A Fête Worse Than Death (2 page)

The little girl put her thumb in her mouth and regarded him gravely, reassured by this burst of genealogy. ‘You've got a face like a gypsy's,' she said eventually.

‘No, I haven't,' said Haldean indignantly, ignoring the crack of laughter from Rivers. ‘Not a bit of it. Look, old thing, I'm blowed if I'm carrying this stuff round any longer. Sweets give me tummy-ache and I never played with dolls. Here you are.' He put his unwanted prizes on the grass and the little girl, with glowing eyes, picked up the carry-cot with the coconuts and sweets and scurried off.

‘Talk about suspicious,' said Haldean with a laugh. ‘At her age I'd have killed for a bag of sweets as polychromatic as those.' He looked round the stalls. ‘What else is there? Let's have a go on the rifle range. Unless, that is, you feel tempted by Zelda, Seer of the Future.'

Rivers laughed. ‘Not me. You know who Zelda is?' he asked, picking his way towards the rifle range through the guy ropes which stretched out over the grass. ‘Mrs Griffin, who used to be the cook at Hesperus.'

Haldean stopped. ‘What? I must call in and see her. She used to be very generous in the matter of biscuits when I was a kid, to say nothing of letting me lick the bowl out after she'd made a cake.'

‘It's cakes which are the bone of contention, so to speak.' Rivers raised his voice to carry over the band, which, after a brief period of silence, had plunged into
The Pirates of Penzance.
‘Apparently Mrs Griffin has won the home-made jam section every year but she's never got more than an Honourable Mention for her cakes. Isabelle tells me that Mrs Griffin thinks it's because Mrs Verrity's cook always has an entry and Mrs Verrity, the big bug to end all big bugs, is on the judges' panel. Mrs Griffin took the hump a bit, and my mother and my sister had to put in some heavy charm to persuade her to come and read the fortunes.'

‘Prejudice, eh?' Haldean put down sixpence on the counter of the rifle range. ‘Well, she may be right.' He squinted down the barrel of the air rifle. ‘Let's see if the old skill still lingers . . .' He pointed the gun at a battered tin lion's head which formed part of the Big Game Jungle Safari for the marksmen of Breedenbrook.

‘My mummy says I've got to say thank you,' said a voice from just above his knee-cap. Haldean jumped and the pellet thudded into the wooden boards at the back of the stall. He sighed and looked down at the little girl in the green velveteen frock.

‘I'm going to call her Daisy and I'm going to dress her and take her to bed and take her for walks and make her a teatime with mud pies and she's going to eat it all up like a good girl, even all the nasty bits
and
her greens and at bedtime I'm going to get her undressed and she's going to stay in bed all night and . . .'

‘Good for you,' said Haldean kindly, loading up and sighting the gun on the lion once more.

‘So there you are,' said a voice from behind them. ‘I was wondering where you'd got to.' Haldean flinched and once more the pellet thudded into the wooden boards. It was Isabelle, Greg's sister. ‘I expected to find you in the beer tent.'

‘As if,' said Greg with a grin. ‘We did look in, actually, but we didn't like the company There was a complete outsider who used to know Jack.'

‘And she's going to be my very own dolly and stay with me for ever ‘n' ever . . .'

‘I think I saw the man you mean. I didn't like the look of him at all. He was shovelling down whisky or something from a hip flask and arguing with Colonel Whitfield.' Isabelle glanced down and smiled at the little girl. ‘What a beautiful dolly, sweetheart. What's her name?'

‘She's called Daisy and that kind gypsy man gave her to me.'

Isabelle gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘What, this gypsy here?'

Haldean put down his air rifle with a sigh. ‘Look, girls and boys. I used to have a reputation as a crack shot. This is now in tatters. I still have tuppence worth of enjoyment to get out of this gun and I'm going to pot that lion.' He looked down at the little girl. ‘Why don't you go and have a ride on the chair swings or something? They look awfully good fun.'

‘I've spended all my money.'

‘Here's sixpence. You ought to be able to do something with that.'

‘My mummy says I'm not to take money from strangers.'

‘Oh, good Lord!'

‘I'll take you, darling,' said Isabelle bending down to her. ‘I'm not a stranger, am I?'

‘No. You've got a pretty dress.'

‘Why, thank you, sweetheart. I'll have that sixpence, Jack. It belongs to your little friend here.' Hand in hand they walked off to where the chair swings were whirling madly amid shrieks of pleasure. Haldean shot his lion and turned to find Rivers looking out over the crowd.

‘There's that blighter Boscombe again. He's still got Colonel Whitfield in tow, I see.'

Haldean's eye's lit up. ‘That means the beer tent's free once more. Shandy?'

‘Shandy it is.'

They made a leisurely progress back to the beer tent, slipping round the back of the hoop-la stall to avoid Boscombe. Boscombe saw them and looked as if he was about to follow, when he was stopped by a very elegant woman who had come over to speak to Colonel Whitfield.

‘Have we shaken him off?' asked Haldean, pausing at the entrance to the tent.

‘It you're quick. Damn! Here he comes again.'

Boscombe, weaving slightly, walked across to them and linked arms affectionately with Haldean. ‘Thought I'd missed you, Jack old man. You don't mind me calling you old man do you, Jack, old bean? I used to have to call him sir,' he confided to Rivers. ‘He wanted me to chase Huns all the time. It was
bloody
dangerous.'

Haldean unlinked his arm. ‘You're drunk.'

‘Just a little. Seen anyone you know? I've seen someone. Bloody surprising that was, all things considered. Bloody funny too, if you think about it. Give a man enough rope and he'll hang himself.' He started to laugh and Haldean and Rivers looked at him wearily.

‘Look, Boscombe, why don't you go somewhere and sleep it off?' asked Haldean with diminishing patience.

Boscombe stopped laughing. ‘Don't tell me what to do. I don't need you any more,
Major
Haldean. You see that woman with Whitfield? She needs me.' Boscombe gave a knowing wink. ‘
Nice
woman. We go way back.'

‘Glad to hear it,' said Haldean with false cheerfulness. ‘Don't let us keep you.'

He shook off Boscombe's groping hand and went into the tent, Rivers following. Boscombe was left swaying gently outside. ‘Little tick,' said Haldean briefly and applied himself to a pint of shandy. ‘Who was the woman, by the way? The one Boscombe was being revoltingly suggestive about, I mean.'

‘That's Mrs Verrity. I can't see what she'd have to do with the likes of him.'

‘Me neither.' There was a long and liquid pause. ‘Has he gone yet?' asked Haldean, finishing his drink.

‘Yes,' said Rivers, glancing outside. ‘All clear.'

‘Thank God. I want to see Mrs Griffin to talk about old times and I don't want him around while I'm doing it. Let's go and see if she's free.'

Mrs Griffin wasn't busy; in fact she was standing outside the fortune teller's booth, looking extremely hot in a long and artistically tattered skirt, brilliant red blouse and heavily beaded shawl. She greeted Haldean with delight. ‘Do excuse what I'm wearing, Master Jack, but I've got to look the part. I mean, everyone knows it's me and when I'm just doing the tea-leaves at home I don't bother dressing up, of course, but it's different here. People like you to make an effort.'

‘Do you really tell fortunes then, Mrs Griffin? I mean, it's not just something you make up?'

Mrs Griffin looked shocked. ‘Oh no, Master Jack. T'wouldn't be right, that. I could read your hand now easy as wink. Of course in the general way I don't charge for it – I don't want no trouble with the police – but I have a stall at the Stanmore Parry fête to oblige her Ladyship and she asked me ever so kindly if I'd do Breedenbrook as well, as the usual lady they had was laid up and Mrs Verrity couldn't get no one. Well, I don't mind. It's not very far, not really, and I did wonder if I did Mrs Verrity a favour it might count for something when it came to the home-made cakes. Twelve years I've been doing cakes for this fair now, and nothing more than an Honourable Mention to show for it. Still, it's not what you know, as I always say, it's who you know that counts. Speaking of who you know, I think this gentleman's looking for you.'

With a feeling of ghastly inevitability Haldean turned and saw Boscombe walking towards them with Colonel Whitfield behind. ‘Oh, God damn it, not again!'

Mrs Griffin sized up the situation and stepped forward. ‘Do you want me, my dear? Have your fortune told?'

Boscombe gave a short laugh. ‘Why not? Although I know it already, why not, eh, Whitfield?'

Colonel Whitfield shrugged. ‘Just as you like.'

A small boy came hurrying through the crowd. ‘Mrs Griffin? You've got to come. They're announcing the winners for the cakes and I've been told to come and fetch you.'

She clicked her tongue. ‘Just as I was going to see this gentleman, too.' She turned to Boscombe. ‘Why don't you go and sit down inside my tent, my dear? I won't be very long and you look as if a little rest might do you some good.' Boscombe blinked at her. ‘You'll be more comfortable in the shade,' added Mrs Griffin, tactfully. ‘I think you might have a touch of the sun and no wonder in this heat and with all the noise there is too.' She opened the flap of the tent. ‘In you go. Settle yourself down while I go and see about my cake.'

‘Cake?' repeated Boscombe uncomprehendingly, but went in all the same.

Mrs Griffin peered in after him. ‘There. He's resting nicely now. Might even have a little nap, I dare say.' She adjusted her headscarf and took the small boy by the hand. ‘Come on, Michael. I don't want to miss this.' Hitching up her inconveniently flowing robe, she set off across the field.

Haldean looked at Colonel Whitfield. So this was the man Marguerite Vayle had fallen for. It was obvious why. He looked as if he should be on the front cover of a film magazine. Whitfield had melancholy sky-blue eyes, a sensitive mouth, broad shoulders and crisply curling blond hair. ‘I saw you in the horse trials this morning,' said Haldean conversationally.

Whitfield brightened. ‘Did you? Nice mare, that. She's inclined to shy a bit so I thought I'd bring her out locally before trying any of the major events. I thought she was going to get a clear round but the noise from the trap-shooting startled her. I'm sorry,' added Whitfield, ‘I know we've met before, but I can't recall your name.'

‘Jack Haldean. You know Captain Rivers, of course.'

‘Indeed I do. Haldean . . . You're Sir Philip's nephew, aren't you? And don't you write or something? It sounds damn clever,' he added dubiously. Obviously being clever was not an unalloyed compliment in Whitfield's eyes.

‘It pays the bills,' said Haldean, easily. ‘D'you know Boscombe well, Colonel?'

‘Not frightfully. I've had a couple of letters from him. Apparently he's writing a book about the war for some reason and he was one of the men to come out of that Augier Ridge affair I was involved with. I hardly know him. Do you?'

‘Yes . . .' The way Haldean said it made Whitfield smile. The smile made his whole face lighten. Haldean grinned. ‘He's a bit much, isn't he? He transferred to the Flying Corps and was in my squadron for a while.'

‘You poor beggar. I never had the dubious pleasure of serving with him.'

‘Lucky you.'

Whitfield laughed. ‘He's a bit hard to take, isn't he? Goodness knows what . . .' He stopped as the vicar, Mr Steadman, approached.

‘Ah, Colonel, there you are. Excuse me butting in, gentlemen, but I have to leave soon and I was looking forward to a word with the Colonel. It's about this pony I'm interested in for my son, Whitfield. I believe you have it here with you. Thomas is waiting by the loose-boxes at the moment and it seemed an ideal opportunity to let him try it out.'

A shade of annoyance crossed Whitfield's face. ‘Can't it wait, Mr Steadman?'

Mr Steadman looked annoyed in turn. ‘I'd rather see to it now. Thomas is off on a visit to a school friend's on Monday and I'd like to get everything arranged before then.'

Whitfield's lips tightened, then he shrugged in resignation. ‘Very well. Now's as good a time as any, I suppose.' He turned to Haldean and Rivers. ‘Nice to have met you again.' He tipped his hat and walked off between the tents, the vicar by his side.

‘He is a bit old,' said Haldean thoughtfully, accepting the cigarette that his friend was offering. ‘For Marguerite, I mean.'

‘Oh, he's all right,' said Rivers, striking a match. ‘Isabelle's funny about him. She thinks he's deadly dull, but that's because he talks about horses and not about her. She's so used to having blokes dance attendance that she can't credit anyone simply doesn't notice she's around.'

Haldean grinned. ‘Don't tell me she's jealous of Marguerite.'

‘Good grief, no. I mean really no. But Marguerite's terribly intense about him and Isabelle finds it all a bit wearing.'

They finished their cigarettes. The band, wearied of Gilbert and Sullivan, started on Jerome Kern. ‘
And if I tell them
. . .' hummed Rivers. A series of renewed shrieks bit through the air. ‘Your little pal on the chair swings is kicking up a rumpus, isn't she?'

‘I'll say,' agreed Haldean with a lazy smile. ‘Mind you, I don't suppose she's making that din all by herself.' He glanced at the tent behind them. ‘If Boscombe manages a nap in this racket he's doing well. Is he asleep in there?'