by JP Wright
I passed the IT geeks on my way to the door. They were squabbling over a clue: The Doctor examined the Maid in the nursery. I had added a little sketch to help. 'Doctor Plain' was insisting that the sketch proved the Doctor was a woman, Mr said it looked like a bullfrog, so she might be right.
“Where is the nursery?” he asked me.
“We don't have one. No babies here,” I told him, glad to help. They wandered off, still arguing.
The bell jangled again, jumping about on its spring, as I hauled open the door: the jangler let go of the bell-pull as though she had been caught committing a sin. “Oh!” she said, and
“Ah,” I said, nodding.
“I am …” she said, reaching out towards me with a long, slim, silk-gloved hand.
“You must be …” I said, sticking out my sticky hand.
“Belle,” we both said.
She laughed, or I might almost say cackled. Not in a witch-y way, but in an open-mouthed, head-back, gold-filling-flashing gleeful way. I withdrew my hand and grabbed my pen to take notes:
medium-tall
very blonde hair (at that time dangling about her shoulders in loose waves – unbrushed, or the result of hours of art?)
arms covered to the elbow with shiny black, but above, pale and freckled
face also freckled, just a little sprinkle across her nose and under her eyes
eyes open wide and green
not very old
She had on black leggings, and a yellow T-shirt, and on top of that a sort of waist-coat in leopard print. She was wearing gold ankle boots and, pushed up onto her head, holding back some of the hair, was a pair of sunglasses with great big round lenses like flies' eyes. She had a purple hand-bag and a pink suit-case on wheels – not much good on gravel. Clearly she had a System. I made a note to ask her about it.
The Great Detective took all this in with a glance, and told the new guest, “I am Tabitha Tickham, Detective.”
“Pleased to meetcha, Tabitha Tickham Detective.”
“Mummy said I should show you to your room and bring you to the terrace for tea. The other guests were here ages ago, but they are terribly dull.”
“I've had rather a lot of tea today, waiting for trains.”
“There're scones too,” I offered, “Or instead you might want to meet Marcus.”
Belle nodded as she stepped through the doorway, and looked around. The atrium is pretty impressive. There is a huge chandelier dangling down, which never works, and the big stairs are newer than the house – they are nouveau, Mummy told me, which in French means there are naked ladies lying about. Some of them are holding up the staircase, some of them are trying to climb up to the balcony, others are trying to slide down the banister rail: unfair they are allowed and I am not, even in pyjamas. Anyway, we always use the back stairs, as they run between our bedrooms and the kitchen, which is where we mostly spend our time. Funny – we live like servants in our own house. The big stairs, naked ladies and all, are for show, for guests. The Wet uses them; now Belle would be sleeping in the east wing too, instead of in the stables with the other guests.
“Come this way,” I instructed, “We'll meet Marcus, and then go upstairs. This is the back hallway that is the study which is Not For Guests and the kitchen isn't too and upstairs where our bedrooms are except you can go to your own bedroom of course,” I explained. Belle followed me, click-clacking her heels, pulling her little pink case on its wheels behind her, through the salon and out to the orangery, where the dog was resting. He was obviously feeling a little hurt about being thrown out of the kitchen, so I went to find him something, leaving Belle to introduce herself.
It was pretty hot in the kitchen. Verity looked like a cherry under her little round hat; her old assistant was pretty pink too – she whizzed in with her trolley to fill another tea-pot and whizz out again.
“I'll need you to help with the pity fools,” Verity called after her; the door swung shut on the reply, but it did not sound polite.
The Cook – the actress-Cook – was there, sitting at the table putting on pink make-up, but still not as rosy as Verity, who was struggling with the oven door.
“You have to use your knee,” I explained to her. I like to be helpful. Note: both Verity and her assistant are rather highly strung and will merit watching.
There were plenty of leftovers from lunch. Mummy always makes too much. I rescued a bit of ham for Marcus, and got myself a sandwich or two. Cook winked at me – she was eating a sandwich too, chewing between coats of powder and paint.
Belle and Marcus seemed to be getting on well. Marcus had his ham; Belle turned down a sandwich, so I shared that with him too. “He is one of my suspects,” I told her, “but I don't really think he did it.”
“Did what?” Belle asked, suddenly interested. Marcus sighed a moist doggy sigh, closed his big brown eyes, and fell asleep. Belle grabbed my arm and blinked her own big green eyes at me, so I had to tell her all about the cake, Marcus, V, and the scones. I missed out the bit about the boy, the stick, the fork, and V saving me. She was very interested in everything, especially the cake and my conviction that its destruction was an inside job, and asked so many questions that by the time I had finished explaining we were upstairs and in her room.
We met Simon creeping down the stairs as we went up, and I introduced them. He goggled at Belle through his dusty glasses. She offered her hand, knuckles up, sparkling with rings, as if expecting it to be kissed. Very lady-like. He dropped it and stumbled away, doubtless to dig up someone's ages old rubbish heap, or poke at his ages-old car with a spanner, which is the other thing he does.
Belle was to sleep in one of the smaller bedrooms: the reflection of mine over on the other side of the house, which I told her. That left one empty – all the staff would sleep in the attic rooms. Belle seemed very pleased about this. I suppose she felt very grand and like the guest of honour.
“Will you come down for tea?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said, “but first, my costume.”
“That isn't your costume?”
She laughed again, but did not look so pleased. I asked her who she was going to be and she said “An Actress.” I thought she was already an actress. “Oh, I am. An actress and model.”
“Have you been in anything?” I enquired.
“Nothing you have seen, I don't suppose,” she replied, “but you never know: one day you might be able to say 'I remember when I helped her do her hair'.”
Her underwear did not match. I did not say anything, but wondered whether she had not much money – actors don't often – but she noticed that I noticed anyway and said, “The collar and cuffs don't match either.” So I suppose I was right, and she cannot always afford new clothes.
I helped her brush her tangled hair and she tied it up in a complicated knot. I helped her choose her lipstick – the reddest red one she had. When Mummy gets dressed, she is ever so quick, but she hardly bothers about make-up. V spends ages splatting it on, but it always looks the same: awful. Belle took a long time with foundation, eye shadow, mascara, blusher, brushes, sticks and pens, but she got dressed quickly enough, in a creamy, glittery dress with no back and little frills like a tail. “They're to make my bottom look bigger,” she explained, shaking said bottom.
“Why?” I asked, wondering what V would think.
“Oh, it’s all about the derrière, these days,” she cooed, making actress slash model-y poses in the mirror and then hitched up the dress to roll on a pair of very thin hold-ups. “Now, see if I remembered to put the titillator in my bag.” I think that is what she said. There was not much in there – just a bunch of feathers and some ribbon. “That's it!” she cried, and pinned the little bundle into her hair, so that the feathers bobbed about every time she moved: she reminded me of a fishing fly, but I did not say so. The detective must also be a diplomat. “Our friend on the stairs would fall down flat!” she exclaimed, blowing herself a kiss in the mirror.
“I think maybe V is jealous,
” I said: I was trying Belle out as a new side-kick, as it was awkward having V as chief suspect and sturdy bat-man.
“V?” murmured Belle, pouting.
“My big fat sister.”
“Uh-huh,” blinking her eyes.
“I mean, she has an obsession with Mummy's cooking, because she has this cooking thing at school …”
“Oh?” said Belle, adjusting the seams of her stockings. I was not sure she would be much good as a side-kick.
“Ah, I don't know,” I muttered, adjusting the seams of my jeans, “My Detective's instinct tells me there is something missing from the picture …”
I was interrupted by the chirping of a mobile from inside Belle's handbag. She dived for it and so did I, trying to be helpful, and our heads banged together pretty hard. I sat on the floor and rubbed my head for a bit and Belle stood up, holding her bag, and the phone, and looking cross. She declined the call, straightened her feathers and her seams again, closed her eyes for a second and then opened them at me and smiled. She must have had a sore head still because her smile was a little tight.
“Take a picture of me,” she cried, tossing me the phone and striking a pose. I took it – all pout and boobs – and passed her back the phone. With some concentration, with her tongue sticking out and smudging her lipstick, she sent the photo out into the world. “He'll like that,” she laughed, a proper laugh with all her teeth, fillings and all, flashing. “Now – let's join the party!”
Chapter 8
