty. Or was that share traders? If only I’d learnt more about money maybe I’d have made more. Or kept what I’d earned.

  His wife, not, to his credit, a young and voluptuous trophy model, was about forty, and her outfit sang aloud of money. There were her accessories for a start – Gucci shoes and bag, the twin of the one I’d coveted at the clothes exchange. She wore beautifully cut trousers, and a jacket the suede of which was so soft it hung almost like silk.

  ‘This is one of the loveliest houses on our books,’ I tell them, truth adding to the warmth of my professional enthusiasm. ‘You’ll find a wealth of original features, and where changes have been made they’re in character. Let’s start here in the entrance hall, shall we?’ And I began my spiel.

  I showed them in turn the morning room, the dining room, the fabulous drawing room, with views of rich woodland, and the kitchen. It dawned on me that they would prefer my silence to my enthusiastic chatter, so I fell mum and let the house itself do the selling. Meanwhile I willed them to say something appreciative, just as I had willed matinee audiences to laugh or cry or do anything other than sit in stony silence. The Gunters’ faces were stony too, to the point of grimness. What on earth was the trouble? Were they in the midst of a divorce, with this house being part of her settlement?

  I unlocked the back door for them. A green woodpecker was working its way up the trunk of a nearby tree. As we stepped on to the patio, it caught sight of us, and withdrew to the far side. Mrs Gunter held out her hand to keep us still and quiet. The bird peeped round at us, pulling back again sharply, for all the world a child playing hide-and-seek. It peered again. Mrs Gunter was grinning as broadly as I was.

  And I knew I’d seen her before, maybe even met her. The problem was where. I simply could not place her. Weekly rep somewhere? A dentist’s waiting room? It could be anywhere.

  Was that why she had kept her face so stony, e
yes so downcast? Because she was afraid I might tactlessly remind her of our acquaintance? Or because she had seen me starring on stage and was sorry that I had descended to this?

  Gunter coughed, deliberately, I thought, as if to make the bird fly and spoil the moment. It felt like a hint that he could spoil much more if he had the urge. I locked up carefully – I always thought it made a bad impression for me to scurry round checking at the end of a visit – and ushered them up the steep and awkward stairs that had almost defeated Mrs Brosnic. Mrs Gunter took one look and slipped off her shoes, but I knew it was a bad mark against the house.

  Mr Gunter tapped the brochure. ‘Is this just estate agent-speak, or are the views from the turret room roof really spectacular and unmissable?’ His lip curled in a potential sneer.

  ‘Why don’t you see for yourself? The turret room itself is pretty special. It would make a most wonderful hideaway if you wanted to write that Great Novel.’

  They stepped inside. Mrs Gunter made straight for the windows, but looked at, not through them.

  ‘Graffiti!’ she declared. ‘Look at this spidery old writing.’

  ‘And the stairs to the roof?’ he asked.

  I opened what looked like a cupboard. ‘I have to go up first, I’m afraid, to unbolt the hatch. It’s a bit of a knack.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not too heavy for you?’ she asked. ‘Alan will do it, won’t you?’

  But I could hardly admit that one of the main selling places of the home was inaccessible. In any case, I’d taken the precaution of applying some WD40 after being humiliated on a previous visit.

  ‘There!’ My efforts were rewarded with a brilliant shaft of sunlight. I turned to assist the Gunters.

  He ignored my helping hand. Once on the leads he peered about him, not so much appreciative as appraising.

  I leant down to assist his wife. ‘Mrs Gunter?’

  Her upturned face expressed pure panic. ‘I can’t – I’m sorry, I really can’t. I’ll just stay down here. Vertigo! Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘But…’ I smiled ineptly. I could hardly demand that she come up, and there was something about the set of Mr Gunter’s jaw that suggested it was better not to insist that he go straight back down. Company policy? Well, if Greg could ignore it when it suited him I could ignore it when I had to. On the whole, doing the sort of mental risk assessment Toby had joked about, I thought it was better to stay on the roof, lest Gunter take it into his head to leap off, than to watch Mrs Gunter idly fingering ancient scratch marks.

  He gave the whole roofscape his careful attention, which, in view of the maintenance costs involved in a place like this, I took as a good sign. He even fished out his mobile and took a few photos of the view. But – no, why on earth should a man be taking pictures of the leads? If only he was the sort of man one could ask. In his own good time he headed for the steps down. I followed, closing the hatch behind me and bolting it firmly.

  He snorted. ‘Are you expecting an invasion of paratroopers?’

  I gave a dutiful laugh.

  There was no sign of his wife. I wanted to dart off in search of her, but he took his time, deliberately, it seemed to me. I could hardly say, ‘Look, I’m paid to make sure your wife’s not running off with the family silver,’ but I could imagine the response. Eventually we ran her to earth back downstairs in the library, running her finger against the spines of calf-bound volumes of parliamentary proceedings from the eighteenth century.

  ‘What’s happening to these?’ she asked.

  Awarding full marks for the question, but wondering why it made her husband jerk his head as if disconcerted, I said, ‘I believe the vendors might be prepared to sell them with the property. Otherwise they’ll be sold to some university library.’

  She nodded, but said nothing.

  The rest of the visit, including a tour of the gardens, was completed in almost total silence until I had locked up. As they stood beside the Mercedes – a top-of-the-range model – he leafed through the file, fishing out the particulars of Langley Park and Oxfield Place.

  ‘Is there any reason why you shouldn’t take us to see these places?’

  ‘This afternoon?’ I hoped my surprise didn’t show.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t have the keys on me, of course, but I can certainly get them. I could meet you at Langley Park – that’s the nearer one – at four?’

  It was almost seven when they finished their explorations of Oxfield Place, the now steady rain cutting short their investigation of the extensive grounds. They said all that was proper, but their voices were so cool and their faces so expressionless it was almost impossible to tell their reactions to anything, graffiti and woodpecker apart.

  I presented them with my card and promised to be in touch. They barely nodded in acknowledgement. Although they got into their Merc, they made no attempt to drive off, and I felt their eyes on me as I locked up. Only as I got into my car did they set theirs in motion. Were they going to follow me? I didn’t like that idea at all. So I grabbed my mobile, got out the Ka and made a great show of walking round in search of a signal. At long last the Merc purred away.

  I checked my watch and got moving too. Obviously I had to return all the keys to the office safe. There was no way in this car I’d dare travel round with them. What if the Gunters were lurking so that they could ambush me and help themselves? What if some lout had clocked my exit from Oxfield Place and had got into his head that it’d be fun to nick the keys and burgle the place? He wouldn’t know there was nothing in there to steal. What if an opportunist just saw the logos and decided to try his luck? I’d had the same silver Peugeot behind me for five miles at least. I ducked into a side road, as fast as my sticky hands could turn the wheel. The Peugeot shot past. I could return to the main road. But now another car, a blue Mini, tucked in behind me, although I gave him ample opportunity to overtake. If I sped, the Mini kept up with me.

  At last I came across a service station. Without signalling, I pulled in. I didn’t need any fuel, but at least there were people there I could call on for help. The pump furthest from the road provided a little cover. The Mini driver definitely seemed to slow and register what I’d done. But then he continued on his way.

  Was that reassuring? Somehow, I didn’t think so. I’d acted afraid often enough. Now I truly felt it.

  Even my hands felt it. They were shaking as I called Greg.

  ‘I think I’ve been tailed,’ I said baldly. ‘And I’ve still got two sets of keys on me.’

  ‘But it’s after seven – what do you expect me to do?’

  I’d had a teacher at school who’d told us about non sequiturs and I thought that that might be one.

  ‘I think you’d better come and meet me.’ I told him where I was.

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘Look, Greg, I’m carrying the keys for four or five million pounds’ worth of assorted buildings. If you’re happy for them to be nicked, that’s fine.’

  ‘Have you any proof…?’

  ‘No, and I haven’t much battery left either. See you here in – what? – ten minutes?’ Just to make sure, I cut the call. And phoned Aldred House to warn them I was running late. Without my notes, too, though I decided not to mention that.

  Greg, turning out in his Merc with the air of a man braving a blizzard, not just a drop of drizzle, seized the precious house keys and drove back to the office, no doubt chuntering all the way. He’d no doubt be even more disgruntled if I ever told him that I had a completely trouble-free journey to Aldred House. Perhaps it would be better to steer clear of him for a bit, and invent details of a thrilling car chase should he ever enquire.

  As it happened I turned into the long driveway with about a minute to spare. I hadn’t had time to go home, so I didn’t have the files I wanted. At least in my Nicole Farhi suit I looked every inch the efficient business woman. Perhaps the effect was spoilt by the constant rumblings of my stomach, but perhaps Allyn would have t
he grace to ignore them – or the generosity to offer me a dairy- and preservative-free snack.

  I was admitted by a young woman I’d not met before, but whose black outfit, demure to the point of downright ugly, suggested she might be a maid. She showed me into one of the rooms that hadn’t yet had our attentions, but had certainly had someone’s – it was fully rigged out as an office, complete with hi-tech computer and other gizmos, and blonde wood furniture. I picked my way through the strongly accented syllables – one of the former Soviet republics? – and deduced that she wished me to sit down. The furniture was as excruciating to sit on as it was lovely to look at.

  I had plenty of time to discover its drawbacks.

  At last not Allyn but a willowy young woman appeared. Her face cried out for a frame of short bubbly curls, but her hair was cut as severely as any Frenchwoman’s, with heavy German designer spectacles overwhelming a retroussé nose.

  ‘You have an appointment with Mrs Frensham?’ she asked.

  If only I could have told her that she knew damned well I had. As it was, I inclined my head gravely.

  ‘Mrs Frensham regrets that she has been called away. Perhaps you would care to make another appointment.’

  ‘Of course. But I suspect she has already made notes on the rooms in question. Perhaps I should take those with me? We wouldn’t want to inflict further delays on her plans. In fact, could we pencil in a time and date for the carpet dealer to bring up the ones I thought would be best?’ We applied ourselves to diaries, and came up with a date at the end of the following week. ‘As for the rooms,’ I continued, ‘why don’t you walk me round? Unless I am eating into your free time? Ms…er…?’ It was almost half-past eight, after all. And most young women like her would have been out on the town at this time on a Friday evening.

  She shot me a curious glance, as if wishing she could acknowledge the absurdity of the whole charade.

  ‘Fairford. This way, please,’ she said, all expression ironed from her face and indeed from her voice.