by Peter Helton
‘I know it’s quite an ask. And we had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but . . .’ Emms squinted at the house and let out a long breath. ‘Guy has always been one of those actors who subscribe to every silly superstition going and he brings his own bag of problems too. He sleeps with a nightlight on, you know. Scared of the dark. Scared of this, scared of that. He’s always been a gloomy sod but recently he’s become, I don’t know, a bit paranoid, if you ask me. You can see it in the way he looks at people. Do try and perk him up a bit. He trusts you because you’re not one of us.’
Did I have a choice? Apparently not. Annis had it right from the outset – I was a babysitter to the star of Time Lines, a star that from this angle looked like it might be on the wane. Off I went in search of Stoneking who according to Emms had ‘found a room’ for me. Nice to have a few lying about in case of emergency.
The drawing room was deserted, so was the dining room. I hesitated in the lower gallery, for a moment wondering where to try next, when I saw a movement in the corner of my eye. There at the shadowy north end of the gallery stood an old woman, motionless. Looking straight at me. Her white hair was held in a French plait and she was dressed in black. She was holding a broom, not the witchy kind but an ordinary one with a green plastic handle. I was about to walk towards her when I heard footsteps coming down the stair behind me. It was Carla, carrying a bulging laundry bag. When I looked back down the gallery the old lady had gone.
Naturally.
‘Carla, I’m going to stay here too from tonight. I’m told there’s a room for me somewhere?’
‘Mark told me, I’ve just got it ready for you. Do you want me to show you?’ She dumped the linen bag at the bottom of the stair and led the way up to the height of the upper gallery where she opened an unobtrusive door in the wood panelling. It revealed another, much narrower and ill-lit staircase with much-worn wooden treads. ‘It’s a bit of a climb, I’m afraid.’
‘Servants’ quarters?’ I was beginning to feel just a tiny bit miffed. ‘They must have been quite fit in those days.’
Carla briefly paused on the stairs so she could give me a well-timed look for emphasis. ‘They still are.’
‘I saw an old lady with a broom earlier; don’t tell me she climbs these stairs.’
‘No, I’m the only madwoman in the attic.’
‘So who was it I saw earlier?’
‘Old woman? No idea, you must have imagined it.’
‘I quite clearly saw—’
Carla snorted with pleasure. ‘I’m only kidding. That was Mrs Cunningham. Olive to her very few friends.’
‘Not a ghost, then, I am relieved.’
‘Not Olive. Quite solid, in fact. But the place is definitely haunted. You’ll find out if you stay here. The Cunninghams owned the Hall until she was forced to sell it. But she retains the right to live out her life in the granny flat in the north wing, right next to the pool.’
Pool. Of course there was. There would be a helicopter pad somewhere. ‘She was staring at me.’
We reached a narrow corridor, largely unadorned and flimsily carpeted with a narrow worn runner. ‘She does that a lot. Thinking. Remembering, probably. I’m not sure she sees what we see. You probably won’t see much of her, though. She made it quite clear she disapproved of the TV circus, as she described you.’
‘I’m not actually part of the circus.’
‘Really? That’s good. I’m not really a servant, either. Here we are.’ She opened the second door along. ‘I put you in here. I hope you’ll be comfortable; it’s quite a nice room, no en suite though. Bathroom’s at the end of the corridor and naturally you’re welcome to use the pool, where there are showers too.’
‘Thanks. No, I’m not TV; I’m just here to look after Mr Middleton while he’s in Bath.’
‘Rather you than me, I think.’
‘And you’re here to look after Mark Stoneking. What’s that like?’
‘Delightful,’ she said. It sounded almost as though she meant it. ‘If you need anything, give me a shout. Though, please, not literally.’
She left me to get acquainted with my new home. It was a cosy attic room where a queen-size bed left just enough space for a narrow wardrobe and a small writing desk and chair by the little window. There was a tiny fireplace with a grate wide enough for three lumps of coal. From the window I could see the lake, the woodland and the glasshouse roof but had only a partial view of the lawn. Now all I had to do was go and get my jim-jams, as Cy put it.
As I drove out of the front gate, which closed behind me with a gothic groan, I reflected that with twice my usual rates, pool, a baronial breakfast each morning and upmarket TV catering for the rest of the day, staying at Tarmford Hall really was no hardship; though naturally I would have to make sure it sounded like that to Annis.
On the way there I drove through Combe Down and snuck up on Mike Dealey’s place. I was just in time to see him park his red Honda in front of his garage. It was my first good look at my prey. He still had the walrus moustache from the picture but had probably put on some weight since then. He was wearing baggy blue jeans and trainers and a faded black tee-shirt. The driver seat swivelled sideways. Out came the wheelchair from where it had been stashed behind the seat. Dealey opened it up and with no doubt well-practised movements swung himself into the seat. It looked like an uncomfortable manoeuvre and I thought I saw him wince. I called Haarbottle at his office. ‘I’m still patiently staking out Dealey’s place,’ I told him, as though I’d been doing nothing else all week.
‘Any luck?’
Dealey pulled a Co-op carrier from inside the car. ‘Not so far; he hasn’t slipped up once. But don’t worry, I’m sticking to him like glue.’
‘I’m glad you’re on the case and keeping in touch. Naturally, as a company, we have to justify the expense of a private investigator and weigh this up against the very real—’
‘Oh, there’s movement,’ I lied, ‘got to go.’ I watched Dealey lock his car, propel himself to the house, up the ramp and into the house. The blinds were down and there was nothing more to see. I drove home. Dealey would keep. Naturally I would look stupid if the next time I checked he had moved to Brazil, so I’d swing by from time to time just to make sure. But my priority today was telling Annis in no uncertain terms just how much I hated having to stay at Mark Stoneking’s mansion all week, eating free food and rubbing shoulders with the stars.
I found her in the studio by following the noise. Annis was staring at a blank canvas on her easel, loaded brush in hand. The paint looked suspiciously like the caput mortum I had left unused on my palette. On the floor our little ghetto blaster – designed for the smaller ghetto – strained to do justice to Karmic Fire’s megalomanical soundscapes.
‘I downloaded the rest of their albums!’ she shouted.
Oh, great. ‘Great!’ I shouted back.
‘Horse’s head all cleaned up?’
‘It was just a drawing!’ I bellowed.
‘What?’ She relented and turned down the din.
‘It was just a drawing but it shook him nevertheless. Mainly because it meant someone had been in his room while he was asleep. Now he wants round-the-clock protection.’
‘Will he get it?’
‘You’re looking at it.’
‘Kidding!’
‘I’m afraid not. They want me to stay the nights there. I said no but apparently it’s in my contract that I’m obliged to if it’s deemed necessary. And they’re busy deeming. They found me a dingy little attic room to sleep in.’
‘Bum. Does that mean I won’t see you all week?’
‘No, I’ll get time off for good behaviour. Right now they’re trying to fix the digger which broke earlier so I’ve come to pack a few things. I’ll leave you to your first stroke.’
‘Sod that,’ she said and dropped the brush on to her palette. ‘I’ve been staring at it for an hour and nothing’s happening. Maybe this canvas is too small.’
‘Erm . . .�
�� As I looked at the six-by-eight foot canvas my face must have betrayed a flicker of doubt.
‘Yeah, I know, but I feel I want to spread my wings.’ She stepped outside into the sun and windmilled her arms to demonstrate. ‘I want to break out of the confines of the canvas and soar.’ She illustrated her feelings by running down the meadow, arms spread wide. ‘And I need more coffee!’ she shouted.
Leaning in the bedroom door frame with a fresh mug of Blue Mountain in her hand she talked about the importance of scale in relation to movement in her paintings while she watched me throw what I considered a few essentials into my holdall: trousers, shirts, tee-shirts, socks, underwear, sweater, painkillers, toothpaste, electric toothbrush, charger for electric toothbrush, mobile phone charger, clockwork radio and last – because I had hoped Annis might take her eyes off the bag for a moment only she didn’t – but not least: my swimming shorts.
Annis spluttered into her coffee. ‘Swimming shorts? Oh, right, you poor downtrodden overworked and put-upon shamus! Of course, there’s a pool, isn’t there? You managed to wangle a week at a luxury manor, waited on hand and foot, free gourmet nosh and hanging out by the pool all day. Leaving me in this bleak hovel with a blank canvas and a cupboard full of pinto beans! With nothing but sheep for company. Typical!’
Bleak hovel? Since when? ‘It’s not quite like that. And I’ll be popping round here whenever I can.’
‘Forget the popping. I want you to get me invited to Stoneking’s manor. I’m part of Aqua Investigations too, you know? And I bought a new cozzie in Corfu that needs airing.’
I took the mug out of her hand, put it on a shelf and pulled her into my arms. ‘Yes, I remember it well, what there was of it. I’ll do what I can to get you into the Stone King’s castle and make you part of the quest. In the meantime, would you like to say goodbye properly? Let me get this bag off the bed.’
SEVEN
More cars and vans had arrived at Tarmford Hall. A lot more. The generous half-moon of gravel was covered with vehicles and like several people before me I had to park on the grass, far enough from the entrance to the house to make lugging my few essentials a bit of a chore. Not to mention the endless flights of stairs up to my eyrie in the loft.
It was warm in my little room and as I opened the window unfamiliar sounds drifted up from the unseen lawns below. There was clanging and hammering and shouting, more than I imagined the repair of a single digger should warrant. I simply dumped my bag and made my way downstairs.
Time Lines was a much larger outfit than I had ever imagined. There was a constant coming and going between the car park, the excavation site and the so-called incident room above the coach house. Only when I stepped on to the verandah did it become clear what had swelled the numbers in the car park – the Romans were here.
On the terrace, as expected, the cream of Time Lines were tucking into their lunch. Less expected were the newcomers. To my far right, on the northwest corner of the lawns, near the stand of ancient chestnuts, camped a Roman army.
‘A legionnaires camp.’ Stoneking beamed up at me. ‘Cohort Italica, re-enactors from Bristol, complete with tents, giant catapults and what-not. Dozens of them, by the looks of it.’
Emms hunted a tiny tomato round her plate with a fork. ‘We’ve used them before, for the cameos, they’re quite authentic.’
Middleton, at the next table, grumbled at his lamb chops. ‘I hope their tents are rainproof or they’ll get authentically soaked. It looks like rain.’
‘They know their stuff but they’re extremely boring people to meet,’ Cy informed us. ‘During the week they’re plumbers and post office counter staff, yearning to be ancient Romans. They spend all their spare time talking in cod Latin and polishing their pilums. But they look good on camera, I give them that.’
Emms cornered her tomato and stabbed it. ‘All re-enactors are the same, they just like playing soldiers, as though that’s all there was to history.’
Andrea seemed to speak to no one in particular. ‘No one seems to re-enact hard-working normal people. Trades people, farmers, domestics. It would be much better to show some of that part of Roman life.’
‘That’s visually undynamic. It’s not what our audience wants,’ Cy began.
‘It’s not what your teenage mind imagines the audience wants,’ Middleton sniped.
‘The audiences you’re thinking of have long died of old age or boredom,’ Cy countered.
As they began a fresh argument I was urgently drawn away by the gravitational pull exerted by the catering van where I joined the queuing diggers. The Roman legion had brought their own food and were cooking it on a couple of small camp fires amongst their tents. Delia the caterer noticed my late arrival. ‘You’ve joined the lower ranks then?’ She dropped a couple of thick lamb chops on to my plate. ‘A shrewd move: bigger portions for the real workers.’
‘Especially now that we’re digging the whole thing by hand.’ Adam was balancing a veritable mountain of chips and salad around the corner of the van. I followed his example and joined him and his mate Julie on the grass. At the other end of the lawn stood the injured yellow beast with its engine cover up and a mechanic with his head in its innards.
‘The digger is still out of action, then?’ I asked.
Julie smiled broadly. ‘Long may it last.’ She pointed her fork at Adam’s pyre of chips. ‘Is that all you’re having? Chips and salad?’
‘Nah, there’s three chops under there somewhere.’
‘Do you mean you like digging everything by hand?’ I asked.
‘Oh, absolutely. That’s proper archaeology. We’re only using the digger to get to what interests the TV people. Andrea, you know, the chief archaeologist, she’s always argued against the digger but telly is telly; they won’t stand around and wait for us to do it properly. Even now we’re just hurrying through the layers as though only Roman finds mattered.’
‘If they want to film Roman, Roman is what they find,’ Adam said knowingly. I could have sworn his goatee had just become goatier.
‘You don’t mean they’re cheating?’
Adam shrugged and stuffed enough chips in his mouth to excuse him from answering. I looked at Julie.
‘Don’t look at me,’ she said. She checked that no one was within earshot, then spoke quietly. ‘I’m not saying they’re faking it. It’s just that we do seem to find amazing stuff on this programme. Not like the poor chaps on Channel Four, sometimes they have no luck at all, which is only to be expected. But Time Lines is always very lucky. So very, very lucky.’
A few playful trumpet blasts came from the direction of the legionnaires’ camp.
‘I hope they don’t do that all day,’ Julie said. ‘Archaeology is quite peaceful most of the time. I mean where the noise levels are concerned, of course. That lot just never grew up.’
‘I hope they’ll all get legionnaires’ disease or something,’ said the cheerful Adam.
‘What exactly is legionnaires’ disease?’ Julie asked.
‘No idea. But if they want to play at being legionnaires then it’s only fair they should get some. For authenticity if nothing else.’
When I rejoined the TV crew their argument seemed to have been concluded, or perhaps just adjourned. Guy was nowhere to be seen. Clouds were threatening rain and the air was still and humid. Emms and Cy were standing on the terrace with a Roman centurion called Brian who stood in the heat wearing a full legionnaire’s outfit, shiny helmet, armour, sword and dagger. Cy was frowning at the sky. ‘I wish we could film this stuff somewhere where they have dry seasons,’ he complained. ‘Or decent summers.’
‘Try Hollywood,’ Emms said drily. ‘It would suit you. You could mock it all up in the studio.’
Cy ignored her. ‘Right, let’s try and get some Roman shots in the can while the archaeologists are dithering.’
Brian the centurion pointed behind us. ‘At last, the Britons have arrived, late as usual.’ Brian’s accent was pure Somerset. Just then a group o
f a dozen or so noisy and lightly equipped ancient Britons swaggered hairily on to the lawn, shaking round shields and hurling insults and derision towards the orderly camp of Cohort Italica.
‘You bring your own Britons to conquer, then?’ I asked Brian.
‘Oh yes,’ he explained earnestly. ‘At first the members of the Cohort took turns to be Britons but in the end no one wanted to do it, it’s not what we joined the Cohort for. But this hopeless rabble love it. Looks like they stopped off at the pub again, too.’
It was true that a definite whiff of cider had arrived along with the wild-haired, bearded natives. ‘And naturally you defeat them every time?’
‘Well . . . we let them win sometimes so they don’t lose interest but history is on our side, as I’m sure you know.’
‘I remember it from school.’ I also remembered Boudicca putting up quite a good fight for a bit.
One of the hairy Britons detached himself from the rabble and came swaggering towards us, grinning broadly. Emms, I noticed, smiled in anticipation while both Cy and Brian the centurion viewed his approach with a look of distaste. Like the rest of his gang the approaching ancient Briton was dressed in an assortment of colours, some striped, some checked, with wild hair and a beard to match. He had a sword at his belt and carried a round shield with a much-dented central boss. He brayed at Brian. ‘Ha, if it isn’t Gluteus Maximus, in the flesh. Prepare to have your arse whipped, Roman dog.’
‘Hello Morgan, less of that,’ said Emms with mock sternness. ‘You’re late. And possibly drunk. But you look very convincing. Good of you to come.’ She turned to Brian, who seemed uncomfortable in his Roman skin. ‘Let’s have a wander over there and thrash out the details of what we would like you to do for us.’
With Brian the Roman on the left and Morgan the Briton on the right Emms walked up to the north end of the lawn where Paul had already set up his camera. Brian walked with ramrod dignity while Morgan did seem to sway just a little. To me, Brian and his cohort looked like people dressed up as Romans; their helmets were too shiny, their swords too bright, their tents too clean. By comparison Morgan’s noisy band of warriors looked terrifyingly real. Many had painted blue stripes of woad on their faces. Their clothes looked worn and in need of a wash and their weaponry seasoned in battle.
