Jefferson Grammaticus stared over towards the summer-house, where he could just identify Enoch and Aylsa Arkwright, the former making dramatic gestures with his arms as he spoke, in what the part-owner assumed was a large part of his character; this semi-hectoring body language that would, eight or nine times out of ten, ensure him the upper hand in any conversation.
He could not imagine what Mrs Arkwright took from the marriage table, but supposed that such a self-important little man would absent himself a lot with work, and thus give her a free hand to do more or less what she liked for most of her time. If this were so, the formula must have worked, for they were neither of them in the springtime of their lives, and, he assumed, had weathered the storms of the years in an acceptably harmonious manner.
As he strolled around, enjoying the proprietorial air he had quite rightly assumed, he noticed that the Baddeleys were out on the river, lazily drifting with the movement of the water, neither conscious of the presence of the other. With regret, he identified an upraised knee in the body of the boat, as being still clad in denim, and recognised a need to specify a dress code for the establishment. He couldn’t have jeans and trainers on his property – it smacked too much of jellied eels, bingo, and kiss-me-quick hats. This was no venue for a works outing; this was class, and he’d not have his projected standards of behaviour and dress eroded by any hoi polloi from some solicitor’s office.
Remembering that they came from Hove, he wasted a second or two wondering whether they knew the Newberrys, who came from Brighton, dismissed the subject from his mind as unworthy of his high-brow consideration, and strolled on to see where his other guests were, and that no one was actually having a bread-and-butter fight.
It appeared that the Berkeley-Lewises had joined the Arkwrights at the prettily-clothed trestles, and they seemed to be involved in animated but pleasant conversation, Madge Berkeley-Lewis raising her hand to cover a small tinkle of laughter that floated over to him on the bright June air. It boded well for the weekend that the couples were already beginning to socialise, and he moved on, mentally awarding himself a house point.
The weather, as if in congratulation, had provided a perfect June day, little candy floss clouds floating across the vast blue expanse of the sky, and intensifying the colours of the flowers planted out in the beds. The light sparkled on the water, and a few ducks and a pair of swans glided gently downstream, as if on cue. Trees moved gently in the soft, warm breeze blowing from the south, and appeared to be dancing, very slowly, to the inaudible music of a benign mother nature. All it needed, he thought, was a couple of peacocks, to add the finishing touch, and it would be perfect. He’d have to look into the cost of a couple, and see if he couldn’t arrange for them to be delivered before he welcomed the next batch of guests.
As he made his way back to the hotel, he caught sight of the Veedes at the riverbank, obviously engaged in conversation with the Baddeleys, and he congratulated himself again. From what he had seen, the Newberrys would get on with everybody (with the exception of himself), and here was everybody else, busily getting on with each other, instead of warily pacing round each other trying to get the upper hand. He looked on his work, and he found it good.
Pulling himself out of this self-congratulatory mist, he stiffened his determination and made his way, somewhat more briskly, to the hotel. It was time to corner Percy Boyd-Carpenter, and make sure she hadn’t been physically consumed by the computing and printing machinery in the office. It was time all the character booklets were printed and ready to be placed, with appropriate name cards, upon the dining room table for later use. It was all about to happen, and it was all down to him. He would, actually, later deny this, in the light of what was to happen, but for now, he was more than pleased to be credited for his endeavours thus far.
II
’Twas good that he had returned thus, for Persephone Boyd-Carpenter was, at that very moment, printing sheet two of each character booklet upside down. Some of the sheet ones had, somehow or other, overprinted themselves on top of the scene-setting notes, and she was in a dangerously bad mood, swearing like a trooper – which one would never have guessed at, given her appearance – and ripping sheets of paper to shreds as if to line the cages of a thousand hamsters.
‘Let me take over, Percy,’ he advised, pushing her to one side and placing himself before the printer. ‘There’s no need to get your knickers in a twist. It’s only a few characters, and in a few months, you’ll be able to do this standing on your head,’ he soothed.
‘Well, you can just shut your bloody mouth, you slimy fucking fiend. If I want bleeding advice on how to buggeringly do someth …’
‘Percy! I will NOT have language like that used under my roof. You come from a very privileged background, and have had a screamingly expensive education. You have access to a wide vocabulary, and I can never understand it when you descend into the gutter like that. Now, pull yourself together, tootle off and get yourself changed for tonight, and I’ll do this.’
‘I’m sorry, Jefferson. I picked up “the fouls” when I was doing some charity work after university, and it sometimes rises, like scum, to the surface – especially when I’m frustrated at not being able to do something that should be perfectly simple, like this printing.’
‘Go and get Steve to mix you a martini so dry it’s never even heard of vermouth, then go up to your room and get ready. I’ll see you later, when you’ve re-joined civilised society.’
It was the work of just a few minutes to sort out the mess that the author had made of the character booklets, and it wasn’t long before Jefferson found himself standing before the enormous antique bowl-shaped gong under the staircase.
With enormous satisfaction, he brought the leather-muffled head of the hammer into contact with the beaten metal surface of the gong, and the boom! it emitted echoed and reverberated around the grand entrance hall, calling the attention even of those who were still in the garden. It was the dressing bell for dinner, and he announced as much as they wandered inside to see what all the noise was about. He wasn’t about to let his finely-tuned timetable be overturned by an insignificant factor like a small gaggle of tardy guests.
‘The dressing bell,’ he intoned, projecting his voice so that it reached beyond the limits of the doors. ‘Please feel free to change for dinner, and assemble, as instructed, on tonight’s schedule of events, to commence our first evening together.
‘Costumes will be available to view, after an explanation of the setting for our special event, and cocktails will be flowing in The Manse’s welcome to you, our very first guests, in this new establishment. Please adjourn to your rooms, and I shall see you anon.’ On which cheesy final remark, he gave a little chuckle, just loud enough to reach all ears, and disappeared in the direction of the billiards room, where the sound of some movement was just discernible.
As he had suspected, it was the back door arrival of the ladies from DisguiserGuys with their combs, hairspray and make-up, setting up in readiness for the influx of customers later. Although they would not be actually ‘making over’ any of the guests tonight, they needed to consult their pallets and plan masks and wigs, making notes in preparation for the morrow, so that it would run as smoothly as possible, in the limited time that would be available to them.
As he entered the room, Alison Meercroft was ticking off costumes already on the rails from a list on a clipboard she carried, and her new assistant Céline was wondering out loud what they themselves would do for food, if they needed to be constantly on hand for queries and physical help, but Jefferson had his answer off pat.
‘I shall have the same food as is served to our guests served to you in the staff room while dinner is actually in progress. I wouldn’t want you to feel that an association with The Manse is bad for your blood sugar levels, and staff should always be treated well, in my opinion.’ He thought he’d blown it with that last remark, so pompous was it, but, to his relief, it seemed to pass unnoticed.
&nb
sp; ‘You ’ave a good chef?’ enquired Mlle Treny, who had been combing out wigs, and now stood, the handle of a comb just removed from her mouth, where she had been giving it a good chew. It would seem that she was going to be starving later, as she already seemed hungry.
‘Antoine de la Robe; direct from Paris,’ he informed her, with a small smile of satisfaction, and was then slightly thrown by her returning expression of smug confirmation. ‘Have you ever come across him before? I mean, I know France is a huge country, but I …’
‘France ’as many Antoine de la Robes,’ was her enigmatic reply, and he didn’t push his luck with further enquiry, as he had yet to drop in on the kitchen for a final inspection, and get Steve Grieve up to speed with the way he wanted cocktails mixed and distributed.
It was already gone five-thirty, but Steve was on the ball, having set himself up a temporary bar in the library, and arrayed himself in the appropriate uniform for the occasion.
A quick check of the dining room showed that other staff members had been just as conscientious, the table being beautifully laid, fresh flowers scenting the air and, most importantly of all, character leaflets (for character booklets would not be distributed until tomorrow night, to avoid any surreptitious cheating) were laid enticingly beside place settings, with their name-cards. Linen, cutlery, and glassware all looked immaculate, and he whistled quietly under his breath, as he continued on to the rear of the hotel, where the kitchen was situated.
For the first time today, there was no sound of raised voices penetrating the barrier of what was a not-quite-kosher baize door. Inside, he found Chef and Dwayne Mortte working in apparent harmony, Chastity Chamberlain on hand for any stray jobs that were necessary, and no sign of Beatrix Ironmonger or her blasted cat. He could hardly believe his good fortune. Things could not have been going more smoothly.
After his first view of the guests, his mood had darkened and left him feeling that he was chasing rainbows, but his walk in the grounds had done much to lighten his mood, and now an unexpected peace had descended on The Manse, and he began to feel that what he intended to do here was actually possible; really within his grasp for the very first time.
Time had proved to be extremely elastic since he had first found the property. At the beginning of the venture it seemed to stretch out like rubber, everything taking an inordinate amount of time. As the opening had approached, it had speeded up again, and he felt like he was running just to stand still. Today, however – well, at least since he had settled himself behind the reception counter – it had returned to the turgid passage it had pursued at the outset, and he felt as if the afternoon had been at least a week long.
He was eager, now, to get on with this first performance of his actors in the drama, and wished it into a higher gear; willed the hands on the clocks to move, so that he could step out on to his very own stage, and act his bursting heart out. Percy may be a pain in the arse where technology was concerned, but she could write her little socks off, and if he got everything right from the word ‘go’, he could find the entertainments at The Manse appearing in the gossip columns within the year, and that way lay huge success.
Returning to the entrance hall, he was delighted to see Jocelyn and Jerome already on duty in their set places, one either side of the staircase, and once more admired his own superb taste in the choice of their livery style and colours. By Jove, they looked damned attractive. He ought to get a medal for providing the ladies staying here with two great objects of sexual fantasy. Why, if he were batting for the opposition, he’d probably fancy them himself.
With a sudden jolt of pure glee, he realised how even more beguiling they would look, with the added sinister attraction of their fancy dress costumes tomorrow evening, and even he could hardly wait to see them wearing them.
Trotting smartly up to his room, he contemplated his own costume with pleasurable anticipation. Maybe the ladies wouldn’t stop with fantasy, and he might even get in on the old flirtatious stuff himself. Silly to think like that, of course, but his abrupt swoop into optimism left him defenceless to the thought.
His departure left the hall empty, with the exception of the two completely immobile figures that stood there in their eye-catching livery, silent and still as statues. No sound now penetrated from any other quarter of the hotel, and the ticking of the clock could be easily distinguished from behind the reception counter.
The silence lay like a blanket, thick and heavy, over the hall, and the rhythmic tick-tock took on a sinister quality, like the regular beating of a renegade heart, intent on mischief and mayhem. The twins neither sensed nor heard this, but the Fates did, and chuckled gleefully to themselves, as they planned their version of the evening.
The only movement was the dancing of myriad dust motes like minute particles of dark magic waiting to coagulate, and caught in the spears of sunlight shining through the gloom of the space, the doors now shut against the blinding sunlight and the outside world at large. The hotel was a cocoon, suspended in space and time. Across the elasticity of the latter, slunk a silver-grey shape in feline form, eyes shining with mischief. Whether this was Perfect Cadence or the shade of the original Manse cat will never be known, for the Freemans noticed nothing.
Chapter Six
Friday 18th June, – the first evening
I
The guests, who almost floated down the staircase, were quite different to the motley crew that had checked in earlier. Everyone had taken the opportunity to dress for dinner, had chosen their finest outfits, knowing that the following night they would be in costume, and, therefore, only able to show off their personal preferences in sartorial elegance on this first night.
As instructed by the itinerary, they foregathered in the library, where Steve Grieve was on duty behind a fine library table, a tray of Bellinis already mixed and set out on a silver tray for self-service, his array of shakers at the ready for any un-Bellini type orders. He was, personally of the opinion that the Bellinis would go down a treat, and anyone ordering anything else wasn’t really playing the game, but there was no accounting for taste, let alone idiosyncrasy and good old-fashioned bloody-mindedness.
Fudge and Bradley Baddeley – they of the earlier denim attire – were the first into the room, dressed unashamedly in finest Marks and Sparks, and accepted the proffered peachy nectar almost with relief that they did not have to name a desired pre-prandial cocktail themselves. Their daily round was the simplest: Bradley would normally have ordered a pint of bitter, Fiona a gin or vodka with tonic. The pre-mixed drinks gave them a chance to conceal the lack of sophistication in their tastes, and gave them a warm feeling inside for the consideration of the host. They had realised their sartorial blunder on arrival (although it had not moved them sufficiently at the time to change for afternoon tea), and were anxious to dispel the notion that they may be of the plebeian order, such is ego and self-image.
The second couple, joining them shortly afterwards, were the Arkwrights, Enoch in full evening fig, Aylsa in a full-length floaty number, with an overtunic of batwing sleeves trimmed with satin, the whole in an off-white colour that enhanced the dark tan of her skin, and went well with the beige curls of her hair. If not exactly top-drawer, they did at least make a handsome couple, provided they did not speak.
Unfortunately they did speak, or at least Enoch did. ‘A side-car for me, my man, and a white lady for my, um, white lady, if you would be so kind.’ His imperious and condescending attitude did nothing to buoy up Steve’s spirits, and the strong Yorkshire accent merely made his hackles rise.
How dare this pompous old pseud treat him like a … like a … His mind raced as he searched for a suitable word. Like a serf – that was the best that he could come up with, but it felt more or less right. The evening had only started, and already he had been talked down to. If he had the chance, he’d spit in their drinks, and see how they liked the flavour of that!
Lew and Sue Veede entered together physically, but were not at all in tune menta
lly. Lew looked around the library in admiration. He had been pleased by the white and gold décor of their room, considering it quite French in his humble opinion, and the library appeared to him to be exactly what a library in a country house should be – full of books and solid, heavy furniture.
Sue, on the other hand, clearly had her mind on other things and, although she too scanned the room, she appeared not to be giving it the once over, but more like she was scouting about for a person, and was quite happy to accept whatever she was offered to drink without demur.
The rest of the party arrived together, having met either on the landing or the stairs, and the only incident of note was the mischievous twinkle in Fruity Newberry’s eyes, when they met the eyes of a lady other than his wife.
The Berkeley-Lewises headed straight for the Arkwrights, Mark having instinctively smelled money coming off the couple in waves, and insisted on champagne cocktails, rather than the themed drink of the weekend.
Jefferson Grammaticus finally joined his cocktail-party, trailing Lloyd and Percy Boyd-Carpenter in his wake. Percy was still in muttered consultation with her husband, still unable to believe that all the character booklets were printed and assembled ready for use. She had not tackled anything like this before, being more of a short-story writer, and was on tenterhooks about whether the whole thing would work, or be shot down in flames by an inadvertent mistake, on her part, in the plotting.
Jefferson had OKed it, but had he really read it properly, or had he just accepted it as watertight, because he knew her and trusted her? Would that she would not let him down, or this whole opening weekend might be the most almighty flop, and it would all be her fault. They had such plans, Grammaticus having asked her if she would write more of the same, until they had a good repertoire going which could be repeated at suitable intervals. He had also asked her to conduct residential creative writing courses, and had offered good money as well as board and lodging for both her and her husband. Life was quite tough financially at the moment, and they could really do with the boost, the economic climate being what it was.
Murder at the Manse (The Falconer Files Book 5) Page 7
