The others were sensibly dressed in dark clothing and wore amused expressions every time they glanced at the Jackleys.
“I got some great shots of that Guy Fawkes dummy,” Jack said complacently. “It sure looks lifelike.”
“Come and get your drink now,” Plantagenet invited, becoming more proprietorial by the moment. Perhaps he had refilled his own glass often enough to forget where he was and actually did think he was the host.
“OK,” Jack said. “I guess I’ve got both hands free for a little while now.”
“No more pictures until they light the bonfire,” Karla said. “Remember, you promised.”
“Not unless something happens that’s too good to miss,” Jack said. “I’ve got to keep alert, you don’t get second chances on a really good shot.”
“What do you think might happen?” Karla exhaled a long breath of exasperation. “Freddie’s going to dance naked on a tabletop?”
“Not tonight,” Freddie said, “it’s too cold.”
“Here we are!” Dorian appeared in the far doorway and marched through the drawing room, holding aloft a flaming torch.
“Oh, gawd!” Freddie said. “He thinks he’s lighting the Olympic flame.”
Nevertheless, it was quite an entrance. He had taken all the attention away from Plantagenet Sutton and reclaimed his rightful position as host and Master of the Revels.
Dorian was followed by Betty Alvin and Gordie Crane, who were almost staggering under the weight of enormous trays laden with dishes piled with sausages, each pile thoughtfully labelled with a brief description of the sausages on offer. It was clear that Dorian had spent part of his time in London at a gourmet sausage establishment. Trust Dorian – no common-or-garden-variety bangers at his Bonfire Night.
“On the table,” Dorian directed, indicating the long trestle table set up beside the barbecue. “Everyone can choose their own and have them cooked to order.” He stepped back and leaned against the stone railing, obviously gratified as his guests crowded around with cries of appreciation.
“Burgundy pistachio sausage …” Freddie began reading the tags. “Pork, prune and cognac ... steak and Guinness stout ... duck with apricot and orange ... smoked salmon ... venison and wild mushroom ... wild boar with Calvados and apple ... There’s something for everyone here.”
“There’s even a green sausage!” Jack Jackley peered at it mistrustfully. “I’m not eating that. How long have you had these things? Is your refrigeration working?”
“That’s John Nott’s sausage.” Dorian was amused and superior; it was obviously a reaction he had hoped for. “From his Cook’s Diary of 1720. The green is fresh spinach and it also contains eggs, marjoram and savoury. You’ll be missing a treat if you don’t try one.”
“Jackley walked right into that one,” Macho said with satisfaction. “Dorian was hoping someone would fall for it. Did you notice how he had the recipe right on the tip of his tongue?”
“Yeah?” Jackley had noticed, too. “Well, whatever it is, you can find another sucker. I’m not eating anything that gives me cold chills to look at it.”
“I'll try one.” Karla gave her spouse a dismissive glance.
“It’s hard to know what to choose,” Professor Borley said. “They all look fantastically exotic. But, tell me, what do vegetarians do on Bonfire Night?”
“Here comes the vegetarian selection now,” Dorian said, as Betty Alvin reappeared with another tray. “You’ll find mushroom and tarragon sausage, chestnut and orange... a Welsh sausage of Caerphilly cheese and leek ... then there’s one made with courgette, coconut and spices ...”
“Sorry I asked.” Professor Borley held up his hand as though quelling an unruly classroom. “I think I’ll settle for the venison and wild mushroom.”
“I intend to have a bite of everything,” Rhylla Montague announced. “This spread must have cost dear Dorian a fortune and the least we can do is take advantage of it so that he can charge it up to research.”
“Dear Rhylla, how kind of you to be so concerned about my finances,” Dorian murmured. For a moment, their glances crossed like swords.
“Well,” Rhylla said, “are you going to stand there like a human torchère all evening, or are you going to light the bonfire?”
“Oh, I’m going to light it.” Dorian swept a glance around the terrace. “In fact, I think it’s time. Jack,” he called, “are you ready to. record the great moment?”
“Yeah. Sure. Coming.” Jack brought up his camera in a reflex action as Dorian flourished his torch, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
“I’d better go with them,” Karla said. “It’s supposed to be the record of my year. I mean, our year. One of us ought to be in the picture.” She hurried away to join the group following Dorian down the steps and onto the lawn.
“I wouldn’t want to get too close to that bonfire myself.” Rhylla set her drink down on the stone balustrade and surveyed the scene below. “It looks as though it might collapse if someone sneezed on it.”
“Dorian should stick to his level of competence,” Macho said. “He’s just about adequate as a writer; he has no flair at all for carpentry or building.”
“Actually, that bonfire is quite well constructed.” Gordie Crane joined them. “I built most of it myself. It only looks so ramshackle because he allowed the local children to come along and throw their contributions onto it. That’s why it has all those bits sticking out in odd places.”
“Children?” Rhylla looked around nervously. “Where?”
“Oh, his hospitality didn’t extend to inviting them to the party.” There was a trace of bitterness in Gordie’s voice, perhaps because he wasn’t a guest himself. “He fobbed them off by saying that their parents would have their own plans for private parties, but they must be sure to look out of their windows when the bonfire was going well and they’d be able to see the guy burn.”
“All heart, our Dorian,” Rhylla said.
“I hope he has that dummy firmly anchored in place. It would ruin his evening if it slid to the ground without catching fire.” Macho sounded as though he hoped the opposite; it would not ruin his evening if Dorian’s plans went awry.
“It will remain in place, I assure you.” Gordie seemed to resent the implied slur on his handiwork. As well he might. His expertise in all practical fields was the reason he was here. One of the truly useful people Dorian had collected, he was able to build bookcases, solve electrical problems, fix the plumbing and deal with all the other mechanical faults that baffled the rest of them. (“Invaluable,” Dorian had said. “He can even mend broken-down typewriters. If the part isn’t available anymore, he’ll hand-craft it himself.” To writers nursing along obsolete machines to avoid the day they had to grapple with new technology, it was the major point in Gordie’s favour.) Dorian had used his influence to have Gordie installed in the basement flat at Coffers Court as resident caretaker, on call for any emergencies among the rest of the literary inhabitants of Brimful Coffers. Gordie’s only flaw was that he cherished ambitions to be a writer himself and imagined that living in their midst would help him achieve his goal. It was a delusion Dorian encouraged for fear of losing the services of such a peerless handyman.
“The dummy will stay in place,” Gordie insisted firmly. “I made sure none of the children got near it.”
“Children!” Rhylla sighed.
“Your granddaughter must be due any moment now, isn’t she?” Lorinda obligingly picked up the cue.
“Three suitcases arrived this morning. Can Clarice be far behind?”
They watched as Dorian circled the bonfire, his torch dipping rhythmically to ignite the firelighters strategically concealed at intervals around the perimeter. Camera flashes recorded each flare of tinder and kindling. Crackling noises began to drown out the laughter and comments below.
“Gordie! The sausages are burning!” Betty Alvin’s sharp cry made Gordie whirl about and dash for the barbecue grill where the first sausages wer
e blackening and splitting.
“Oh, don’t let Dorian see them!” Betty wailed in dismay. “They cost a fortune – he’ll be furious. Here, hide them in the warming cabinet. We’ll eat them ourselves later.”
“I’ll take one,” Macho said. “I like them well done and crispy, anyway.”
“I’ll help dispose of the evidence,” Freddie agreed.
“We all will.” Lorinda could say no less.
“Oh, bless you!” Betty Alvin looked at them hopefully. “You needn’t actually eat them. Perhaps you could take them home for your cats.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” Lorinda looked at the blackened lumps and shuddered. She was in enough trouble with the cats for leaving them tonight. Their probable reaction if she brought home such burnt offerings made her cringe. They wouldn’t speak to her for a week.
“No, no, won’t be necessary,” Macho agreed quickly. His Roscoe was also accustomed to much better fare. “We’ll eat them ourselves.”
“And that won’t be necessary, either.” Gordie forked the ruined sausages into a pile and concealed them in a paper napkin. “I’ll slip down and throw them on the bonfire later.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea!” Betty Alvin’s relief betrayed that she hadn’t been looking forward to choking down the burnt food herself. “Don’t get caught. Wait till Dorian is out of the way. He’s sure to take some of the guests into his study to show off his tropical fish. That will be the best time to make a move. Then he won’t get furious over the waste –”
“He can afford it.” Grimly, Gordie whisked the greasy bundle out of sight and set out a fresh row of assorted sausages on the grill just as the others returned to the terrace.
“It’s well alight.” Dorian surveyed the scene below with the satisfaction of one who had done an excellent job. As a finishing touch, he had rammed the point of his torch into the ground beside the bonfire to burn itself out. “Now, how are things proceeding here?” He cast an expert eye over the grill. “Ah, splendid!”
Gordie nodded acknowledgment, his mouth a tight line. Much too soon; he turned the sausages over, frowning with a concentration that proclaimed he was too busy to talk.
“More drinks!” Dorian ordered. “Bartender!” It was not quite a joke. “You’re falling down on the job. Fresh drinks for everyone!”
“Coming right up!” Plantagenet bared his teeth at the guests crowding around the bar. “Step up and name your poison!” There was no doubt who he would like to poison.
Dorian smiled blandly and stepped back, not relinquishing his own glass to be refilled.
“Keep the home fires burning, dear boy,” he murmured to Gordie. “I think I’ll slip into my study for a few quiet moments and feed the fish.” He moved away.
“Feed himself, he means,” Betty Alvin translated when he was safely out of earshot. “His ulcer has been acting up again. He has a plate of sandwiches waiting in there for him. These sausages are too rich and spicy for him to risk.”
“He’ll be out of the way for a while, then.” Gordie handed the barbecue fork to Betty. “Hold the fort while I dispose of the corpus delicti.” He retrieved the guilty bundle from its hiding place and started down the terrace steps with it.
Lorinda was not the only person to have noticed the byplay. As Gordie stooped to bury his parcel in the bonfire, a flash illumined the scene. Gordie straightened up in a whiplash motion and whirled to glare up at the terrace.
“Good one.” Jack lowered the camera and gave him a cheery wave. “You’re doing a great job,” he called. “Keep that fire stoked.”
Gordie’s lips moved; it was probably just as well that his voice didn’t reach the terrace. He pushed the bundle farther into the bonfire with a stick and kicked a few embers over it before returning to the terrace and resuming his place at the grill.
Jack had wandered away and was taking more pictures, his earlier promise to Karla evidently forgotten – if he had intended to keep it at all. Karla, deep in conversation with Rhylla, did not appear to notice.
“If he comes near me, I’ll break his camera,” Macho said, moving defensively behind Lorinda. “How much longer do we have to stay? I’m ready to leave now.”
“Have something to eat first,” Freddie soothed. “They’ve begun serving. Look! Jack’s first in line. He won’t be able to eat and take pictures at the same time. You’re safe for another half hour. Come on, it’s better than going home to the microwave.”
She had used a telling argument. Macho followed her meekly. Lorinda, swerving to avoid Karla, ran straight into Professor Borley.
“Allow me.” He took possession of her glass and passed it to Plantagenet. “How is the book coming along?”
That was a question she did not wish to answer. She smiled vaguely and was rewarded with another question she did not want to answer.
“Is it possible to set a time for our interview?”
How about when hell freezes over? “Oh, not just yet,” she said quickly. “I’m at rather a tricky bit just now.”
“And you don’t want your concentration broken.” He nodded sagely. “Well, just let me know when you’re ready. I hope it will be soon.”
Lorinda smiled falsely again and accepted her now-refilled glass. The urge to kill was rising in her. She wondered whether she could strangle Miss Petunia with her own pince-nez cord.
Then she wished she hadn’t thought of that. The spectre of those pince-nez, the broken cord dangling, rose at the back of her mind. Perhaps someone had already tried ... NO! No, it wasn’t possible. She took a deep breath as the world seemed to tilt suddenly and reality began to slide away.
“Are you all right?” Professor Borley asked anxiously. “You’ve gone so pale.”
Freddie and Macho walked past, laden with booty from the barbecue, and signalled to her. They were reality. She watched them take over the stone bench set against the wall of the house at the other end of the terrace, where they would have the best view of the proceedings while remaining apart from them.
“Can I get you anything?” Professor Borley put a steadying hand on her arm. “You’re not going to faint?”
“No, no, I’m all right.” She was suddenly aware that Plantagenet Sutton was watching her with a sardonic smile. Was it possible that he had put something in her drink?
“I just felt a little faint.” If he had, she was not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him see that it had affected her. “The ... the smell ...”
The bonfire was burning merrily and crackling festively, but the smell of scorched meat wafting from it was slightly repugnant. She was not the only one fanning the air with a protesting hand. She watched as the flames licked upwards towards the sprawled dummy.
“Lorinda,” Freddie called. “Your sausages are getting cold.”
“Perhaps I ought to sit down,” Lorinda excused herself, sliding away from his grasp.
“A. B.” Gemma was ready to pounce; she pronounced it Abbey.
“Come and get your bonfire food. It’s delicious.” Hand on Professor Borley’s elbow, she firmly guided him over to the grill.
Plantagenet had abandoned his post and was helping himself to a selection of sausages. Betty Alvin was looking around to make sure the others had all been served. They had.
Dorian had rejoined the party, wandering about amiably, holding a plate with a safe bland baked potato and a small sausage he had no intention of eating. He appeared faintly on edge, with a curiously expectant air.
“He’s up to something.” Freddie had noticed it, too. She looked around suspiciously. “What’s the betting?”
“No takers.” Macho narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “He was being very insistent that we should bring the cats along – as though I’d let Roscoe out on a night like this. Do you think that might have something to do with it?”
“It might. He seemed quite annoyed,” Lorinda remembered, “when I told him Had-I and But-Known were staying in their own home with tranquillizing saucers of cream tonigh
t.”
“Gemma didn’t fall for it, either,” Freddie said. “And thank heavens for that. A couple of overexcited pugs chasing around would be all we needed.”
“He probably hoped they’d start chasing the cats and add a bit of excitement to the party.” Macho was darkly suspicious. “Not that this party couldn’t use something to liven it up.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Freddie defended. “The food is good. It isn’t actually raining and, so long as we stick together, the company is agreeable.”
“That’s about to change,” Macho said darkly, as Plantagenet Sutton headed towards them.
“Anyone want a fresh drink?” he offered. “We’re switching to wine now. Dorian wasn’t sure what to serve but, for an outdoor occasion like this, I advised a good rough chianti or rioja – about the only wines tough enough to hold their own with spicy sausages.”
“What a good idea,” Lorinda responded automatically, realizing that the others, their eyes glazing over with boredom, were not going to bother to answer.
“Yes. Yes, he was a trifle disappointed, I fear. It’s his first big party here, isn’t it? He wanted to make a splash, but it would be an insult to good wine to waste it on –”
A high piercing scream cut him off. All eyes turned to mid-terrace where Jennifer Lane was pointing to the top of the bonfire, still screaming.
“Oh, my God!” Freddie gasped.
The dummy on top of the bonfire was moving.
Slowly at first, it writhed on the blazing pyre, then began jerking as though in agony as the flames engulfed it. A strange hissing sound came from it, like the whistling exhalation of a thousand last breaths. The stench of burning meat became overpowering.
“Do something!” Jackley bellowed, leading the rush from the terrace.
The women screaming, the men shouting, they dashed to the base of the bonfire, then wavered, unable to approach closer because of the heat and the flames.
“Hang on a minute.” Freddie caught Lorinda’s arm as she started to run. Macho and Plantagenet had already bolted along the terrace and down the steps.
“But we’ve got to do something,” Lorinda protested. “We’ve got to try –”
Canapés for the Kitties Page 8
