Corpse in a Gilded Cage (20 page)

‘You did say—'

‘Did I perhaps imply that they couldn't cope with words of more than one syllable, that logic was forbidden by their Church under penalty of fifty Hail Marys? Well, forget what I said.'

‘They've got them?'

‘They've got them, and they've got the car. And in the car they've found what they call “A very pretty piece of paintin' ”, a “very fancy clock”, as well as various knickknacks that may well come from Chetton. This morning I would never have believed it possible.'

‘And where was this, sir?'

‘County Waterford, would you believe it? And you're the one who's going to fetch them.'

The newspaper that the late Earl of Ellesmere had read daily was the
Daily Mirror.
He had ordered it from his newsagent the day after his demob from the army (rank of Corporal in charge of Stores) in 1946, and he had never wavered in his allegiance. When he had come down to Chetton he had ordered it from the tiny newsagent in Chetton Lacey, who had rubbed his eyes at this sign that the times they were a-changing, but who had delivered it regularly every morning.

Phil had been no more than a toddler in 1946, and had grown up with the
Mirror,
but when he came down, early on the Wednesday morning, and
flicked through it, he found it far from satisfactory. True the
Mirror,
like the rest of Fleet Street, was finding the death of their faithful subscriber a great source of amusement, what with Parliament in the last weeks of a dull session and the silly season just around the corner. But the
Mirror
only had a picture of the flurry of policemen at the gates of Chetton, and a fanciful story concocted out of nothing (for Hickory was not the sort of policeman to babble to the press to cover over the fact that no substantial progress had been made). So Phil, skimming through it, just shook his head.

The policeman in the Great Hall did not greatly like Phil's idea of driving into Chetton Lacey to buy more of the daily press, but since Sam at that moment put in an appearance on the stairs, he was sent in the Chetton estate car to pick up the
Grub
and the
Telegram,
with the promise of a slap-up breakfast when he returned.

Then Phil trekked off to the kitchens, grilled some bacon and tomatoes, fried himself an egg, and while he ate them read through the
Mirror
again. As the others came down in ones and twos he grilled and fried more food for them, but when Sam returned with the papers, he handed him a brimming plate, said ‘Here's yours. The rest can eat bloody muesli,' and retired to the Green Drawing-Room. Here he settled down on the green sofa and gave the papers the sort of concentrated attention that at that hour of the morning is only usually given to Open University courses. He was not disappointed.

COCKNEY EARL TALKS TO ‘GRUB'

‘B
ETTER THAN
M
AIDSTONE' HE SAYS

The Grub's coverage was sparky and vivid (for the ratty reporter knew he was competing with those extraordinary boobs on page 3). It exuded the reporter's sense of being absolutely chuffed with himself over his scoop, and Phil's personality emerged as ripe and genial—an impression supplemented by the picture of him with his arm round Raicho's shoulder. The
Telegram's
coverage was soberer, slightly more grammatical, but it was quite as long, and used a similar picture. Both papers began their stories on page 1, and continued them inside. Phil read them both through twice, then left them conspicuously on the coffee table by the fireplace.

Down in the kitchen things were sticky. Raicho, hungry enough to brave the dangers of Dixie, had come down in search of breakfast. His dark, good-looking face was apprehensive, but Dixie had luckily kept to
her room. The welcome from the others was cold and appraising, but after a second or two's thought Joan said brightly ‘Hello, Raicho. I expect you'd like something to eat, wouldn't you?' And she fetched him something with fairly good grace. The rest of them turned back to what they were doing, which was trying to worm information out of Sam.

‘But what was he after?' Trevor asked. ‘Phil's never been a great newspaper reader before.'

‘You ask him, man,' said Sam, who at strategic moments retreated into racial stereotype, even to rolling his eyes. ‘He just sent me for some papers.'

‘Well, which ones?'

‘The
Grub
and the
Telegram.'

‘Why those two? What was in them?'

‘He-ell, I dunno, man,' lied Sam. ‘I didn't look.'

‘I expect it was the interview,' said Raicho. There was a moment's silence. They all turned their eyes to him, suspicious.

‘What interview?' demanded Digby.

‘My father talked to a couple of reporters—over there in some field or other, yesterday.'

‘What did he say?' asked Michele.

‘I don't really know. I only got there at the end.'

‘But you were there, you were with him,' said Joan, in a transparent attempt at ingratiation. ‘How nice! Because you've really had
very
little contact with your father in the past, haven't you? And now—practically his right-hand man!'

Raicho did not respond to this. He took a piece of toast and buttered it. The others looked at each other, forged into an
ad hoc
alliance by their common uncertainty.

‘I don't see any harm in it,' said Chokey. ‘Phil always was gabby.'

‘I must say,' said Joan, ‘that I don't think it was wise. After all, you know what reporters can
do
with what you say.'

‘The
Grub
does it with what you don't say,' said Michele.

Suddenly Trevor pricked up his ears.

‘That sounded like the phone.'

‘Can't be,' said Chokey. ‘They're all unplugged. I had to plug one in when I rang my bookmaker yesterday.'

‘I think it was, though,' said Trevor. ‘Perhaps someone forgot to pull it out.'

Mr Lillywaite had suggested—had almost, so dour was his manner,
ordered—that the phone be disconnected. He had impressed on the family, and later on Phil during their walk together, the harm that could be done by one incautious word to the newspapers. When the police had begun to man the old, disused switchboard he had given them a brief statement to be read out to the press and to all other inquirers. But Mr Lillywaite's word, it seemed, was no longer law. When Phil had finished digesting the newspapers he had gone into the Great Hall and plugged in the phone.

‘Switchboard? For the next few hours I'll take all calls that come in for the family. That's right: all calls.'

Then he had gone back into the Drawing-Room and waited. He had not had long to wait.

‘Yes?' said Phil, when he picked up the phone. ‘This
is
the Earl of Ellesmere . . . The
Clarion?
 . . . No, I'm sorry I don't know of any new developments. I expect the rozzers will tell the papers quick enough if there are any . . . No, I'm not giving any interviews until after this business is cleared up . . . After? Well, that's a different matter. It's quite possible I'll be willing to give interviews after that,
depending,
of course, on the terms you're offering . . . Well, you just run along to your Press lord and see what he's willing to cough up, eh? And we'll talk about it later.'

The voice on the other end began jabbering further questions, but Phil, with a pleased grin on his face, firmly put down the phone. He turned round and saw gathered at the end of the passage his brother, his sister, and most of the other enforced residents at Chetton.

‘That was the
Clarion,'
said Phil, and ambled back towards the Drawing-Room. He had scarcely reached its door when the telephone rang again.

‘Chetton Hall . . . the Earl speaking . . . No, I've nothing to add to what was in the
Grub
and
Telegram
today . . . When things are sorted out we might have a chat, if we can come to some arrangement—financial arrangement, that is . . . I'm expecting the
Observer
to send Kenneth Harris, so I'd want one of your top men . . .'

And as Phil, exuding charm and intelligent concern, strung the Press along, the assembled guests stood there, gazing with wild surmise. Only Trevor chortled and opined, as usual, that it was a right giggle.

•   •   •

By mid-morning Phil was getting exhausted. It wasn't exactly that the charm was wearing thin, but it was patently becoming more of an effort. Some little cockneyism to each of the callers, some insubstantial promise
of jam tomorrow, some broad hint of the necessity of paying for it—it all took mental effort. When Mr Lillywaite rang to wring his hands, verbally, over the material in that morning's papers, Phil cut him very short indeed. He was quite pleased when he saw Raicho returning from an interview with Superintendent Hickory.

‘How did it go?'

‘Fine, Dad,' said Raicho laconically.

‘What did you tell him?'

‘The truth.'

‘And nothing but the truth, I hope,' said Phil, unaccountably missing out ‘the whole truth'. ‘Look, I've got a little job for you. Oh good—here are the kids.'

Since the return of their father, and especially since the retreat into purdah of their mother, who had not been seen yet that day, the children had been running wild. Phil sent the younger two out to the grounds, to run a little wilder, and gathered Karen, Gareth and Raicho around the telephone.

‘I'm pooped, so you lot are going to take over—right? The spiel is this: there won't be any statements or interview till after the police have finished their inquiries. After that I'll be considering all offers of interviews, if the terms are right. Anything else—opening bazaars, supermarket, TV, radio, anything like that—tell them to put their offer in writing. I'll be dealing with all correspondence after the police—etcetera, etcetera, and so on. Anything unusual, you come to me and I'll deal with it. Got that?'

The phone rang as he spoke.

‘Right. I'll take this last one, so listen carefully.'

He took up the receiver.

‘Yes, this
is
Chetton Hall . . . Mr
Trevor
Spender? . . . Are you sure? . . . What was it you wanted to speak to him about? . . . Oh, I see . . . I dunno, but I'll see if he's available.'

He laid down the receiver, grimaced at the children, and shook his head. Then he went over to the Drawing-Room.

‘Someone wants you on the buzzer, Trev. Some film company. And if it's an offer, try to keep your clothes on in this one, will you? For the honour of the family.'

‘I never get offered roles like that,' said Trevor, getting up with alacrity.

‘No, well, him at the other end didn't sound like Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, I must admit. Make it brief, though, Trev. We don't want to hold up the flow.'

‘Insist on something with a bit of
class,'
called Michele.

Phil was just about to slip into some unoccupied room and have a bit of rest and relaxation when he was arrested by a clumping sound on the stairs. Dixie was coming down. And since she had not been heard before she began descending, it was a fair bet that she'd been listening from the top. In her hand was a copy of the
Grub
which some kind person, perhaps knowing her likely reaction to the picture on the front page, had brought up to her bedroom. Ignoring Trevor's agitated signals to keep her voice down, she looked murderously at her husband, and said:

‘What the hell do you think you're playing at, Phil?'

‘Making us a bundle, I hope, Dixie. Any objections?'

‘Why the blazes didn't you tell me about it?'

‘But Dixie, you haven't been in talking mood since yesterday.'

‘In the old days you wouldn't have dared . . .'

‘Ah, the old days,' said Phil, and he walked into the Green Drawing-Room, rubbing his hands.

The family looked at him, with that expression of bemusement on their faces that Phil's activities had begun to arouse. They had sent into Chetton Lacey too, to get more papers, and the various accounts of the murder investigation were scattered around the tables and chairs. As Trevor's phone call ended, and he came in chortling with an almost innocent delight at his prospects in the dirty-raincoat cinema trade, the voice of Raicho could be heard from the Hall, answering the next call.

‘No, my father won't be making any statement until . . .'

‘Phil,' said Joan, ‘we'd like to know—'

‘Sorry, old girl, I'm up to my eyes,' said Phil. ‘Sam—can you come and have a chat for a minute? I've got a job for you.'

And whether or not this was merely an excuse to avoid further questions, for half an hour after this Phil and Sam walked up and down the gravelly paths of the Dutch Garden, deep in conversation. Their every step was followed closely from the windows of the Green Drawing-Room.

•   •   •

Peter Medway had slept on the overnight ferry from Fishguard to Rosslare, and he felt sharp-minded and refreshed. It wasn't long before he felt he needed to be.

The two sergeants in the small town of Dungarvan who had arrested the wanted pair were a contrast of types: one was curly-headed, vocal, and could charm an ayatollah into a sex shop; the other was tall, raw-boned,
and had one of those massive Irish chins that means that its possessor will be a great opera-singer or a great numskull. Or both.

‘We really are enormously impressed,' said Medway. ‘We didn't dare to hope for them to be taken anything like as quickly as this.'

‘Surely it was nothin',' said Chucklehead airily. ‘We do what we can to help the English
po
lice—if it's not political an' all.'