‘Ever thought of trying England?’
‘Not till now.’
They were now at the end of the Countess’s Mile, and it was perhaps not a change of subject when Phil stopped and pointed around him to draw his son’s attention to the rolling acres on all sides.
‘It’s all ours to right and left, far as the eye can see. Straight ahead there’s bits that aren’t ours. According to old Lillywaite (who’s the lawyer chappy, and dry as last week’s bread rolls) there was some sort of legal to-do in the last century, but we never got our greedy little hands on it. See those two scruffy types taking photographs? They’re reporters, here on account of your grandad’s murder that the police told you about. The land they’re on isn’t ours. Otherwise it’s all Spender country. Sounds like a bloody John Wayne film, doesn’t it?’
Raicho surveyed the expanse for some time, his eyes hooded, withdrawn. Then he could not resist asking:
‘What are you going to do with it?’
Phil smiled secretly. One more asking that question.
‘According to old Lillywaite, I haven’t got any choice. He’s probably right—he must know his onions. Still, I might manage a bit of fun before the Whitehall vultures descend. Whatever happens, I’ll keep you informed. And talking of fun—I’m in the mood for a bit of fun now.’
And without warning, like an arrow from a bow, he strode out over Parson’s Field in the direction of the reporters. For a moment or two, uncertain, Raicho stood and watched. The two reporters seemed unable to believe their luck. For a second they too stood immobilized, then one of them began frenziedly clicking his shutter while the other leaned across the hedge and voiced pathetic appeals to Phil to come and make a statement for his readers. It was an appeal that Phil showed every sign of responding to. It happened so fast that it was a moment before Raicho noticed that, from the adjoining meadow, the figure of a police constable had suddenly materialized, walking rapidly in the direction of the Earl, apparently convinced that he was going to leap over the hedge and attempt a getaway across country. Had Raicho looked behind him he would have seen Peter Medway running towards them with the same idea in his head.
But when Phil got to the hedge that divided Spender country from land not so blessed, all he did was extend himself over it and shake hands with the two reporters. The police constable stopped in his tracks, and so did Peter Medway. There was, presumably, no law against an earl talking to reporters on his own land. The constable lingered some yards away, his large country ears a-twitch. By the time that Raicho had strolled, somewhat uncertainly, over to them, Phil was on perfectly chummy terms with the two reporters, as was his wont.
‘What’s it like to come straight out of gaol to this?’
One of the reporters was small and ratty, with uneven teeth and bleary eyes; the other was gaunt and clad in a disreputable raincoat, in spite of the sunshine. Both of them were indulging in an ecstasy of shorthand, flicking over page after page of their pads.
‘Well, it’s a cut above Maidstone, I can tell you that,’ said Phil, whose cockney accent, even to Raicho’s unaccustomed ears, seemed miraculously to have thickened, as if he were auditioning for Mr Doolittle. ‘Though Daintree was a bit of a preparation. I used to dine now and then in the gracious apartments of the Guv’nor. Landing in the clink rather runs in our family, you know. The fourth Earl did a stretch in Newgate. Nothing serious—slight case of GBH, I believe.’
‘What are you going to do with the place?’ asked the ratty little representative of the Daily Grub.
‘Everyone’s asking me that. Naturally I’m not making any decisions yet. Not with me poor old dad still on a slab in the police mortuary.’
‘But you hope to keep it on?’
‘That’s up to them bloodsuckers in Whitehall, so far as I can make out. It’s a crying scandal if you ask me. Three deaths within three months, and the Chancellor gets his seventy per cent cut every bleeding time. Dracula was never so thirsty. You ask your readers if they think that’s fair. This house has been in my family since sixteen-something, and now it’s got to go to some Yank millionaire, just because the Chancellor insists on his whack three times over. No—wait a bit: make that “some fat German industrialist”. Your readers would hate that even more.’
‘Your father was done in, wasn’t he?’
‘Mind your language, mate. I’ve got my feelings. The police are treating it as a case of murder.’
‘Who do you think done it—did it?’
‘Naturally I can’t talk about that. It’s out of the q. that one of the family could have done it. The police are keeping me fully informed, and I’m leaving it in their hands. They’re a competent body of men, as I’m in a position to testify.’
‘Do you intend to take your seat in the House of Lords?’ asked the cadaverous reporter, who was crime specialist of the Daily Telegram.
‘You bet. Natch. I’ve always enjoyed a good show.’
‘Which party?’
‘Haven’t decided yet. I’ll give them all the once-over before I make up my mind. Might be a cross-bencher if it’s not too uncomfortable.’
‘You wouldn’t feel . . . out of place there?’
‘No, ’course I wouldn’t.’ Phil got expansive. ‘I think I’ve got a lot to offer their Lordships. Experience most of them don’t have. I bet they debate the crime figures regular, and tut their lordly tut, but none of them’s ever been in jug. Except one or two of Harold Wilson’s pals, perhaps.’
The man from the Telegram laughed loudly.
‘So you think they ought to welcome you there?’
‘Why not? If you mean they’d be too toffee-nosed for me, you’re out of date, mate. They’re a mixed bunch there, and no mistake. Scouses, cockneys, and all sorts of scum like me. The only title that means anything any longer is Dame, and no one’s offered me that.’
‘From what you said it sounds as if you think a lot about your family.’
‘The kids? Oh yeah, we get on fine.’
‘I meant the Spender family.’
‘The hancestors, so to speak? Well, naturally. We’ve been here a hell of a long time. Not that we’ve been all that distinguished—not like the Chur-chills and that lot. Not statesmen and the like. In fact, we’ve probably robbed the country blind in our time, and given bugger-all in return. Still, when you start thinking about it, here they’ve been—we’ve been—for centuries: Earls of Ellesmere, Lord Portseas. And then finally it comes to us . . . to me and my son.’
Phil turned to the sallow, good-looking figure at his side.
‘This is my eldest, by the by. The new Lord Portsea.’
Quick as a flash the reporters had their cameras out again, the shutters clicking, the spools whirring. Ten, twenty, thirty versions of the new Earl of Ellesmere and his son and heir Lord Portsea, to decorate the breakfast tables of the nation next morning. As they waited for them to finish, Phil, in a dignified, suitable sort of way, looked pleased with himself. And Raicho, very quietly, seemed to be purring.
• • •
Back in the Pink Damask Room the Superintendent was on the phone.
‘Yes . . . yes . . . That was it: white, pretty ancient model, I believe . . . Yes . . . Both of them? . . . And they’ve what? . . . Oh Lord: it couldn’t be better . . . What do we do? We send a man over, that’s what we do!’
He put down the phone, and when Sergeant Medway came in a few minutes later to give an account of the Earl and the reporters, he found the weather-beaten old face of his superior wreathed in smiles.
‘Did you ever hear me abuse the Garda, my lad? Did you ever hear me suggest that the Irish police were not the most intelligent, conscientious, dedicated body of men and women in the world?’
‘You did say—’
‘Did I perhaps imply that they couldn’t cope with words of more than one syllable, that logic was forbidden by their Church under penalty of fifty Hail Marys? Well, forget what I said.’
‘They’ve got them?’
> ‘They’ve got them, and they’ve got the car. And in the car they’ve found what they call “A very pretty piece of paintin’ ”, a “very fancy clock”, as well as various knickknacks that may well come from Chetton. This morning I would never have believed it possible.’
‘And where was this, sir?’
‘County Waterford, would you believe it? And you’re the one who’s going to fetch them.’
CHAPTER 13
BRYCENORTON TOWERS
The newspaper that the late Earl of Ellesmere had read daily was the Daily Mirror. He had ordered it from his newsagent the day after his demob from the army (rank of Corporal in charge of Stores) in 1946, and he had never wavered in his allegiance. When he had come down to Chetton he had ordered it from the tiny newsagent in Chetton Lacey, who had rubbed his eyes at this sign that the times they were a-changing, but who had delivered it regularly every morning.
Phil had been no more than a toddler in 1946, and had grown up with the Mirror, but when he came down, early on the Wednesday morning, and flicked through it, he found it far from satisfactory. True the Mirror, like the rest of Fleet Street, was finding the death of their faithful subscriber a great source of amusement, what with Parliament in the last weeks of a dull session and the silly season just around the corner. But the Mirror only had a picture of the flurry of policemen at the gates of Chetton, and a fanciful story concocted out of nothing (for Hickory was not the sort of policeman to babble to the press to cover over the fact that no substantial progress had been made). So Phil, skimming through it, just shook his head.
The policeman in the Great Hall did not greatly like Phil’s idea of driving into Chetton Lacey to buy more of the daily press, but since Sam at that moment put in an appearance on the stairs, he was sent in the Chetton estate car to pick up the Grub and the Telegram, with the promise of a slap-up breakfast when he returned.
Then Phil trekked off to the kitchens, grilled some bacon and tomatoes, fried himself an egg, and while he ate them read through the Mirror again. As the others came down in ones and twos he grilled and fried more food for them, but when Sam returned with the papers, he handed him a brimming plate, said ‘Here’s yours. The rest can eat bloody muesli,’ and retired to the Green Drawing-Room. Here he settled down on the green sofa and gave the papers the sort of concentrated attention that at that hour of the morning is only usually given to Open University courses. He was not disappointed.
COCKNEY EARL TALKS TO ‘GRUB’
‘BETTER THAN MAIDSTONE’ HE SAYS
The Grub’s coverage was sparky and vivid (for the ratty reporter knew he was competing with those extraordinary boobs on page 3). It exuded the reporter’s sense of being absolutely chuffed with himself over his scoop, and Phil’s personality emerged as ripe and genial—an impression supplemented by the picture of him with his arm round Raicho’s shoulder. The Telegram’s coverage was soberer, slightly more grammatical, but it was quite as long, and used a similar picture. Both papers began their stories on page 1, and continued them inside. Phil read them both through twice, then left them conspicuously on the coffee table by the fireplace.
Down in the kitchen things were sticky. Raicho, hungry enough to brave the dangers of Dixie, had come down in search of breakfast. His dark, good-looking face was apprehensive, but Dixie had luckily kept to her room. The welcome from the others was cold and appraising, but after a second or two’s thought Joan said brightly ‘Hello, Raicho. I expect you’d like something to eat, wouldn’t you?’ And she fetched him something with fairly good grace. The rest of them turned back to what they were doing, which was trying to worm information out of Sam.
‘But what was he after?’ Trevor asked. ‘Phil’s never been a great newspaper reader before.’
‘You ask him, man,’ said Sam, who at strategic moments retreated into racial stereotype, even to rolling his eyes. ‘He just sent me for some papers.’
‘Well, which ones?’
‘The Grub and the Telegram.’
‘Why those two? What was in them?’
‘He-ell, I dunno, man,’ lied Sam. ‘I didn’t look.’
‘I expect it was the interview,’ said Raicho. There was a moment’s silence. They all turned their eyes to him, suspicious.
‘What interview?’ demanded Digby.
‘My father talked to a couple of reporters—over there in some field or other, yesterday.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Michele.
‘I don’t really know. I only got there at the end.’
‘But you were there, you were with him,’ said Joan, in a transparent attempt at ingratiation. ‘How nice! Because you’ve really had very little contact with your father in the past, haven’t you? And now—practically his right-hand man!’
Raicho did not respond to this. He took a piece of toast and buttered it. The others looked at each other, forged into an ad hoc alliance by their common uncertainty.
‘I don’t see any harm in it,’ said Chokey. ‘Phil always was gabby.’
‘I must say,’ said Joan, ‘that I don’t think it was wise. After all, you know what reporters can do with what you say.’
‘The Grub does it with what you don’t say,’ said Michele.
Suddenly Trevor pricked up his ears.
‘That sounded like the phone.’
‘Can’t be,’ said Chokey. ‘They’re all unplugged. I had to plug one in when I rang my bookmaker yesterday.’
‘I think it was, though,’ said Trevor. ‘Perhaps someone forgot to pull it out.’
Mr Lillywaite had suggested—had almost, so dour was his manner, ordered—that the phone be disconnected. He had impressed on the family, and later on Phil during their walk together, the harm that could be done by one incautious word to the newspapers. When the police had begun to man the old, disused switchboard he had given them a brief statement to be read out to the press and to all other inquirers. But Mr Lillywaite’s word, it seemed, was no longer law. When Phil had finished digesting the newspapers he had gone into the Great Hall and plugged in the phone.
‘Switchboard? For the next few hours I’ll take all calls that come in for the family. That’s right: all calls.’
Then he had gone back into the Drawing-Room and waited. He had not had long to wait.
‘Yes?’ said Phil, when he picked up the phone. ‘This is the Earl of Ellesmere . . . The Clarion? . . . No, I’m sorry I don’t know of any new developments. I expect the rozzers will tell the papers quick enough if there are any . . . No, I’m not giving any interviews until after this business is cleared up . . . After? Well, that’s a different matter. It’s quite possible I’ll be willing to give interviews after that, depending, of course, on the terms you’re offering . . . Well, you just run along to your Press lord and see what he’s willing to cough up, eh? And we’ll talk about it later.’
The voice on the other end began jabbering further questions, but Phil, with a pleased grin on his face, firmly put down the phone. He turned round and saw gathered at the end of the passage his brother, his sister, and most of the other enforced residents at Chetton.
‘That was the Clarion,’ said Phil, and ambled back towards the Drawing-Room. He had scarcely reached its door when the telephone rang again.
‘Chetton Hall . . . the Earl speaking . . . No, I’ve nothing to add to what was in the Grub and Telegram today . . . When things are sorted out we might have a chat, if we can come to some arrangement—financial arrangement, that is . . . I’m expecting the Observer to send Kenneth Harris, so I’d want one of your top men . . .’
And as Phil, exuding charm and intelligent concern, strung the Press along, the assembled guests stood there, gazing with wild surmise. Only Trevor chortled and opined, as usual, that it was a right giggle.
• • •
By mid-morning Phil was getting exhausted. It wasn’t exactly that the charm was wearing thin, but it was patently becoming more of an effort. Some little cockneyism to each of the callers, some insubstantial p
romise of jam tomorrow, some broad hint of the necessity of paying for it—it all took mental effort. When Mr Lillywaite rang to wring his hands, verbally, over the material in that morning’s papers, Phil cut him very short indeed. He was quite pleased when he saw Raicho returning from an interview with Superintendent Hickory.
‘How did it go?’
‘Fine, Dad,’ said Raicho laconically.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘The truth.’
‘And nothing but the truth, I hope,’ said Phil, unaccountably missing out ‘the whole truth’. ‘Look, I’ve got a little job for you. Oh good—here are the kids.’
Since the return of their father, and especially since the retreat into purdah of their mother, who had not been seen yet that day, the children had been running wild. Phil sent the younger two out to the grounds, to run a little wilder, and gathered Karen, Gareth and Raicho around the telephone.
‘I’m pooped, so you lot are going to take over—right? The spiel is this: there won’t be any statements or interview till after the police have finished their inquiries. After that I’ll be considering all offers of interviews, if the terms are right. Anything else—opening bazaars, supermarket, TV, radio, anything like that—tell them to put their offer in writing. I’ll be dealing with all correspondence after the police—etcetera, etcetera, and so on. Anything unusual, you come to me and I’ll deal with it. Got that?’
The phone rang as he spoke.
‘Right. I’ll take this last one, so listen carefully.’
He took up the receiver.
‘Yes, this is Chetton Hall . . . Mr Trevor Spender? . . . Are you sure? . . . What was it you wanted to speak to him about? . . . Oh, I see . . . I dunno, but I’ll see if he’s available.’
He laid down the receiver, grimaced at the children, and shook his head. Then he went over to the Drawing-Room.
‘Someone wants you on the buzzer, Trev. Some film company. And if it’s an offer, try to keep your clothes on in this one, will you? For the honour of the family.’
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