Staging Death

by Judith Cutler

  Impressed by the adjective, I responded with a smile that was more serious than I intended. Insouciance was all very well when someone didn’t know every detail of your life.

  Packing a couple of bags was the work of minutes, given the amount of practice I’d had when I was on tour. But I had to give my plants a drink. Goodness knew when they’d get another one.

  No, I mustn’t think that way. Otherwise I’d start looking at all my theatrical memorabilia – worth nothing to a dealer but the world to me – with nostalgia. And I might weep. On impulse I grabbed a bin liner and shoved a load of photos willy-nilly into it. If I broke any of the frames, or any of the glass, so be it. At least I’d still have them.

  What about my old teddy bears? They weren’t collector’s items, but they were suddenly very dear to me. Another bin bag. Sorry, lads, for the indignity.

  I caught sight of Karen taking a phone call and looking anxiously at her watch. That had better be that then. My life in two cases and two bin liners.

  I braced my shoulders. I’d always told myself it was better to travel light.

  ‘Here we are!’ I called gaily, as I locked my front door. Drat my hand for starting to shake again. ‘Will you drive or shall I?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Karen preferred to drive, which she did rather faster than I would have done. I passed the journey by explaining the differences between high-class paint and what Karen described as bog-standard stuff, and why in a building the age of Aldred House it was preferable to use paint based on old formulae.

  ‘Not that I’ve anything against ordinary commercial paint. In a place like mine I’d be silly to use anything else, especially in the kitchen and the bathroom, where condensation is a problem,’ I said. ‘But in a place like Aldred House it’d be a sin to use anything inauthentic.’

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ she said, keeping an eye on her rear-view mirror, ‘is how you can have not just bog-standard paint but a bog-standard house. And then spend your time making other people’s beautiful places even lovelier.’

  ‘Sometimes I can’t understand either,’ I said as lightly as possible. ‘But one doesn’t always get a choice, darling. Now, here you can stick to the main road, or if you fancy a short cut, turn right just between the chevrons marking the double bend.’

  She left signalling to the last minute, earning a blast on an HGV’s klaxon.

  ‘So were we being tailed?’ I asked mildly, as she settled down to a sedate thirty. If only I’d managed to wrap my photos, which were being thrown from one side of the boot to the other.

  ‘I don’t think so. But if you don’t practise driving like that, you lose the skills. What I’d really like to do is join the team driving diplomats and royalty. I’ve signed up for the introductory course.’

  ‘Rather a long way from the stage, Karen.’

  ‘So is your house,’ she said.

  ‘So what does the course involve?’ I asked. ‘Is there much competition to get on it?’

  She took the hint, and we talked resolutely about what she might expect, particularly in the way of male prejudice, until she pulled up at the gates of Aldred House – firmly closed, I was pleased to see.

  A particularly heavy ‘heavy’ emerged, sauntering ponderously round the driver’s window. He peered at Karen for longer than necessary, managing to ignore the ID she flourished, before at last declaring that her face didn’t fit the car number he had on record. I was quite pleased, in an abstract way, that Ted had persuaded Toby to accept such a level of security. However, in the concrete, the delay was irritating. I got out, smiling sweetly, and asked to speak to Ted.

  ‘Mr Ashcroft, do you mean, miss?’

  ‘Who else? And if you tell me he’s not on duty at the moment, I shall quite understand. But I don’t think he will when you eventually tell him that Ms Vena Burford and a police escort were requesting admittance and you kept them waiting.’

  He mumbled, and withdrew to the gatehouse. I rejoined Karen in the car.

  ‘And this is all my doing!’ I confessed, rolling my eyes. ‘Until I came on the scene and told Toby to tighten his security, anyone could drive in.’

  ‘And why should you do that?’ Suddenly she spoke like a police officer, not the former aspirant to the boards whose current ambitions I’d been indulging.

  And I’d been about to break the first rule of friendship: be loyal at all times. Even when you possibly shouldn’t be. Just in time, I recalled that Ted himself had spotted a prowler, so I didn’t need to betray Meredith and his stupid threat. Did I?

  ‘All stars like Toby, not to mention his wife, attract fans that may turn into stalkers at the drop of a hat. Ted – as you’ve gathered, he’s head of security here – thought he might have spotted a prowler, but Toby was too laid-back to do anything. I suggested a tactic. It worked. Ted shoved the paperwork under his nose when Toby was too busy to notice,’ I explained, laughing.

  Karen wasn’t letting go. ‘You both took it seriously. Did you have any particular prowler in mind?’

  ‘Why do you ask? It’d take a mixture of Houdini and Al Qaeda to penetrate this lot. And there are security cameras all over the place. And men like the Neanderthal there, popping up whenever you don’t want them.’

  Obligingly the said Neanderthal emerged from the gatehouse and strolled round to Karen. ‘The police confirm you are who you say you are, miss.’ He saluted, and the huge gates opened apparently of their own volition.

  Karen set the car in motion. ‘It’s nice when friends are loyal to each other, Ms Burford. But your friend Meredith Thrale has been telling everyone he’s going to kill Toby Frensham. Are you sure you shouldn’t have told us?’

  ‘It sounds as if someone else already has,’ I said bitterly. ‘For goodness’ sake, Karen, the man was seriously pissed off with something Toby did. I can’t blame him, either – Toby can be a total sod at times. Then Merry got seriously pissed and started making threats against him. I told him off and he grovelled. Anyone with a grain of sense would have known he’d forget all about it when he landed the TV job. And he’s leaving the district any day now.’

  ‘Which makes it all right, does it?’

  ‘If I’d seriously believed he would harm Toby, I’d have shopped him. It’s hard to snitch on a friend. Even a friend with a conviction for GBH.’

  ‘Quite. Who’s threatened, of course, to harm another friend. OK, so you didn’t think he’d carry out his threats. But all the same.’

  ‘As you say, all the same. I take it you people have spoken to him?’

  ‘Pretty firmly. But we took the same line as you, in the end. Mostly hot air.’

  ‘Mostly. But – God, I hate saying this – he did insist he was going to do something, just to humiliate him.’

  ‘Let’s just say I don’t think he will now.’ She paused at a fork in the road.

  ‘Right here, please. And then park in the stable yard – anywhere.’

  ‘Not very green, your friends.’ She eyed the monster-mobiles as if I were to blame.

  ‘I’m working on them. But what can you do when the chatelaine’ – I was rather proud of that word – ‘insists on installing a safety-first playground, complete with rubber matting, when her kids would rather play on real trees, with nice soft grass to fall on?’

  ‘Health and safety is always a consideration,’ she declared, pulling on the handbrake with what I thought unnecessary emphasis and poor grammar. She stuck out her left hand, palm upraised. ‘Mobile phone, please.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You must not, absolutely must not, use this phone. I’ll get you a prepaid one tomorrow if you like. If we can track people when they use their mobiles,’ she explained, not quite suppressing an impatient sigh, ‘there’s a remote chance that our friends can too. Remote, but not infinitesimal. I’ll get one of our boffins to transcribe all your numbers for you.’

  ‘How can I live without a phone?’ I wailed.

  ‘Those who live for the phone
shall die by the phone,’ she said superbly, looking down her nose.

  God, she’d have made a wonderful Lady Macbeth. As it was, I was sure she’d be a chief constable before she was forty. Before I got grumpy, however, I recalled this newly transformed gorgon was in charge of looking after me and that I should be grateful to her. I might be if any of my photos had emerged unscathed.

  The Valkyrie emerged, not quite to greet me, but rather, it transpired, to organise me. She pointed at the row of cottages converted years ago from some of the stables and other outdoor offices. They were on my list to refurbish, but a very long way down.

  ‘Not a house guest but an employee, you see,’ I muttered to Karen, whose hackles were rising on her own account. Greta plainly thought Karen was a mere minion and ignored her accordingly. ‘These cottages are meant for the serfs of any rich guests who grace the main house with their presence. But, as you’ll see, they’re not too bad and have lots of potential. Greta herself occupies one of them, and you don’t get many more highly qualified and indeed highly paid boilers of kettles than Greta.’

  I grabbed my cases, and Karen the black sacks. One tinkled alarmingly.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’d forgotten those photos were loose. Do you – you know – want a hand unpacking?’ Putting down the sacks in the kitchenette, she cast an eye round the bleak sitting room. She drew the curtains, which were jolly in a Sixties student sort of way, and switched on a table lamp.

  ‘Thanks for offering,’ I said, glad she was trying to rebuild bridges, ‘but it won’t take five minutes. Do you want to look at the rest of the cottage?’ I said, in a girl-to-girl voice; I’ve never met a woman who didn’t enjoy looking at houses.

  I led the way upstairs, pointing out the bathroom which was still Sixties basic, with an avocado suite that wouldn’t stay long if I had anything to do with it, and the bedroom, with two chaste single beds, neither made up. The bed linen lay on a chair between them. For all its institutional air, however, it was spacious enough.

  Karen surveyed it, arms akimbo. ‘What’s the main house like?’

  ‘As soon as all this business is sorted I’ll try and wangle an invitation for you to look round. And meet Toby and Allyn, of course.’

  Her grin split her face. ‘Oh, Ms Burford – Vena – you’re a star!’

  And so I was – once.

  ‘Now, is there anything you’ve forgotten? Anything you’ll need?’ she pursued.

  I stared. How could I have forgotten? ‘No, it really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It obviously does.’

  ‘I never emptied the fridge,’ I admitted. ‘If I stay here long, some of the stuff – there’s a really ripe Brie, for instance – will be able to walk out here to meet me. But it’s not worth worrying about, truly.’

  ‘I’ve got to take your car back to your place. I’ll deal with it then.’

  I shook my head doubtfully. ‘If it’s not safe for me, how is it safe for you?’

  ‘Come on, I’m not offering to spend all night guarding the place.’

  ‘I really don’t like the idea—’

  ‘I shall be fine, don’t you worry.’

  ‘OK, if you’re absolutely sure,’ I said doubtfully, ‘take anything that’s edible for yourself. Throw the rest away. But it’s got to be bottom on your list of priorities.’

  ‘No problem.’

  I looked at her from under my eyebrows, stern as Gladys Firth teaching contour maps. ‘Only if you’re sure it’s safe, Karen. Absolutely safe. What’s a bit of stinking cheese, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Come on, give me your key. And your burglar alarm code.’

  ‘Shakespeare’s birthday – 2304.’

  She started my car, waving cheerily as she fastened her seat belt. I hoped she wouldn’t take any risks as she practised her driving skills. Any risks, full stop.

  Hell’s bells, she was scarcely more than a really nice stranger, with occasional attitude. How on earth did mothers deal with their sudden anxieties? For all was ill about my heart – a kind of gain-giving as would trouble any woman. Damn it, I hated it when lines from Hamlet pushed their way into my head. Almost as bad as the Scottish Play, in my experience.

  I gestured her to roll down the window. ‘Darling, you must take care. No fancy business round corners if there’s a hint of frost. This is a bog-standard car, remember – no clever little warning lights if the roads are icy. Remember,’ I said, trying to lighten my mood, ‘we need you all in one piece to meet Toby and Allyn.’

  I had much longer to unpack than I had expected. It seemed that Allyn had had an unexpected visitor and was not, after all, at liberty to discuss the paint. Truly she had never needed me in the first place. The paint sample offered by the decorator was so far in colour, let alone tone, from the one I’d requested as to be laughable, and she could have told him so herself. Any other evening I’d have been prepared to take umbrage, but I kept reminding myself that at least she had provided me, however unwittingly, with a safe haven.

  One thing she hadn’t provided me with, of course, was food. No, there was nothing in the small but immaculate fridge-freezer. No tea or coffee in the cupboard. Nothing. I could have kicked myself when I thought of that deliquescent Brie in particular. As it was, there was nothing for it. I must go and humbly beg at the kitchen door. If there were a visitor, Greta would still be required on the premises.

  She might have been required, but she was not required to sit in solitary state until the bell summoned her. For such an iceberg, she was in remarkably close proximity to one of the hottest young men I’d seen in a long time, all too clearly very excited indeed. Twitching her skirt back into some semblance of place, she introduced him, with some embarrassment and probably not much expectation of being believed, as her cousin. The story was that he was a student who had come to England to improve his English. Whether he had succeeded I’ve no idea, because he didn’t speak, but since Greta and I were both on the same side of the green-baize door, I didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid. I explained my situation, and she raided the two huge pantry-sized fridges with abandon. Then she plunged into a freezer. Within seconds, it seemed, I had enough food for a whole party on a tray. At least, in her eyes, slyly appraising my expression, enough to keep me quiet about the so-called cousin, Frederick.

  Having eaten like a queen, and drunk like one too – the almost full bottle of champagne she’d extracted from the first fridge proved to be an eminently drinkable vintage – I cleared up the kitchen and washed and dried the plates. Just to make it friendlier to come down to tomorrow, I arranged the photos in the living room, picking glass carefully from their frames as I did so. There was minimal damage to the photos themselves – a splinter stuck into Roger Moore’s ear, a little scratch on Derek Jacobi’s forehead. The broken glass could stay where it was in the black sack, until I’d found where I should dispose of it safely.

  Upstairs, next. It took a matter of moments to shake out my clothes and hang them up. The bears made the spare bed look friendly, and I was contemplating a long, hot bath, until I realised that no one had switched on the immersion heater (in other words, I’d forgotten).

  There was no way I could sleep yet. My mind was fizzing like the champagne – randomly, not with any proper ideas, just general unsettlement. I suppose I had had quite a day. So now what?

  At home I’d have gone out into the garden – no longer to smoke, not for fifteen years now – but just to clear my head. Would the Frenshams mind if I went for a stroll in their grounds? Had a look for some stars?

  There wasn’t much chance of stargazing with all the instant light pollution their security lights caused. As soon as I took a step, blow me if another didn’t switch on. And another. At least they switched off behind me.

  The mews cottages had been built at right angles to the stables themselves. The amount I knew about horses was zero, but I imagined that originally perhaps all the great house gee-gees popped their heads out through those cute-looking ha
lf-doors at equine breakfast time and the grooms, living where I was now based, whizzed out to feed them. The Frenshams hadn’t yet caught the riding bug, which was fortunate, as most of the stabling was downright dilapidated, the roofs shedding tiles and sagging dangerously, if picturesquely. I’d recommend some immediate attention next time I saw Allyn. Health and safety were words that should achieve an immediate effect.

  I’d had enough champagne to try to tease the automatic lights. How close could I get before one saw me and switched on? Were there any pools of shadow I could dive into and emerge unlit? The old stables for instance?

  A gleam of light, the sort given by a mobile-phone screen, deep within one of them told me someone else was playing the same game – if, of course, my stupidity (to give it a more adult name) was indeed a game. I was back under those bright lights before you could say ‘curtain call’. Only to realise I was presenting a very good target, and not just for the ubiquitous CCTV cameras, either.

  On the other hand, I was interested to see who it was deep in those shadows. Surely Allyn wouldn’t be so stupid as to have a tryst with her tennis coach out here? Though when and where she could by daylight goodness knew, not without all the security staff with access to the screens in Ted’s office knowingly nudging and winking.

  Should I let them know I’d clocked them? And was friendly and harmless? Or give the impression that I was just an old fool who’d been too tipsy to take in anything? Would a little more dodging the lights help with this impression? A couple of dance steps, perhaps? Humming not quite under my breath? Or was that gilding an improbable lily?

  Straight lines were out, that was for sure, but I wouldn’t quite weave. Not drunk but relaxed. One last game of peek-a-boo with a light. In fact, I couldn’t wait to dive through my front door, bolting it and shoving a chair under the handle in the time-honoured fashion of actors trying to prevent their landlord’s unauthorised access. Drawing the living room curtains as tightly as I could – I certainly wouldn’t have skimped so meanly on the material – I left the light and TV on, and slipped upstairs in the dark. In best snooper tradition, I peered round the curtains without making them so much as twitch. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, I was rewarded by the aerobatics of a few low-flying bats – how had I missed seeing them earlier? – and an owl. I watched entranced, but suddenly recalled watching the woodpecker with my wooden-faced clients, the Gunters. Had they really been retrieving thousands of pounds worth of cocaine? Perhaps it was one of their consignments that had resulted in the hospitalisation of those people in Birmingham who had taken over-pure drugs. There’d been no news of them since, not that I’d seen. I sent up a belated prayer for their recovery.