by A. B. King
For about the first time since I had met her she managed to look at least a tad crestfallen.
“Now, if you still want me to go on with this,” I continued, determined that I might just as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, “we are going to have a new set of ground rules, and we have to stick with them.”
“All right Neil, I take your point,” she conceded with more grace than I thought she was capable of.
“I just hope you mean that,” I said. I’d gone this far so I knew that I had to finish saying what was on my mind. “Because if I'm going to go on with this, I intend doing it my own way, and I can't do that with you breathing down my neck and jumping in head-first at the earliest opportunity. If you can't sit back and wait for results like any normal client, I suggest that we divide responsibilities, only you don't get to chose what you will do, it’s what I decide!”
“I suppose you're right,” she admitted grudgingly, and inwardly I breathed a deep sigh of relief that she had taken my words as well as she had. “It's your agency after all, so you are entitled to call the shots. Ok, so what's next?”
“I shall do the two remaining houses here,” I announced firmly before she could change her mind, “and you can go the other side and check out the farm.”
“Check out the farm, what on earth can anyone there tell us?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn't need to bother asking you to go, now would I? On the other hand, if you would rather go back to the village to wait in the car?”
“No, I'll go,” she agreed hastily. “I might just as well complete the destruction of these shoes whilst I'm at it.”
“When you get there, try being honest,” I advised, ignoring her sarcasm. “Particularly if it is still the same farmer. Tell them who you are, and that you are trying to get your memory back. You never know what you may learn; if Julia's story is essentially correct, someone from the farm was the first on the scene. If possible, see if you can get them to describe everything they can remember. There is always the outside chance that they may recollect some small detail that will help. Will you do that?”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” she quipped. “Where do I meet up with you?”
“We can meet up by the far side of the footbridge when we are finished.”
“Right, I'm off then,” she announced, and without a backward glance she marched back come down the slope towards the river.
I watched her retreating form until it had vanished round a bend in the footpath, mildly astonished that she had co-operated so readily. I quickly gave up wondering what reasons lay behind her surprise acquiescence as I turned and looked towards the second house I had seen, the one that bordered the opposite side of the footpath from the place I had just visited. I may have given up wondering about what motivated her, but I couldn't get away from the fact that Danny was by far and away the most fascinating female I had ever encountered. Even if she was fascinating, trying to cope with her as a person, and the impossible task I had accepted on her behalf was really a bit too much of a good thing. It occurred to me that much as I would love to get her into bed, trying to live with her as a long-term partner would be like living with a firecracker; pretty, but most definitely dangerous!
I tried again to push her to the back of my mind as I opened the gate and walked up the wide driveway of my next destination. This led to an imposing multi-roomed mansion that looked as if it had cost a small fortune. The driveway branched off from the front of an imposing double garage and led up to a wide porch-way surrounding a heavy front door. Alongside the door hung a handle that was clearly connected to an old fashioned bell-pull, nowadays undoubtedly an expensive antique accessory for the ultra well-heeled. I also noticed a small security camera in the corner of the porch that was solemnly scrutinising my unkempt form rather closely.
I grabbed the handle of the bell-pull and yanked it downwards, yet could detect no distant 'clang' from within the building. Standing there waiting, I had a sudden uncomfortable recollection of one of the old television game-shows where a contestant was encouraged to do much the same sort of thing with a dangling handle, and immediately a bucket of highly coloured 'gunge' was obligingly dropped on him. I was quite thankful that I did not immediately suffer the same fate. A good minute passed by, although to me it seemed like ten, and I was on the point of beating a fully justifiable retreat when the door swung open to reveal a very sour-faced woman of about sixty or so years of age who looked at me as if I was something that had recently crawled out from under a stone.
“Yes?” asked sour-face in a voice that matched her unprepossessing features.
“Good afternoon, I apologise for disturbing you,” I said in what I hoped was a truly apologetic voice. “I wonder if it is possible to have a few words about a small private matter.”
“We don't buy anything at the door,” she announced truculently, and made as if to close it.
“Quite right, too,” I agreed hastily. “I'm not selling anything, I'm not collecting anything, and I'm not representing any sort of religion or society, I only wish to speak on a private matter if you can spare me just a few minutes?”
“What sort of private matter?” she asked suspiciously, obviously still just as keen to close the door and get rid of me.
“I'm a writer,” I lied in what I hoped was a convincing voice, “and I'm doing research into a tragedy that occurred in the river about fourteen years ago.”
“What tragedy would that be?”
“A young girl was drowned in the river during a storm. She was camping with her sister and a friend down by the footbridge.”
Judging from her expression, she didn't believe a word of what I was saying, and I started to wish more than ever that I was somewhere else.
“You say you are a writer?”
“Yes,” I prevaricated once again, “My name is Hammond, by the way; Neil Hammond. I appreciate that I should have written to you and made an appointment, but as I was in the area today, I took a chance, but if it isn't convenient-”
“Wait here, I will see if Mrs Grace will see you,” she said in that tone of voice that strongly suggested that she very much doubted 'Mrs Grace' would ever condescend to see anyone as insignificant as myself. She forthwith closed the door as I belatedly rumbled the fact that I hadn't been talking to the lady of the house, but some jumped-up menial. I stood there kicking my heels wondering if I was going to get anywhere at all with this stupid venture I had agreed to. I also wondered what 'Mrs Grace' would be like assuming I ever got to see her, which at the moment didn't seem likely. I imagined that she was probably another frosty-faced old harridan! The name stuck in my mind, because somewhere it was ringing a bell, and I couldn't quite think where I'd heard it before. I was still ruminating on the matter when the door opened again, and sour-face looked out at me as if quite disappointed that I hadn't vanished.
“Mrs Grace will see you,” she announced in a voice that suggested strong disapproval of such an outrageous concession, “come with me.”
She stood to one side, and I stepped through the door into a palatial hallway.
“Wipe your feet.” she said.
I duly obliged, and then we set off to find the lady of the house. I didn't get much of a chance to study anything as she led me briskly through the building as if wishing to be rid of me at the earliest possible moment. In that swift transit I was left with an impression of money, opulence, and a singular lack of taste, which I imagine is often the trade-mark of the novo-rich. Having traversed a lounge big enough to contain my whole flat and still leave room to spare, I was led through an open set of rather old fashioned French windows onto a spacious patio that looked out over a large and well kept garden of shrubs and flowerbeds, and bordered by trees that stretched as far as I could see at a quick glance. On the far side of the patio I saw a woman reclining on a sun-lounger in the shade of a large umbrella.
“Mr Hammond,” sour-face announced abruptly as we came up to the reclining figure, and with that she turned on her h
eel and left me to it.
I looked at 'Mrs Grace', and saw a woman somewhere in her late fifties, peroxide blonde, and possessed of a figure that might politely be called voluptuous. It had probably been very eye-catching in former years, but was now most definitely past its sell-by date. She bulged in all directions out of a tiny green satin bikini that would have looked more than fetching on Danny, but was almost embarrassing in the way it accentuated the excess folds of flesh that hung over it wherever possible. She was deeply sun-tanned, and her face was crinkled with the fine lines that comes from excessive sunbathing and probably too much smoking as well, judging by the smouldering dog-end in the end of a long ornate cigarette holder she held nonchalantly in her left hand. Even as I looked at her, I suddenly realised where I had heard the name 'Mrs Grace' before.
“Gloria Divine!” I exclaimed. “Of course, Gloria Divine, the famous film actress!”
I should perhaps explain that as an acne-ridden teenager I had been an ardent fan of Gloria Divine. I had watched all her films, not once but many times. I had a complete crush on her because I thought that she was the most 'divine' creature I had ever seen, and I used to fantasize about tracking her down in real life and winning her for myself! The fact that she was at least a decade and a half, if not more, older than I was made no difference because at that time I couldn't conceive of life without her. And then one day it was announced in the press that she was retiring from films to get married to somebody by the name of Grace, and I was left totally devastated. I spent days in a state of deep depression. Mind you, I soon forgot she existed when a young bit of stuff called Irene came briefly into my life, but that's another story. Suddenly, here I was, actually in the presence of the idol of my largely misspent adolescence.
“Why dah-ling,” she cooed, “how perfectly sweet of you to recognise me; I thought my adoring public had all but forgotten that I ever existed!”
“I recognised you at once,” I lied, and then compounded my insincerity by adding; “I would have recognised you anywhere; you haven't changed a bit.”
“How very kind of you to say so,” she said, obviously quite pleased that at least someone recognised her. “So few people do these days you know?”
“Oh, I'm certain that cannot be true,” I blathered on, glad that at least I had found something upon which to speak to her about. Privately I was quite shocked at how the most beautiful creature of my teen years had gone so much to seed, although I suppose the years are not that kind to any of us. “For my money you are the most talented and certainly the most beautiful actress ever to cross the Silver Screen”
“Oh, I'm sure there are many that are so much better than I,” she said deprecatingly in a tone that did not convince me for a micro-second. “But, how terribly gallant of you to say so.”
“It is the plain simple truth,” I assured her stoutly; I was by now getting quite used to this business of lying with conviction. I wondered briefly if my late mother’s assertion that I would get pimples on my tongue if I told porky’s still held true now that I was an adult.
“Well, maybe. Now, do come and sit down, Mr, er, Hammond, and tell me all about yourself. A writer I believe?”
I gladly accepted the seat she indicated, and sat down more or less alongside her. An aura of strong perfume wafted across to me, and she smiled professionally through heavily carmined lips. Seen closer up, the ravages of too much good living were even more apparent, and privately I was heartily glad that my youthful dreams had never been fulfilled.
“Yes, that's right, Mrs Grace,” I said as I prepared to launch myself into my not-so-carefully prepared fiction, “I-”
“Oh, do please call me Gloria,” she interrupted. “It was so wonderful to hear my professional name slipping so naturally from the lips of a real fan again after all these years.”
“Very well, if you are quite sure you don't mind,” I agreed trying not to look too unctuous. “As I explained to er-”
“Mrs Grimmond, my housekeeper,” Gloria murmured.
“Oh, yes, as I explained to Mrs Grimmond, I was in the area undertaking some research, and as your home is very close to the site I am looking at, I took the chance of calling in the hope that I would be lucky enough to obtain some additional information. But of course, never in my wildest dreams would I ever have believed that I would be so lucky as to meet the fabulous Gloria Divine.”
I wondered if I was rather overdoing the flattery bit, but it was evident that she would soak up any amount of it, for she positively glowed as I spoke. I recall thinking that I had already put a considerable amount of effort into this particular interview, and I still hadn't established whether she had even lived in the house fourteen years ago.
“Oh, yes, something about a young girl I think you explained to Mrs Grimmond,” she said, blinking long artificial eyelashes at me. “Got herself into trouble or something, wasn't that it?”
“Well, sort of,” I agreed, “although not ‘into trouble, as in, ‘into trouble, if you get my meaning?”
“Of course not,” she responded. “Some sort of accident wasn’t it”
“Yes, that’s it. I'm writing a book about mysterious and unusual tragedies, and I came across this one recently, and it interested me. This young girl was camping with her sister and a friend down by the river when a storm blew up. It seems that she was standing with her sister outside her tent when it was struck by lightning. One sister was seriously injured, and the other was blown into the river and drowned.”
“Oh, how perfectly dreadful,” she said mechanically, “and now that you mention it, I do remember something like that happening some years back.”
“It was fourteen years ago,” I confirmed, relieved that at least I had found someone who was in the area at the time. It remained to be seen if she knew anything of any value about what had happened.
“Was it as long ago as that? I really don't know where the time goes,” she sighed as if I was talking of the passage of at least half a century. “Yes, there was quite a bit about it in the local rag as I recall, not that they gave any details of course; just what you said to me, storm, lightning, poor child blown into the river and drowned; perfectly ghastly business. Heaven knows what her parents thought about it all.”
“Were you actually here at the time?”
“Oh yes, I was throwing a party as it happens. Beautiful summer's day, and we had a marquee up in the garden. Lots of people from show-biz you know. We were all having a wonderful time, and then we all had to dash into the marquee when the skies opened up; the rain came down in absolute torrents I tell you; absolute torrents. Perfectly dreadful storm it was; quite ruined the party.” She paused, and then added; “You know, now that I come to think of it, I believe I actually saw the flash of lightning that must have blown that poor child into the river.”
I could scarcely contain my excitement at her words; if she actually saw what happened I should be able to scotch Danny's wild theories once and for all and go back to a sensible way of life.
“You did?”
“Why yes, dah-ling; the far end of the garden overlooks the river; you can see it through the trees down there. I will show it to you if you like?”
“Well, if it's not too much trouble?”
“It's no trouble at all dah-ling,” she cooed, getting languidly to her feet and pulling a robe loosely about her shoulders. She did it in a manner that I instantly recalled from years ago in the many films I had watched; thrusting her ample bosom forward in the manner that in those days had made my mouth go dry and my knees turn to water. Unfortunately there were now more than several extra inches to that famous chest, and they bulged out of every side from a bikini that was doing its level best to keep things under control, yet in real danger of losing an increasingly unequal contest. The bikini bottom was so small I wondered for a moment if she was wearing anything at all until I realised that the economy-sized spare tyre round her midriff was effectively obscuring it. We strolled down through the extensive gard
en that, unlike its owner was extremely well maintained, and I could see the glint of water through the trees at the far end almost as soon as we set out.
“You say that you actually saw what happened?” I prompted.
“Well, I wasn't actually looking at the spot, if that's what you mean,” she said. “I sort of caught the flash out of the corner of my eye, so to speak. Almost blinded me, dah-ling, and there was a simply terrible clap of thunder, more like an explosion really. I mean, I was so close to it that it might have been me that died, and not that poor child in the water.”
“You were really that close?”
“Oh, yes, dah-ling, I should think I was closer than almost anybody, except the people in the camp that is. I was down in those trees there, you see. I had wandered away from the party with a friend of mine. Well, you know what parties are, always having to be nice to people and all that; gets very tiring. Anyway, I strolled right down to the end of the garden, well away from the clamour just to get a breather, and quite by chance I met up with Freddy Ivanoff. I expect you remember him in that wildly romantic film 'Russian Nights?' Well, he's a lovely man, wonderful to talk to, so knowledgeable you know. By some strange coincidence he was down there for a breather too, and being such good friends we just stood around chatting; I think we were discussing a new script he was considering. Well, you know how it is when one gets talking shop; we didn't realise that as we chatted we had wondered so far down the garden that we were almost up against the boundary fence. Yes, I remember that it was such a fascinating role he was being offered you see, and, well, before you know it, he was showing me one of the intensely romantic scenes he would have to play. Freddy was such a superb actor, really living whatever part he needed to play, and this scene was so emotional powerful I was quite swept away by it all.”
