Eat, Drink and Be Buried (16 page)

“Ergotism?”

“That's what I had in the back of my mind. Couldn't see any likelihood of it in the bakery, though.”

“It would fit,” Winnie said thoughtfully.

“It would fit your multiple poisoning investigation better than it does this much more specific case here. I think it's a dead end really—The Muffin Man seems like a well-run operation. Besides,” I added, “there's something else.”

“What's that?”

“Two more murder attempts.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Two more?”

“Maybe.” I told her of the arrow and the gunshot. She looked even more surprised. “Just enough possibility of either one being accidental,” she said, musing. “The odds are awfully long against two of them, though.”

 
“I agree.”

“You were with a d
ifferent sister each time, you said?”

“Yes.”

“What's your assessment of them?”

“They seem to be nice girls,” I said, selecting a suitable cliché.

Winnie smiled. She had a powerful combination at her disposal—strong feminine intuition plus a natural instinct for detection. It was unfair. “Very attractive, too?”

“Yes, I suppose they are.” It was pointless trying to fool Winnie.

“I'm glad to hear you're taking this assignment conscientiously,” she said.

“I always do.”

“Yes, but I mean you're spreading yourself around. You're with one sister when an arrow is shot at her and with the other when a rifle is fired at her.”

“If they were,” I amended.

“True,” she agreed. “But then, being the common denominator, you will have considered the possibility that you were the target.”

“Can't imagine why. No reason for anyone to be suspicious of me.”

The smile returned. “Anything else?”

“I don't think so,” I said.

“I have to go. We'll be in touch.” Her heels clicked on the marble floor and she was just going out of the door when Don McCartney appeared at my shoulder.

“Good-looking woman,” he commented. “Is she a tourist?”

“Said something about being from Scotland.”

Well, it was half the truth.

He watched her exit with appreciation, then turned to me. “I wanted to have a word with you,” he said. “We have a couple of events coming up. First, we have the Battle of Moreston Marsh. We put this on every year. It's a reenactment of one of the crucial battles in the history of Harlington Castle. It's a stirring spectacle—I know you'll enjoy it. Local historical societies and others participate; so do our own people—the stuntmen and so on. We put on a banquet for them all afterwards. Victor probably has it largely planned, but you might want to talk to him about it.”

“I will,” I said. “You mentioned two events?”

“Yes. The Empire Historical Association is coming next month. There'll be about two hundred of them. We'd like to put on a really special banquet for them. You know what I mean—really unusual, genuinely medieval, but at the same time top quality.”

“No budget restriction?” I asked.

“No,” he said, then laughed. “Well, within reason, of course. Hope you've got some brilliant ideas.”

“Shouldn't be a problem,” I told him. “Have you told Victor Gontier about this yet?”

“He will have had a memo but he may not have done anything about it yet. There's plenty of time.”

“I'll have a chat with him,” I said.

M
CCARTNEY LEFT AND
I heard a voice calling me. It was Lord Harlington. He looked very casual in a cream sweater and slacks. He had the same look of tension that I had noted before, but I assumed that it was from the many burdens of the rich.

“Been in the city, I hear,” was his opening.

There was no way he could know I actually had been in the City and I had to presume he merely meant London.

“Making a few inquiries,” I said lightly. After all, I could hardly tell him that I had been investigating his family tree.

“Any progress?”

“Possibly,” I told him, trying to blend a cautious optimism with a hint of revelations to follow. But not now.

A party of Germans went by, unaware of their proximity to a real lord. We moved aside to let them pass without having to break ranks. They were planning their next day and saying unkind things about the English weather.

“You must mind these hordes of people wandering about through your house,” I said. “Trampling all over your estate, destroying your privacy.”

He shrugged. “From a practical viewpoint, if I didn't open Harlington Castle to the public, I wouldn't be able to own it. I may be confined to one wing, but that's better than a flat in Bayswater. We need an income of twenty-five thousand pounds a year just to control the woodworm. Some of the other figures relating to the estate would astound you.”

“I don't doubt it,” I said.

“Besides,” he went on, “if one has the good fortune to live in such a beautiful place as this, then surely its beauties, its history, and its traditions should be shared.”

“I agree with the sentiment, but there must be times when you feel resentful.”

“Living anachronistically in one wing of a vast palace is not necessarily rewarding to the soul or comforting to the body. But as a nation, we are great ancestor worshippers…”

Was there something in his tone that hinted he knew the reason for my visit to London? I felt uneasy. I liked Lord Harlington and sympathized with his predicament. I wouldn't want him to think I had been spying on guarded family matters that were none of my business. Then I told myself that there had been one suspicious death and two more attempts, so it was hard to be sure which incidents were my business and which were not. Anyway, he had been the one to suggest my staying on and investigating.

“…as you must agree. To have generations of known forebears is a matter of great pride, even if a few of them were rogues and tyrants.” He permitted himself a gentle smile. “To look at a portrait on the walls here at the castle and know that the subject stood in that same spot centuries earlier can be strangely reassuring.”

“And know that they faced many of the same problems you face and found themselves in the same dilemmas.”

“Exactly.” He nodded. “Although, to be honest, our problems today are relatively minor. We don't face imminent attack by a jealous neighbor or some upstart count with a couple of thousand plunder-hungry ruffians and a few farm-built siege weapons. Nor do we have the threat of the Black Death killing a third of the population, without any idea of what causes it or how to stop it.” He was about to go on but caught himself. He repeated that same likable smile. “You'll have to excuse me. I get carried away talking about this place.”

“I can understand it,” I assured him. “It's a magnificent edifice, and you've gone far beyond that with the jousts, the banquets, the tours, the entertainment, and so on. You've also done a remarkable job of combining two objectives which must often be conflicting. You've kept the place for your own enjoyment and satisfaction, and at the same time, you share it with others.”

“And determined to keep it that way. Yes, we do have a successful operation here, a lot of good people to run it, and a financial situation that many a corporation might envy.”

I wondered if there was something behind those words, especially the last ones. One way to find out—well, find out something anyway.

“I don't suppose it's very likely that a competitor in the business would be behind the happenings here?”

He shook his head firmly. “The thought had occurred, naturally. But no, it's just too bizarre. Lord Montague or the Earl of Snow-fell trying to bankrupt us so they take away our clientele?” He chuckled. “There must be a better word than ‘bizarre' even.”

“Too much like an Ealing comedy with Alec Guinness?” I suggested.

His chuckle ended and he said reflectively, “Well, after all, one of Alec Guinness's films did involve killing off eight relatives, didn't it?”

“Something like that. But surely, competition between castles isn't like companies battling to be first with a new fiberoptic or a diet pill?”

“No, no, of course not. No, not by any means. We're all good friends, all members of the same groups, all tied in with the National Trust”—he laughed lightly—“and all customers of the same few banks.” That seemed to eliminate one improbable explanation that I had felt was hardly a realistic contender.

His Lordship was by no means the effete aristocrat he might occasionally appear to be, as I now found out. He fixed me with a piercing look and asked, “When I asked you if you were making any progress, your reply was, ‘Possibly.' Would you care to amplify that?”

I tried not to show any hesitation before answering. “I have a number of loose ends. I am trying to determine which of them lead somewhere and which mean nothing. In the next few days, I expect to be able to do that. In the meantime, I am doing a one hundred percent job of updating the medieval meals.”

He nodded. “Good.” He didn't seem too disappointed that I hadn't told him anything. “Has Don told you about the forthcoming battle?”

“Just a few minutes ago. I told him I'd talk to Victor about it. Don also mentioned the impending visit of the Empire Historical people. I said I'd go over some ideas on that.”

“Excellent. Ah—” He broke off as he caught sight of someone across the hall. “Well, good luck with your efforts and keep me informed.” It was a dismissal and I accepted it.

We parted. Some distance away, I paused and looked back. The person he was now engaged in greeting was evidently someone he knew very well. She was smart and elegant, probably about fifty, and had a sparkling smile. Why did she look familiar? Then I remembered—she was the woman I had seen entering the castle upon my return from my excursion to London. A member of another aristocratic family, I wondered?

I watched them walk off, close together, her hand on his arm.

“Have you seen Daddy?”

I turned to see Felicity. She was wearing a plain suit in a creamy color with black trim. At least, it would have been plain on many women, but it made her look particularly desirable. I could have complimented her on it but that became entwined with an immediate riposte along the lines of “I just saw him walk off with a very attractive woman,” so I said only, “He left me just a minute ago.”

“Oh, all right. I'll find him later. I wanted to ask him if the music room is ready for tomorrow night.”

“A concert?”

“Not really. We rent it to groups in the neighborhood. Tomorrow is a rehearsal for a quartet playing Baroque music.”

“I didn't know you had a music room,” I said. “You have nearly everything else, though.”

She looked at me in an appraising way. “Like to see it?”

“Of course.”

She led the way up the staircase to the next floor and along a corridor lined with oil paintings, dark brown portraits of ancestors and sylvan scenes in green and ochre.

We went into a large room with paneled walls, heavy curtains, and two huge chandeliers. “Bit bright, aren't they?” she said, and turned a dimmer. The room was not musty but gave the impression that it was not used much.

There was enough light to reveal walls hung with ancient instruments. Music stands littered the floor and racks of scores covered one wall. Huge illuminated service books in leather and gilt lined the bookshelves.

“They had nothing like an orchestra in the Middle Ages,” Felicity said. “They did play ‘in concert,' though.”

“Explain to me the difference,” I invited.

“Well, music and song went together much more then. A group of stringed instruments would accompany a voice, then the wind players would do likewise, then perhaps the brass.”

“How would they sound to us today?” I wondered.

Felicity smiled and shook her head. “Not very pleasing.” She pointed to a large oil painting. “They are playing instruments of the time. That's a rebeck on the end.” It looked like a swollen viola. “Next is a psaltery, it's a kind of zither. The shawm is an early oboe and the other one is a gittern—a forerunner of the guitar.”

“Is that a bagpipe on the wall?” I asked.

“Yes. It's a very old instrument. The Romans played it.” She reeled off the names of other instruments, some strange-looking but most obvious forebears of today's musicmakers.

She looked around in indignation. “Not a thing done in here. Look at it!”

“What do you want where?” I asked.

We soon had it the way she wanted it, the stands lined up in place and chairs positioned. I did most of the physical moving as Felicity sank into an S-shaped chair. She leaned back with a voluptuous sigh and patted the chair. “Know what they call this?”

I sat in the other half. Our hands touched. “A love seat,” I said, “but I could never understand why. You sit in one half and I'm in the other half. Isn't that making the whole process unnecessarily difficult?”

Her chin rose. She looked very patrician in profile. “Difficulties were made to be overcome,” she said loftily.

I reached over the barrier between us. She turned and leaned toward me. “A partial solution,” I said a few minutes later. “Not wholly satisfactory, though.”

“There's another piece of furniture over there,” she murmured. I didn't look to see what it was. I let her take me over to wherever and whatever…

I wondered if sweeter music had ever filled that room.

G
ONTIER WAS IN A
harassed mood when I approached him. He tried to shrug me off with a “too busy right now but perhaps tomorrow” attitude, so I had to introduce pressure by name-dropping. Don McCartney's name produced only a mild reaction, but Sir Gerald's did the trick. I confirmed first that he had the menu already planned for the banquet after the upcoming Battle of Moreston Marsh. He did, and we went over it and I made a few suggestions. It was to be quite a formal affair as a number of local people, prominent in one way or another, always attended. Consequently, the theme of the meal, while suitably medieval, was not too dramatically radical.