Dead on Cue

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Mrs Harlington?’ he asked.

  ‘Just call me Ekaterina,’ she answered, and sat down gracefully opposite him.

  The effect on Jack Boggis was amazing. He actually lowered the Daily Telegraph and his face suffused a dull shade of trodden grape.

  ‘Does that include me?’ he said with an attempt at a manly laugh.

  She looked him up and down coolly. ‘If you wish,’ she replied, and shrugged a casual shoulder. Nick thought that she was one of the most elegant creatures he had seen in years.

  It was out before he could control the words. ‘Are you really married to Gerry Harlington?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just that the two of you are quite different.’

  She shrugged again. ‘Why do we have to be alike? What would be the point of that?’

  Nick looked penitent. ‘Forgive me. I am speaking out of turn.’

  Boggis butted in. ‘So you’re new to our village, little lady?’

  She regarded him unsmilingly. ‘Yes. We moved into Abbot’s Manor a week ago. Why?’

  ‘Because if you want someone to show you round, I’m your man.’

  ‘Perhaps you could direct me to the best gymnasium in the area. I’m looking for a personal trainer.’

  ‘Hoh, hoh,’ chortled Jack. ‘I’d volunteer if I were a few years younger.’

  Ekaterina’s expression did not change. ‘I used to belong to The Sports Club in LA. It’s on Wilshire Boulevard. Do you know it?’

  The vicar interposed. ‘It sounds very grand but I don’t think we’ve anything to match that round here. I’d try Brighton. The only thing is it’s quite a way.’

  For the first time Ekaterina smiled. ‘That doesn’t worry me. I will take your advice. Thank you.’ She picked up a menu. ‘Now then, what would you like to eat?’

  An hour later and Nick found himself still in her company. She was one of those women who had the knack of drawing a great deal of information from her associate whilst imparting little about herself. All he had been able to ascertain was that she had been born in Russia but had gone to America as a teenager and there met Gerry. He, on the other hand, was discussing the parish, his comfortable but eccentric home, and his spur-of-the-moment decision to take part in the Son et Lumière. He had even mentioned that he owned a cat.

  Ekaterina pursed her beautiful lips – surely they had been enhanced in some magical way – and said, ‘I don’t know how Gerry is going to get on with that dramatic society.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because he is a hip-hop dancer at heart. He likes setting things to music – which he composes himself – and then dancing to it.’

  ‘But surely he won’t be able to do that with this production. I mean, it is the history of Fulke Castle.’

  Ekaterina rearranged her stunning features. ‘Wait and see.’

  ‘Are you going to be in it?’ asked Nick hopefully.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been asked.’

  ‘Well, I think you should.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she answered.

  Despite all the vicar’s protestations she insisted on paying for lunch. Aware of Jack Boggis’s baggy gaze glinting at him, Nick accepted graciously, then walked out to the car park with her. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw a Bugatti Veyron Super Sports in a dazzling shade of blue standing there.

  ‘Is this yours?’ he asked in wonderment.

  ‘Sure,’ said Ekaterina, easing her slender shape into the driver’s seat.

  Rapidly thinking that Gerry Harlington must be in the millionaire league, Nick stared at it.

  ‘I’ve never seen one before,’ he admitted.

  ‘Get in. I’ll give you a ride round the countryside.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘Oh, just get in. It will give your parishioners something to think about.’

  As Nick slid into the incredibly well-upholstered seat he wondered what Mavis Cox would make of it all as Ekaterina accelerated from zero to sixty in a few seconds as they flew down Arrow Street.

  It was the first rehearsal and Gerry was bustling with importance. Rustling a sheet of papers he stared round the room and called, ‘Quiet please.’ The Oakbridge Dramatists and Dramatic Society obediently obeyed, looking at him with expectant eyes.

  ‘Hi, y’all,’ he said, projecting his voice to a boom. ‘Allow me to introduce myself – to those of you who don’t know me already. My name is Gerry Harlington and I – yes, you’re right – starred in the Wasp Man films.’

  There was a stunned silence. Gerry continued.

  ‘I also directed a soap opera that was just enormous on TV. It was called The Fortune. Unfortunately it was not shown here in Britain but any of you who have visited the States will surely have seen it.’

  One of the company spoke up. It was Robin Green, dressed in the usual shorts and sandals and speaking through a mass of facial hair.

  ‘Yes, I saw an excerpt in San Francisco. There were a lot of black people driving around in cars. I didn’t quite get the gist.’

  Gerry laughed gaily. ‘Wow, that’s tough. Now I want to ask a question before we start rehearsal. How many of you boys and gals can dance? Hands up please.’

  Four girls, including the delectable Jonquil Charmwood, put up a tentative hand. Gerry looked round, twinkling.

  ‘What? No fellas? Say now, can’t any of you move?’

  Robin Green ventured, ‘Well, I can dance a bit.’

  Nick, who was attending his very first rehearsal and was not at all sure of himself, said, ‘I studied tap dancing when I was at school.’

  ‘Great, we have two of you.’

  Paul Silas, the chairman of the society, spoke in beautifully modulated tones. ‘Excuse me interrupting, Mr Harlington, but what do you need dancers for? Is it for the Elizabethan Fair scene?’

  The Wasp Man looked surprised, then chuckled. ‘Why no, sir. I tell you I’ve read your script through and through and I thought we could liven the whole thing up by setting it to music and introducing a dance number here and there.’

  There was a shocked silence and then a groundswell of protest.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said an unknown voice from the back.

  ‘Do you realize,’ put in Mike Alexander, the man who was dying to take over the entire society, ‘that you are dealing with an actual history. The history of Fulke Castle. You can’t stick in dances and music. We have all the music we need on the soundtrack which has been recorded by no less a luminary than Rafael Devine.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gerry, looking blank. ‘I don’t know his work.’

  ‘That is a great pity. He happens to be one of the leading lights of our theatre and is much revered. Indeed, he has made several films that have been shown in the USA and was once nominated for an Oscar.’

  ‘Oh heck, yes, I know who you mean. Didn’t he play in Starlit Heroes?’

  ‘That was Sir Michael Gambon,’ put in the unknown voice sepulchrally.

  ‘Oh well.’ Gerry shrugged. ‘So, folks, run your show before me. I’ll be interested to see what you can do with it.’

  He retired to a folding chair he had brought with him which had Gerry Harlington written in large letters across the back. Nick thought, somewhat unkindly, that he had seen chairs just like it advertised in a catalogue on which you could have printed the name of your choice.

  The Son et Lumière was set in several scenes, the first of which was the arrival at Fulke Castle by the first Sir Fulke Beau de Grave. From a recorder at the back of the room came the gorgeous voice of Rafael Devine describing the event. Meanwhile, the actors acted out the story in dumbshow, the part of Fulke Beau de Grave being played by Paul Silas. Nick, who was merely a common workman involved in the building scene, was surprised to learn from the commentary that building on the castle had not actually finished until the penultimate year of the reign of Queen Victoria, in 1900.

  As the next scene would r
equire a costume change he was not in it and neither was the attractive Jonquil Charmwood. She had greeted Nick as he had entered the room but now they had a chance for a chat.

  ‘Shall we step outside?’ she whispered.

  But before Nick could so much as nod Gerry had shouted from his corner, ‘No conversations during rehearsal, if you please. Those who want to talk can go somewhere else. And that’s an order.’

  Feeling as if every eye was upon him, Nick slipped out of the door which Jonquil was holding open and into a functional kitchen. They were rehearsing in a large church hall, close to St Matthew’s, Oakbridge, a somewhat dreary-looking parish which the vicar was secretly glad had not come his way.

  Jonquil broke the silence with two words. ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Yes it was a bit awful.’

  ‘A bit? It was absolutely shocking. How dare he want to set the show to music! And with that glorious soundtrack we’ve got already. He should be shot.’

  ‘Oh, come now. Gerry’s not that bad.’

  ‘He’s worse,’ Jonquil answered violently. ‘I regret that we ever asked him to take over. We should have asked Estelle Yeoman.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘She’s the blonde woman playing one of the Ladies Beau de Grave. She’s done professional work in her time and she doesn’t stand for any nonsense.’

  ‘I wonder why she hasn’t spoken up?’

  ‘Don’t worry, she will.’

  And, just as Jonquil had predicted, Estelle was holding forth in icy tones as they re-entered the rehearsal room.

  ‘Mr Harlington, do you have any concept of English history? To suggest a hip-hop routine during the Elizabethan Fair is absolutely ludicrous. We would be greeted with hails of derisive laughter.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow that,’ answered Gerry with an attempt at enormous dignity.

  ‘Look, you may have been the star of numerous films which I feel sure were, in their way, enormous successes. But you can’t play around with the facts. You truly can’t.’

  ‘Not even if it were dressed up as a morris dance?’

  ‘What do you mean, exactly?’

  ‘Well,’ said Gerry, with a sly grin, ‘just you wait and see.’

  Nick left the rehearsal with a welter of mixed feelings. First of all he was completely enraptured by the thought and care that had gone into planning the Son et Lumière. The splendour of the scenes as they would be enacted when they finally moved to Fulke Castle would, he knew, leave the audience gasping. There would be horses, sword fighting, a fall from the battlements, even an Irish wolfhound in the Civil War scene. He also felt a tremendous pleasure at being part of it and despite all the ill feeling that had been obvious in the church hall that night, he was certain that the show could do nothing but triumph. And yet there was a niggling doubt.

  If the Wasp Man really were to introduce something entirely irrelevant and in poor taste, what would happen? Could he jeopardize the whole concept which had clearly originally been written by someone with great artistry and flair? The only place in which he could do something as anachronistic as hip-hop dancing would be the Elizabethan Fair scene, which had music playing under the commentary throughout and therefore would give him a window of opportunity.

  In his prayers that night the vicar asked most fervently that this depressing possibility would not come to materialize.

  FIVE

  Ekaterina was lying in the small garden which lay between the main house and the building behind it, the old servants’ quarters. The place was a suntrap and despite it being early September she was stretched out on a massage couch wearing a small thong while a handsome masseur applied aromatic oils to her back. She sighed with contentment and said, ‘A little higher please, Ricardo.’ The masseur obeyed.

  He was a typical Italian stallion, rippling muscles, wavy longish black hair, a fact that he played to its fullest extent. He had actually been born in England and had attended Tulse Hill Comprehensive School, his parents running a restaurant in the vicinity of Charing Cross Station. His natural speech was pure South London but he had abandoned this for a broken Italian accent that made young girls feel randy and older women dream. In fact, he considered, as he moved his supple fingers up towards Ekaterina’s shoulder blades, it had been his voice that had latterly got him into a rather nasty scrape.

  Last month he had had the sack from the Keep Young and Beautiful Spa, where his list of clients had included a certain Mrs Liversedge-Herone, a lady of some sixty years who had practically risen from the massage couch and seduced him – at least that was his story. Unfortunately her husband had found out about their affair and also happened to play golf with one of the directors. Instant dismissal for Ricardo, who had since been freelancing with a fold-up couch in the boot of his car and jars of oils pinched from the spa as a goodbye present to himself.

  But now the fates had smiled on him once more. He had been telephoned by a Mrs Harlington and asked if he could come to a remote Sussex village to give her a course of massage. And a little research into who she was had blown him into the stratosphere. He had discovered that her husband was a second-rate actor from America – in his mind Ricardo was already imagining Gerry being dropped like a hot potato – but she was the daughter of the late Grigori Makarichoff and his sole heir. On his first visit Ricardo had taken in the glories of the moated manor, Ekaterina’s cars, which had been lined up in the garage on the near side of the bridge crossing the moat, and finally Ekaterina herself. He had promptly gone and booked himself a room in The Great House for an indeterminate stay.

  ‘Could you see to my shoulders, Ricardo? They occasionally give me pain,’ said Ekaterina in her lilting Russian voice.

  ‘It is tension, madam. Something is worrying you,’ he answered, his words oozing Latin charm. ‘Ah, the back of your neck is a knot of anxiety.’

  ‘I wonder why that should be?’

  ‘Only you will know the answer,’ Ricardo answered softly, and kneaded the top of her spine rhythmically.

  At precisely that moment Nick Lawrence was crossing the delightful small bridge which led to the great oak door of the moated manor. He was on a random parochial visit and, though he knew that Ekaterina was Russian Orthodox by faith, had hopes of somehow encouraging her to become part of the Lakehurst community, though to be honest he could hardly see her arranging flowers. Or, for that matter, joining the WI. In fact as he pulled at the long iron lever that worked the bell he could hardly think of any attractions that the village might offer that would suit Ekaterina.

  There was a long silence after it rang sonorously in the house’s depths and Nick was just about to turn away and recross the bridge when the front door opened. A young man in a white top stood there.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, his accent extreme Italianate.

  ‘Er, yes. Is Mrs Harlington in?’

  ‘She is presently getting dressed.’ At the look of surprise on the vicar’s face, Ricardo added, ‘I have just given her a massage.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well I was only here on a parochial call. I’ll come another time.’

  ‘No, no. If it is Mr Lawrence, then you are to stay,’ called a feminine voice from within, and Ekaterina appeared a few minutes later dressed in a stunning pair of silken palazzo pants with matching top, her blonde hair swept up in a comb from which many artless curls descended.

  She really was ravishing looking, thought Nick, turning his panama hat in his hands.

  Ekaterina flashed a brilliant smile. ‘Now, would you like tea or a drink, Mr Lawrence?’

  He grinned awkwardly. ‘Do you have any lapsang souchong?’

  ‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘We stock practically everything here. And what about you, Ricardo?’

  ‘Coke, please. Sugar free, of course.’

  Obviously extremely short of servants Ekaterina went to the kitchen herself and came back with a tray clinking with glasses. She found both Nick and Ricardo standing in silence at different windows watching the two
swans skimming the waters of the moat.

  ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they?’ she said.

  ‘Beautiful. Were they here when you came?’

  ‘Oh yes. I love them but Gerry wants to get rid of them and fill the moat with fish.’

  ‘Surely you won’t let him?’

  ‘They go over my dead body,’ answered Ekaterina firmly. ‘He’s a philistine. Come and look at what he’s done to the round room.’

  They followed her into the place where Gerry worked and Nick was aghast to see full-length photographs of the actor hanging alongside tapestries, precious with antiquity.

  ‘My husband,’ said Ekaterina with a non-amused laugh, ‘would like to get rid of the wall hangings and paint the walls pea green.’

  ‘You cannot be serious,’ said Ricardo but Nick shook his head and added, ‘But that would be sacrilege. You should add more tapestries if anything. Where did you get these by the way?’

  ‘My father picked them up in an auction somewhere or other.’

  ‘Was he a dealer?’ Nick asked, interested.

  Ekaterina grinned and said, ‘Sort of.’

  They returned to the tea cups and the vicar broached the reason for his visit.

  ‘I’ve come to see if I can interest you in any village activities.’

  She pulled a wry face. ‘Frankly, I would rather go to London for my amusements. As you know I have a fast car and if I don’t feel like driving I can take the train from Oakbridge. Talking of which, how is the Son et Lumière proceeding?’

  Nick gave what he hoped was a gallant laugh. ‘Well, your husband has one or two ideas for modernizing the show.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sure they haven’t gone down too well.’

  ‘No they haven’t I’m afraid.’

  ‘Has he suggested that he does a hip-hop routine?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Ekaterina sighed. ‘He will, you can bet on it.’