“Watch it, you!”
“The one at Morborne House is a forgery, Oliver—a superb forgery, but a forgery nonetheless. I am, as you very well know, an expert in nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century painting.”
“Are you?” Tom interjected quickly, hoping to stem the rising acrimony. “How interesting. A Guercino painting disappeared from my church a few years ago. We’ve had no luck finding it.”
“I’m afraid, Vicar, that your Guercino is likely hanging in some vulgar Russian oligarch’s bloody ugly bunker,” Dominic responded with impatience, turning back to his cousin. “So I examined more of Great-Great-Grandfather’s collection. There’s a Morisot, a Monet, a Renoir, and a Félix Bracquemond that are clearly fakes.”
“Really? I am surprised. Then Great-Great-Grandfather didn’t have quite the eye we thought he had.”
“Haddon informs me that a number of works have gone out for ‘cleaning’ or ‘reframing’ over the past year or so, notably when my mother is absent.”
“Your mother is almost always absent from London, Dominic—south of France, California, West Indies. It’s ridiculous that she has a life right to the use of Morborne House.”
“Those are the terms of the Trust. You can live there, too, if you wish.”
“Too right, I can. And I will. I’m the bloody Marquess of Morborne. Why am I living in a squat?”
“A squat? You mean your mews flat in Belgravia?”
“Dominic, with you it’s always been too easy to take the piss.”
Dominic’s face darkened. “You’ve never been bothered before about living at Morborne House!”
“I am now! I have my reasons, which”—Oliver pointed his cigar at his cousin—“you will learn in due course. In any case, Charlotte will not be living there if I’m living there. Imagine living with that twat! And Lucy won’t be living there, either.”
“Which is why you’ve had the locks changed.”
“Precisely.”
“You don’t have the permission of the Trust.”
“Bugger the Trust.”
“And you’ve been selling pictures and putting fakes up on the wall, haven’t you, Oliver. I don’t need to tell you what an absolute violation of the Trust that is!”
“I said, bugger the Trust. The Trust will do what I want! Le trust, c’est moi!”
“Vous parlez français!” Miranda interjected.
“Only because he’s as madly arrogant as the Sun King,” Dominic sneered.
“Mad Morborne they call me in the music trade.” Oliver waved his hand airily, evidently pleased with himself, the smoke from his cigar trailing in the frail evening light. “And here comes our little Maxie.”
“This isn’t over, Oliver,” Dominic warned.
“Sod off, cousin. Look, Vicar, Max has brought a tie. Over to you.”
Max displayed the tie with a flourish.
Tom drew it forwards with his finger to examine it—it was dark blue with discreet yellow and burgundy striping, the sort, he thought, that adorned the necks of millions of men every working day. Oliver glanced at it, then looked away, seeming to lose interest in baiting his cousin, settling again into a kind of off-key, tuneless whistle. Dominic’s eyes slid off Oliver, his lip uncurling to turn a kinder face to his cousin’s child.
“It’s a splendid tie, Maximilian,” Tom said, rebalancing himself on his crutch, “and it would be perfect for the trick, but—”
“Daddy needs his magic wand,” explained Miranda. “He can’t do magic without it.”
“In effect,” Tom allowed, grateful to his daughter, though it was a bit of a fib. “And my arm on a crutch would make manoeuvring difficult.”
“Oh, what a pity.” Max regarded the neckwear glumly.
“Here, Max, you’ll like this.” Dominic took the tie from him and began threading it through the belt loops of his cream trousers, tying it loosely so the ends fell against his hip. “We’d do this at school sometimes. What do you think? Fred Astaire used to wear a tie as a belt on occasion. Very smart in the day.”
Max tilted his head as he studied the effect. The monocle fell from his eye. “Who’s Fred Astaire?”
“Dominic’s tutor at Oxford,” Oliver said airily.
“I’m not sure it’s proper.” Max frowned as he reinserted the monocle.
But attention seemed to drift to the darkening lawn where two silvery silhouettes, ghost-like, glided entwined like lovers towards the terrace. Unable to identify them, Tom looked beyond, towards the distant trees now a ragged crown, dusky against an icy sky shot through with pink and crimson, set with a single jewel, Venus, twinkling on the far southern horizon. The evening seemed suddenly advanced. Well to the west, a corner of the kitchen garden’s high brick wall coloured the red of dried blood in the paling sun; to the east, the curved edge of the Eggescombe Labyrinth crouched in shadow like a brooding animal. With summer night conquering day, the stronger light came now from the Hall, a honeyed glow from the open French doors pouring onto the terrace and down the stairs, burnished gold from the ground-floor windows, lemony candle flame setting the table linens aglow; the scarlet burn of Oliver’s cigar seemed now to navigate the air like a luminous insect. Turned towards the parkland vistas, Tom sensed through the skin on the back of his neck the massive and intense bulk of Eggescombe, its brick and terracotta radiating the stored heat of the day into the cooling evening. The sound of recorded music wafted from the drawing room into the silky air, which was an amalgam of summer scents, of grass and trees and flowers, tainted by the cruder aroma of cooking meat, the supper they were soon to begin. Somewhere a night bird cried out in alarm. As the figures drew clearer, Tom could see that one was Marguerite in a simple white shift, pale hair piled artlessly on her head. Accompanying her, his hand slipping into hers as they neared the steps, was a young man of uncommon beauty. Little taller than Marguerite, lithe and slimly muscular in a sleeveless white shirt, he glanced their way, hesitating as Marguerite gathered her skirt with her other hand before taking the steps, letting Tom take in the well-formed head, the wide, dark eyes and the dark curly hair half covering his ears.
“This should interest you, my dear.” Tom heard the malicious purr in Oliver’s murmur and glimpsed Dominic shoot Oliver a hateful glance.
“Marguerite’s … lodger,” Oliver continued, tilting his head to drag on his cigar. “Did you know? The hand-holding, you’ll find, is a bit of show. She’s his muse, don’t you know. I think you understand my meaning.”
Hector stepped through the French doors at that moment, as if he had seen his mother’s approach from the drawing room and felt compelled to greet her. Georgina was in his wake, with Bonzo coming behind. He flicked an unhappy glance at either Dominic or Oliver—Tom couldn’t tell which—then moved quickly to the edge of the steps.
“Mother.” The word seemed to suppress a world of exasperation.
“Hector, darling, I hope we’re not late.”
“No, Mummy.”
“Roberto was absorbed in his work, so …”
Hector smiled thinly at the young man. “Good of you to put something on.”
“Roberto is a bit of a … naturist.” Oliver continued whispering at Dominic. “Can be quite the sensation, I gather. If you fancy that sort of thing.”
“Fuck off, Oliver,” Dominic spat, though his eyes didn’t leave the new visitor.
“Maxie, my darling, don’t you look splendid!” Marguerite exclaimed. “Quite like the old days at Eggescombe,” she continued, directing a calculated smile at Georgina, who received the implied criticism with a frosty stare. “Everyone dressed resplendently for supper. Do you remember, Hector darling, Nanny bringing you down for presentation, and you doing a little turn in your jimjams?”
“Not really,” Hector responded impatiently. “Would you care for a drink? I’ll have Gaunt bring something.”
“Vodka and tonic.”
“Mr. Sica?” Hector’s lips drew to a pinch.
“Mineral water.�
�� They were the newcomer’s first words. He spoke gravely, with a hint of disdain.
“Of course,” Hector murmured dryly, removing himself from the scrum.
“I thought I’d like to see how our patient is coming along.” Marguerite moved down the terrace. “Tom, you’re supposed to be resting, with your feet up,” she admonished him, though her eyes were lively with amusement.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t bear all the lying about.”
“Well, I expect you’ll live. I’ve also found a cast boot for you to wear. I pulled one off St. John Ambulance before they left, so we can fix you up with it tomorrow. And this must be your daughter.” Marguerite extended her hand. “Miranda, enchantée de faire votre connaissance. Max here has been telling me about you. I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier. I understand you’re absolutely wizard—Maxie’s favourite word—at French, which unfortunately Max is not doing well in at school. You must give him a lesson.”
“Moi de même.” Miranda took the dowager countess’s hand and smiled up at her shyly.
“If only I’d run up some pretty dress for you to wear. You and Maxie could have been a matched set and put us all to shame.”
“You’ve never ‘run up’ anything in your life, Mummy.” Hector returned, followed by Gaunt with a silver tray and two crystal glasses.
“I learned dressmaking at Mon Fertile, Hector. I’ve simply never had any need to apply it. But I could sew a dress if I set my mind to it. I’m sure I saw a machine in one of the attic rooms when I was looking for crutches for Mr. Christmas.” Marguerite seemed to hesitate over the tray’s offerings, which looked alike. Gaunt tilted the tray to indicate the vodka.
“You are joining us for supper, Marguerite, yes?” Georgina spoke.
“If you’ll have me, my dear. Please don’t let me interrupt you in whatever you were doing. Now,” she continued. “Some introductions I think are in order. This is Roberto Sica. Roberto, this is Tom Christmas, who is vicar of St. Nicholas Church in Thornford Regis, for whom today’s jump was done, which you missed of course, busy boy. And his daughter, Miranda. I don’t think you’ve met Dominic fforde-Beckett before, have you. Odd you haven’t. You’re both in the same sort of … line of work, I suppose one could say. Georgina’s cousin,” she added unnecessarily, as the two men shook hands.
“Interesting belt,” Roberto remarked.
“Oh, do you think so?”
“I don’t,” Hector said. “You look a fool, Dominic. What are you trying to—”
“Never mind, Hector. It was only a bit of fun, Christ! Here.” Dominic whipped the tie out of his belt loops and dropped it in Max’s hands. “Another time, perhaps, Vicar.”
“And here,” Marguerite pressed on, as another figure stepped forward, “is Lucinda fforde-Beckett, who is … well, another fforde-Beckett. We do seem to have rather a lot of fforde-Becketts here this weekend. I wonder if there’s one of those amusing collective nouns we might use? ‘A tyranny of fforde-Becketts’? What do you think?”
“Really, Mummy, must you …?”
“ ‘An intemperance,’ perhaps, Marve,” Roberto suggested, lowering his eyes to his glass.
“Yes! Clever! ‘An intemperance of fforde-Becketts.’ ” Marguerite laughed throatily as the fforde-Beckett siblings looked on. “See, Oliver is amused.” Oliver had snorted with a wet burst of noise, but Georgina maintained a mask of sufferance, staring off into the middle distance. Dominic and Lucinda kept delighted eyes on the speaker, however, as if the characterisation of the family were mere wordplay. Tom sensed it was not.
“And, of course, this is Oliver, whom—” Marguerite added with a detectable lightness of tone, “I believe you know.”
Roberto raised his eyes but refused Oliver’s hand, though it was proffered. Rather, he glowered, a corner of his upper lip twitching almost imperceptibly—startling in its effect, Tom thought, until he observed Oliver’s startling—and strangely humanising—reaction: a faltering glance, a flash of vulnerability, superciliousness vanished, then as swiftly recovered.
“But Oliver,” Dominic began snidely, “you’ve been at Eggescombe for absolute days and Marguerite hasn’t brought her friend to renew your … acquaintance?”
“I’ve been preoccupied with my work.” Roberto gave Dominic a level gaze over the rim of his glass, then took a swift, sharp sip.
“What is it you do?” Tom asked.
“He’s a sculptor,” Marguerite replied in Roberto’s stead.
“He has the most wizard studio at the stable block!” Max enthused. “Mr. Christmas, you and Miranda must come and see.”
“Yes, Tom, do.” Marguerite shifted her body slightly, as if to exclude the fforde-Becketts from her invitation. “I mentioned those photographs earlier I thought you might find interesting. And Miranda, too, of course. Come for elevenses. That would be a good time to get out the album. And put on that boot I mentioned. Then we can visit the studio.”
Some hours earlier, in the late afternoon, as the charity event was winding down, Marguerite had brought out onto the lawn Eggescombe Hall’s visitors’ book, a compendious volume, wood-covered, embossed with the Fairhaven coronet, and bound with string so new pages could be added when needed. Marguerite licked her finger, flipped quickly back through a number of pages, then with a small grunt of satisfaction passed it to Tom. He was, at first, interested to see scrawled in various styles of penmanship a number of notables of an earlier generation.
“You had Mick Jagger to stay?”
“No. Well, yes, he popped in one afternoon. But that’s not why I’ve brought this book out. Look.” She put her finger against a pair of signatures farther down the spread.
“Oh!” Tom felt strangely affected at the sight, as he often did when evidence of his first adoptive parents presented itself. IAIN CHRISTMAS in a neat, rounded, schoolboy script and, below, MARY CARROLL in a flowing, decorative hand. “They were here at Eggescombe?”
“About forty years ago or so, in the summer, I think. What’s the date?” She leaned in. “August. Exactly forty years ago. It was the Alice party. My father-in-law adored Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He had a costume party every July, the month Alice was published. Can’t remember the year. I have photos, I must show you.”
“But how—”
“Oh, my late husband had some connections in the music business in those days. And of course your parents were musicians. Anyway, I do remember talking with your mother, with Mary. You see, she had just learned that a baby would be coming their way. You. I expect the adoption had been prearranged in some fashion. The girl …” She faltered, glancing at Tom. “Do you know …?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You know nothing about your natural mother?”
“Not really, no.”
“You weren’t curious?”
“Oh, of course. Very much, at times. But the women who raised me—Iain’s sister—and her partner knew very little themselves. Or so I understand. Iain and Mary died, as perhaps you know—”
“Yes, in that awful plane crash.”
“—the spring after they adopted me.” Tom stared at the signatures. “If they knew any details about my natural parents, they decided, for some reason, to keep it to themselves. And, of course, as you get older, you don’t think about it overmuch. Is there something …?”
“Not really. I only recall your mother saying she and your father would be travelling to Liverpool for the adoption. I remember distinctly because my husband had some business to attend to on behalf of the family in that part of the north.”
“Liverpool,” Tom repeated thoughtfully. “I only know the adoption was a private arrangement of some nature.”
“How mysterious!”
“Yes, I’ve thought that at times.”
Marguerite glanced from the date of the Christmases’ visit to Eggescombe to Tom. “Then your birthday is this month. Your fortieth, yes?”
“On Monday, as it happens.”
“Oh.” And then in a
n altered tone, “Oh! Now I understand your hesitation to stay.”
“Well, I expect my family has something planned for me. There’s still a chance tomorrow …”
Marguerite’s brows arched sceptically. “If it had been your left ankle, perhaps, you might be able to drive but …” She had left the rest unsaid.
Now, recalling his mind to the present, Tom heard Marguerite remark, “Roberto is working on a splendid new commission for Delix Fennis’s sculpture garden in Cornwall. You know the one, of Gods and Goddesses. He popped by last month and commissioned one after seeing Roberto working on the sculpture that’s in the Labyrinth.”
“Sculpture?” Tom recalled no mention of such in the literature about the noted Eggescombe Labyrinth.
“Installed last month,” Marguerite explained. “A new feature.”
“I believe Roberto works in marble, don’t you, Roberto?” Oliver blew a plume of smoke into the air.
“I’m surprised you would know that.” Dominic eyed Oliver with disdain.
“Bit quaint, isn’t it?” Oliver ignored his cousin. “I thought it was all pickled sheep in vats of formaldehyde these days?”
“I’d very much like to visit your studio, too, while I’m here,” Dominic told Roberto.
“If you feel you have the time,” Marguerite murmured without enthusiasm.
Roberto added, “I most often work late at night.”
“That’s when I like to get the job done, too.” Oliver smirked.
Roberto’s nostrils flared as if he’d smelled something offensive. “Have you seen my work in the Labyrinth, Oliver?”
“I haven’t been in that bloody thing in years. Seems like a lot of walking around in circles for no good reason.”
“You really are a philistine.” Dominic’s mouth twisted.
“I insist, Oliver.” Roberto spoke more forcefully.
“Why? What’s the statue bloody of then?”
“BVM.”
“What?”
“The Blessed Virgin.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Oliver threw his cigar over the balustrade. Tom’s eyes followed the red glow in its arc, noting the apparently fastidious Gaunt move swiftly to remove the offending thing from the darkening lawn. “I haven’t got time for that sort of bollocks. Sorry, Vicar.”
Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) Page 5
