Dead on Cue (3 page)

‘Who he?'

‘Well, he was a sort of white version of you,' Ivy babbled on tactlessly. ‘He had been an actor, director, writer, everything. He just happened to retire to Oakbridge . . .'

‘He was an elderly man then?'

‘Oh yes, well into his seventies. Not a bit like you really,' she added, sensing that Gerry was fractionally put out.

‘I'm pleased to hear that, Mrs Bagshot. Do go on.'

‘Well, he had conceived the idea of writing the script for a Son et Lumière to be performed at Fulke Castle.'

‘I'm sorry, ma'am, I don't know where that is. But first, would you like another sherry? I see that your glass is empty.'

Ivy giggled, something she hadn't done for years. ‘Well, I oughtn't to.'

‘Oh come on, lady. You've had hardly anything.'

Ivy fished in her small handbag and produced an even smaller purse. ‘It's my turn but I would rather that you went to the bar.' She handed him a ten-pound note which he was busy refusing when at that moment the door opened and the vicar, dressed in jeans and a sweater, appeared. ‘Oh Vicar,' Ivy called gaily. ‘What are you having? It's my round.'

Thinking that wonders would never cease, Nick walked over to her table. ‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs Bagshot. I'll have a pint of Harvey's please. May I join you?'

She nodded and he sat down and looked round. Jack Boggis was in his usual place, back to the throng, facing the wall, nose in the paper, contributing nothing. Giles Fielding was sitting at the bar, eyeing up Gerry, as were a great many of the other regulars. Kasper had been invited out to lunch and was conspicuous by his non-appearance. In fact, other than for the absence of the doctor, things were very much as normal.

The door of The Great House opened once again and in walked Madisson, a very tall, very thin, very blonde girl who had opened a beauty parlour some six doors up from the church. She sailed up to the bar and stood next to Gerry, who glanced at her with a great deal of admiration.

Nick waited for the line, ‘Say, honey, you ought to be in pictures,' and was almost relieved when out it came.

Madisson looked Gerry up and down with a cool regard. ‘No thanks, I'm quite happy with my life.'

‘But, darling, you could be a big star.'

‘Get you!' she said, and went to join her friends who were sitting at a table nearby.

Looking slightly crestfallen, Gerry came back with the drinks and turned on Ivy Bagshot a beaming smile. ‘Now, Mrs B., you were telling me about the adventures of Mr Merryfield.'

The vicar came in on the conversation. ‘Wasn't that the poor chap from Oakbridge who died recently?'

Mrs Bagshot looked earnest. ‘Oh yes, indeed. And as I was telling Mr Harlington he has left the Odds in a state of confusion.'

‘Odds?' Nick repeated, puzzled.

‘Yes. The Oakbridge Dramatists and Dramatic Society.'

Nick thought this title was rather overdoing things but said nothing and prepared to listen as Ivy launched into her tale.

‘He'd written the script for and was going to direct a Son et Lumière at Fulke Castle. That is a stately home about twelve miles away in the middle of the countryside, Mr Harlington. Anyway, it was such a big cast that they asked the WI if they could provide any actresses to help them out. Naturally I stepped forward as did Mrs Howes and Mrs Emms. But, of course, it was men they were desperately short of. And now, as fate would have it, the director himself.'

‘But surely he had an assistant?' This from Nick.

‘Well, yes. Young Oswald Souter, who applied for the position in order to learn how to direct. In other words, I fear he is a trifle youthful and inexperienced to take over such a huge project.'

Nick nodded and Gerry sucked his teeth audibly.

‘Tell me about Fulke Castle.'

Mrs Bagshot sipped her sherry. ‘Well, in parts it goes back to 1067, so it was built right after the Norman invasion, though there have been tons of additions since. The part that is lived in is mainly Victorian. But it's all open to the public.'

‘So it's not National Trust?' asked Nick.

‘No, believe it or not it is still in the hands of the original family, though goodness alone knows how. The present owner is Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, his ancestor having come over with William the Conqueror. Anyway, he lets the castle out for films and television – that sort of thing – and has hordes of people poring over the staterooms and so on, and in this way somehow manages to keep the place going.'

‘So was he hiring it out to the Odds?'

‘Yes, but I believe he gave them a cut rate because Mr Merryfield was going to tell its story – and a very fascinating one it was too – but with actors and horses and dogs and sound and light. Oh, it was going to have been so wonderful.'

And Mrs Bagshot's eyes, big behind their glasses, suddenly welled with tears.

Gerry spoke. ‘Come now, ma'am, there's no need for that. Wasp Man to the rescue.'

She and Nick stared at him blankly.

‘While you were speaking I felt the pull of your old Castle Fulke. I shall be happy to offer my services as director to your friends in Oakbridge. If they'll have me, of course.'

This last was said with a sly expression that reminded Nick of a dog stealing sausages.

Mrs Bagshot's throat flushed scarlet and a tear trickled down and left a rivulet in her powder.

‘Oh, would you?' she cried ecstatically, her hands clasping as if in prayer.

‘Yes, ma'am, I will. If I may put a new spin on the words, “I didn't call the castle; the castle called me”. Now you just go home and phone those Oakbridge oddities and tell them that help is at hand. Give them my professional details and I'll wait to get the OK.'

Inwardly Nick shuddered at the thought of the Wasp Man let loose on something as ancient and as precious as Fulke Castle but he kept quiet and concentrated his mind on what he was having for lunch instead.

That night, when evensong was over and Nick was just relaxing, putting his feet up and attempting a brute of a crossword in one of the Sunday papers, there was a ring at the front door. Pulling a face at Radetsky, who gave him a look of pure disapproval in return, he went to answer it and was surprised to see a strange young woman standing there. She gave him a big apologetic smile.

‘Good evening, Reverend Lawrence, I'm so sorry to disturb you and I do apologize for calling so late.'

‘How can I help you?' he said, opening the door and ushering her into the hall.

‘Well, it's a bit of a delicate matter.'

Inwardly Nick sighed, wondering what was coming next. Ahead of him the girl walked into the living room and pulled a beret from her head so that a great mass of crocus-coloured hair came tumbling round her shoulders. She smiled once more.

‘First I think I'd better introduce myself. I'm Jonquil Charmwood.'

‘Is that really your name?' Nick said.

‘Yes. Why?'

‘It's just that it's so unusual.'

She laughed. ‘I'm glad you like it.'

‘I do. Very much. Now what can I do for you, Miss Charmwood?'

He motioned her to a chair and as she sat down there was a sudden creak of floorboards from above. They both looked up.

‘William,' said Nick with a grin. ‘He's my resident ghost. Nice old fellow. Wouldn't hurt a fly.'

‘Really? I've always wanted to meet a ghost. Do you see him?'

‘Very occasionally. But anyway, you haven't come here to talk about him I take it.'

‘No. It's actually about the Son et Lumière at Fulke Castle.'

‘Not trouble already?' Nick said without thinking.

‘No, not really. You know, of course, that Mr Merryfield died of a sudden heart attack. Well, the show was due to be cancelled and then Mrs Bagshot of Lakehurst rang the secretary of Odds – me – and said that this most marvellous actor and director had recently moved into the village and was offering to save the day.'

‘Yes, it's true enough.'

‘Do you think he's capable of doing it?'

Nick sat down opposite her and decided to be honest. ‘Look, I've only met the man twice but he has had a career in Hollywood out of which he must have made a great deal of money because the house he bought, which is just outside Lakehurst by the way, was on the market for a considerable fortune. As to his talents, I really can't say. I've never seen any of his films or any of his television series so it's not possible for me to comment. I'm sorry.'

‘Oh dear,' said Jonquil, and shook her head from side to side so that her lively hair flew. ‘Well, we'll just have to judge for ourselves I suppose. He's coming along to the next rehearsal.'

‘That will be your chance then.'

‘Yes, it will.' She stood up. ‘Thank you so much, Vicar.'

He rose as well. ‘I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help.'

Jonquil made her way to the front door. ‘It's a lovely place you have here,' she said, looking around.

‘Yes, I like it. You must come and see it in the daylight.'

Why did I just say that? He asked himself.

‘Thank you, I will,' she answered, and disappeared into the street.

There was a thump on the landing.

‘Glad you approve, William,' the vicar called, and went back to his crossword.

I
t was not destined to be a peaceful evening. At 10.30, just as Nick was preparing to go to bed, the telephone rang again. This time it was Ivy, definitely tipsy and slurring her words.

‘Hello, Father Nick, hello.'

Oh really! thought Nick, having been brought up to believe that phoning anyone after nine was rude.

‘I just thought I'd give you a little call to thank you for introducing me to Mr Harlington.'

‘Well, I hardly . . .'

‘And for rescuing the Son et Lumière. You truly are a man of miracles.'

To argue that it had been absolutely nothing to do with him would have been futile. Ivy Bagshot, pillar of the WI and unused to alcohol as she was, was plain old-fashioned drunk.

‘Thank you,' said Nick, and waited.

‘Are you there, Vicar?'

‘Yes, I'm here, Mrs Bagshot. Was there something else?'

‘One small tiny favour.'

Nick's heart sank. ‘What might that be?'

‘The Odds are extremely short of men, Father. I mean now that the show is proceeding . . .' But what if it doesn't, thought Nick, remembering Jonquil Charmwood's visit.

‘. . . we shall need some strong men and true.' Mrs Bagshot gave a muted hiccough. ‘So I wondered if you, Father Nick . . .'

‘I'm sorry to disappoint you but I couldn't possibly take on anything extra at the moment,' the vicar answered firmly.

‘Oh dear me, are you sure?'

‘Certain.'

‘But Father . . .'

‘Would you believe there is someone knocking at my door,' lied Nick desperately. ‘I really will have to go. Goodnight, Mrs Bagshot.'

He put the receiver down, feeling pale, and went to the drinks cupboard and poured himself a small gin and tonic which he consumed with much enjoyment. Then he went to bed.

The committee of the Oakbridge Dramatists and Dramatic Society was in full spate, shouting at one another loudly while the chairman, a rather handsome and beautifully spoken man who modelled himself on Donald Sinden, was banging on the table with the palm of his hand and saying, ‘One at a time, please. One at a time.' To which they paid no attention whatsoever.

The person with the loudest voice, a booming middle-aged man with erstwhile matinee-idol looks, was saying in a well-bred drawl, ‘But dammit all, we don't know anything about the fella. He comes in here with some cock-and-bull story about playing Ant Man and expects us to hand him a major production on a plate.'

‘But if we don't we're sunk,' said an enormous blonde woman with equally enormous locks, hanging to her waist and done in a style dating back to the sixties and Farrah Fawcett. ‘I mean, it will be too much for young Oswald and that's for sure.'

‘Can't Mrs Wrigglesworth help him?' said a timid-looking woman with mousey hair scraped back and a shining, earnest face to which make-up had never been introduced.

‘I know she has directed for us before but she's far too busy with her many other interests,' retorted the big blonde, whose name was Annette Muffat.

‘I think we'll have to take a chance on this Gerry fellow. I mean, it's either that or we cancel the whole thing,' said the Oakbridge chiropodist, who was small and purposeful and, apparently, a wizard with verrucas.

‘I quite agree,' said Jonquil Charmwood, raising her voice. She was secretary of the Odds. ‘I mean, what other alternative have we?'

The chairman at last managed to speak. His voice was huge; a vast, mellifluent thing of which he was inordinately proud. He always captured the big Shakespearean roles and was excessively pleased with his recent Prospero. Almost as pleased as he was with himself. He was a local solicitor and was charming to his women clients, brusque and mannish with the males. His name was Paul Silas which looked very good printed on a theatrical programme, in his opinion anyway.

‘It seems to me, as there is obviously disagreement in the ranks, that I must get a feel for what the majority wish. I shall put it to you one by one and I would request that the rest of you remain silent.' He turned to Jonquil. ‘Madam Secretary, what is your feeling about employing this Harlington fellow?'

‘Well I don't think he's ideal but what other alternative have we? I mean the show is so advanced. The commentary has been recorded by Rafael Devine, who gave his services free of charge as a favour to poor Ben Merryfield. I mean, what would he say if we suddenly pulled out?'

Rafael Devine was a long-established actor, a National Theatre player and star of both television and films. Paul Silas personally felt that Devine's work was inferior to his own but had never publicly voiced such a thought.