Bryant & May – Hall of Mirrors: (Bryant & May Book 15)

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Then surely they’re all more at risk than I am,’ said Monty, looking almost relieved.

  ‘That would be the obvious assumption,’ Bryant answered, ‘but we should think a little more deviously than that. How much would you say Sir Charles Chamberlain stands to lose if he’s found guilty?’

  Monty considered the question for a moment. ‘He has clients all over the world. There are governments keen on hiring him for major rebuilding projects.’

  ‘And the only thing that stands between his fortune and total ruin may be you. Wouldn’t it be worth putting some real effort into discrediting you, and coming up with the kind of elaborate plan you wouldn’t see coming?’

  ‘You’re saying Burke is a decoy, a trick to lure me here?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Bryant. ‘I can’t think on an empty stomach. Will you excuse me? My sausages are getting cold.’

  ‘Did anybody else hear that extraordinary bang?’ asked Norma Burke, entering the breakfast salon. She was dressed in full English county attire, tweed skirt, tartan cardigan, hair tied back, lace-up shoes. ‘It gave me quite a fright.’

  ‘The army,’ Monty replied, too worried about himself to make an effort towards civility.

  ‘I was wondering if I could have a word with your husband,’ said May, seizing the opportunity.

  ‘You’ll have to get a move on,’ Norma warned. ‘He said something about going into the village this morning. He has a breakfast meeting with his lawyer. He insisted on walking. Do you think it’s safe for him out there?’

  ‘It should be so long as he keeps his wits about him,’ May replied. ‘I imagine it would be easier to dodge a Chieftain tank on foot.’ Casting a longing glance at his heaped plate, he realized what he would have to do. ‘Perhaps I should go and keep an eye on him, just to make sure. We can’t have anyone getting flattened.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ll guard your breakfast.’

  Norma poured herself a coffee. ‘What brings you here, Mr Askey?’ she asked.

  For a moment Bryant forgot his alias and looked around, but he recovered fast. ‘Mr March and I are working with Monty on a number of business ventures. He wangled us an invite for the weekend.’

  She stirred her coffee thoughtfully. ‘So you’re petitioning my husband too? How disappointing.’

  ‘I didn’t know he would be here,’ he replied truthfully.

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘That rather makes you unique in this crowd. Word of Donald’s largesse has a habit of getting around. He was never like this before his breakdown.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware he had been ill.’

  ‘It’s hardly a topic one raises over the dinner table, Mr—’

  ‘Please, call me Arthur.’

  ‘My husband had been overworked for a number of years. Of course, we weren’t always wealthy. People forget how hard times were after the war.’

  ‘But your fortunes changed.’

  ‘Yes, and good fortune brought new friends.’ She lifted the lid of a tureen and peered inside. ‘But it made him suspicious of everyone. My husband has a penchant for investing in new ventures, but he avoids anyone who looks like they might have something dubious to sell.’

  ‘Like Mr Hatton-Jones.’

  Norma dabbed at her hair absently. ‘I’m afraid so. He keeps asking Miss Harrow if she’ll introduce him to Donald. I can’t think why.’

  Bryant decided to remain silent.

  Harry came in from the garden and checked the tureens. ‘Are the kidneys still warm? According to the papers the weather’s due to turn nasty,’ he said merrily. ‘I think we should play some games. I love games.’ He helped himself to some porridge and stood examining the ladle. After a moment he pulled something black and hairy out of it. Bryant was horrified to realize that it was his moustache.

  Harry didn’t seem bothered by his discovery, and merely flicked it into a saucer. ‘I say, did anyone hear that boom? I saw an army tank charging across the bottom of the field just now, followed by a load of chaps with bushes on their heads. I think they were armed with bayonets. They don’t normally come this close. They’ve ruined the croquet lawn. The reverend was in the lane on his bicycle, pedalling hell for leather. It looked as if he was going to the village. The soldiers were right in his path. I hope they’re not using real bullets. Somebody could get killed.’

  Pamela Claxon appeared in the doorway. ‘Am I the last one down?’

  ‘No, and of course Wilson hasn’t put in an appearance yet.’ Monty forked scrambled egg into his face. ‘You know how wogs have trouble getting up in the mornings.’

  Bryant laid down his cutlery. ‘How would you know, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, we had a couple of ’em in our platoon, perfectly decent chaps but they nodded off whenever the sun came out. It’s in their nature.’

  ‘Did it ever occur to you that Mr Wilson might find the way you speak to him offensive?’ Bryant asked. The other guests fell silent and listened to the argument.

  ‘I treat him exactly the same way I treat everyone else,’ Monty insisted. ‘He’s knows I’m only joking.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s demeaning to refer to him by what you presumptuously take to be the characteristics of his race?’

  Monty looked shocked. ‘Not at all. People don’t complain about The Black and White Minstrel Show, do they?’

  ‘Actually they do,’ said Pamela.

  ‘Well, when I next talk to my little coloured friend I’ll ask him if he minds the odd joke, shall I?’ asked Monty angrily.

  ‘I would never allow my detective to say things like that,’ Pamela muttered.

  ‘Ah yes, the Trench fellow,’ said Monty dismissively.

  ‘Inspector Trench.’

  ‘He sounds like someone from the gas board. You know, Inspect a Trench.’

  ‘He’s very popular,’ Pamela bristled.

  ‘I dare say,’ Monty agreed. ‘There must be many servants who enjoy reading that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Wilson, wandering in wearing a bus-red dressing gown. ‘Was that thunder just now?’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Wilson,’ said Bryant. ‘Monty here wants to ask you something.’

  Another explosion shook the room, delicately rattling the chandelier. A plume of plaster dust settled over the kedgeree.

  ‘Gosh, I hope the pile doesn’t fall down before Donald moves in,’ said Harry, studying the ceiling with concern.

  ‘If it does I imagine my husband will want his money back,’ replied Norma, dusting off her shoulder.

  Wilson looked puzzled. The smile faded from his lips. ‘Monty, what was it you wanted to ask me?’

  Monty’s perpetually marbled complexion finally paled. From this point on, the weekend took a turn for the worse.

  19

  * * *

  THE GIRL WITH THE SUN IN HER HAIR

  The military manoeuvres had not scared off the wildlife: the grey morning fog had dissipated far enough to reveal curlews in a field and a pair of large glossy crows standing like bookends on a low stone wall. There was also something furry and crimson lying disembowelled in the road. May blew into his cupped hands and carried on walking. He had brought nothing suitable for tramping muddy lanes. His shoes looked as if they belonged in Jermyn Street, not the Kent countryside, so he had been forced to borrow some rather outsized wellingtons.

  As the mist rolled back a little further he caught a glimpse of Donald Burke’s stocky figure striding around the next bend. The millionaire had donned a tweed overcoat and hat, but was instantly recognizable from the grey hair over his collar and his wide-legged gait. For an older man he moved with tremendous speed and purpose. Although May tried to close the gap between them he was soon out of breath.

  The road meandered through the fields like a river, winding deeply within tall, dense hedgerows of hawthorn and bramble. There were no turn-offs, so Burke could have only one destination in mind: Crowshott. Halfway along the lane the hedge was torn apart where a tank had
crashed through it and ploughed mud from its tracks across to the next field.

  By the time the road opened out into the village there was no sign of Burke. He had simply turned a corner and vanished.

  May was brought up short. A lichen-pocked stone cross stood on the green beside a duck pond. Against the window of a grocery store leaned a butcher’s bike, its wicker basket filled with paper packages. A grey-uniformed nanny passed by with a perambulator. In the distance he could hear the whine of a milk float, its metal bottle-cages rattling. There was no one else to be seen. The road led in two directions only: one went on to Knotsworth; the other headed back to the hall.

  For all of last night’s talk about the country’s changing social order, here it felt as if nothing had altered in over a century. Kent was still the sempiternal garden of England, yeasty with beer and hop pickers, its hedgerows plump with blackberries, its villages becalmed the year round except for two weeks in August when holidaymakers passed through on their way to the coast. The first motorway south had opened now, which meant there were even fewer visitors passing through.

  If Donald Burke was meeting his lawyer it seemed likely that he would head for the Red Lion in Knotsworth, where Stafford was staying, but Norma had said ‘the village’, which surely suggested Crowshott.

  May entered Crowshott’s only telephone box and called Directory Enquiries, who gave him the number for the Red Lion. The landlord told him that Mr Stafford had gone out early, but he could try the Goat & Compasses, as they also did breakfasts, so he headed over there.

  Just as Bryant had found him the night before, the barman was slowly polishing glasses behind the counter. ‘G’morning, sir,’ he said, ‘are you here for breakfast?’

  ‘Is there anyone else in the dining room?’ May asked.

  ‘Just one. Through there. Mind your head.’ He pointed the way through a narrow arched door marked ‘Duck or Grouse’.

  Vanessa Harrow sat alone by a lead-light window with her elbows on the table, one hand clasping the other. Against the smeared glass, with the pale sunlight shining through a haze of smoke, there was something leonine about her. She was wearing an amber slash-neck top, a heavy rope of yellow plastic beads and a scent, Chanel No. 5, rather exotic for a country pub. He tried not to find her entrancing.

  She looked up as he approached. ‘Hello, Jack. You escaped as well.’ She pointed to the empty chair opposite with her cigarette.

  ‘I’m not interrupting anything?’ May looked around for any sign that Donald Burke had been in the room. A bright yellow overcoat and matching beret hung on a stand but there was nothing else.

  ‘No, I was just – I thought it would be nice to get away for a few minutes. The tea and toast are fresh. I didn’t feel like facing another veiled inquisition from our fellow guests this morning.’

  ‘I’m not very good at table talk either.’ May helped himself to a cup.

  ‘I thought you did all right last night.’

  May laughed. ‘I might have been better in the 1920s, when the old order was still in place around here. At least I would have known what was expected of me.’

  ‘You mean servants laying out your clothes and that sort of thing? Instead of Harry dancing about to his sitar music and everyone asking impertinent questions about sex?’

  ‘Were they? I missed that part somehow.’ He helped himself to toast.

  ‘My relationship with Donald seems to intrigue them, but they don’t quite know what to do about it. I suppose in the old days I’d have simply been snubbed.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘One senses that the traditional country house rulebook is being torn up. And a good thing too, I suppose.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ May asked.

  ‘Darling, haven’t you seen the way they anatomize me, the painted strumpet from Mayfair? As if they occupy the moral high ground. They’re all so desperately keen for me to reveal the blots in my copybook, just so it’ll give them something to talk about back in London. You and your colleague don’t seem so judgemental. You’re out of place down here.’

  ‘Arthur says the days of the grand weekend are over,’ said May. ‘He thinks all these old mansions will be soon knocked down or sold off for flats.’

  ‘I imagine he’s right. Who can afford them now? I mean, except for Americans. Perhaps they’ll be our saviours.’

  ‘Speaking of whom, you haven’t seen Mr Burke here, have you? His wife said he was coming to the village for breakfast.’ He tried to sound casual.

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone else.’ She glanced towards the kitchen. ‘You can ask the waitress.’

  ‘You weren’t meeting him yourself?’

  ‘Now why would I do that?’ Her wide, innocent eyes defied him to disbelieve her.

  ‘I thought you were close friends.’

  The question went unanswered. Vanessa looked away to the window.

  ‘I’m twenty-four, Jack. Three years ago, my father died. They said it was a heart attack, but it was the war that killed him. He couldn’t make sense of the world any more. When I was a little girl I wanted to be a nurse and bring out the best in people, but somehow I ended up working in a nightclub, where I only see the worst of them.’ She drew out a fresh Consulate and lit it. ‘My poor father. He walked down the street looking at others of my age, the way they dressed and behaved, and couldn’t understand what the war had been for. I tried to explain to him: this is exactly what you fought for, so that people could be as free as this. It wasn’t the kind of freedom he had imagined.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your father,’ said May. ‘I think many people feel the way he did.’

  ‘Donald Burke found me my job. He’s been kind to me.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Shall I tell you the absolute truth, Mr March? I know they all think we’re having an affair, but we’re not. Donald was told about me by Toby Stafford, and called to offer me employment. He and Norma don’t have children, and Donald’s only a little younger than my father was when he died. He suggested we might occasionally go to a party together – is that so terrible? But so far he’s been too busy to take me out. He’s clever and rich and successful, and he’s a Republican so of course all the English socialists loathe him. But his taxes pay for their mistakes.’

  ‘Lord Banks-Marion certainly seems happy about selling the hall to him,’ May pointed out.

  ‘Harry’s family were old high Tories, but he ceased to be part of the establishment after he refused to struggle on with the ancestral pile.’ Vanessa tapped her cigarette with a crimson nail. ‘The sale is an act of betrayal. He was thrown out of his father’s club over it. You do realize that this isn’t just a jolly weekend in the country, I suppose?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked May.

  ‘There are two factions: Donald’s loyal and desperate supporters, and those who hope to persuade Harry to refuse the offer and reclaim his birthright. They’d rather see Tavistock Hall turned into a filthy old hippy retreat than go to an American who’ll lovingly restore it.’

  May buttered himself some toast. ‘So who’s who?’

  ‘Lady Banks-Marion wants to keep the house, even though there’s no money left for the restoration.’

  ‘What about selling the fixtures and fittings?’

  ‘I imagine that was one option, which was removed when Harry threw them in to sweeten the deal.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘The Claxon woman is as thick as thieves with Norma Burke, but I heard she has the ear of someone who works closely with our prime minister-in-waiting, Mr Heath, although nobody seems to know why. I imagine they would prefer to see the hall remain in English hands. On the other side there’s Slade Wilson, who’s highly thought of in certain London circles and not quite as silly as you’d think. He wants Donald to buy the hall, as does Toby Stafford. Then there’s your pal Monty, who seems eager to collar Donald about some project of his own.’ Vanessa studied him with fresh interest. ‘You listen but you don’t say much, do you? Anyone would think you were taking no
tes.’

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  She reached forward and pressed a forefinger against his shirt. ‘You don’t fool anyone, Jack. I know all about you.’ She continued to study him for a moment, then sat back. ‘You’re not a friend of Monty’s. I’ve seen the way he looks at the pair of you, as if he can’t wait to give you the slip. You’re his minders.’

  ‘I’ve disturbed you for long enough,’ May said, checking his watch and rising. ‘I’d better be getting back.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Vanessa with a mischievous smile. ‘Keep your secrets, but I’m on your case, Mr March, so you’d better watch out.’

  As May passed the barman, still seemingly at work on the same glass, he asked, ‘Have there been any other gentlemen in for breakfast this morning?’

  ‘No, sir,’ he answered. ‘You could try the Red Lion. But you can’t drive down the lane today. The army has closed it off, third time this year. It plays havoc with our deliveries.’

  As he left the inn, the Reverend Patethric shot past the end of the road on his bicycle, pedalling fast. A line of heavy grey cloud had formed along the horizon like a distant Atlantic wave. The wind had risen, and cawing crows were riding the branches with feathers a-flutter as if they were at sea.

  Slipping back into the village’s only telephone box, he counted out some more coins and rang Gladys Forthright at the unit. To reach her he had to dial ‘O’ for the operator and push button A when she answered.

  She sounded tired. ‘Good morning, John. I thought you’d call. I sent Arthur a telegram about the army closing the road. How is it going down there?’

  ‘Someone took a whack at Monty last night, but he’s all right. Arthur seems to think that something worse is going to happen unless we can stop it. He says he can intuit confrontations from overheard conversations and body language. Personally, I think it’s a load of rubbish. He’s started getting interested in crackpot sciences lately.’