by Peter Helton
By now I had become so tense that I actually breathed a sigh of relief when I looked up and through the window saw Guy standing by his Land Rover, his shoulder bag by his feet. He whisked a small sheet of paper from under the windscreen wipers, unfolded the note and stared down at it. I rapped on the window pane and he started, frowned in my direction and hastily crumpled the note into his jacket pocket. I went and opened the front door to let him in but he had got into his car. I jogged across, waving. He had started the engine and wound down the window. ‘What?’
‘Where are you going? You’re wanted on the set.’
‘Already? I thought the pumping would take much longer. I was going to, you know, buy a few things. I asked the housekeeper if she could do it but the bloody woman refused point blank.’ He swung out of the car, slammed the door and shouldered his bag. When he opened his mouth to speak I cut him off.
‘Before you ask – the answer is no. I’m here to make sure you get safely through this week so buying supplies of whisky really isn’t in the job description. I’m not letting you out of my sight.’ Did I really say that? I hoped with some fervency that Guy wouldn’t hold me to it. I ushered him through the house and out the other side. ‘What was that I saw you read earlier? Just before you got into the car?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Sure? It wasn’t another threatening note?’
‘Look, erm, now isn’t the time, OK? I’ll tell you later but I’ll do it when I’m ready. I have enough on my plate without you getting on my case. When I need your help I’ll ask for it, OK?’
‘Just make sure you don’t ask when it’s too late.’ I gestured to Cy: one slightly rattling TV star duly delivered.
Guy dropped his bag on the grass and walked straight into the waiting arms of the make-up artist. There was a lot of script to get through. The thunderstorm was discussed in front of the camera, as was Guy’s narrow escape from the fallen urn. Ceaselessly mentioned was the significance and importance of the site, the high prestige of what was undoubtedly a late Roman villa of astonishing proportions. Everything, I noticed, was astounding, unprecedented, previously unheard of and never before encountered. All of them were consummate actors: on screen Guy would come across sober and interested and the archaeologists delighted to have Guy around. If one of them had murderous intentions towards him, no jury would convict them on this evidence.
Throughout the afternoon the re-enactors were kept busy too. When not filming the archaeology Emms was busy re-shooting some of the fighting scenes, though she had the good sense not to let them loose on each other in large groups again. Sequences were kept short and many were in close up, involving no more than four actors at a time. She was even-handed in who won which bout, too. An equal number of Britons and Romans went down and the ham acting continued on and off for hours. The most sophisticated weapon of the Britons appeared to have been the bow. Brian the centurion was quick to point out that it had been around since the Neolithic and hence suited Morgan’s bunch of cavemen. The Romans however had weapons never before encountered on the battlefields of Britain, one of which was the ballista. And Cohort Italica had brought their own working reconstruction of it. It was five foot high and looked a bit like a giant crossbow on a stand. It was made from wood, in places braced with metal plates, and used six-inch metal darts with wooden flights. Morgan the Briton had taunted Brian about it all day with announcements like: ‘Gluteus Maximus and Caius Fatuous will now display their awesome weapon, made from two short planks and rubber bands from Brian’s own extensive collection.’
The skies had cleared. Emms waited until the golden evening light to film the demonstration of the Roman artillery piece. It was carried to the edge of the lake by four legionnaires. With the help of the rowing boat a four-foot straw target was ferried across and set up on the shore of the tiny island. This had been Emms’ idea, since it would look a lot more interesting than siting the demonstration in a field. Brian the centurion, standing by his pièce-de-resistance weapon by the lake, was not happy about it. ‘Any darts that go off the mark or fall short will end up in the lake. We’ll never find them again. You can’t just buy these in a shop, you know, they’re specially made for us by a blacksmith.’
Guy, who was standing by to introduce the ballista to the viewers, looked at the weapon with contempt. His mood had not improved all day. ‘You said the thing was “deadly accurate” if I remember rightly. Says in my script: “It was capable of picking off individual soldiers up to a distance of three hundred yards.”’
Brian squirmed a little. ‘It all depends on the conditions and, of course, the operator . . .’
Guy licked his finger and held it up to gauge the wind. It had died down during the afternoon and right now it was perfectly still. ‘Conditions appear to be ideal. What you’re saying is that in fact you’re no good with the damn thing.’
‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we, while we have the light?’ Cy said. ‘It’s not even a hundred yards to the island, Brian, and the target is enormous, so I don’t see how you can miss the damn thing.’ Paul’s camera was focussed on the ballista. Cy himself operated a second camera trained on the target.
‘Do it in your own time, Brian,’ Emms said. ‘No need to fumble; take as long as you like, we’ll cut it afterwards. And . . . action!’
Brian, with the aid of another soldier, lined up the ballista. There was much squinting along the top and tapping the side of the weapon. The vicious dart was slid into place. The torsion was racked up, then it was Brian at the trigger. He released the catch and with a violent snap the machine hurled the dart into the lake, just short of the island. Disappointed groans all around. Applause from the watching Britons. ‘That was an expensive splash,’ Brian’s helper complained.
‘Shut up or I’ll send you diving for it,’ Brian hissed.
Adjustments were being made, followed by more squinting. Another dart taken reverentially from the box and fitted. The arms of the bow cranked back, the whole contraption creaking under the tension. Brian was sweating under his helmet. He squinted. He squinted some more. He took a deep breath, pulled the release and the dart flashed the hundred yards across the glittering water and thudded into the target, a hand’s breadth away from the bull’s eye. Jubilation and whistles. Brian was visibly relieved. ‘I think that’s as close as we’ll get it,’ he said, puffing out his cheeks.
‘A hugely impressive demonstration,’ Guy said to camera, ‘of the superior firepower of the Roman army at the time of the invasion of our islands. The ability of the ballista to pick off individual commanders from this kind of distance greatly unnerved the opposition . . .’
‘Better than chucking stone urns any time,’ Brian muttered under his breath as he closed the lid on his box of precious bronze darts.
The footage of the two shots was checked and declared fit for consumption and the next hour was spent taking close-ups of the ballista workings from several angles, tensioning, loading and firing without actually shooting off another dart. Stoneking and I watched it all while sitting under a large fig tree and by the end of filming we felt we were both experts. The sun was low in the sky and glittered golden on the water. I had to squint against the light before I could make out the solitary figure standing on the right-hand shore beyond the reeds. ‘Mrs Cunningham is watching,’ I told Stoneking.
He shaded his eyes. ‘So she is.’
‘She always seems to be staring at me,’ I complained.
He got to his feet and brushed at the back of his jeans. ‘Well, yes, we’re actually sitting on her grandmother . . .’
‘Are we?’ I quickly got to my feet.
‘Another madwoman. Yes, she lost her cherry in this spot or something, so she had herself buried here. In her nightdress and holding a fig in her hand. She said if there was life after death a fig tree would grow out of her grave.’
‘And so it did. How very reassuring.’
‘Maybe it did. Or maybe someone planted one on top of her. Either way i
t doesn’t prove a thing except that she was as daft as the rest of the family.’
I looked across the lake but the old woman had disappeared again. Naturally. ‘Do you believe in life after death?’
‘No. I believe in life before death like a sensible person. Come on, let’s grab some TV catering, I’m starving.’
Tonight was barbecue night and there was no first- and second-class dining arrangement. Even the re-enactors, who normally cooked their own food at their campfires, were invited as long as they left their weapons at home. A large barbecue was set up next to the catering van and worked by the spotty youth under Delia’s watchful eye. Apart from the predictable barbecue fare there were also grilled sardines to be had and even the vegetarians were well catered for. The smells of garlic, lemon and oregano mingled with the charcoal smoke. Wine and beer made an appearance and soon it turned into a party. Carla attended, in jeans and tee-shirt, looking less like a housekeeper than ever, and everyone apart from the old lady appeared to be there, eating and drinking in the warm evening air. After sunset Stoneking brought out a tray full of candles and lanterns that were soon dotted around the scene. As I stood at the edge of things, breathing in the summer fragrance, drinking some more of Stoneking’s wine, I thought I was witnessing one of those English summer evenings that stay on in the memory as a touchstone for all those that follow. I had no idea just how memorable it would soon become.
A bonfire was kindled at the edge of the British territory and wax flares marked the Roman camp further down the lawns. Only one solitary light was showing in the house, behind the drawing-room window, which meant that beyond the pools of flare and firelight the darkness became inky. Here and there the glow of cigarettes or the dance of flashlights gave away the position of those beyond the edge of light. Inevitably someone with a guitar and a repertoire of folksy tunes turned up by the camp fire. I replenished my glass and made the rounds, vaguely looking for Guy but stopping to chat here and there and always keeping an eye on the barbecue. People were wandering about, sitting on the slightly damp grass or standing in small groups. Emms and Paul were strolling in my direction, talking shop. I could see smiles so briefly said hello.
‘Not a bad day,’ Emms said. Paul nodded his agreement. ‘Tomorrow should be good too; we’re getting the helicopter for a day and at some stage there’ll be the Roman feast.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said. ‘Never been on a helicopter, never had a Roman feast.’
‘You can come up in the chopper with me,’ Paul offered. ‘We’ll make lots of flyovers.’
‘And you’ll get a little taste of Roman food, too,’ Emms promised.
‘Excellent. Hang on, though. Who’s cooking this Roman feast? It’s not Brian, is it?’
Emms nearly choked on her wine. ‘Ha, no!’ she spluttered. ‘We have Hilda Carson coming; she’s a food historian from Bristol Uni. She’s good, we’ve used her before.’
‘Yes,’ said Paul. ‘She made us some Stone Age food, horribly authentic. I went right off the Neolithic after that gruel . . .’
I spotted Guy at last, sitting on a log under one of the gnarled chestnut trees, right at the edge of the light from the Britons’ bonfire. He had a glass in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. I was glad it wasn’t a whisky bottle. Morgan was sitting on the grass next to him, cradling a plastic flagon of cider between his legs. Guy was sipping the wine tonight rather than trying to drown himself in the stuff and that was probably as much as I could hope for. Morgan too seemed a little more mellow today. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of the evening. Out of politeness I squatted down by the tree next to Guy.
‘Midsummer Night’s dream,’ Guy said vaguely.
‘Appropriate,’ I said. ‘These are the Midsomer valleys.’
‘Really?’ said Morgan. ‘I thought they only existed on telly. You know, Midsomer Murders.’
‘Nope, they’re right here. You walked into a dark legend.’
‘Yeah? Maybe, but I sat in a damp patch, I reckon,’ he said and got to his feet with a groan.
I felt it stir the air as it flew past my head and slammed into Morgan with a blood-wet thump. The giant metal dart knocked Morgan to the ground. He lifted himself up again to stare unbelieving down at his mangled thigh. The dart had ripped right through it, sticking out at either end. Then he started to scream. Blood was spurting in arcs from his trouser leg which was already soaked with it.
‘Am-bu-lance!’ I shouted towards the party crowd who had not yet grasped that Morgan’s screams were no histrionics. ‘Someone call an ambulance. Now!’
‘Oh God. Oh my God.’ Guy had sprung to his feet and kept repeating the incantation over and over, mesmerized by the blood. I undid Guy’s belt and slipped it from his waist, then pounced on the fainting Morgan. By the time I had fashioned a tourniquet with the help of the belt and Morgan’s packet of cigarettes he had passed out. People crowded around now with candles and lanterns, looking shocked and dismayed.
‘Who called an ambulance?’ I demanded, making sure they hadn’t all left it to someone else. No less than three people had, on their mobiles.
‘So did I,’ said Stoneking, pushing through the ring of people. ‘I gave them instructions and opened the gate for them. What happened?’
‘It’s the ballista. Someone shot Morgan with the ballista,’ I said.
‘Brian! Where’s Brian?’ several people shouted.
‘Then I expect we’ll need the police as well,’ Stoneking said.
Emms was crouched by Morgan’s head, looking worried. ‘The thing couldn’t have gone off by accident, I suppose?’
‘No it couldn’t!’ said Brian, pushing to the front. ‘Someone took one of the darts from the box in my tent, aimed the ballista and fired it. And before you ask, it wasn’t me.’
The ambulance seemed to be an age in arriving. ‘Do you want me to take over?’ Stoneking offered. I gladly accepted. I have never been keen on gore and I’d been staring at it for the last twenty minutes. I was liberally covered in Morgan’s blood. ‘Do we have to release the tourniquet from time to time?’ Stoneking asked.
‘I have no idea. I’d rather we didn’t. He’s lost so much blood already.’ I could hear the two-tone ambulance siren now. Thanks to Mark’s instructions they drove around the house and straight on to the lawn with their lights on full beam. I was on my way back to the house and they stopped next to me. ‘Not me, not my blood,’ I explained. ‘He’s down there.’
They gave another squawk on their siren and drove on towards the huddle around the stricken Morgan. I was still crossing the lawn when an armed response unit flashed past the house and stopped their vehicle at the top. They got out of the car and came across to cut me off, dazzling me with their torches. ‘Are you hurt, sir? We had reports someone had been shot.’
‘Someone was. With an ancient weapon; follow the ambulance. I helped the victim, hence the blood.’
‘Is this a party Mr Stoneking is giving?’
‘Sort of. You’d better ask him, he’s down there.’
‘Right, where are you going now?’
‘To have a shower.’
They were still blocking my way. ‘Do you live here? And can we have your name, please?’
‘I’m staying here, as a guest, and the name is Honeysett.’
‘Did you witness the shooting?’
‘I did.’
‘Please don’t leave the property; we will need to take a statement in a minute.’
‘Later. After I’ve had a very large drink,’ I promised.
‘I wouldn’t advise that, sir.’
‘Yes, thanks, I always call armed response when I want nutritional advice.’ Their torch beam followed me for a few more paces before they turned to other matters but before I had even reached the verandah more of Avon & Somerset’s finest arrived and poured round the corner. Behind them, at a more sedate pace, owing to his generous shape, followed the very last person you’d want to meet if you’re covered head-to-toe in someone else
’s blood: Superintendent Michael Needham. He pointed a fleshy digit in my direction. ‘Hold it right there, Honeysett.’
TEN
‘It’s not what it looks like, Mike.’
‘You’ve no idea what it looks like,’ said Needham. ‘I won’t shake hands, under the circumstances.’
‘You’ve no idea of the circumstances yet.’
‘Touché. Go get yourself cleaned up.’
‘If you really think I should.’
‘Come and find me when you’re presentable again. And don’t be too long about it.’
Tarmford Hall seemed eerily quiet; everyone was on the lawn and subdued and not a sound could be heard from inside the building.
First things first: a drink. I walked through the drawing room. There was a tall Chinese medicine chest that served as a drinks cabinet but I wasn’t going to leave bloody paw prints all over the inlay work. I walked past it, down the central gallery and turned left towards the kitchen. I know my place. The door at the end of the corridor was wide open.
I now realized that the kitchen was inside the rectangular tower at the north corner and through the window above the Belfast sink I could see past the catering van and glimpse the lights of the ambulance. I switched on the ceiling light and went to the sink where I washed my hands. Then I started opening cupboards. I knew it had to be here somewhere. I opened a small door that I thought might lead into the pantry but it opened on to a narrow staircase. Worn stone steps led up as well as downward in a dizzyingly tight spiral without a handrail. Mm, maybe later. I closed it and opened another narrow door. The pantry. I pulled the string on the ceiling light and found it: Carla’s cooking brandy. There was wine, calvados and sherry too but it was the brandy I glugged into a water glass now. I took a sip, then checked the label. Blimey, if this was what they cooked with, how expensive was the stuff they were drinking? I replenished the glass and returned the bottle.
