by Fiona Walker
She was determined to get out of the room the next day.
Chapter 33
No longer policed by Gopi, Legs had several hours to make good her escape the following morning while Francis was distracted in the estate office.
Her first obstacle was a lack of clothes. Her bag was still missing. She was even wearing a borrowed nightie which was far too short and heavily embroidered with Moroccan stitch-work and beads, so probably one of Poppy’s. She could find none of her own things in the room whatsoever, forcing her to raid the huge, ornate built-in wardrobes which appeared to contain nothing but ancient hunting gear and ball gowns that reeked of mothballs.
It seemed to take hours just to pull on a dress, her hands shaking with nerves and feebleness. She was mad at her body for still being so weak. Even though the sun was blazing outside, she found her teeth chattering.
Dressed in a twenties flapper frock and pink hunting coat, she stole out through the door and along the landing beneath the Glasgow School canvasses.
She had to take a breather at the top of the stairs, already lightheaded from her efforts.
She could hear voices in the hall below her; Poppy’s distinctive husky tenor and a man’s deep, angry bass, too low to be Francis. For a moment her heart lifted, wondering if it was Byrne. But then she recognised Hector’s booming tone:
‘Poppy, this is quite ridiculous. You insist I come here and then make me wait on the doorstep for an hour. How dare you change the locks. It’s my home!’
‘You should have thought of that when you walked out to shack up with that frump. I was busy getting dressed. It’s a perfectly pleasant morning to sit outside. Hector, we have a situation.’
‘A situation so serious that it takes you an hour to get ready to tell me about it?’
‘You know I can’t function properly unless I am suitably attired. I must dress to suit my mood.’
‘So do I take it the situation involves you goat herding in Kurdistan?’
‘That is very cruel, Hector. I bought this kaftan from Liberty.’
On they scrapped.
Backing away, Legs tiptoed to the opposite end of the landing and slid through the old servants’ door to the back staircase.
She had to clutch on tight to the banister rail as she descended to stop herself blacking out. Her legs felt crazily wobbly, but she plunged on, making it as far as the back lobby.
She could hear Imee moving around in the kitchen, from which the smell of cake baking was wafting enticingly.
Legs’ belly let out an eager rumble. She crept in the opposite direction, along the narrow passageway that ran past the old butler’s pantry, cellar door and storage rooms to another service door, this one leading directly into the morning room which Hector had always used as an office.
Legs knew there was a phone on there, although to her shame the only numbers she had memorised were her childhood home and her father’s shop. She relied upon her mobile to know everything these days.
But just as she started to creep through the door, she let out a shriek as a wet nose was pressed to the back of her leg.
‘Fink!’ She gasped in delight as she recognised the basset hound.
The solemn eyes looked up to her beseechingly, long tail swishing. Legs stooped to hug him. Byrne would never abandon his dog. He was still nearby, she was certain.
‘Who there?’ Imee demanded from the kitchen.
Legs slipped quickly through the morning room door, Fink at her heels.
For a man who had once made a fortune in high-tech communications, Hector was profoundly old-fashioned when it came to his work space, preferring to surround himself with the gadgetry familiar with the era when his business empire was at its height. Thus his computer was a vintage Sony that belonged in a museum, as did his printers, a scanner the size of a small sunbed and a telephone system which would make anyone at Smile Media these days weep.
Legs regarded the huge old-fashioned fax phone on the baronial desk with suspicion, having never seen anything quite so archaic in her life, and that included her father’s ancient mobile phone from which he refused to part. She approached it nervously, certain that it would whirr into life beeping a lot if she pressed the wrong button, and she could hear Poppy and Hector arguing in the entrance hall just beyond the door. She was starting to go hot and cold in rapid succession and was feeling horribly weak. She knew she had to hurry before a coughing fit overcame her.
As she lifted the receiver, she dislodged a transmission poking out of it, sending pages fluttering. Hastily picking them up to restack them, she caught sight of the first line of the covering page and baulked. Unable to stop herself, she read on in astonished horror. It came from the Protheroes’ decrepit family insurance brokers whom Hector adored because like him they had yet to master scans or email and preferred to communicate by the slowest, most gentlemanly means possible, preferably involving lunch. The fact this had been sent by fax showed the urgency of the missive.
The festival was in serious trouble. To satisfy new industry regulations, the insurers had this year been obliged to conduct a safety survey using an independent assessor. The resulting report highlighted no less than six ‘life-threatening hazards’ to the paying public, in addition to the thirty-nine ‘serious dangers’ and almost two hundred ‘urgent recommendations’.
These had to be the ‘administration issues’ Francis had referred to. He’d known about it for weeks and had clearly been trying to rectify the situation; there was mention of private underwriters and guarantors, but none had been forthcoming and the situation was now so critical the insurers had withdrawn all cover just days before the big event. The fax made it clear that the words ‘death’ and ‘trap’ went hand in hand with ‘Farcombe’ and ‘Festival’, urging the family to cancel the event.
Legs looked up in alarm as footsteps approached the door. Still clutching the fax, she dived under the desk’s foot well just as somebody entered the room.
‘I can see you, you smelly monster!’ Poppy screeched, rumbling an intruder straight away.
About to crawl back out, Legs felt anger flare in her infection-weakened chest. That was really a bit personal, even for Poppy. But, shooting a long-suffering look at her over his shoulder, it was Fink that padded out into open view to take the flack.
‘Shoo! Shoo! Put him outside will you Hector? Dog hair plays havoc with my asthma.’
There followed a lot of scraping of claws on polished floors and the sound of the front door being opened and closed with Hector’s muffled voice commiserating with the basset: ‘know how you feel, old boy.’
Beneath the desk, Legs quaked, now shivering uncontrollably.
‘Jamie’s dog keeps hanging around the house.’ Poppy had moved across the room, calling over her shoulder to Hector, whose shadow Legs could just see framed in the doorway. ‘I don’t think he’s quite taken to a life under canvas.’
‘Owner still keeping his distance?’ Hector asked with obvious satisfaction.
Legs cocked her head with interest, then ducked it again as she saw a Liberty’s kaftan flapping around just inches away from her hiding place.
‘You shouldn’t have got involved, Hector. You overreacted terribly as usual. Your rages are quite uncalled for.’
‘Wish I’d fired a couple of shots to see him back across the Irish Sea,’ Hector said unapologetically. ‘He had no right to force you out of the house like that. What he did was cruel, Pops,’ his voice softened slightly. ‘Thank God I was there to protect you. He’s unbalanced. You heard how he spoke to me.’
‘How odd,’ Poppy was leaning over the desk on the opposite side. ‘I’m sure I heard the fax come through just now. Bother. It must be out of paper. I’ll call Rex and ask him to send it again, but he made it quite clear on the phone last night that we shouldn’t be going ahead under any circumstances. The festival is doomed, I tell you!’ She sounded just like Private Frazer in Dad’s Army.
Hector let out a bark of derision, mercifu
lly masking the snort of laughter that came from Legs under the desk.
‘Doomed!’ Poppy repeated, sensing her point wasn’t being taken on board.
But it was like the boy crying wolf. She had said it so many times over the years that nobody in the room, hidden or visible, took much notice of her.
Hector sounded bored. ‘I’m sure Francis has the situation under control. He knows all about these things. That boy has a mind like an accountant.’
‘He’s all wrapped up with Allegra.’
‘Ah yes, his lost asset; I heard she was staying here. That going well is it?’
You’d think she’d got bubonic plague the way he’s policing her. I’m sure it’s just a little head-cold; she always was a hypochondriac, but Francis loves a gallant mission, as we know. He’s been like a dog with two tails.’
‘I’m surprised you don’t keep putting him outside to spare your asthma,’ Hector snapped tetchily.
‘I’ve hardly seen him all week. They’re bound to be at it nonstop.’
Legs sat up in horror, almost hitting ear head on the underside of the desk.
‘Always knew she’d come back to him in the end,’ Hector was saying.
‘So why did you take up with her frump of a mother?’ Poppy’s voice rose hysterically.
‘It will break Francis’s heart if Allegra leaves him again, of course,’ Hector blustered on, dodging the question. ‘The boy isn’t going about this the right way at all. I’ve told him he needs to get her straight up the aisle this time. Allegra is a sterling girl, and impulsive like her mother. He should whisk her off on a road trip across America, hire a vintage open-top Cadillac, swim naked with dolphins, marry in Vegas – or if he insists on his usual tight budget, he could do much the same in Scotland with a modest hatchback, finishing in Gretna Green. Either way, he must move fast to transform Ms North to Mrs Protheroe.’
Under the desk, Legs now found herself shaking her head so violently she went dizzy.
‘Is that what you and the Frump plan to do?’ Poppy squeaked in horror.
‘Don’t call Lucy that.’ He heaved a deep sigh laden with self-pity. ‘She and I have been on a road less travelled, our gratification a delayed pleasure and the boundaries of our egos ever-widening to let in others, but our journey together is nearing its end. She really is the most selfless of women. We’ve both agreed that I shall have to come back to you should Francis and Allegra be serious about this reconciliation.’
Legs’ headshaking sped up. Her vision was tunnelling. Poppy’s voice suddenly seemed to be coming from a distant clifftop: ‘What makes you think I’ll have you back?’
Hector’s reply was even more faint and distorted, the only words Legs could pick out being ‘your son’, ‘bloody festival’, ‘kills someone’, ‘knighthood’ and ‘wedding’.
She must have blacked out against the pedestal briefly because the next thing she heard were Poppy’s nails drumming on the leather desktop overhead. A row was raging.
‘I refuse to be bullied by bad-tempered men!’ Poppy was shrieking. ‘You’re all the same! Jamie has a quite impossibly short fuse, just like his father. You can’t dictate to me any more either, Hector.’
‘Don’t compare me to that poisonous little upstart!’
‘Jamie’s my flesh and blood.’
‘Who will draw my blood to get his pound of flesh,’ Hector muttered darkly. ‘I won’t let him hurt you, Pops, d’you hear? I’ll fight to the death for the things I love. You’re still my wife and this is still my house.’
Boxed in her shadowy lair, Legs blinked anxiously, trying hard to focus.
‘God, I miss darling Kizzy,’ Poppy lamented with a stifled sob. ‘She never once told me what to do. I’ve asked her to come back and see me, but she tells me she’s got an important new job in publishing and can’t take time off. It’s all my fault for pushing her too hard towards Francis.’
‘The muse is not amused,’ Hector barked sarcastically. ‘No doubt she’s much happier indulging her natural proclivities for women’s-only poetry salons, knocking back mojitos with Édith and Jax at the Candy Bar to get over the shock of life here.’
‘Don’t be so judgemental, Hector!’
Wiping cold sweat from her forehead, Legs craned to listen above the rush of blood in her ears. Something was still stuck to her temple from resting it against the pedestal. Panicking that it was a spider, she reached up to swipe it away and realised that it was a loose segment of plastic electrician’s tape. Looking up she saw that it was part of a criss-cross cat’s cradle which was securing a small, leather-bound notebook to the underside of the desk.
‘Dreadful harpy,’ Hector was still ranting jealously about Kizzy. ‘She would never have the backbone to run Farcombe. Francis and Allegra will make much better guardians once they marry.’
Legs started so abruptly that she head-butted the tape-webbed notebook and the desk almost shot across the room, but Hector and Poppy were too busy arguing to notice.
‘We’ll see about that!’ Poppy thundered, sweeping towards the window. ‘We have other interested parties now.’
He let out a sarcastic scoff, ‘I suppose you’re planning for the Prodigal Son and the Mermaid Muse to team up as lord and lady of the manor?’
Legs groaned aloud, partly at the thought of Byrne and Kizzy getting together and partly because quite a lot of the electrician’s tape was now stuck in her hair.
‘That would be quite out of the question, Hector,’ Poppy’s deep, sombre voice more than drowned out any noises from beneath the desk. ‘By interested parties, I’m talking Vin Keiller-Myles.’
‘I’m having nothing to do with that bastard’s money!’ Hector roared.
‘Francis says Vin’s the only one who can bail us out. He can get us out of this impasse, don’t you see? We both know the festival can’t go on, and what’s the point of keeping Farcombe if we can’t host the festival? It costs so much to run the estate these days. If we sell the whole shooting match to him, he’ll take on all the liability. He can easily afford to cover the work needed.’
‘I’ll never sell to him!’
‘He offered us twice the market value last year with that consortium he put together.’
Legs was grappling with the tape, which was now wrapped around her wrist as well as being matted through her hair, the little book coming loose from its hiding place and flapping about like a giant moth.
‘Are you really prepared to leave this house?’ Hector asked Poppy in disbelief.
‘If I must, and I really think this situation means we must.’ She let out a throaty sob. ‘As if these dreadful death threats weren’t enough, now this …’
‘What “death threats”?’ thundered Hector.
Legs stopped grappling with the tape, stayed stock still and listened, her skin icy.
There was a rustling of paper as Poppy drew something from her pocket.
Heavy footsteps crossed the room. Another paper rustle and Hector let out a gasp. ‘Abominable prose style. Compelling stuff, though. You say there are others?’
‘This is the second. We dismissed the first as a one-off, but now …’
‘Who else knows about them?’
‘Just Francis. He now thinks we should go to the police, but we can’t risk any adverse publicity, particularly now the insurance fiasco means we’re looking disaster in the face. Oh Hector, can’t you see? We might lose the festival for good!’ She started to sob in deep, mournful cries, like a howling collie.
‘There, there my little one.’ There was genuine tenderness in Hector’s voice. ‘It won’t come to that. Let me talk to Francis. I’m sure we can get the Friends of the Festival to collectively underwrite the risk. This Gordon Lapis appearance is worth a fortune to us all. If we can just get through the next few weeks, we’ll be able to afford to make the changes for next year.’
Poppy gave a doubtful sniff. ‘What if Gordon Lapis trips over one of the “serious dangers”, breaks his writing fingers and
then sues us for millions? Or, worse still, gets murdered by the mad person behind these letters?’
‘I will personally follow him around like a bodyguard, my darling little one, and catch him if he falls, just as I will shoot anybody who tries to do any harm to him, to you or to our family. And I’ll make it my mission to get my hands on whoever is writing these damned pieces of filth, as if I can’t guess. This time the safety catch is staying off.’
He thinks it’s Byrne, Legs realised in alarm.
But Poppy remained baffled. ‘Who do we know who is this cruel … and uneducated?’
‘Leave it all with me.’
‘My hero,’ she growled in her deep voice, then giggled teasingly. ‘Actually, Gordon would do the reading public a favour if he broke his bloody writing fingers. His latest book has the most infuriating end. I still can’t quite believe he’s done it.’
They had started walking towards the hallway, much to Legs’ relief because she still had one wrist taped to her head, was developing severe cramp in one calf and feeling increasingly faint again.
‘We will get through this, Pops.’ Hector’s voice was weighted with such affection that there was a catch of tears at the back if his throat, cutting through his soothing bass like a split bassoon reed.
Hearing it too, Poppy was full of her old vigour. ‘Why don’t we have a lovely big fundraising dinner after the press launch this week to save the festival? It can mark your homecoming, Sir Hector!’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he muttered, but he sounded terribly pleased. ‘I think a dinner is a fine idea. By then, we may even be celebrating the news that we’ll be hosting a wedding here after all.’
‘Maybe I’ll invite Jamie as guest of honour so that we can all make peace.’
‘One thing at a time, my darling. I’m not sure we have enough long-handled spoons as it is.’
‘Don’t be cruel, Hector.’
As they left the room, squabbling yet again, Legs finally pulled her wrist free, wincing as clumps of hair were ripped from her head. The notepad was still attached to the tape around her wrist, so that she was wearing it like a dance card now.
