by Patrick Gale
Returning through the precinct, Seth glanced at a large ornamental clock. Ten minutes. He looked for a newsagent and found a large, impersonal one by a tub of geraniums. Thrilling to the luxury of an unknown town, he marched purposefully along the wall of magazines. The line of shamelessly economical browsers made it hard to see the titles, but the arrangement was invariable. Between Women’s and Leisure he hesitated for a rapid glance around him, then seized the object of his quest, walked along to Foreign, and opened it.
‘Is this your car, Madam?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll have to move on, I’m afraid. Bomb regulations.’
‘Oh dear. But you see, I’m a Friend.’
The warden smiled, wryly confident. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but even His Grace isn’t allowed to do anything more than get dropped off here, and he’s got a Disabled badge.’
‘Oh poor thing. What’s wrong with him?’
Venetia got into the car, picking at a French stick.
‘Broken hip. The old fellow slipped on a wet leaf in the avenue last winter. Nasty business. Terrible complications, he had.’
‘Did he have to have … er?’
‘Oh yes. A plastic replacement. It’s marvellous what they can do.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think Her Grace finds it comes in handy to have a badge for parking behind Sainsbury’s. Oh well. Must be off. Now if you wouldn’t mind …’ She nodded at the Volvo. Evelyn dropped her smile.
‘Oh yes. Of course.’ She got in and shut the door. ‘Damn!’ she said.
‘Still no Seth.’
‘Well, we said half an hour, and there’s still five minutes. But I think I can lose the wasp.’
She started the engine and drove slowly around the great Close lawn. She waved sweetly to the traffic warden and watched her walk down a side aisle towards the High Street. They continued their regal circle to where they had begun. Evelyn cut the engine.
‘Bravo,’ said Venetia.
‘Damnably clever, aren’t I?’
Evelyn switched on the radio. The news. A general election now seemed likely in the autumn of next year. A letter bomb had exploded in Whitehall wounding the hands of a senior minister’s secretary, who was said to be stable in hospital. A Labour MP had been arrested by an agent provocateur in Earl’s Court. Following arrests at the US Air Force base at Greenham Common, several women were appearing in court today on charges of vagrancy, obstructing a highway and breaking the peace. There was still no verdict.
‘I hope they get a bloody big fine,’ said Netia savagely.
‘Why?’
‘It would serve them right.’
‘They’re only trying to save the world for the likes of you.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, they’re a bunch of communist lezzies.’
‘Don’t you think they’re doing a good job?’
‘What job? Knitting jerseys and singing flower songs? I think the CND were doing a perfectly good job until those stupid “wimmin” started joining in. They’re extremists trying to draw attention to themselves. The whole thing’s a carefully planned attempt to let some feminists make history. They’ve all got chips on their shoulders because the Suffragettes got all the pain and glory and now no-one’s interested – precisely because the Pankhurst gels did their job so well.’
The small clear voice of calm: ‘I don’t think you’ve understood at all. I found them very modest, rather lovely people.’
‘How d’you mean, “found”?’
‘As a matter of fact, I went there last month. The school was closed for half-term. I’d read so much in the papers that I was determined to go and tell them how great I thought they were being. So I made a couple of fruit cakes and bought a few bottles of whisky, and took them as a sort of keep-up-the-good-work parcel.’
Venetia stared for a moment in disbelief, then laughed.
‘You are a joke, sometimes. Perfect Guardian Woman – right on, but never compromisingly so. It’s a bit nineteenth century to go around taking pots of coltsfoot jelly to paupers, so she takes cake and booze to a load of dykes in Newbury.’
As he hurried back towards the cathedral close, Seth wondered who actually bought Playgirl. It had appeared in British newsagents in the Seventies, capping the rise in ‘liberated’ women’s reading-matter. Or was he confusing liberation with licence? Did the liberated woman see male pornography as a means of subjugating men to her newly-acquired right to a sexual appetite, or would she view it as a weak indulgence? He looked down and saw that his damp fingers had made an imprint of soggy grey on the bag from the music shop. He folded the edges down a little, thought of Bickerstead, then felt a flush of shame-fed anger. The dreadful thing wasn’t published for women at all! Crouching amongst the French scandal papers, he had become another figure in a successful marketing plan. In a few years’ time he would walk out of the shop with it tucked into a copy of the Radio Times.
There was a pause. They both felt foolish all of a sudden, as they had on all the other rehearsals of this confrontation.
‘Soon,’ thought Venetia, ‘she’ll say it all boils down to the lovely differences of character, she’ll turn up the radio and I’ll be back on bail for a few months.’
‘Still no Seth,’ said Evelyn.
‘He’s probably having trouble in the shop. He’s a bit timid with assistants.’
‘You haven’t seen him in a music shop; he’s fine on home territory.’
‘When you think about it, Seth doesn’t believe in much.’
‘He believes in art.’
‘So do I.’
‘Yes, but you only criticize and dissect it the way your father does.’
‘Well, I act.’
‘Yes. You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.’ Evelyn smiled. The pressure had gone. She turned up the radio.
‘Didn’t you first meet Daddy on an anti-nuclear march, though; one of the first ones?’
‘That’s right – Aldermaston. But I never did work out why he was there. I expect it was “fieldwork”. It became one of his favourite jokes that he didn’t need to go to church or to meetings of the rate payers’ association, because I so enjoyed going to them for him. He’d say I had enough conscience for two – that I viewed the extra burden as a spiritual luxury.’
‘And don’t you? Isn’t it rather like feeding for two?’
‘Here’s little S.’
SATURDAY two
‘Happy Birthday, Boss,’ said McEnery as they turned into the Bayswater Road.
‘Thanks for nothing,’ said Mo, ‘I feel ancient.’
‘Ha,’ went McEnery lightly, and glanced in the mirror.
Mo had felt McEnery’s resentment from the day of her promotion. She could take it or leave it, but it obviously meant a lot to the girl. Strapping them together like this was Timson’s idea of a sick joke. Mo had managed to win support for her plans for a trial of the all-women patrol cars against his considerable opposition. The little jerk had got his own back by recommending that she be sent out herself from time to time to monitor the progress of things, and by giving her The Perm for her number two. They stopped at the lights outside the Coburg Hotel and she reflected that there were better ways to spend a birthday.
‘What did you make of that report?’ asked McEnery.
‘So-so,’ teased Mo, ‘usual reactionary crap.’ She stared briefly at the plucked eyebrow and discreet lipstick.
‘Delta five-two. Delta five-two. Call from an old lady in Ladbroke Square, number ninety-five, says she thinks her neighbour’s been murdered. Probably gone to Bridport to visit her cousin Fanny. Check it out, would you? Over.’
‘Roger, Harry.’ Mo had snatched up the mouthpiece. ‘Be there in two minutes. Over. Something to put the smile back on your lovely face, McEnery.’
‘Saturday morning special/clipped The Perm tersely, and accelerated towards Notting Hill Gate.
‘Stay in the car by the radio. It’s probably a false alarm as Harry says. They’ve caught Neighbourhood Watch
fever round here. I’ll call you if I need you.’ Mo got out and climbed the steps to the front door. There were several bells so she rang the one marked HOUSE. The door was opened at once. The nervy old duck must have been waiting at the window.
‘Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Officer, I’ve been so worried!’
‘What seems to be the trouble?’
‘Well, my name’s Avril Fairbrother. I’m the landlady here.’
A well-spoken old biddy; probably lived here all her life. Mo guessed the family house had been turned into bedsits to cover the rising rates. The landlady stepped out to join the officer on the porch and raised a timorous hand to the door across the railings to the right.
‘It’s Miss Stazinopolos. She’s a fortune-teller, you know – but Greek, not a Romany – with the Woman’s Weekly magazine. We’re quite good friends and she often pops round, but she hasn’t been out since Thursday. I thought perhaps she was ill, so I knocked on her door – I’ve knocked several times – but there’s no reply. Her curtains are still drawn, you see? I tried telephoning her but she didn’t come to answer it. I called in and saw her on Thursday afternoon and she didn’t say anything about going away.’
‘Does she live on her own?’
‘Oh yes. Quite alone.’
‘Big house for a … for a single lady.’
‘Yes. I’m rather afraid Marina’s let things slip a bit. Very otherworldly, you know.’ She gave Mo a meaningful look.
‘And you haven’t heard or seen anything unusual?’
‘Not a squeak. But then I usually have the wireless on, so I could have missed something.’
‘I see.’
‘Will you have to force an entry?’
‘I’ve got a magic key, love.’ Mo smiled and walked down the steps and up to the other door. Avril hovered by the railings and gave a sigh of admiration as the officer let herself in. Mo turned in the doorway and beckoned McEnery from the car.
An immensely stout woman, elderly, yet with jet black hair, was slumped in a chair where she had been tied up and gagged. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood, no mess. Not an amateur job. Mo hurried forward and crouched beside the prisoner. Still alive. Mo touched her chest and she opened her eyes with a start and began to moan. Mo freed her mouth. A torrent of Greek was released.
‘Steady on. Steady on, old girl. It’s all right. You’re safe, now.’
Stazinopolos continued to chatter as Mo untied the ropes around her and the chair. Her practised eye missed nothing. Three milk bottles stood on the desk in front of the astrologer’s mouth. Two were empty, one half full. A straw had been thoughtfully supplied with each.
‘Get on the phone will you, and call Forensic and Medical. There should be some fingerprints, and she’ll need some help – nothing but milk for two days.’ McEnery, who had just come in, turned in her tracks and returned to the car. Stazinopolos subsided gently into English.
‘Thank Jesu you come,’ she panted. ‘I thought nobody come. I try to call but no-one hear me. He was so fast. I didn’t see him come in.’
‘Hang on. Hang on.’ Mo whipped out her notebook and started to scribble. ‘A man. Did you see his face?’
‘No. Mask. He wore a black mask – wool.’
‘Balaclava.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Go on. When did he come?’
‘Thursday. Late Thursday night. I had had my bath and I was going to bed then I came down to find a book.’
‘How late?’
‘About twelve-thirty. I came down and was standing there by the bookcase. Suddenly I heard the door shut. I turn and see him.’
‘How tall was he?’
‘Oh. Very tall – maybe six two – and thin.’
‘Then what?’
‘He ran towards me. I try to scream but cannot – no sound. Then he force me down into chair. So fast. I cannot stop him.’
‘Was he strong?’
‘Yes. I did not think he would be – so thin, you see – but he strong. So he push me into chair and suddenly he winds rope round me. I start to cry out but he say, “Don’t scream. Please don’t scream. I no going to hurt you but I have to do this.’”
‘Was his voice young?’
‘Hard to tell. He was well-spoken, I think, but so confused I can’t remember. He gagged me then. Not tight but it muffle me. I was scared so I kept quiet.’
‘What happened then?’
‘He went over to my desk. I am an astrologer, you know.’
‘I know. For the Women’s Weekly?’
‘Yes. Well he goes over to my desk and starts picking over my papers. I keep all my predictions in separate files – for each month you see – or for separate people. Well, the file for this month and for August were lying in the top drawer. He search the desk-top then he open the drawer. He grabbed the file and turn to me. “Please tell me the truth so I won’t have to hurt you,” he say, “is this all that you’ve written about the next few weeks?”
‘Now I was scared, you know, because he was so well-mannered and lunatics are often so, so I thought I must not lie. I just wanted him to get out so I shook my head like this and pointed with it, like this, over to the coffee table.’
‘What was on the coffee table?’
‘I had also written a special political horoscope for the Observer magazine, for next Sunday. I was going to take it in on Saturday but I was so scared that he might see it after I had said there was nothing so I let him have that too.’
‘Did he go then?’
‘No. First he burn them. He went to the fireplace and put all the papers he had taken in the grate and set fire to them with a match. Then he wait until they all burnt then he put the milk on the desk and slide my chair over to it. “You must drink this,” he said, “it has protein and will keep you going until someone finds you. Don’t be afraid.” Then he go. He shut the door and stopped in the hall. I think he took off the bally-mask-hat thing before he leave by front door.’
‘But you didn’t see his face?’
‘No. Oh my God!’ She raised a fleshy hand to her forehead. ‘I feel so giddy, I think I faint.’
‘Hang on, lovie.’ Mo braced herself for the strain, then, taking Stazinopolos under the arm, guided her over to the sofa where she allowed her to lie flat out, panting and softly moaning.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’
Mo said that help would be here soon and thanked her for her statement. Was she hungry? No, Miss Stazinopolos was not. Mo looked up as McEnery walked in.
‘They’ll be over in four minutes,’ said The Perm. ‘Funny thing.’
‘What is?’
‘Jack got on the line to me and said there was another break-in in Chelsea last night.’
‘Nothing funny about that. Friday night.’
‘But it was another Greek astrologer, Papas Mercouri. He writes for the glossies. He came back early this morning and found that all his latest stuff was gone, along with his charts and maps. No fingerprints, no witnesses, not even a broken window. Very professional, Jack said, like a house-guest doing a bit of polite filching.’
‘Oh Jesu!’ The occupant of the sofa was roused to sudden action.
‘You know him, or something?’ asked Mo.
‘Oh Jesu!’ she repeated loudly, and rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘No. I must just … please excuse me, ladies.’ She swept out of the room and across the hall to disappear behind a door. A wooden seat banged down sharply, followed by a muffled Greek exclamation. McEnery smiled at the carpet and coughed.
SATURDAY three
Saint Jacobs was a diminutive fishing village that clung, Atlantic-beaten, to the rock face of North Cornwall. Placed at an inconvenient distance from the nearest beach or sizeable town, it had had the good fortune to attract only the more serious artist. Three miles west of this haven lay Trenellion. This was a mining community near the sea, designed and erected entirely by an inspired landowner in the eighteenth century; a mine, a church, some labourers’ cottages
and a school. In time, the landowner was proven less happy in his speculation than in his beneficence, the tin seam was soon spent, its master died of drink, and after three generations, his dream stood abandoned to the wind: a testament to vanity and a dwelling for grateful sheep. Trenellion remained in a state of increasing dilapidation until the years immediately following the First World War, when a trio of idealists undertook its renovation. The original landowner’s latest descendant, who would grow up to be extremely rich, had befriended in his youth one boy who would grow up to be an architect of note, and another who would grow up to be Evelyn Peake’s grandfather. United on leaving Cambridge by their modern beliefs, the three came to adopt the ghost town as a focus and then a cipher of their ideals. The cottages were repaired and considerably modernized, the school became a rehearsal room and small art gallery, and the church was made ready as an auditorium, its government-claimed lead roof replaced with a glass one. The mine had long since collapsed into an encroaching sea.
Restored Trenellion began as an informal retreat for the three friends, their wives, lovers and artistic acquaintance; a Petit Trianon where maturing Bohemia could find a little privacy from the interest of a swelling public. On the return of the new landowner from Spain however, his shock at the rapidly souring ideals there induced him to place his privileges to the support of popular suffering as well as the élite sublime. A pacifist festival of music and art was inaugurated. A group of talented amateurs and idealist professionals would provide two weeks of nightly concerts in the church. There would be lectures and exhibitions in the school rooms, and all profits would go to a worthy cause, agreed upon each year by a festival committee.
With each July, word spread, and by the time young Evelyn Davenham went to stay in their new house at Saint Jacobs for the first time, her grandparents, the Strakers, were joint directors of a very popular cultural event. In their retirement, the sole survivors of the original Trenellion set, they came to play an honorary role in the proceedings, handing over the helm to Peter Grenfell, an aspiring conductor who had come under Straker’s tutelage. Evelyn had participated in every festival since she was fourteen. On her grandparents’ death, she took on their role of social magnet and became Grenfell’s ‘right-hand man’. She organized mailing lists, fund-raising, and oiled the wheels of a now large undertaking.
