May, on the other hand, was bouncing along, checking out the portraits and tapestries, running his hand over the banisters and stopping with mouth agape before the main hall’s stained-glass windows, a melange of British myths that included King Arthur, Guinevere, Herne the Hunter with his bow drawn and, rather more oddly, the martyrdom of St Edmund, pinned to a tree with arrows. He was shamelessly fascinated by everything he saw, and kept nudging his partner.
‘That looks like a real Gainsborough, and that’s an early Joshua Reynolds,’ Bryant whispered back, amazed. ‘If I had a Stanley knife and a rubber band I could get one up my jumper.’
‘Art cannot be evaluated by what it would fetch up Petticoat Lane,’ May replied.
‘I bet these are copies anyway,’ said Bryant. ‘The originals will be stashed away somewhere. The owners of this pile would never be able to afford the insurance.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Bryant sniffed the air. ‘It reeks of rising damp in here. Take a look around. There’s dry rot in those skirting boards, the carpets are threadbare, the ceilings need replastering and I think you’ll find these are mouse droppings.’ He kicked at what looked like black grains of rice with the toe of his shoe.
‘So why are the owners hosting a weekend?’
‘Because they need something in return. That’s how they work. You wait and see. Stay close, we mustn’t lose Lurch.’ Together they climbed the central staircase.
‘Where is everybody?’ May asked the butler. ‘Is this what normally happens?’
‘This way, sir,’ said Alberman, ignoring his question. ‘You’re to have the Willow and Larch Rooms – they are adjoining suites.’
As they continued up, the staircase became darker and narrower. ‘Hey, where are you sticking us?’ May peered over the banisters at the floors above. ‘We’ll be in the attic in a minute.’
‘I am sure you have many questions about the house.’ Alberman led them along a slender corridor with creaking, tilted floorboards and set about opening the second-to-last bedroom door.
‘How old is this place?’ asked May.
‘Tavistock Hall was completed in 1831 and is a three-storeyed mansion of six bays arranged around a central pediment,’ Alberman recited in a condescending tone reserved for his standard speech to guests. ‘The design is Neo-Classical Palladian with Gothic Revival additions and some unfortunate Victorian amendments. The grounds were based around designs first created by Capability Brown for Heveningham Hall in Suffolk, and the great fireplace in the drawing room is from the school of Robert Adam. The wainscoting was later embellished with foliate motifs inspired by the Renaissance revival, and the abstract ornamentation is characteristic of the Aesthetic Movement. Further information concerning the architecture and decoration may be obtained in the library.’ He pronounced this last word with four syllables and a rolled R, li-ber-rar-y. ‘The other guests have already arrived. Your bags will be brought up imminently. Cocktails are at seven thirty and dinner is served at eight o’clock sharp. Please respect the hot water.’
Without bothering to make any eye contact with them he turned and walked away.
‘Creepy butler, that’s a good start,’ said Bryant, stepping into his room. ‘There should be a suit of armour holding an axe somewhere. Blimey, it’s freezing in here.’ He rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘I bet it’s just the same in summer.’
‘Thick walls,’ May replied, following him in. ‘Let me have a nose at yours first, see who’s got the best one. No four-poster? Horrible bedspread. Fancy toiletries – lav but no bathroom.’
‘It’s probably at the end of the hallway, along with the respectable hot water.’
‘My grandmother used to have a bed like this.’ May tried to bounce on it but the mattress did not give. ‘Feels like it’s stuffed with horsehair, or possibly a horse. If Queen Elizabeth slept here she wouldn’t have got much kip. You wouldn’t shag anyone on this in case they put their back out.’
‘Do you have to be quite so vulgar?’ Bryant complained.
‘Oh please,’ said May, ‘why do working-class people always get so prissy around the upper crust? Haven’t you heard? We’re going to be classless soon. Look at this place.’
‘You’re right,’ said Bryant, ‘it’s only the wallpaper that’s holding it up. The old school tie doesn’t work any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if all these old houses are collapsing you’d think the lords would muck in together and save them. Yet look at Monty, selling out his pal for the public good.’
‘Except you don’t believe Monty any more than I do. There’s something odd about this entire set-up.’
Bryant was thinking ahead. ‘I should make contact with Fruity Metcalf and call Gladys at the unit as soon as possible. We need more background information.’ He looked up at the stained, bowed ceiling. ‘Come on, let’s have a gander at your room.’
They scooted around to Willow and compared it to Larch. ‘Great view,’ said May, ‘misty meadows and the call of the curlew.’
Bryant intoned:
‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea …’
‘I’m not playing the game any more, I can’t do poems,’ said May. ‘Besides, you’ve had all my change.’
‘Fair enough. I don’t like Thomas Gray much anyway. Too drippy.’
May pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the bed. ‘Who do you think Monty’s meeting? Hey, maybe we’ll get to go cow shooting or grouse riding or something.’
‘You do realize that this is my idea of hell, don’t you?’ Bryant ran a thumb along the dust on the windowsill. ‘There are trees all over the place and you can’t even see another house. There’s nothing but scenery. A weekend filled with stiff upper lips, outdated theatrical games and slaughtering anything that moves.’
‘We are supposed to be working. Anyway, look upon it as an education. I imagine the grandest place you’ve ever been in before this is Waterloo Station.’
‘Actually, my granddad was in the Royal Naval Hospital at Greenwich and we went to visit him,’ Bryant replied, checking the cupboards for anything interesting. ‘That was pretty grand.’
‘What did he have, scurvy?’
‘No, he caught something insanitary off a belly dancer in Port Said. Where are the owners of this gaff?’
‘I think we’re about to find out in approximately’ – May checked his watch – ‘twenty minutes.’
Manifesting himself in the open doorway, the antediluvian valet deposited their bags with a thump, and for a moment looked as if he might fall down with them. He had removed his topcoat to reveal a shabby green frock-jacket and a striped knitted scarf. It looked as if he had been softened over many years with a ball-peen hammer, as one might tenderize a steak, until there were no firm lines left about him at all. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, I’ll be on this floor tonight if you need anything. My duty cubicle is at the end of the corridor. If it looks like I’m asleep, just give me a tap. I’m Parchment.’
‘Of course you are,’ said May, making a show of digging into his pocket for change, but Mr Parchment had turned away before he could be tipped. ‘Wow, he’s got to be like a hundred and eleventy years old.’ He watched the bent-backed skivvy hobble off into the gloom. ‘If this was the 1920s I’d have had a servant.’
‘If this was the 1920s I’d have been one,’ Bryant replied. ‘I think you’re supposed to leave a tip in the room when you leave on Sunday. I read something about it in Country Life.’
‘I’m not sure he’s going to make it through until then. Do you think his name’s really Parchment?’
‘It’s traditional for the master to give his servants new names in country houses. It aids memory and indicates ownership.’ Bryant halted for a minute and looked about. ‘Does this whole thing feel like some kind of weird practical joke to you? I keep expecting to see Christopher Lee outside the window. Are we being set up
? Where’s Monty disappeared to?’
‘You have a very suspicious mind, Arthur.’
‘Of course I have, I’m a copper. I see a cute child playing with a ball and wonder if he’s stolen it. We’d better find our witness. Come on, let’s get togged up.’
Bryant returned to his room to unpack. He was alarmed to find the contents of his trunk rather more haphazard than he had hoped for. The one pair of black trousers he could find clearly belonged to a circus clown, and his evening shirt only had a front. There was a selection of bow ties, one of which rotated. The toecaps of his shoes were clean, but the backs were filthy. That didn’t matter so much; it was more important to look normal going into a room than leaving it. Changing, he improvised as best as he could, then slicked down the remains of his hair and checked himself in the mirror above his handbasin. ‘Not exactly Cliff Richard,’ he told his reflection, ‘but it’ll have to do.’
A few minutes later, May knocked on Larch.
Bryant opened the door and took a step back. ‘My word, you scrub up well. I would never have recognized you.’
May was wearing a double-breasted evening jacket with black silk lapels and a black bow tie, his hair thickened and combed with a fringe. ‘One has to make an effort,’ he said. ‘I see you didn’t.’
Bryant’s clothes looked as if they had been tossed on to him from a distance. Nothing fitted properly. His pinstriped blazer and grey Oxford bags had possibly last seen duty in a touring production of Hay Fever, or at the Windmill Theatre, where he might have passed as a low comic between nude tableaux. A pair of wide, striped braces had pulled his trousers halfway up his chest, and a partially unravelled polka-dotted bow tie had become marooned around the side of his neck.
‘I can’t get this blooming thing to stay done up.’
‘Come here.’ May tackled the bow. ‘Right over left, left over right, fold it back and pull it tight. There. My dad was in an orchestra. I used to have to tie his bow tie for him every night. Let’s go downstairs and see what we’re up against.’
They started to walk. May raised his hand and stopped Bryant. ‘What is that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That clicking noise.’
‘I don’t hear anything.’ Bryant continued on.
Takata-takata-takata.
May halted him and looked down. ‘It sounds like you’re wearing tap shoes.’
Bryant stopped and raised one foot. ‘I am,’ he said apologetically.
‘They’re not going to be much good if we need to creep about this place in silence. We’re undercover, remember?’
‘Sorry, they came from the actors’ wardrobe bag.’
‘Tap shoes on a stakeout,’ said May. ‘Incredible.’ He headed towards the stairs. ‘From now on we can’t afford to let Monty out of our sight.’
11
* * *
HAPPY TOGETHER
DS Gladys Forthright had managed to locate Tavistock Hall in one of Bryant’s old map books.
Beneath the etching of the grand mansion and its hunting grounds was a dense history cataloguing family scandals and misfortunes, but the narrative ended in 1902 when the book had been published, so she called the Daily Telegraph Information Service. They rang her back with their latest data, and she telexed East Canterbury Police Station with a request for confirmation.
The news she received was not what she had been expecting: army manoeuvres were about to close the roads and isolate the area for much of the weekend. Apparently there had been a bit of a cock-up at headquarters.
Gladys wasn’t sure why she was so suspicious, but she decided not to keep Roger Trapp in the picture. It was better he didn’t discover that in their final job for the unit his detectives were possibly about to walk into some kind of ambush.
‘Why the hell haven’t they called in?’ Trapp stalked to the window, held his elbow behind his back and peered down into Bow Street. ‘Somewhere in this teeming metropolis my detectives have waltzed off with the only man who can put Sir Charles Chamberlain behind bars. This is Kasavian’s doing. He’s got it in for me. I’ve never trusted him. What kind of a name is Horatio anyway? He’s struck a deal with them just to try and wind me up.’
It seems like he’s succeeded, thought Gladys Forthright as she watched her boss through hooded, knowing eyes. She had outlived four unit heads in as many years, and this one was neither use nor ornament. The former bookkeeper had been placed in charge because he could produce what was called for in the department so long as it was put to him in basic English and very slowly. Unfortunately he didn’t understand the first thing about his detectives.
‘If there’s a problem, I’m sure they’ll find a phone box,’ she said, threading a new carbon into her Remington typewriter. ‘John warned me that Mr Hatton-Jones wouldn’t be dissuaded from his weekend plans. They can’t simply tie him up. They’ll have to stay close by and use this friend of yours—’
‘Fruity’s a damned good chap considering he has only half the requisite number of limbs,’ said Trapp. ‘As honest as the day is long and utterly trustworthy. He’ll report everything back to me. I have to wonder, does this fellow Hatton-Jones really need protection?’ Roger scratched at his dry scalp, producing another unseasonal snowfall. ‘Chamberlain may have played fast and loose with the rules but he’s hardly going to have his old pal done in, is he? He’s a knight of the realm, for heaven’s sake! The pair of them went to Oxford together. It’s a waste of manpower, having both of our men acting as chaperones. He’s a CPS witness, not some Soho spiv.’
‘Mr Kasavian told me that Hatton-Jones planned this weekend over a month ago,’ said Forthright, aligning her paper in the typewriter. ‘He wants John and Arthur to get more information out of him. They’re hoping to spread the net wider and find out who else accepted bribes from Chamberlain.’
‘So they’ve assumed his guilt before a trial? That’s nice, isn’t it? And they’ve taken my only two coppers to do it. Do something useful, darling, and fetch me some tea, would you? I might as well have a cuppa before I head off.’
‘I thought we’d be staying at the unit this weekend, so that if they called we could help them out,’ said Gladys.
To Trapp, this idea was genuinely amazing. If banks and pubs could close at three he could certainly knock off at six. ‘Do you honestly think I’ve nothing better to do than wait around here? You’re not to stay here either, do you understand? Nobody in this unit is going to help them.’
Gladys set aside her report with a sigh and went to the kettle. While she waited for it to boil she reapplied fierce scarlet lipstick. She had no telephone at home, so she would have to spend the next forty-eight hours at Bow Street without letting Trapp know. Luckily her ex-husband had agreed to take little Janice for the weekend. You’re going to owe me one for this, boys, she thought, pouring Trapp’s tea.
The dinner gong made Bryant jump.
He stood beside May on the landing of the central staircase, looking down at the acre of tiling in the hall. There were now several pairs of crusted galoshes by the front door. ‘I haven’t got any wellingtons – have you? I didn’t think it would be muddy.’
‘We’ll have to borrow some.’
‘I brought this with me.’ Bryant pulled a booklet from his back pocket. ‘The Pocket Guide to Country House Etiquette. It’s bloody complicated. Before the First World War there were at least four servants for every member of the household. Get this: head butler, under-butler, valet, housekeeper, ladies’ maid, kitchen maids, still-room maids, between maids, footmen, scullery and laundry maids, odd men, hall boy, gardener, gamekeeper, groom and cook. That’s not counting all the villagers who came to help out. Were the people who lived here paralysed or something? Did they have to be carried about in palanquins and spoon-fed?’
May looked up at the stained-glass windows and the dazzling colours they cast. ‘The upkeep must have been incredible. No wonder the habit died out. What does it say about weekend parties?’
�
�You’re supposed to call them “Saturdays-to-Mondays”. You arrive either at five p.m. on Friday or on Saturday lunchtime, never in between. If you do turn up at another time you have to take a cold tray for dinner.’ Bryant read from the booklet as he trailed May down the stairs. ‘The host comes out into the front hall to shake hands with everyone. You’re asked if you would like to “freshen up”, meaning make yourself presentable, then you go to the library to be introduced to the other guests. None of that has happened to us. All the rooms have names, which you’re expected to memorize.’
‘There’s a guide to them in your room,’ replied May. ‘In this house they’re all flowers on the ground floor, trees upstairs.’
‘Apparently some guests change into lounge jackets after dinner. That’s two changes of clothing in one evening.’ Bryant looked down at his trousers. ‘My theatre trunk seems to contain costumes for Miss Hook of Holland and Chu Chin Chow. There’s a magician’s suit, but I dread to think what’s in the pockets.’
‘The room guide says you have to tip the people who bring you trays and make your bed, and inform the butler if you wish to rise late. There was something about how much each person gets at the end of the stay. A ten-bob note between us should do it.’
‘What if we get it wrong?’
‘What do you care, you’re never going to see them again,’ said May dismissively. ‘Anyway, a police officer must outrank at least one or two of them. What about Trapp’s gardener pal, Fruity Metcalf? Where is he?’
‘Out in the gatehouse, I think. We’ll have to find an excuse to slip away. Do you know if butlers still iron the newspapers?’
‘I thought that was a myth.’
‘It stops you from getting ink all over your hands.’ Bryant swallowed nervously. ‘I wonder what else they do – break in new shoes for you, pre-chew your food? Oh God, I bet there are going to be games. Do you know how to play cards?’
Hall of Mirrors Page 8
