Staging Death (2 page)

Aldred House was my idea of perfection. Approached via a wide drive that should ideally have been protected from stray visitors by huge gates, it had evolved over several centuries. Until Henry VIII’s purge on church holdings, it had been part of an abbey – some of the original walls drew the eye in the extensive grounds. The main part of the house itself was Elizabethan. Experts said it was probably the work of the builder responsible for Coughton Court, just outside the nearby town of Alcester, because the central gatehouses were almost identical. There was a small flirtation with Jacobean gabling round one side, and a Georgian addition on the other side, with some of the most beautifully proportioned rooms you’d see outside Bath. To the rear of the Georgian wing was a chapel, still intact but no longer used. Architecturally, I suppose it was a
mess, but to my mind – and of course I’m no Pevsner – each addition had merged happily with its predecessors.

The clock over the stable block was chiming eleven as I drove up, in, I have to admit, the estate agency car, which was covered with Greg’s agency logos. It was either that or my cycle. I’d hoped to tuck the Ka – shocking pink with purple lettering – away in the stable yard, and sneak up to the front door on foot.

In the event, however, Toby Frensham was standing on the front steps when I arrived, waving off the two chauffeur-driven BMW 4x4s, one containing his wife, the other her children and a hunted-looking young woman I took to be the nanny. He was wearing flip-flops and the shortest bathrobe I’ve ever seen, revealing the long
well-muscled
legs that had graced a thousand costume dramas. Today they sported not hose, but a deep golden tan as far as the eye could see, which was a long way. I just hoped he’d remain standing throughout our discussions.

He grinned affably when he saw me and, despite the cold, strolled round to the yard as I parked. Fortunately I had put the folder and my bag on the passenger seat so neither of us would have to reach for them. Toby greeted me with an expansive kiss and what might have been a feel of my left breast. I ignored it.

As dearest Greg had observed, Toby and I went way back, to when we were both juvenile leads in rep together. Juvenile leads! – how many years ago would that be? He’d made a huge pass at me. I was married to the director at the time, and it wasn’t until Toby had got himself hitched to a TV make-up artist and was thus out of bounds that I realised what a dish he was. And it had been like that ever since – we’d never both been free at the same time. But the chemistry had never disappeared. In fact, I had a nasty feeling it was getting stronger, which was a shame, because he was now married for the fourth – or was it the fifth? – time. Not to mention the highly publicised liaisons he’d had in between. His latest wife, the size zero, was Allyn Rusch. Allyn was an American actress, aged anywhere between thirty and forty-five, whose main claim to stardom seemed to be the detailed research she did for all her roles. Ten years ago she starred in a Regency bodice-ripper which, thankfully for Georgette Heyer’s reputation, never made it on to the big screen. The only trace of it that remained, in fact, was the names she had bestowed on the twins conceived while her bosom was busy heaving. The poor little sods – and, having seen them in action, believe me it was the only time I would ever use the word
poor
in connection with such repellent specimens – were to go through
life as Brummel and Nash respectively. I suppose, however, they were no worse than many current US appellations, which might well have been plucked at random from the Scrabble letters bag. Allyn, indeed…

‘The kids are going to Bourton-on-the-Water to see the model village. And Allyn’s off to a spa in Barnsley,’ he said. ‘All day.’

I determinedly ignored any implications that the last two words might have. ‘Barnsley? As in Yorkshire?’ Even for a woman as determined to be pampered as Allyn, that seemed a long way.

‘Idiot! The village near Cirencester. Barnsley House. There’s a wonderful garden there too – an original Rosemary Verey. I’d like something like that here,’ he mused. ‘It’s time for me to put down roots, Vee.’ He flicked me a quick sideways glance with those cornflower-blue eyes of his.

‘Both metaphorical and literal?’

‘Exactly.’

‘What does Allyn think of the idea?’

‘She thinks the boys might have a tutor until they’re ready for Eton or wherever.’ He spoke so deadpan it was hard even for me to tell what he thought of the idea.

‘I take it she had them put down at birth?’ I asked in an equally flat voice.

He threw back his head, showing off that famous profile, and gave a roar of laughter that
would have impressed the very back row of the gods, as would the dental work. ‘Would that she had! Dear God, would that she had! It’s their voices, Vee – and not just when they talk. When they sing, they sound like Mickey Mouse on helium and I can’t get her to hear how dreadful it is! And their table manners!’

‘Awful voices and bad table manners aren’t an American prerogative.’ I thought of Greg’s children, whom I saw at mercifully infrequent intervals.

‘Maybe not. Poor Brummel and Nash – she’s probably marked them for life,’ he mused, putting an arm round my shoulder and giving it an affectionate squeeze.

‘It could be worse,’ I said. ‘Imagine if she’d called them Gronow and Scrope.’

‘Who?’

‘Two other more interesting, if less eminent, Regency characters,’ I explained.

‘You still watch all those TV quizzes?’

‘And win them! In my head, at least.’

‘Those two don’t really know where London, England is… You know, I think I’ve just discovered why it’s young people who have babies. I just don’t have the patience anymore, Vee, so help me. Must be my age.
Our
age,’ he added with an ironic smile – he knew I always preferred to fog the issue.

The spring breeze no doubt nipping the parts best not mentioned, he propelled me at a brisk pace to the back door, and through into my triumph, the stunning kitchen, which I’d had installed before any other work was done because it was the heart of the house. The floor area was bigger than the whole of my house, top and bottom, but then, that wouldn’t be difficult. Whether most of the expensive appliances were ever used I doubted, but then I supposed that the white-blonde Valkyrie operating the coffee machine – he introduced her as Greta, the housekeeper – must have done something to earn her keep and the use of the bijou mews cottage the far side of the stable yard. Not by making coffee, of course – the machine did all that with pre-sealed and thus environmentally unsound packages.

What I had forgotten, of course, was that a man as rich as Toby Frensham wouldn’t be interested in the attractive folder or whether the estimates were printed in ten or twelve point, in Times New Roman or in Arial. Neither would he want a breakdown of the costs of different types of lining. He just wanted a global sum.

‘The best,’ he said, dropping the unopened file on a corner of the two-acre table. ‘That’s why you’re here. Allyn wants the best.’

‘Of course,’ I said, my voice so expressionless it probably spoke volumes.

‘And I’m happy to buy it for her,’ he said, defensively, I thought.

‘Of course. Now, what I suggest is—’

He raised an eloquent hand. ‘Don’t say another word until we’ve had our caffeine fixes. Greta, could you fix us both a coffee, darling?’

The Valkyrie was all alert attention. Eyes mauling Toby, she flourished a selection of coffees.

I shook my head. ‘Greta, would it be too much trouble to ask for a mug of hot water?’ I dug in my bag and produced a green-tea bag, wrapped in its own little envelope. At home I fed such things to my worms. I always thought of Polonius as I lifted the wormery lid.

‘Green tea?’ he asked. ‘Surely we have green tea?’

Impassively Greta reached for a large wooden box, the sort you see in hotels, and presented it, open, for me to make my choice.

‘Which is the virgin tea picked by the light of a full moon and blessed in turn by the Dalai Lama and the Pope?’ I asked.

Toby laughed; Greta didn’t so much as blink.

I picked out a sachet of white tea with jasmine. ‘Antioxidant,’ I said, ‘and thus anti-ageing.’ I looked him in the eye. Two could play at that game.

He blinked at the expensive machine and then
at the little sachet. ‘Is there any caffeine in it?’

‘Some, but very little.’

‘In that case I’ll stick to slopping stuff on my face. Bring on the double espresso, Greta.’ He led the way into the conservatory, where he spread his bare toes on the floor, inviting me to do the same. The warmth was luxurious. Clearly he didn’t have to worry about heating bills, either.

He wandered across to the far side, with its view of the eighteenth-century walled garden. So why did he want this conversation profile to profile? Perhaps, knowing Toby, because he felt guilty about something. ‘You heard about Howard’s fall last night?’

Howard Welsh was making a pretty poor and highly alcoholic fist of Iago to an unknown black African’s quite brilliant Othello.

‘Not on stage? Never!’

An actor could be – and sometimes was – as tired as a newt, but the absolute rule was that his affliction simply must not interfere with rehearsals or performances. Absolutely must not. No turning up late, no forgetting lines – and emphatically no keeling over on stage.

‘Taking his bloody bow! Arse over tip into the surprised lap of an old biddie in the front row. Mind you, she did say it wasn’t as bad as having him spit on her every time he came downstage.’

Howard didn’t spit deliberately, as young
footballers were always doing. It was just that he sprayed saliva whenever he spoke.

‘You’d have thought he’d have sorted out that problem after all this time. Had the glands fixed or whatever. Maybe it’s the lubricant,’ I added, miming a drink.

‘Quite.’

‘What a chance for his understudy,’ I observed, full of hope for Meredith Thrale, an old mate of mine who was understudying that and other roles and no doubt praying for such an opportunity.

There were times that I didn’t like Toby very much. ‘Not up to it, darling. Just not up to it.’

How did I know where this was leading?

‘Anyway, I just had a call from my agent. Would I take it on? What do you think, Vena?’

Wasn’t it RSC policy always to turn to the understudy when a principal fell ill? I pulled a face. What I wanted to do was jump up and down and tell him not to be so greedy when other people had egos that needed massaging. For Toby was only considering it because he was an actor and needed to be needed. ‘Depends how good your memory is, darling.’ I wasn’t quite being catty – the older one got, after all, the more one preferred well-paid cameos.

‘I did it last year at the National. Should still be in here somewhere,’ he added, tapping his head.

‘Poor Meredith really needs a break like
that, you know.’ I knew just how he’d feel. I’d longed for years for leading ladies to sprain their ankles – just a little sprain, nothing that would incapacitate them for more than a few weeks. What did the Bible say?
To them that hath shall be given?
Toby had everything, and could have lived off his film royalties for a century, provided he didn’t have to shell out for another divorce.

He wasn’t such a fool that he didn’t register my lack of enthusiasm. ‘Merry doesn’t emanate evil, just violence,’ he snapped.

Before I could raise the prospect of Cleopatra to his (or anyone else’s) Antony, my mobile phone told me I was being texted. Caddie Minton? I twitched in anticipation, but good manners forbade me to check.

‘Go on, take it,’ he said, wandering back into the house.

I did. No, alas, it wasn’t Caddie. But at least it was some work. Greg had an urgent job for me. Today.

In Toby’s continued absence there wasn’t any reason not to phone Greg.

‘Knottsall Lodge,’ he said, by way of a greeting. ‘Mr and Mrs Westfield’s place. They’re in the Bahamas, remember. A Mr Brosnic wants to view today.’

‘And have you checked his credentials?’

‘For God’s sake, Vena.’

‘No, for Suzy Lamplugh’s sake. Have you seen him? Does he check out?’ After all, it wasn’t Greg who was about to be closeted in a remote manor house with an unknown male.

‘There’s a Mrs B with him. Her earrings have got pearls the size of pigeons’ eggs in them. The hire car’s a Bentley. He’s talking about buying a Premier League soccer club. OK? Or do you need his blood group and DNA profile too?’

‘You’ve got a UK address and phone number?’

He made a slurping noise, family shorthand meaning I wasn’t to teach my grandmother how to suck eggs. ‘Hell, Vee, do you
reelly
need to ask?’ When he was angry, his Blackheath accent leapt to the fore.

‘Yes,
reelly
,’ I threw back at him. Maybe I had gone too far. ‘OK. So long as Mrs B’s with him. What time?’

‘Three.’

That didn’t give me long to wrap up here with Toby and to nip into Stratford to pick up the keys. But you didn’t tell a man buying a football club that he must wait another half-hour.

There was still no sign of Toby when I scurried back into the kitchen. Greta raised her nose a fraction – he was upstairs. I went to the bottom of the stairs and called him – not quite a yell, but a distinct projection of the voice.

Towelling his hair, which was still so thick it
would have made Greg spit, he put his head over the banister, which fortunately obscured what his bathrobe, from this angle, did not. He smiled, and made the tiniest movement of his head. As if on cue, a single dark-blonde lock fell forward on to his forehead.

I told myself, just as I’d told myself every time he’d made the offer before, that I didn’t do adultery. Not even with Toby.

As if I hadn’t registered his invitation, I said, ‘I’ve just had a message – the chance of a job.’

‘The chance of a job?’ he repeated, with a swift smile. He clearly thought I had an audition. ‘Good for you, darling! Be off with you – this instant.’

‘But the curtains—’

‘A pampered Allyn shall phone you this very evening. But as for now…’ His eyes narrowed. He emanated evil.
‘Put money in thy purse.’
He blew me an extravagant kiss, which I returned.