Fen said, ‘What’s she doing there?’
‘All part of the security measures, my dear fellow,’ said the Major. ‘Very hot on security, the Misses Bale are. The one at the back, Tatty, is there so that no one can push the Botticelli out under the canvas without being seen.’
‘But they can’t really think it’s valuable.’
‘They do, you know.’
‘And is that why Luckraft’s there?’
‘Yes, he sometimes helps to mount guard, if he happens to be off duty. Makes them feel extra-safe. Good man, Luckraft, very patient. Wonder what he’s done to his head?’
Fen began eating his apple. ‘Are you,’ he said, ‘going to have a go at the coconuts?’
‘No, I’m not. I can hit them all right, don’t you know, but I can never make them fall off. The fact of the matter is, they’re wedged, or glued or something. Let’s go and look at the Botticelli, get it over and done with.’
‘You can’t look at the Botticelli now, because I’m going to,’ said the Rector.
‘All right,’ said the Major amenably, ‘you can go first.’
They strolled on, and in a few paces arrived in front of the Botticelli tent.
The Major stared.
In a choking voice, ‘My word!’ he said. ‘That’s new!’
One sign - a sheet of cardboard on an easel - said The Botticelli. Another, pinned to the tent, said No Smoking Another said All Containers Baskets Etc to be Left Outside. Yet another said Entry Fifty P.
But it was the fifth sign that had provoked the Major’s reaction. It consisted of two outsize cardboard discs pinned together concentrically with a brass clip; in the outer disc a window had been cut, revealing the word Engaged painted on the inner.
‘My word!’ said the Major again.
Father Hattrick came out of the tent, murmured something appreciative to Miss Bale, nodded to Luckcraft, picked up his jam-crammed basket from under Miss Bale’s table, and trotted across to the Rector.
‘Now?’ he said.
The Rector said, ‘Give me five minutes, Father, will you?’
‘Yes, surely. I’ll stay somewhere around here, and then you’ll be able to find me.’ He ran off down the fairway, braking to a halt at the Garden Stall.
Miss Bale got to her feet. Momentarily rooted to the spot, Fen, the Major and the Rector watched in fascination as she went across to the new sign and rotated the inner disc, replacing the word Engaged with the word Vacant.
The Major said, ‘My word!’ for the third time. Then abruptly he dropped all his purchases on to the turf and doubled up in a fit of helpless laughter. ‘B.V.M. assumpting in the jakes,’ he spluttered.
The Rector glowered at him. ‘I don’t approve of Christian mysticism,’ he said, ‘but I don’t approve of jokes about it, either.’
‘Lavater-y humour,’ said Fen.
The Major made an effort and got himself under control again. He stooped and gathered up his whistle, book, cake, handkerchiefs, narcissus bulbs and black-currant jelly. The Rector went across to Miss Bale, who was returning to her seat.
‘Afternoon, Titty,’ he said. ‘Me next.’ Handing Miss Bale five tenpenny pieces, he made for the tent flap.
‘Oh, but Rector,’ squeaked Miss Bale.
‘Yes, Titty, what is it?’
‘Your cricket bag. You must leave it out here.’
‘Nonsense, Titty, of course I’m not going to leave it out here. You don’t think I’m going to steal the Botticelli, do you? Anyway, I couldn’t, it’s too big. Even if I cut it out of its frame and rolled it up and doubled it over, it still wouldn’t go in my cricket bag.’
‘Oh, but Rector.’
‘Go and sit down, Titty, and stop being such an old hen,’ said the Rector, disappearing inside the tent.
‘That’ll be all right, Miss Bale,’ said Luckraft, his solid official face radiating reassurance.
‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Miss Bale disconsolately.
The Major said, ‘I’m going indoors to dump this stuff and fetch old Fred. Can’t bring Sal, unfortunately, have to keep her shut up during these maffickings, otherwise she runs about biting everyone. See you later.’ He hobbled off, threading his way among stalls, marquees and sideshows in the direction of the house’s east wing, where his flatlet was. Fen went and joined Father Hattrick at the coconut shy.
After a strenuous five minutes, during which neither of them succeeded in dislodging a coconut, they saw the Rector emerge from the Botticelli tent. He looked about him, caught sight of Father Hattrick, waved and beckoned affirmatively, and vanished round the corner of the Fruit Stall. Father Hattrick waved back, threw his last ball at random, grabbed his basket, said good-bye to Fen and ran.
The stall-keeper, impressed by Fen’s obstinacy if not by his skill, picked up a spare coconut and made him a present of it.
Fen went to the Garden Stall and bought himself a large brown paper carrier from the pile on sale there; into this he stuffed the unwieldy acervation of objects he had acquired. Then he decided to go and look at the Botticelli. Miss Bale took his money and his carrier bag and graciously motioned him in, closing the flap behind him.
The tent was bisected widthways, he found, by an enormous piece of scuffed black velvet stretching from side to side, and from the roof to the ground. At its centre, hanging by chains from the roof-strut, was the Botticelli, illuminated by electricity from several judiciously-chosen angles; and the Botticelli, Fen saw at once, was an almost supernaturally talentless picture - a gargantuan female form, angel-conveyed, with flowing robes, a halo, a vapid smirk and downwards-pointing bare feet. The style was two dimensional, the composition monotonously symmetrical; the colours were mostly pastel blues, pinks and yellows; the halo was so pale that it looked as if it had developed a fault and was on the point of flickering out altogether. Fen went close up to the thing to see if there was a signature, but found none; the elaborate gilt frame, however, pointed fairly conclusively to some wealthy megalomaniac amateur, besotted with the pre-Raphaelites, round about 1870.
The only other object in this half of the tent was a spartan wooden chair without arms, set square in front of the picture.
Fen sat down on it, fixed his eyes on the Virgin’s stubby toes and meditated - since this, after all, was what he was supposed to be doing - on religion.
On leaving the tent ten minutes later, he was surprised to find the man from Sweb hovering outside - small, tubby and neat in his grèy suit, grey overcoat and meticulously centred little grey hat; seemingly he was waiting to go in. ‘Hello,’ said Fen.
‘Ah,’ said the man from Sweb, weakly.
‘So you came after all.’
‘Yes, here I am.’
‘Enjoying it?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Been to the fortune-teller?’
‘No. No, not yet.’
‘You must be sure and do that,’ said Fen.
‘Oh, I will, I will.’ The man from Sweb lowered his voice. ‘What exactly is the Botticelli?’ he mumbled.
‘A picture.’
‘A picture? Is that all? What sort of a picture?’
‘Religious.’
‘Oh dear, and I’ve paid already.’
Fen left him and sought out the Rectory Stall, where for the moment there were no other customers.
‘Come and buy,’ said little Miss Endacott, blushing painfully.
‘Certainly I’ll come and buy, Miss Endacott. I’ll have that purple lamp-shade.’
‘Oh yes, do, it’s so pretty, isn’t it? Only it’s fifty pence, I’m afraid.’
‘Never mind, I’ll still have it. And have you got some music of Broderick Thouless’s, or has it gone?’
‘Oh no, it’s still here,’ said Miss Endacott. ‘Such a worry, it’s been.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Well, you see, I feel sure it must be very valuable. But then, when I asked the Rector how much I ought to charge for it, he said, “Six pence”. I think
he must have been joking, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s worth much more than that.’
‘Yes, but how much more? I don’t know what to say to you, truly I don’t,’ said Miss Endacott faintly. ‘Would … would a pound be too much, do you think?’
‘No, it wouldn’t. It’d be too little.’ Fen had been thumbing through Thouless’s crumpled fistful of bank-notes, which he had kept separate in his left-hand trousers pocket, and had discovered that there were fourteen of them. Thouless was well-off, but had he really intended Fen to spend the lot? Some sort of compromise seemed desirable. ‘Seven pounds, Miss Endacott,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you seven pounds for it.’
‘There, I knew it was valuable.’ Glowing Miss Endacott handed over a bundle of manuscript orchestral full scores, done in pencil. Opening one of the double sheets at random, ‘2 secs.’, Fen read, in red ink, in the space between the percussion and the first violins, ‘Monster starts eating child’, and then, several bars further on, ‘5 secs. Monster finishes eating child’. He gave Miss Endacott the money.
At the hoop-la he found Padmore. The Whirlybirds, having run themselves into the ground, were taking a break, so that it was possible to hear Padmore singing ‘Ta-ra-ra Boumedienne’ quietly to himself. He appeared to be trying to win a tin of Chivers Garden Peas.
Buying himself some hoops, Fen said, ‘So you think Youings’s evidence settles the matter, do you?’
Padmore displayed alarm. ‘Yes, of course I do. I mean, from what you said, I gathered Youings was quite definite about Hagberd not having been at the pub, talking to Gobbo, at the time when Routh was being murdered. He was quite definite about it, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘Well, then.’
‘He might have been lying,’ Fen said mildly.
‘Oh, Lord!’ Padmore threw a hoop, distractedly, and knocked over a doll. ‘Why ever should you think that?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Certainly it is, but why should he lie? He can’t have done the murder, because when it was happening the Rector saw him four miles away at the pub … You’re trying to make me rewrite,’ Padmore said accusingly.
‘I thought you were going to have to re-write anyway, so as to make Routh and Hagberd start out at one from the page.’
‘That’s not re-writing, it’s just a matter of sticking in atmospheric bits here and there. Do you know Clarence Tully?’
‘Slightly. Why?’
‘He’s one man I ought to talk to. He employed Hagberd after Hagberd left Routh. I didn’t see him when I was down here before. Is he here?’
‘I saw him arrive, but I don’t know if …’ Fen glanced around him. ‘Yes, there he is.’He pointed. ‘That huge man in the leggings and the green jacket.’
‘Ah,’ said Padmore, making the identification. ’Good.’ Concentrating, he poised his final hoop. ’If I win the peas, Youings isn’t mistaken and he isn’t lying,’ he said childishly. He threw. The hoop settled neatly over the wooden block on which the peas stood. ‘Look at that, then,’ said Padmore, triumphant.
Thouless joined them. He bought hoops, settled his bifocals on his nose, and prepared to throw.
‘Wait a minute, Thouless,’ Fen said. ‘Here are your scores.’
‘Heavens, I don’t want them.’
I dare say, but neither do I.’
Though on second thoughts, perhaps I do want them. When I finally run out of inspiration, which I’m bound to do sooner or later, I can crib bits from them for other films.’
Fen, you wouldn’t like these peas, would you?’ said Padmore winningly. ‘They’re no conceivable use to me.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Fen. ‘I’ve got quite enough to carry already.’ Padmore sighed and departed, presumably in search of Clarence Tully. ‘Well, come on, take your scores,’ Fen said to Thouless.
‘Look, why don’t you come and have a drink with me some time, and bring them with you then?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Thouless resignedly. He accepted the scores and dumped them on the ground at his feet.
‘I paid seven pounds for them,’ said Fen. ‘Here’s the other seven pounds you gave me.’
‘Only seven pounds?’ said Thouless, aggrieved. ‘I should have thought they’d have priced them a bit higher than that’
‘As a matter of fact, I priced them myself.’
‘Well then, I should have thought you would have priced them a bit higher than that.’
‘Then you’d have had to pay more for them.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ Thouless threw a hoop, hitting the stallholder lightly on the belly. ‘Now I come to think of it, seven pounds is quite enough. Exorbitant, in fact. You’re sure you wouldn’t like to keep the scores with you, for the time being?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘I say, what a monstrosity of a lamp-shade you’ve got,’ said Thouless. ‘Where on earth do people find these things?’
6. Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and Change
Off with his head - so much for Buckingham.
Colley Cibber: Shakespeare’s Richard III, improved
1
Though not large, the fortune-telling tent was relatively ornate; its use of arc-lines in the roof and the flap, and its elaborate spiked finial, made it vaguely reminiscent of paynimry at the time of the Crusades. It was labelled Madame Sosostris, Famous Clairvoyant. A second placard, more laconic, said Free. Fen turned this over so that it read Busy! Keep Out!! This Means You!!!
He went inside.
Inside was murky, lit by an ancient hurricane lantern perched on top of a step-ladder in the right-hand rear corner. Its shielding must have been defective, for it was flickering a good deal, casting alarming shadows on the canvas walls. On a rickety oval table with cigarette burns and beer-glass rings there were playing-cards, a skull, a crystal ball, a stuffed lizard falling to pieces and a packet of ten Guards. Behind the table sat the Rector; to his bombazine dress he had added a wig and a peculiar hat with an impenetrable veil. In front of the table was a chair for clients. In the corner opposite the hurricane lantern, a tarnished rococo thurible, apparently of silver, was emitting equal proportions of incense and thick black smoke.
Fen tripped on a corner of the Rector’s cricket bag, which gave out a muffled clinking sound.
‘Careful, damn it!’ said the Rector. Then suddenly his voice went falsetto. ‘I mean, careful, damn it,’ he soprano-ed.
‘Good heavens,’ Fen muttered.
‘Be seated, stranger,’ said the Rector, still falsetto. ‘By Sebek, Tagd, Ler and Sokk-mimi,’ he hooted, ‘by Bilé, Zer-panitu, Mu-ul-lil, Ubargisi, Ubilulu, say stranger what brings you to this place.’
‘I come to seek help,’ Fen hooted back.
‘By Astarte, Gasan-abzu … Listen, if you’re not going to be serious, there’s no point in my going on with this,’ said the Rector waspishly, reverting to his normal tones.
‘Are all those names real?’
‘Certainly they’re real: when I was at the Sorbonne, I did Comparative Religion. You don’t mind if I drop the voice?’
‘Glad of it.’
‘It hurts my throat.’
‘I should imagine so,’ said Fen. ‘And would you mind unveiling as well?’
‘Anything to oblige,’ said the Rector, obliging. ‘Wretched things, veils. Stuffy. And when you yawn they get drawn into your mouth, by suction. Well now, what would you like to know?’
‘The future.’
‘Very well.’ The Rector extended a huge brown hand. ‘Cross my palm with paper.’ Fen gave him a fifty-pence piece. ‘That’s not much,’ said the Rector.
‘I pay by results.’
‘Do you indeed. Well, now …’ The Rector laid out some cards, perfunctorily, and made a pretence of peering first at them and then at the crystal ball. ‘I see you writing a book,’ he said.
‘Right.’
‘I see you making a strange dish, of hog�
�s brains, neat’s flesh, herbs and spices.’
‘Right again.’
‘I see you making a long journey to a hot country,’ the Rector droned oracularly. ‘Beware an unexpected labour. Beware an ancient man.’
‘Sounds more like Padmore,’ said Fen. ‘Who do you think killed Routh?’
‘Some benefactor.’
‘Hagberd?’
‘Here, have a Guards.’ The Rector pushed the packet across the table to Fen. They both lit cigarettes. ‘Hagberd? No. I mean, probably not.’
‘Who, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And who’s Mavis Trent?’
‘Ah, Mavis Trent.’ With deliberation, the Rector began building a card-house. ‘Mavis Trent is dead.’
Fen waited.
‘Died six months ago,’ said the Rector.
Fen still waited.
‘Fell,’ said the Rector. ‘Or possibly was pushed.’
There was a silence while he erected the card-house’s second storey.
‘More crime?’ Fen said presently.
‘Could be.’ His cigarette projecting centrally from his mandrill face, the Rector, working rapidly, began on the card-house’s third storey. The thurible fumed, the lantern-flame wavered, the crystal ball gleamed fitfully. ‘Could be,’ the Rector said again. ‘I understand that in the end the police plumped for accident - which was the verdict at the inquest. They had their doubts, though.’
‘What was the boy talking about? Any idea?’
‘Scorer? Yes, I shall have to grill Scorer, when this lot’s over,’ said the Rector. ‘He’s easily terrorized, fortunately. Wonder if he found Doc Mason?’
‘Yes, I think he did.’
‘Nothing the matter with him, actually … No, as to what he was on about, I haven’t a clue.’ Tiring of the card-house, the Rector brought his hand down on it and squashed it flat. ‘Blackmail, indeed … He obviously wasn’t romancing, though.’
The Glimpses of the Moon Page 9
