Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  Bryant was surprised by Stafford’s strength of opinion. That was their main advantage, he realized. As outsiders they were here only to listen.

  ‘So the ashram will have to go when Mr Burke takes over the hall,’ May assumed.

  ‘I’m afraid those are the sort of details nobody has worked out,’ said Stafford, lighting a cigar. ‘Mr Burke has so many interests around the world that his attention hasn’t been concentrated on Tavistock Hall. He left it to his wife to sort out, and she can’t manage her own domestic arrangements, let alone take care of a place like this. I imagine she’s in sole charge of cushions and curtains, which is why she has Slade Wilson in tow. The owners of Tavistock Hall once owned most of Crowshott, and still have the right to grant leases to several of the village tenancies. The property situation is a legal minefield. The tenants are worried about Donald Burke buying the place. For reasons that nobody seems to remember, their current leases are tied to the estate only while there’s a member of the Banks-Marion family in possession of the title, so you can imagine how much bad feeling there is. Some of them took out an injunction to try and stop the sale, but while they were still arguing about the terms a buyer was found. Now I have to deal with the mess.’

  ‘What’s Lord Banks-Marion’s take on it?’

  ‘He’s in two minds, naturally. His childhood memories are all here, but he can’t afford to keep the hall. He’s trying to persuade Norma to let him and his wastrel pals stay on, at least until it’s been rebuilt.’

  ‘What do you know about Mr Burke’s plans for an institute?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘It will use experts to train a new generation of company directors. All very exclusive,’ Stafford explained. ‘Of course, houses like this usually only become boys’ schools, golf clubs or asylums. I believe the fixtures and fittings are remaining with the property, assuming Mr Wilson doesn’t chuck them all out. As soon as it’s been refurbished Lord Banks-Marion and his merry troubadours can dance off over the hills with their flutes and tambourines, not to mention a decent wad of cash.’

  ‘So Mr Burke is purely here to sign the papers? Is that why he won’t come out of his room?’

  ‘He’s passing through on his way from Chicago to Paris, and according to Vanessa he asked her to join him on the trip. Did she give anything away over dinner?’

  ‘No,’ said May, ‘the conversation was very casual.’

  When Hatton-Jones realized that the lawyer was confiding in his minders he grew agitated and came beetling over to listen in. ‘Oh, Vanessa,’ he said, ‘poor girl, she’s so sublimely dim, she can’t see that her sugar daddy will ditch her the moment she becomes demanding. I heard he got her the job singing at a Mayfair club that’s little more than a knocking shop. She’s a bit of posh he picked up on his travels not long after he married poor old Norma. I suppose his wife is making the best of a bad situation by befriending her.’

  ‘Mr Burke’s the reason why you’re here, isn’t he?’ asked Stafford in a tone that was graceful enough for Monty not to notice the rebuke.

  ‘Well, yes. I’m rather hoping he’ll make time to see me.’

  ‘Why, do you have a business proposition?’

  Monty accepted a Park Drive from May. ‘Who doesn’t these days? Look at us: nearly a quarter of a century out of the war and the country still doesn’t have a pot to piss in. The one thing you can say about Americans is that they certainly know how to make money. We sit around in underfunded research units inventing things, and they show us how to turn our ideas into hard cash. They roll up their sleeves and put in the hours while we close the banks down on the Glorious Twelfth so that the managers can go grouse-shooting.’ He lit his cigarette and exhaled. ‘There’s a reason why America’s most famous play is Death of a Salesman. It touches a national nerve. Selling and self-sufficiency are in their blood. I have a proposition that may haul me out of debt if I act fast enough, so naturally I’m looking to get my snout in the trough before everything here goes to the dogs.’

  Once again Bryant was startled by Monty’s ebullience. He did not seem to care about the impression he made on others. It was time to start collecting Farthingshaw’s information, but he wasn’t sure how to go about it. ‘Do you think it will?’ he asked. ‘Go to the dogs, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, I can see the writing on the wall. Even you must have noticed that Swinging London is fast losing its swing. Harold Wilson is all played out – the PM’s “white heat of technology” speech did nothing for the nation, and the Tories are waiting in the wings.’

  ‘I thought Edward Heath didn’t have a chance of winning the next election.’

  Monty took a drag and waved the smoke away. ‘He’s seen as wet and awkward, and the “confirmed bachelor” thing bothers the husbands, but he’s certainly the housewives’ choice. If he places well in the Sydney yacht race this Christmas he’ll get the male voters too.’

  ‘Really?’ Bryant was surprised. ‘You think they’d be swung by something like a boat race?’

  Hatton-Jones leaned in close and confidential. ‘Tell me, what do you think we really want from our leaders? I’ll give you a clue: it’s not intellect. We want fervour and decisiveness, that’s all. A sign that a captain is at the helm. And this time it’s literally what we’re going to get. I think he’s going to seize the moment.’ He drained his brandy glass, but had nowhere to set it down.

  ‘And you are too,’ Bryant suggested.

  ‘Abso-bloody-lutely. So you see why I had to insist on attending this weekend. On Monday morning I’m about to shoot down my best chance of a future in the building industry because my oldest friend, a man whom I’ve known most of my life, is dragging us into disrepute. I dare say he’ll try and take me down with him, but I’ve a back-up plan. The only problem is that it’s going to need a hefty injection of cash. Which is why I need to leave with Burke’s signature on my paperwork by Sunday evening.’

  ‘What if you don’t?’

  Monty didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  ‘How well do you know Mr Burke?’ asked May, catching his partner’s eye.

  ‘Very well and hardly at all,’ Monty muttered, the brandy thickening his tongue. ‘I’ve read all his interviews and I’ve spoken to him a few times, but I haven’t yet met him face-to-face. Men like Burke have to protect themselves from dishonourable opportunists.’ He said this with no sense of irony. ‘To get hold of him you have to go through his staff. When I heard that Vanessa was going to be here as well, I thought there might be another way.’

  ‘So you’re planning to effect an introduction through her?’

  ‘It’s my best chance. There’s no point in trying Norma. She hasn’t the faintest idea about her husband’s affairs, business or otherwise.’

  ‘But Slade said she knew all about—’

  ‘Vanessa? Slade’s just a glorified window dresser, hardly on the inside track. Norma has one priority: taking care of her husband. She’s here to make sure he gets what he wants this weekend. She likes to keep him happy.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ said Stafford, ‘what exactly are you trying to sell Mr Burke?’

  ‘My dear chap, I’m doing the same as everybody else, enjoying the hospitality of our hosts and hoping to save my bacon at the same time.’

  Bryant wandered off down the garden and lit his pipe. He looked back at the patio where Monty stood beneath the wisteria vines firing his opinions at May. From time to time the others drifted over to his partner. Men joked and confided; women smiled and flirted. The most extraordinary thing was that John seemed entirely unaware of his power. When people spoke to Bryant, it was usually to ask where May was.

  He puffed at his pipe and looked around at the misted landscape. The countryside was still a novelty to him. Manicured emerald gardens were hedged by profusions of wild flowers in artful disarray, petals of saffron, crimson and blue. A grey slate path led down to another ornamental lake, at the centre of which was a small island topped with a white Grecian folly.
r />   Bryant’s eyesight was poor in the half-light. He could see the water rippling, and large white birds of some kind. There was also the motionless figure of a man, standing near the bamboo flambeaux that marked the lake’s edge.

  He really needed to find Fruity Metcalf’s gatehouse before it got too late.

  Tavistock Hall appeared to have receded into the turquoise night. The interior was ablaze with golden lights, the present and the past folded together. As a child he had passed an afternoon traipsing around a grand house with other day trippers, and the experience had left him cold. Most disappointing of all was the library, which had nothing readable left in it. At least now he had a chance to study this peculiar world from the other side of the velvet ropes. It seemed likely that he would be able to observe the guests in peace without anyone trying to start a conversation.

  ‘Hello, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,’ said the vicar, popping out from behind a bush and offering his hand. He had a large wooden cross inset with Navajo turquoise around his neck, and had changed into a fawn sweater tucked into maroon elephant-cord bell-bottoms. His blond hair was fashionably long. It should have made him appear fresh. The decade was awash with Anglican vicars striving to be culturally relevant to the young. But there was an unhealthy waxiness to his pallor, so that he looked like someone who hung around the Top of the Pops studio waiting for underage girls.

  ‘What were you doing in there?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘Um, a particularly fine example of shrubby umbellifera,’ he replied, flicking a leaf from his sleeve. ‘Such lovely gardens. Actually I was escaping from Mr Wilson. He’s most determined to be friendly, but I can’t say I approve of his type.’ He smiled suddenly, revealing a neat palisade of perfect white teeth. ‘The Reverend Trevor Patethric. Everyone calls me Trev. Trev the Rev. Lady Banks-Marion always puts on such a marvellous weekend here.’

  ‘I’m Arthur – Askey,’ said Bryant uncomfortably. He watched as the vicar dusted petals from his jacket, his smile serenely smug.

  ‘I say, have you met the new owner yet?’

  ‘Why, has he come down?’ Bryant asked.

  ‘It seems so. By all accounts he’s a pretty switched-on chap.’ Patethric pointed off to the left, where Norma Burke was standing beneath a clematis-covered pergola at the end of the lawn, talking to a man with long grey hair in a grey business suit and white gloves. ‘I’m not sure he would welcome smokers.’ He gave Bryant’s pipe a pointed glance.

  Bryant puffed long and hard. ‘Old Sailor’s Navy Rough-Cut,’ he said. ‘It’s more aromatic than a ciggie.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I think you’ll find it’s not terribly healthy.’ The vicar gave a somewhat theatrical cough. ‘I’m hoping to talk to Mr Burke about the church. We badly need a new belfry, and several of the tapestries have to be replaced.’

  ‘So you’re after a handout too.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it so crudely, Mr Askey. After all, I’m acting on the Lord’s behalf.’ He looked up at Tavistock Hall with satisfaction. ‘This house has been very good to us over the years. My predecessors have always been most grateful, but it’s time to step up and be more generous. A benefactor would, of course, have a private chapel named after him.’ The vicar’s eyes were illuminated by the thought.

  ‘I thought vanity was a sin. Isn’t that what you’re encouraging?’

  ‘Many of our parishioners are decent, upstanding members of the community,’ said Patethric. ‘We can hardly expect them to worship in impoverished circumstances.’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that,’ said Bryant. ‘“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Matthew 6:19.’

  The vicar was momentarily lost for words. ‘We’re working to save souls. The Devil is waiting to take those who slacken in their devotions.’

  ‘I admire your dedication,’ Bryant admitted, ‘but you can’t use religion as a threat.’

  ‘Some of my older parishioners are hoarding fortunes when they could be helping the church.’ The reverend cheerfully slapped him on the shoulder, startling a wood pigeon in the trees above them. ‘I’ll be conducting Sunday morning service at St Stephen’s and this house always attends along with its guests. I presume I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Don’t presume,’ Bryant warned. ‘I’m a practising atheist.’

  Patethric’s smile slipped a little. ‘You cannot practise something you don’t believe in.’

  ‘Have you never met a politician? Atheism is simply the process of accepting responsibility.’

  The reverend wagged a finger. ‘I’m going to have to disagree with you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Religion is history, Mr Askey.’

  ‘Yes, it’s history without any facts.’

  ‘Surely you don’t want to take the risk of not believing in Him?’

  ‘Trust me, I’d be taking a bigger risk if I did.’

  ‘But God is merciful.’

  ‘Then he must be a different God from the one who killed over fifty thousand men just for looking into the Ark – 1 Samuel 6:19.’

  ‘You can’t imagine we poor mortals could make a world this complex without divine intervention?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Bryant cheerfully. ‘I find it hard to imagine anything simpler than Darwinian selection, which seems the most natural thing in the world. It’s certainly easier to swallow than a creation myth involving a vengeful cloud-based deity manipulating worshippers with the promise of undeliverable rewards and unprovoked threats of damnation, quoting a contradictory guidebook filled with violent cruelties reserved for non-believers.’

  The poor reverend had not encountered so many blasphemous opinions in a single sentence before, and froze out his companion with an impossibly reasonable smile. ‘Well, it has been most invigorating talking to you, Mr Askey.’

  ‘And you too, Mr Pathetic.’

  ‘Patethric,’ said the reverend irritably. ‘It’s Cornish. I’ll pray for you.’

  ‘And I’ll think for you.’

  The vicar managed to spot someone across the lawn and was gone.

  Well, it’s not the vicar, thought Bryant, and then realized, Oh God, I’m eliminating suspects and there hasn’t even been a crime.

  14

  * * *

  PAPERBACK WRITER

  The weekend was under way, and the house obligingly glowed for its guests. Alone once more, Bryant moved a little closer to the pergola and listened.

  Norma Burke and her husband seemed to be disagreeing about something, arguing in that constrained way people did when they knew they could be observed. Unfortunately, beneath the shade of the clematis vines and at this distance, it was impossible to discern the problem. It was probably something trivial. Arguments always seemed more interesting from the outside. He only heard Norma’s reasoned replies.

  ‘You must stay away from her … But it was your idea in the first place … They know you’re not well, so it won’t come as a shock …’

  It was no use. He could not get close enough to hear them properly. Instead, he decided to slip away and find the gatehouse.

  At the end of the sunken lawns, beyond a tall yew hedge, a small brick building topped with a miniature version of the hall’s mansard roof stood to one side of the slate path. It looked like a tiny French chateau, but this too was in dire need of repair.

  Bryant ran lightly over the grass and stopped in front of it. There was no bell so he knocked. The front door swung open and a low, square fellow in a grubby knitted cap stuck his head out. He was so weathered and solid that he might have been carved from a block of teak. Grey mutton-chop whiskers sprouted from his face like a particularly virulent form of lichen.

  ‘Brigadier Metcalf,’ said Bryant. ‘Arthur Bryant. My partner’s up at the house.’

  ‘Call me Fruity, sir, all my friends do
.’ He shook Bryant’s hand with his left fingers. His empty right sleeve had been ironed flat and was pinned to his tweed jacket. Years of military service had ensured that even his casual clothes were parade-ground smart, although one shoe was mismatched, with a specially enlarged rubber heel. He hobbled forward and gave Bryant the once-over, noting his peculiar attire. ‘Is that what they’re wearing in London now? I don’t get up there much.’

  ‘I had to borrow some clothes. Have you located Monty?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be keeping an eye on his comings and goings, sir. I was just watching the house from the lake.’

  ‘Good. Anything to report yet?’

  ‘No, sir. You’d better get back up there before they miss you. I’ll meet up with you in a little while if you like. We can go for a pint. Just come and knock on my door.’

  Bryant went back to the bar and refilled his glass. Monty was wrestling with another bottle of second-rate champagne. The evening felt more relaxed now. Even Lord Banks-Marion had forsaken Pink Floyd for the easy-listening pleasures of Burt Bacharach.

  ‘A bit harsh on the vicar, weren’t you? Most of the reverend’s parishioners are old. He provides them with comfort.’

  He looked up and found a woman watching him with amusement while she waited for her Martini to be shaken. She had been seated to his left during dinner, wrapped in her loosely knitted cardigan, and had rebuffed his clumsy attempt at conversation. Now she had changed into a midnight-blue dress and had released her auburn hair, so that it tumbled about a pair of huge lime plastic earrings. The transformation was startling.

  ‘Oh, you overheard that,’ Bryant said, smiling.

  ‘It’s what we writers do, darling. We’re as nosy as policemen. Look, we may have got off on the wrong foot at dinner, so let’s try again. I’m Pamela Claxon.’