The Last Baronet

by Caroline Akrill

  Anna lifted a hand and smoothed his hair, feeling it sleek and cold under her fingers. Rupert’s hair was always cold, cold and black, as black as night. ‘What about friendship?’ she said. ‘Surely we can have a future together as friends?’

  He jerked his head away. ‘You just don’t have a clue, do you, Anna? You have absolutely no bloody comprehension of how I feel, of how sodding desperate I am, of what it feels like to have you calmly stand there and offer me your friendship! I don’t want your bloody friendship!’ he shouted. ‘I don’t want your friendship any more than I want to be your fucking employee! I could tell you what to do with your friendship and your gracious offer of employment, Anna! I could tell you where to stick your lunatic visions and your precious future, because I can see a few visions myself! I can see a vision of a bloody disaster! I can see a vision of bankruptcy for you, Anna! I can see your future and it’s a sodding nightmare! For Christ’s sake, show some common sense and drop this crazy idea of yours! Pull out before it’s too late! For God’s sake, Anna, forget it!’

  ‘But maybe,’ said Anna thoughtfully, not really knowing why she was saying it, not really knowing that it was even true, ‘in a way it’s for God’s sake that I’m doing it.’

  For a few moments Rupert was rendered speechless, then, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What I mean is, whatever you like to call it: fate, destiny, kismet, karma, God or whatever, well, maybe that’s the reason I’m doing it.’

  ‘I thought that’s what you said. Now I know you’re bloody bonkers! You never fail to amaze me, Anna. I don’t know exactly how or when God came to be in your team, but it’s a brilliant idea; it’s a bloody master stroke! After all, if you’re on a losing wicket it could be very useful to call in the Almighty to bat on your behalf! And why stop there, Anna? Why not recruit Father bloody Christmas, whilst you’re about it? Why not ask the Man in the bloody Moon!’

  ‘Stop it, Rupert. I’ve heard enough.’ She turned to leave, but he forestalled her, taking her hands in his, reining in, biting his tongue, trying to be gentle now; now that he was losing her, and knew it. Looking at him she saw eyes dark with pain and frustration, noticing the familiar blue shadow on his cheeks and the stubborn line of his jaw, and the strained set of his mouth and she thought; how beautiful he is, how lovely, what a pity I can’t love him. What a shame. What a waste. ‘You might wish me luck, anyway,’ she said resignedly. ‘According to everyone I have spoken to, I am going to need an awful lot of it.’

  ‘And what about me?’ he demanded. ‘What about my luck? What about my life? What about my future? How shall I bear it? How can I let you go away and risk never seeing you again when I can’t even stand the thought of it, not even for a minute?’ His voice was agonised, his expression painful to behold. He lifted one of her hands to his lips only to drop it again in a despairing gesture as he acknowledged the hopelessness of his situation. ‘What you are going to do is madness, Anna. It’s financial suicide.’ But even as he spoke his tone betrayed the resignation he felt. How could he let her go ahead with this crazy project without him? Even if she didn’t love him, she needed him, and that was a start, that should be enough; that had to be enough. For the moment. Wearily, he sat down on one of the dining chairs, the plastic seat of which was patterned with anchors. He pulled up beside it another chair patterned with shrimps. ‘But if I can’t persuade you to change your mind, perhaps you and I might be able to come to some sort of arrangement. Sit down, Anna. Explain to me your conditions of employment. Tell me about friendship.’

  TEN

  ‘Now, what do you think of this one?’ With a flourish, the proprietor laid upon the counter a mask with many warts and a snout like a pig.

  David Williamson liked pigs but did not particularly want to look like one. ‘I’m looking for something a bit more... well... evil,’ he said.

  The proprietor beamed. ‘Oh, I think we can help you there,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think we can definitely help you there.’ “We” consisted of the proprietor of The Jolly Jape and Novelty Shop (Masks and Fancy Dress our speciality), and an enormous white cat asleep on the counter which, not being very large to start with, was somewhat cramped as a result of it. The proprietor, who was himself not very large, but exceedingly neat and nimble, with a shiny bald head and bright, twinkling eyes, manoeuvred himself deftly into the window space, displacing a stock reduction offer on Barbara Cartland (all sooty eyelashes and candy floss hair with a shocking pink bow) in order to procure a distinctly unpleasant mask of a greenish hue turning to black around the eye holes, the purple mouth sprouting an assortment of rotting fangs, and the whole attached, via a veined and hideous forehead, to a hairless scalp like a skull.

  ‘Count Orlock to the life, I promise you,’ said the proprietor, easing himself neatly back behind the counter. ‘Based on Klaus Kinski himself in the 1979 version of Nosferatu; an absolute masterpiece of the genre and never bettered, in my opinion. Now, why don’t we try it on? I do believe I have a mirror somewhere.’ He looked around without success until, lifting a portion of the cat and feeling around underneath, he managed to locate a small hand mirror with a polished wooden back. ‘Good, now we can see what it looks like.’ He edged out from behind the counter and, standing on tiptoe, placed the mask carefully over David Williamson’s head. Surveying it with a critical eye, he made one or two adjustments before holding up the mirror. ‘It really is magnificent,’ he said admiringly. ‘Quite marvellous in its way, and absolutely Nosferatu. Undoubtedly a wonderful piece of craftsmanship, a genuine work of art, and an incredible likeness; the ears are particularly fine. Herzog insisted on the rat-like ears apparently although Kinski is credited with having thought up the rest – the bald skull, the hollow eye-sockets, the fangs placed centrally in the mouth. I don’t suppose you are at all familiar with the film in question, it being rather before your time, but I can tell you that all you need now is a black costume and some good fingernail extensions and Bob’s your uncle. It really does look very splendid. I like it.’

  The effect was certainly very evil and disturbing, but it was not quite what David Williamson had visualised. He felt rather hot and agitated inside the mask and was glad to take it off. He was relieved to be the only customer and fervently hoped to complete his purchase before anyone else entered the shop. Not that there was room for anyone else; the proprietor, the counter, the cat and David Williamson already filled almost every inch of available space. ‘I think I need something a bit more... bestial,’ he said.

  ‘Bestial!’ The proprietor was delighted. ‘Ah, now we’re talking! Now we’re getting down to it!’ He squeezed back behind the counter and restored Klaus Kinski to pride of place in the window. ‘Bestial! Yes! Bestial we can do, can’t we puss? Now then, let me see...’ Removing Prince Charles from a shelf above the window space, he took down a box marked HORROR, placed it upon the counter and, rummaging inside produced a leprous mask with grey, peeling skin, half a nose, an empty eye socket, and tufts of bristly hair sprouting all over the scalp.

  David Williamson shuddered and shook his head.

  ‘No?’ The leprous mask was followed by one upon which the features appeared to have liquefied and were streaming down the face in a wash of blood and gore. ‘House of Wax,’ the proprietor said with relish. ‘Do you recall the film? No? Well, never mind. What about this one?’ He held aloft a mask consisting of half a face. The other half was just a raw, red pulp. ‘Phantom of the Opera. It comes in two parts, mask and prosthesis. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Lloyd-Webber production in the West End? Marvellously theatrical. Wonderful music. Very good tunes. The boy’s a genius actually, no doubt about it.’ He hummed a few bars of The Music of the Night with enthusiasm, as a result of which the cat opened one perfectly round, pink eye, surprising David Williamson who, due to the fact that it had shown no previous sign of life whatsoever, and because its fur looked ravaged by moth, had presumed it to be stuffed. ‘I think I would feel a bit more comfortable with something furry,�
�� he said. ‘Something a bit more like an animal. Something hairy.’

  ‘Hairy! Like an animal!’ The proprietor rubbed his hands together in anticipation. ‘Of course! Now, why didn’t we think of that? Yes, I think we can help you there! I think we can find you just the thing, just exactly the right hairy sort of thing!’ He replaced the cardboard box marked HORROR on the window shelf and took down another box marked W-WOLF/GOR. The contents of W-WOLF/GOR seemed infinitely more promising. ‘Now, what have we here? What do you say to this?’ The proprietor extracted a black gorilla mask having a large flattened nose with flaring nostrils, a pleated brow and a wig of thick, matted hair.

  ‘That’s nearly it,’ said David Williamson, ‘but not quite.’

  ‘Nearly it,’ repeated the proprietor, ‘but not quite. Getting warmer, wouldn’t you say? Getting within spitting distance now! Ah! Now then, let’s take a look at this... American Werewolf de Luxe with Latex.’ He took out what appeared to be a ball of verminous dark fur and inched himself out from behind the counter again in a purposeful manner. ‘We really have to try this on in order to appreciate its artistry. It really is a consummate example of maskmanship. You will be amazed by this, I can guarantee it, but there is a certain skill involved in its application. It stretches like so...’ he inserted both hands into the furry ball and stretched out the mask to its fullest extent, ‘...then you lower it carefully over the face like so...’ Reaching up, he eased the mask over David Williamson’s head and pulled it down over his face. When he removed his hands it contracted and settled into place. The smell of rubber was overpowering. The proprietor gave it a tweak here and a tug there before holding up the mirror. ‘Now,’ he said with glee. ‘That is bestial!’

  It was. Instantly, the mask had transformed David Williamson into a nightmarish monster with a hideously hairy face, wild, bloodshot eyes and a mouth pulled to one side in a vicious snarl displaying realistic yellowing fangs. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I like it. I’ll take it. This is exactly what I had in mind. It’s perfect.’

  ‘Perfect! Exactly what you had in mind!’ The proprietor was overjoyed. ‘We knew we’d get there in the end! American Werewolf de Luxe with Latex it is then! A truly magnificent creation and possibly the most realistic mask on the market today. I don’t suppose you are familiar with the films? No? Well, perhaps we should get you unmasked and, as before, there is a knack to getting it off, you have to roll it up from the bottom like so, and with one hand on either side of the head and using the palms, you continue to roll until you get to the top like so. It’s so easy when you know how, don’t you think? Now we have to unroll the mask by taking a very firm hold of the top like so and, inserting the fingers into the roll, pulling the mask down again like so; we can’t afford to leave it rolled up and inside out because that would affect the lie of the pelt and that wouldn’t do, would it? No that definitely wouldn’t do at all, not at the price we have to ask you to pay for it because, sadly, American Werewolf de Luxe in Latex is the most expensive mask in the shop, very costly indeed, second only to Elephant Man. John Hurt played the title role in the film, if you remember? A thrilling and unforgettable performance, quite heartbreaking in its pathos. Yes, I am afraid we have to ask you to part with a great deal of money; one hundred and sixty eight pounds excluding VAT and more’s the pity. We are almost too embarrassed to mention it, aren’t we puss?’

  David Williamson left the tiny, claustrophobic shop with a feeling of relief and in better spirits than he had been for some time. It had been a bitter blow to discover that Sir Vivian had somehow managed to return from the dead. He had not been able to believe it at first. After all, he had been there; he had witnessed his demise; with his own hands he had leg-and-winged his old adversary into the wheelbarrow and watched as he was carried away, as dead as a doorknob.

  Rendered magnanimous by the prospect of being rid of the Rushbroke family in their entirety (for how long could the Hon. Nicola and Lady Lav hold out at Rushbroke? Surely it would just be a matter of time before they were forced out; everyone knew they were practically bankrupt and owed money all over the place) he had called into Rushall St. Mary’s flower shop with the intention of ordering a wreath. But the florist had frowned when he had enquired as to the date and time of the ceremony. She had no knowledge of a funeral being arranged, neither had she heard that Sir Vivian had died. Was he, David Williamson, quite sure he had the correct information, she wondered, because if he had been the victim of a malicious joke, it was in pretty poor taste, if anyone cared for her opinion. And by the way, if he happened to be calling at Rushbroke Hall at any time in the near future in order to determine the true facts of the matter, and if he happened to see Sir Vivian, provided that he was still in the land of the living, would he be kind enough to mention that he had still to pay for the last wreath he had ordered despite several statements, the last one accompanied by a threatening letter from the proprietor? David Williamson had left the florist’s shop a deeply confused and troubled man.

  From the vantage point of his farmyard, he had watched Rushbroke Hall for days afterwards. He had seen the local doctor come and go on several occasions, likewise the boyfriend of the girl who had rescued Sir Vivian (recognisable to David Williamson because he had been the one who had eventually pulled his car out of the ditch) had visited; from which he surmised that the girl he had dragged out of the mere looking like Ophelia with her wet hair streaming and her soaking garments clinging to her body, had suffered some unfavourable reaction and was still there. Through his binoculars, he had observed the Hon. Nicola going about her usual duties, tending and exercising her quadrupeds much as usual, but he had perceived no sign of grief, no undertakers, none of the usual activity associated with death and the subsequent arrangements for internment or cremation. It had been baffling.

  Finally he had discovered the truth as relayed by the lad who manned the pumps at the Rushall Road Service Station where David Williamson, in common with the Rushbrokes and most of the inhabitants of Rushall St. Mary, purchased petrol and diesel. Sir Vivian had recovered! By some extraordinary chance he had not died at all. He was alive and was expected to be released from Ipswich Hospital within days. The Rushall Road Service Station lived in hope that he might even settle his account.

  This knowledge had been a bitter blow. It had sent David Williamson into a black depression during which he had not even been able to draw comfort from the fact that he had managed to successfully incubate a record 90% of his Norfolk Black Turkey poults which, at just over three weeks old, were almost ready to be transferred from the brooder to the rearing sheds.

  David Williamson’s Christmas turkeys were a local tradition and something of a speciality in the area. By September his order book would be full and many would be disappointed. Soon, inoculated against Blackhead, his turkeys would be roaming free across his farmland in a great black flock, wandering at will, settling to rest where they fancied until, disturbed by anything or nothing, they would pick up their blowsy skirts and noisily depart in search of a new resting place. Occasionally, being perching birds, a foolhardy soul would attempt to fly up into a tree and fall back in a swirl and tumble of feathers. Once, one exceptionally heavy bird had collided with a bough and broken its neck, but otherwise the flock came to no great harm and returned, sometimes after a little encouragement, to the barn for food and shelter as darkness drew in. Their life was pitifully short, but they were free and healthy and well-cared for whilst they lived and their death, when it came, was as unexpected as it was swift. David Williamson could live with that.

  Nevertheless, it had taken the discovery of several more piles of freshly evacuated horse droppings on his pasture to dispel enough of the black depression to enable him to revive his plan to frighten the Hon. Nicola off his property for good. Now, as David Williamson, clutching American Werewolf de Luxe in Latex, walked back towards his Land Rover along an Ipswich back street lined with shops selling mobile phones, musical instruments and aquarium supplies, interspersed wi
th take-away food outlets of every possible variety plus a rather threatening tattoo parlour and at least two sex shops with blacked out windows, a Sue Ryder charity shop caught his eye and what he saw in the window stopped him in his tracks. Displayed on a plaster mannequin wearing a slightly lop-sided orange wig was a vast and hideous black fur coat priced at twelve pounds and fifty pence. It was exactly what he needed.

  ELEVEN

  During the lengthy and meticulous tour of the property, Rupert had been scribbling furiously in the spiral-bound notebook that now reposed before him as he sat at the plank table with his head buried in his arms. Anna would have preferred to be optimistic but feared that this might be a bad sign.

  Nicola had come in from the stables with a limp and a swollen lip, the result of unboxing her latest equine delinquent who had been inclined to stay within the hired conveyance that had facilitated his arrival. Strong drink was called for.

  To accompany the cheapest supermarket brand of instant coffee, which was the best that Nicola could provide, Anna drew from her battered leather shoulder bag a half bottle of Armagnac and a packet of ginger biscuits extravagantly coated in dark chocolate in the hope that these small items would alleviate at least some of the gloom in the atmosphere. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It’s even worse than you imagined. Go on, Rupert; you can say it.’

  Rupert lifted his head in order to partake of a small eggcup of brandy; an eggcup being the best that Nicola could find in the circumstances, the good glass having long gone under the hammer and the plain tumblers vanished without a trace. (The glass regiment beneath Sir Vivian’s bed had yet to be discovered). ‘It’s every bit as bad as I had imagined and in many ways it’s far, far worse. If you want my honest opinion, you would do well to reconsider.’ Of course, she wouldn’t reconsider; she wouldn’t hear if it; nevertheless, he felt an obligation to recommend it. ‘But if you really want to go ahead, if you are absolutely one hundred percent certain, then I have to warn you that this is going to be one holy devil of a job.’