Bryant & May_Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  The gong was a call for aperitifs in Iris, an immense blue-painted reception room with white wainscoting, Indian carpets, Chinese lacquered cupboards and a blue marble fireplace upon which stood an ormolu clock, ticking between caryatids and bulbous aquamarine vases. Overhead a Waterford glass chandelier gleamed dully. The air smelled of damp and disuse, like a room in the back of a museum where uninteresting pots were kept.

  May entered the room and quickly headed towards a maid in a white apron and black miniskirt. As she handed out Martinis, Bryant realized that they were the last to arrive. A group of guests lurked near the drinks table as if protecting themselves from predators. The men were mostly in black, the women in pastel gowns, and yet it wasn’t like any house party that featured in Bryant’s booklet. There was an uneasy artificiality about the gathering, as if a group of strangers had been forced into slightly too modern versions of traditional country weekend attire.

  Monty came storming over. ‘Where have you two been?’ he hissed. ‘You’d better stay close so I can keep an eye on you.’

  He’s got that the wrong way around, May thought, already growing ill-humoured. He looked over at his partner, whose discomfort was manifesting itself in a trickle of sweat descending from his brow. Bryant tried to pull a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, but it was attached to a string of world flags.

  ‘And who’s he come as?’ Monty asked, pointing at Bryant. ‘Toad of Toad Hall?’

  Bryant stuffed the flags away. ‘The coat belongs to the Great Flambini.’

  ‘Why are you wearing argyle socks?’

  ‘I thought they were the right thing.’

  ‘On a golf course, you imbecile, but not here, and not with your trousers halfway up your shins.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ said Bryant. ‘The chap playing Charles Condomine was shorter than me.’

  ‘Who the hell is Charles Condomine?’

  ‘He’s in Blithe Spirit. These are his strides.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what he’s blathering on about?’ Monty asked May.

  ‘My colleague borrowed some theatrical clothing for the weekend,’ May explained.

  Monty aimed a sigh at the ceiling. ‘If you embarrass me any further, I’ll have you put back on the beat.’

  ‘We’re already going to be back on the beat after this,’ muttered Bryant.

  ‘Just make the introductions and we’ll take care of the rest,’ May assured him.

  ‘All right, but if you do have to speak try not to have opinions. I don’t want either of you noticed.’

  Monty walked away, abandoning them. The detectives stood some distance off from the other guests. An Afro-haired West Indian man stopped to appraise them. He wore a purple dinner jacket and a canary-yellow satin shirt, a case of one outsider attracted to others in a similar position. ‘I don’t know you,’ he said, pointing between them. ‘You must be new recruits. I’m Slade Wilson.’

  May reached forward and gripped Wilson’s hand in a firm, strong shake. ‘Jack March,’ he said smoothly, turning to his partner. ‘And this is—’

  Bryant had forgotten who he was supposed to be. Caught unprepared, he looked as though his eyes were about to pop out. ‘Arthur,’ he said in a small, strangled voice.

  Wilson nodded encouragement. ‘Arthur …?’

  ‘Arthur – Askey.’

  ‘Oh.’ Wilson looked puzzled. ‘You mean like the comedian.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bryant managed. ‘We’re not related. I’m a cousin.’

  Wilson glossed over the potentially awkward moment with the ease of a man who knew that the art of cocktails was the etiquette of whoring. ‘I’m Mr Burke’s interior conceptualist,’ he explained, pointing a finger around the room. ‘His artistic designer. He’s hired me to get rid of all this hideous dreariness.’ He got blank looks. ‘Donald Burke? He’s about to become the new owner of Tavistock Hall.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was being sold,’ said May.

  ‘Oh, they’ve been planning it for months. The old lady and her son are still here, of course. They’ve nowhere else to go,’ he whispered. ‘I can’t wait to get my hands on these rooms. Who owns a library any more? The coming colours for the seventies are prune, sage, sepia and bois de rose.’

  ‘So you’re a decorator,’ said Bryant.

  ‘At the prices I charge, I’m a conceptualist,’ Wilson replied. He was about to be flippant again but something in Bryant’s eyes drew out an honest response. ‘Look, I admire the old elegance, but it’s simply too expensive to restore. It would cost a fortune to recreate the original mouldings and finishes, so I’ll cover them in veneers and give Mr Burke what he wants.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  Something about Bryant’s earnestness made Wilson drop his camp pose and answer honestly. ‘Something soulless and fashionable, I imagine. Perhaps one day in the future another owner will take down the coverings and restore everything that’s been left underneath.’ His gaze flicked around the room. ‘At least I won’t have been responsible for destroying what was here. Why are you here?’

  ‘We’re businessmen,’ said Bryant. ‘We’re on business.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Nothing special, just … business. Businessy things.’

  Hatton-Jones appeared beside them with a bottle of champagne. ‘I had to go to the kitchen to find this,’ he said, hastily cutting across the conversation. He regarded Wilson with suspicion. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘I was explaining how I’m going to remodel this draughty old mausoleum.’

  ‘Donald is opening a business institute, not a nightclub for poofs,’ said Monty. ‘If you’re hoping to get money out of Burke, I suggest you go with classical simplicity, so none of your nig-nog colours. It’s all right, he knows I’m joking, don’t you, Slade?’

  Bryant was about to protest at Hatton-Jones’s language when May stood on his toe as a warning.

  Wilson leaned towards Bryant in confidence. ‘Apparently Mr Burke won’t be dining with us. Strangers make him uncomfortable. Can you imagine? The thing is, Mr Askey – may I call you Arthur? We are going to be spending the weekend in close proximity, after all – he trusts nobody. I suppose he’s so rich, he assumes everyone’s after something. But then of course everyone here is after something. They’re all waiting for him to put in an appearance. I’ve been watching their greedy little eyes search the room as if they’re expecting a papal audience.’

  Hatton-Jones wandered off with his bottle, and their corner of the library fell awkwardly silent. Wilson turned around and found an unsmiling steel-haired woman standing behind him with her bone-white hands clasped together before her. She wore a high-necked grey woollen dress with a cameo on a chain that added an extra touch of Victoriana, as if she was awaiting discovery in some ancient album of family photographs. An air of disappointment hung over her like a funeral veil.

  ‘Lady Banks-Marion,’ said Wilson, clearly unnerved. ‘How lovely to—’

  ‘I am looking for my son,’ she said in a hard clear voice that was used to giving instructions.

  ‘I haven’t seen him yet,’ said Wilson. ‘Perhaps I could—’

  ‘When you do, kindly tell him to come and find me.’ She gave Bryant and May a brief chilly evaluation and moved swiftly away.

  ‘Beatrice, the lady of the house,’ Wilson explained. ‘Not one for small talk. Best to keep out of her way. She can turn you to stone with that stare.’

  Bryant watched her cut through the gathering like a tall-masted ship avoiding pack ice.

  ‘If the house is being sold why is she still here?’ asked May. ‘Doesn’t she find it upsetting?’

  ‘That’s the point,’ Wilson confided. ‘She can’t do anything or go anywhere until the cash is in the bank. None of us can.’

  ‘Slade, we have new faces, how lovely.’ A short, full-figured woman joined them and outstretched her hand. She had bobbed auburn hair and a perfectly round face, scrubbed of make-up and as healthily complected
as the milkmaid in Vermeer’s painting. There are artfully shapeless dresses, but hers was of navy-blue wool and not one of them. ‘I’m Donald’s wife, Norma. Have you been filling the heads of these nice young men with stories about my husband?’

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting Mr Burke,’ said May. ‘He sounds like he has grand plans for the house.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say so, Mr—’

  ‘March. Jack March, and this is’ – he glared at Bryant – ‘Arthur Askey.’

  She inclined her head gracefully towards Bryant, making him fall a little in love. Her eyes were small, bright and kindly. ‘We really shouldn’t make excuses for Donald. He’s being the most frightful bore about this weekend. He says he didn’t know so many others were invited, and he hates meeting new people. Slade and I persuaded him to come down to Kent and sign the papers.’

  ‘Donald hasn’t even seen the property he’s buying, except in photographs,’ Wilson explained.

  ‘And now he says he won’t come and mingle until he’s sorted out some kind of legal matter. He’s probably buying another company; he usually is.’ She gave a merry little laugh. ‘All I see are great stacks of paperwork piling up everywhere, making my countertops untidy. It’s all gobbledygook to me. I tell him, go and be a captain of industry if you must, just leave me in the kitchen, that’s my territory. A wife’s place and all that. I’m not much of a women’s libber.’ Her gaiety faded. ‘He works terribly hard. I think stress needs to find a way out, don’t you? He’s not himself these days. Perhaps the new project will help us both. I still can’t believe that this wonderful old house is going to be ours after the weekend.’

  ‘When do you think Toby will finalize the sale?’ Wilson asked her.

  ‘Toby Stafford is Donald’s lawyer,’ Norma explained politely. ‘You’ll have to ask him about that, I’m afraid. I think there’s a plan afoot to get everything signed by tomorrow. Toby’s down here with us, but he doesn’t tell me anything. They think I won’t understand. I just thank the stars I found Slade.’ She patted the designer’s arm. ‘I wouldn’t be able to cope with choosing all the furnishings alone. Everyone told me, if you want something covered up and prettified it has to be Slade Wilson. Now, let’s see, who else haven’t you met?’ She scanned the chattering group. ‘Ah, you really must be introduced to the lord of the manor. Harry – please do come and say hello.’

  A paunchy, balding middle-aged man sporting shoulder-length blond hair tied back with a leather braid came loping over. He raised a hand in greeting. ‘Welcome to Tavistock Hall, peace to you both. Jack and Arthur, yes? Monty tells me you’re working for him. Harry Banks-Marion.’

  He was the only member of the gathering not in some form of dinner dress. Instead he had chosen a blue Nehru jacket draped in large wooden beads, with a polo-neck kaftan of pale orange lace, a silver Indian necklace, bracelets, green flared trousers and moccasins. He had a tattoo of Jimi Hendrix on the back of his right hand, and was followed by a small piglet. The dainty little creature was pink with reddish blotches, and wore a sparkling diamanté necklace. She had perfectly round blue button eyes, and looked up at them with her snout twitching wetly, as if waiting to be introduced.

  ‘Lord Banks-Marion,’ Wilson corrected.

  Harry looked embarrassed. ‘Well, technically yes. Harry Charleworth LeStrange Kinroth Banks-Marion, Lord Banks-Marion if you like. “Woofy” to my old schoolfriends. I do think the hereditary peerage is worth preserving. Its principle creates a sense of innate commitment to the welfare of the nation. Although I understand that the times are rather against us. And this little lady is Malacrida.’ He reached down and patted the piglet’s head. ‘Don’t worry, she’s very intelligent and house-trained.’

  ‘Your father would be turning in his grave if he knew you were selling the house,’ Norma admonished gently. ‘I think your mother is looking for you.’

  ‘She always is,’ sighed Harry, accepting a fresh glass from a waitress. ‘You of all people should be happy about the sale, Norma. Slade, you know what the overheads have done to us. Anyway, the ashram will be somewhere to come at the weekends with all your friends. You’re going to love it.’

  ‘Donald is going to transform Tavistock Hall,’ Norma explained. ‘We’ll live here, but he’s going to turn half of it into a business training institute.’

  ‘Doing what exactly?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘To be honest I have absolutely no idea. He did try to explain but I’m afraid he rather lost me. My husband is originally from Chicago and is therefore fascinated by any building more than a hundred years old.’ She laughed lightly. ‘He loves the sheer unnecessariness of it all. Did you know, there’s a lake with a Grecian folly, and an Italian maze?’

  Malacrida suddenly trotted away across the room, and Lord Banks-Marion gave a raucous shout of glee, running after her. Bryant began to suspect that he had been smoking something stronger than tobacco.

  Wilson moved gracefully on. Nobody stayed with them for more than a briefly allotted period, and the conversation remained bubble-light. Bryant wondered if this habit was also mentioned in his country guide.

  Lord Banks-Marion’s place was taken by an expensively suited, heavy-bellied man with a pocket chain looping across his waistcoat. Everything about him seemed designed to project an aura of stability and trust, but the effect was undermined by his brown wig, which was absurdly obvious, being too large, too dry and too ill matched to his greying sideburns.

  He shook hands with everyone. ‘Toby Stafford. I seem to be going around apologizing for my client.’ He jovially offered his cigarettes to the others before tapping one out for himself. ‘I told Donald that one five-minute appearance would save me an hour of explanation.’

  ‘Is there some kind of problem with Mr Burke?’ asked May.

  ‘He has been diagnosed with a – well, perhaps phobia is too strong a word. I understand he has become uncomfortable in crowds.’

  ‘We’re hardly a crowd,’ May pointed out. ‘There are only a few of us.’

  ‘But the others – outside the house,’ said Stafford mysteriously. ‘I think Norma did marvellously getting him this far. She told him it would be rude not to meet the owners of the property he’s intending to purchase.’

  ‘Has anyone seen him at all this weekend?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘I believe several of the guests have spent time with him.’ Stafford blew smoke over their heads. ‘And I imagine the reverend has already attempted to make his presence known.’ There was disapproval in his voice. ‘The rest of us will just have to wait our turn. Mr Burke is in the driving seat here, although I suppose you’ve noticed that already. We are merely poor satellites circling his very wealthy moon.’

  ‘What’s the form for the weekend?’ asked May. ‘Nobody’s told us what we’re expected to do.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there,’ said Stafford. ‘I’m staying down in the village. I prefer to keep my clients at arm’s length. I have an appointment with Donald tomorrow morning, just to go over the final paperwork, then as soon as his signature is on the deeds I’m heading back to London. And I imagine he’ll be out of here like a shot, leaving his wife and Mr Wilson to share decorating tips. It’ll be interesting to see if Vanessa Harrow leaves with him.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ May scanned the room.

  ‘Miss Harrow hasn’t turned up yet, but I understand she’s planning to attend.’ Stafford glanced back at Norma Burke to make sure she was out of earshot. ‘She’s Donald’s mistress. I think it’s extraordinarily civilized to allow her along. Or foolish.’

  ‘So Mrs Burke knows about her?’

  ‘She’d have to be very stupid not to have noticed. It’s been in all the society pages.’

  ‘But whatever happens this weekend the house will be signed over, won’t it?’

  ‘Indubitably.’ Stafford smiled as he reached over to a bronze ashtray and ground out his cigarette stub. ‘After all, it’s in the interests of everyone in this hou
se. We’re going to be one big happy family, for the weekend at least.’

  ‘Do you think we have to stay with Monty?’ May wondered after Stafford had taken his leave. ‘Couldn’t we just clear out to the nearest inn and collect him on Sunday afternoon? I can’t imagine any of this lot are going to try and nobble him. For a start, Monty seems to know them all.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what he’s worried about,’ Bryant replied, looking around. ‘That it’ll be someone he never suspected.’

  12

  * * *

  A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME

  Alberman gave another theatrical cough and announced a move to Lavender, the dining room, a vast half-panelled plasterwork hall lined with diagrammatic paintings of horses. Here, a new set of complications arose involving place settings and empty chairs. Bryant stared down at a polished chestnut dining table covered in a bewildering array of silverware.

  ‘Golly, look at this lot,’ he marvelled. ‘It’d fetch a few bob down Petticoat Lane.’

  ‘Perhaps you could think a little bigger than nicking the cutlery,’ suggested May.

  Bryant nudged him. ‘What, go for the cruet?’

  May took a deep breath and studied the guests they had yet to meet. He counted six settings on either side, but there was an unoccupied chair beside Norma Burke. The two remaining seats were next to each other; they had no place cards and had presumably been laid out for him and Bryant. Bryant lowered himself on to a chair that creaked ominously, then realized that everyone else was waiting for the ladies to be seated. He smartly rose again just as the ladies sat.

  As the conversation began in earnest he was reminded of the Veneering dinner party in Our Mutual Friend. In Dickens’s novel the guests were latently dependent on their benefactor, but in this case the benefactor had not deigned to join them. It was all very odd.

  Studying the portraits in the dining room, Bryant recognized the common features of Tavistock Hall’s Hanoverian and Victorian residents, extending up to and including Harry Banks-Marion. All had such protruding eyes, ruddy cheeks and weak chins that generations of artists had clearly reached a mutual understanding and abandoned any attempt to ameliorate the family’s hereditary appearance. Instead their patrons had been arranged in Corinthian poses, at sunset, surrounded with spaniels, hidden among baskets of flowers or inside voluminous folds of material. It might have worked if the paintings had not been placed together in a row. Organized in a timeline to the present day the descendants rapidly became caricatures, looking like increasingly distorted funhouse mirrors.