Bryant & May_Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘I’ll remember. If we do have a fifth columnist in our midst I need all the help you can give me.’

  ‘Well, it’s not Harry Banks-Marion,’ said Gladys. ‘He’s the real thing. In fact, they all are as far as I can tell. There’s nothing hidden up anyone’s sleeves. Harry’s father was Edward, Lord Banks-Marion; the mother is—’

  ‘I’ve met her. Beatrice. She must have been quite a society beauty in her day. Rather severe and tragic now.’

  ‘She had her portrait painted by John Singer Sargent. It’s in the National Portrait Gallery now. Harry’s technically the sole heir to Tavistock Hall. Just before his son went off to India the father planned to change his will and leave the house to the nation, until he found out that it wouldn’t exempt the family from taxation. What’s that awful noise?’

  May placed a finger in his ear and squinted out through the glass. ‘There’s a tractor in the field behind that appears to be spraying mud in every direction. Does Harry have any enemies?’

  ‘I’ve only turned up one: Major Julius Tilden, an old friend of his father’s. He lives in Crowshott’s only other grand house and tried to block the sale. He’s one of the fellows involved in the army game that’s keeping you at the house this weekend.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck calling them off?’

  ‘I’ve not been able to reach anyone. They’re all on field phones. I tried getting someone from the village to go over there, but they’re not about to run across a field full of troops carrying live ammunition. Even the Canterbury constabulary told me to keep everyone away.’

  ‘Fair enough. What else have you got?’

  ‘The vicar, Trevor Patethric. He’s not without his secrets. Great things had been expected of him at Balliol but he was sent down. You’d probably like to know why and I’d love to help you, but it’s Saturday and no one is answering their telephones. Whatever he did was enough to have him packed off to a small Kentish parish instead of taking up a position high in the Church. Slade Wilson redecorated Chatsworth, or possibly Chequers, depending on whom I spoke to. His designs didn’t go down well – too modern, apparently – but he’s at the top of everyone’s commissioning list. Famous for creating parties at country houses, everyone got up as characters from Tales of Hoffman with the local villagers dressed as sheep and goats, that sort of thing. Born to Jamaican diplomats and a confirmed bachelor, with all that that implies. Got himself into a bit of a situation with an earl’s son some years ago and it ruined his social standing. Ever since then he’s been trying to climb back up the ladder.’

  ‘I guess he sees Tavistock Hall as his key to success,’ said May. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ He heard boots clomp off and return. ‘I knew you’d want to know about Donald Burke so I went to the newspaper files on Newman Street first thing and pulled everything they had on him. He’s a self-made man, born early in the century – I don’t have an exact date – and raised in Chicago by an English mother and an American father. He made some wise investments in art, real estate and inventions – he patented those soap-dispenser things they have in public bathrooms – and he never seems to put a foot wrong. Very well liked and highly thought of. He used to be a keen sailor. I found some photographs of him and his wife in the files. Rather handsome, taken on board his yacht somewhere on the south coast.’

  ‘So, no hint of any scandal or misdeed?’

  ‘I’ve only been looking for a short while but so far there’s nothing. I mean, nothing. He’s square-jawed and true blue, but he does have a couple of weaknesses. He works alone and keeps his cards close to his chest. I’m told he keeps an inner “trust circle”, and only those who have proven they can be relied upon are admitted. Everyone else is kept at a distance. I spoke to a former employee who says that since his breakdown he’s become more suspicious of everyone and harder to work with, although his instinct for good investments is as sound as ever.’

  ‘That fits with what I’ve been told.’ Something hit the window of the telephone box. He peered out at the tractor, which seemed to be deliberately hurling earth at him.

  ‘He gives his employees explicit instructions not to speak unless they’re spoken to first,’ Gladys continued. ‘He refuses to attend shareholder meetings and won’t have his picture taken, although I found a few pictures in the files snapped covertly by newspaper photographers.’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘Nothing much. She’s supportive but stays away from his business affairs. She’s on record as being anti women’s lib, believes a wife should be a good cook and keep a nice house and that’s about it. She’s a grocer’s daughter from Nottingham. I can’t find out anything about how they met. That part doesn’t ring true.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The wife of a high-flyer like Burke? There should be something more, shouldn’t there?’

  ‘Perhaps her background was less than wholesome, so he scrubbed her past from the papers.’

  ‘Which brings me to Vanessa Harrow,’ said Gladys, checking her notes. ‘A bit fast by all accounts. The gossip columnists love her and she clearly plays up to them, the archetypal dumb blonde.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m getting from her at all,’ said May.

  ‘Then it’s a ruse to keep men where she wants them,’ said Forthright.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We’ve all done it, John. You probably want to know if she’s sleeping with Donald Burke.’

  ‘She says she’s never been out with him.’

  ‘I could run a check on her account when the banks open and find out if she deposits money from him.’

  ‘Forget it, we don’t have that long.’

  ‘She’s been photographed leaving his Mayfair flat, but I’m still waiting for several journalists to call me back with more details.’

  ‘Keep at it, Gladys. If anything important comes up, leave a message with Fruity Metcalf. He has a telephone in his cottage.’

  ‘I’ve got the number.’

  ‘Anything else on the novelist?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to check yet, although I do have one of her murder mysteries. It wasn’t very good. I guessed who did it.’

  ‘That just leaves Monty himself. I don’t suppose you thought of—’

  ‘I did, as it happens. You say he and Sir Charles Chamberlain were great friends?’

  ‘So he tells me.’

  ‘It might have been the case once, but they had a falling out. You remember Jimmy the Weasel?’

  ‘From the Bethnal Green mob?’

  ‘The very same. He’s got a mate in Barings Bank who reckons Chamberlain and Hatton-Jones fought over a woman, a certain blonde nightclub singer.’

  ‘You don’t mean—’

  ‘The very same. It seems that while they were arguing about her, Burke stole her away.’

  ‘So now Monty’s down here in the embarrassing position of trying to strike a deal with Burke in front of his former mistress. It makes me wonder what else I’m missing.’

  ‘One other thing. Monty’s company isn’t doing well. He has a lot of angry creditors chasing him.’

  ‘That’s very helpful, Gladys. Keep on the case, would you?’

  ‘If you speak to Roger, don’t tell him I’m helping you. He gave me specific instructions not to aid you in any way. And be careful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Burke has friends in the military. Maybe he knew the army would be conducting manoeuvres this weekend. He could have brought everyone together for a purpose. He could even be the one who wants to prevent Hatton-Jones from testifying.’

  ‘Gladys, I assure you this is all about keeping Monty safe. Maybe I should have insisted on him staying in London after all. I’d better be off before they miss me back at the house.’

  ‘One last thing, John,’ said Gladys. ‘Keep an eye on Mr Bryant for me? You know how he tends to hurl himself into situations.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he d
oesn’t come to harm. Do me a favour, will you? I don’t know when I’ll be able to get through to you again. Check around and see if we have anyone else in the area. If Arthur’s intuition proves right, we may need some extra help here.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, but it’s Saturday morning. You know how hard it is to get hold of anyone.’

  Gladys rang off and May headed back into the hedgerows, keeping an eye out for rifle fire. As he turned back into the lane he disturbed a huddle of rooks, busy pecking the eyes out of a rabbit.

  20

  * * *

  PURPLE HAZE

  The clouds had blackened and were dipping down, blossoming like ink being released into water.

  The girl was wearing a string of plastic orchids, purple silk harem pants, body paint and a beatific smile, even though it was starting to rain. She swayed to the sound of the sitar, her eyes closed, wrists raised in what she imagined was a nautch pose, but her braided blond hair presented her as anything but Indian. Her finger-bells chimed in time to the music.

  Harry might have called it an ashram, but this collection of half-collapsed tents and packing crates, piled on to the churned-up lawn of the walled garden, was as far from the idea of a spiritual hermitage as one could imagine. A dozen hippies, mostly young girls, sat and slept among emptied shopping bags and backpacks. A naked three-year-old squatted on a plastic potty crying while her mother remained cross-legged, sketching a tree and smoking from a bong. Another girl was arguing with a young man in a fringed suede jacket and a huge Afro. Next to them a boy with long lank hair was standing on one leg with his eyes closed, humming, his half-naked painted body motionless in the marijuana haze.

  The garden faced a nearby barn, past which Fruity Metcalf was dragging a sack of hedge trimmings. The air around the encampment was heady with incense, but it could not mask the stench of unemptied toilet buckets. In the distance a volley of shots was fired, releasing a cloud of blackbirds.

  As well as being a policeman, Arthur Bryant considered himself a social scientist. Part of him was fascinated by the re-emergence of tribal patterns in the new world order, and part was merely suspicious of a bunch of layabouts sitting in their own ordure talking rubbish. He wondered if they followed their leader, or if he was led by them.

  ‘Welcome, Mr Askey!’ cried Lord Banks-Marion, capering before him, followed by the necklace-adorned piglet Malacrida, who was fastidiously picking her way through the litter. ‘You’re the only one of Mr Burke’s esteemed guests to come and visit our peace camp.’

  ‘Mr Burke’s guests?’ Bryant repeated. ‘I thought they were yours.’

  ‘No, no! I am no longer the lord of the manor. In a few hours’ time Tavistock Hall will belong to him, every woodworm-riddled, dry-rotted, deathwatch-beetle-filled plank of it. He sees a part of historic old England; I see an albatross around my neck.’

  ‘That isn’t how your father saw it.’

  ‘Daddy was forever harping on about our duty to the tenants and complaining that we couldn’t afford to heat the library.’ He brushed a lock of blond hair from his purple-tinted granny glasses. ‘We have a nonsensical addiction to bricks and mortar. We should be looking inwards to the improvement of the spirit, not outwards to the laying of damp courses and the cleaning of gutters. The temple of peace is in the mind.’

  Harry stopped dancing about and bent over in a coughing fit. He spat, waited, coughed again, then stood up. For a moment he seemed to forget where he was, suddenly less like a spiritual being than a middle-aged man in a state of confusion.

  ‘So you’re going to stay on here?’ asked Bryant. ‘What will you do when Mr Burke’s business institute moves in? Won’t they want you off the land?’

  ‘We’re going to convert them with the power of love,’ said Harry, seemingly in all seriousness.

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘Do you though.’ He looked up at the lowering sky and felt the rain on his hand. He dug into his kaftan, found a roach, inserted it into a clip and lit it, coughing again. ‘I say let the businessmen come and take over. This is the last weekend party that Tavistock Hall will ever see. The lights are going out in the country houses, and we shall not see them lit again. The hall deserves to go to Mr Burke. This millstone around our necks is an opportunity for him.’

  Bryant stared at his host with new understanding. Lord Banks-Marion may have been befuddled by dope but his thinking made a certain nihilistic sense. It seemed that nobody was quite who he expected them to be.

  The rain was falling hard as May arrived back at Tavistock Hall.

  He re-entered the vestibule and left his borrowed gumboots in the rack, then took a stroll through the silent house. In one of the drawing rooms Pamela Claxon and Vanessa Harrow were playing cards. The Reverend and Lady Banks-Marion were taking coffee, and Slade Wilson was reading a magazine. The guests sat like becalmed passengers on an ocean liner, vaguely waiting to dock in a distant port but unable to do anything for themselves.

  Bryant and Hatton-Jones were coming down the main staircase. ‘He’s like the Scarlet bloody Pimpernel,’ fumed Monty. ‘Have you seen Donald go by here?’

  ‘No,’ May replied. ‘I followed him to the village but lost him. He was supposed to be meeting his lawyer. I presume they’re going over the papers before bringing them here to be signed.’

  ‘Well, did you speak to Stafford?’

  ‘He was out. I left a message. I assume you want to pitch your business proposition to Burke? Why not wait until he’s got the business of the day over and done with?’

  ‘Because it’ll be too bloody late then,’ said Hatton-Jones. ‘He’ll be off like a shot. He’s avoiding us all. If he didn’t want to talk to anyone why didn’t he just arrange to see his lawyer somewhere else?’

  Norma overheard them and came out into the hall. ‘If you’re looking for my husband, he’s back. I saw him a minute ago. He told me he was going to look for something in Lupin – I think that’s the library. He was after a book, one of Pamela’s, something about vanishing coffins.’

  ‘Finally,’ said Monty rudely, pushing free of the detectives. Bryant looked along the corridor and saw someone retreating around a corner. He set off to follow closely behind Monty.

  May stayed behind with Norma Burke. ‘That man doesn’t give up easily, does he?’ she said, watching Monty race off. ‘I don’t think he’ll have much luck. My husband is very good at avoiding people he doesn’t want to see, especially ones as desperate as that poor fellow.’

  ‘You can’t come with me,’ Hatton-Jones hissed. ‘This is private business!’

  ‘And you’re our witness,’ Bryant reminded him, catching up.

  ‘Mr Burke,’ called Monty. The millionaire stood with his back to them in the doorway of the library, backlit by the French windows, one white-gloved hand resting on the lintel.

  ‘Mr Burke, I wonder if I could have five minutes with you—’

  But Burke stepped inside the room and shut the door in his face.

  ‘He probably didn’t hear,’ said Bryant encouragingly. He arrived before the closed door and pushed down the handle. The door swung wide.

  The room was empty. There was no sound in the library except for the faint tinkling of the chandelier, which was swinging slightly in its ceiling rose.

  ‘What the hell—?’ Monty turned on his heel, looking about the shelf-lined room. ‘Where did he go?’

  Bryant crossed to the French windows and pushed open one side. Metcalf was still on the lawn, awkwardly filling a burlap sack with hedge trimmings, oblivious to the sifting rain. ‘Fruity,’ he called, ‘where did Mr Burke go?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him,’ said Metcalf. ‘He didn’t come past me.’

  ‘He must have stepped out of these windows a moment ago,’ replied Bryant. ‘Are you sure?’ But Metcalf had already turned away and was limping off to empty his sack.

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t see anyone come out either,’ said Pamela Claxon, heading across the dry part of the patio with her ci
garette holder high in one hand. ‘Who are you looking for?’

  ‘Mr Burke,’ said Bryant distractedly. ‘He was in here a moment ago. He couldn’t have just disappeared.’

  Inside the library, Monty was frenziedly searching the wall sections and bookcases. ‘Perhaps there’s a secret passage or something. Don’t these old houses have them?’

  ‘In films, yes.’ Bryant pulled out several books and found that among the volumes on animal husbandry there were a number of rare crime novels. He tried to stop his concentration from being diverted. ‘It has to be a trick of some kind.’

  ‘There must be something, a lever or button. Maybe there’s a door hidden behind one of these panels.’ Monty dropped to his knees and tried pulling loose part of the skirting board.

  They spent the next fifteen minutes testing the walls, but the room was lined with solid brick all the way around.

  Bryant stared up at the chandelier and frowned. ‘We both saw him come in, didn’t we? That thing moved slightly.’

  What bothered him more than the disappearance itself was the reason behind it. Why would anyone feel the need to stage such a ridiculous hoax?

  On the floor lay a luridly coloured paperback. Bryant picked it up. The Three Coffins by Pamela Claxon.

  ‘Isn’t this the one he came to get?’ he asked. He turned the volume over and read the jacket copy: ‘“The weekend guests at a country house find themselves witnesses to murder …”’

  21

  * * *

  POINT OF NO RETURN

  The fine weather was now just a memory. The countryside had lost its colours, gone into mourning for the end of summer. The bruised clouds blurred the tips of the trees as they grew heavy and dropped. The air became fresher and colder as it filled with the sound of pattering rain. A crow flew high, its wings rising and falling, but it got nowhere.

  The gardener shifted himself to find some cover and the ashram’s inhabitants, wrapped in plastic sheets, climbed inside their tents. Someone forgot the baby, and only brought it in when it began to scream.