Corpse in a Gilded Cage (18 page)

‘Satisfying work,' he said. ‘Joan and I have really fallen for this house.'

‘It's a humdinger,' said Phil.

‘Pity so few have been able to see it in the past,' said Digby.

‘Oh, I expect a lot more will get to see it in the future,' said Phil.

Digby, though his heart bounded with hope, realized in a moment that this was not at all as categoric as he had hoped.

‘I suppose you'll be letting us know your intentions in the course of time?'

‘Oh, sure.'

‘Because Joan's naturally interested.'

‘I'll be telling you as soon as it's decent. Like I said to Lillywaite, with Dad not buried it's just not on to talk about it.'

‘Oh, quite,' said Digby.

‘Not the done thing at all.'

‘Oh, absolutely,' said Digby, heartily.

•   •   •

It was not only at Chetton itself that the future of that great monument to how much could be made out of monopolies under the wisest fool in Christendom was canvassed that day. In the early afternoon the subject was raised in the Palace of Westminster, where that Tuesday the Minister for the Arts was filling in at Question Time before the Prime Minister came down to give the House a series of mini-lectures disguised as answers to questions. It was Sir Geoffrey Watton-Payne who, faithful to his promise to Mr Lillywaite, brought up the subject in the private-notice question.

‘Is the Minister aware of public disquiet about the fate of Chetton Hall, one of the pearls of Jacobean domestic architecture?'

Yes, the Minister was aware, and shared the Hon. Member's concern.

‘Would the Minister suggest to the Chancellor that the solution adopted recently in the case of Teesdale Manor, in which the Exchequer accepted the house and contents in lieu of death duties, and made a special grant to the National Trust to cover the considerable cost of the upkeep, could well be the most appropriate way of ensuring that this architectural treasure did not fall into unsuitable hands?'

Yes, the Minister agreed that the precedent was there for such a step. Of course he could not commit his right honourable friend the Chancellor in any way, but he agreed that in the circumstances this might well prove to be the best means of ensuring that this notable example . . . and so on, and so forth.

It was at this point that the Member for Bullwark South intervened. The Member for Bullwark South was the hammer of the Speaker, and even sensitive members of his own party were inclined to cringe, turn their heads away, or whimper, when his chain-saw tones were heard (as they so often were) asserting the views of ‘the working people of this country', roaring coarse abuse at the more shamelessly capitalistic and absentee Tory members, praising the Russians for their enlightened intervention in Afghanistan, or merely shouting slogans after the Speaker had ordered him out of the House. The Member for Bullwark South was, not to put too fine a point on it, a loud-mouthed bully, and he had never yet been known to intervene during questions to the Minister for the Arts, save once, to demand a subsidy for the Finsbury Park Cooperative of Black Handicapped Female Action Painters. But he intervened now.

‘Would the Minister confirm that the same special terms that were offered
to the Maynewaring family of Teesdale would also be offered to the present Earl of Ellesmere and his family?'

Now this was a sneaky one. The inheritor of Teesdale Manor had been the chairman of the local Conservative Association, a one-time MP, and Master of Foxhounds. He and his family had been allowed to live on at Teesdale for a peppercorn rent—though of course there was absolutely no connection between who he was and the special consideration shown in his case—none at all. The Minister began to flounder.

‘The two cases are very dissimilar . . . The present family are somewhat distant connections of the previous Earls . . .'

‘Second cousins!' said Bullwark South, triumphantly. ‘Same as the Maynewarings!'

‘The conditions of the Teesdale transaction—'

‘ 'ighly hadvantageous conditions!'

‘—were dictated by special conditions—'

‘You bet they were!'

‘I have no evidence the present Earl wishes to reside at Chetton . . .'

‘Why doesn't the Minister admit straight out that this is class justice, and it's because the present Earl is working-class that he's going to get a different deal from local Conservative Chairmen and suchlike.'

‘The man's a gaolbird!' shouted an obscure Tory backbencher.

‘Double standards!' bellowed Bullwark South, in his element.

The Minister felt that the matter was getting out of hand. There had been fears at the time that the Teesdale decision might have unfortunate consequences. But still: when all was said and done, there was no doubt that the present occupant was the legal Earl, and the legal heir. The Minister was in favour of primogeniture. He had himself inherited his seat from his father.

‘In any discussions I have on the future of Chetton, I will see that the wishes of the present Earl are respected,' he said.

•   •   •

The gardening at Chetton went so well it continued into the afternoon. Lunch was some substantial doorstep sandwiches constructed by Dixie, washed down with some bottled ale that Chokey had discovered in the Butler's Pantry. Afterwards they stretched out on the grass for half an hour or so, and then they went at it again. This time Dixie fulfilled her promise, and though she did not join them, she did bring a chair out into the courtyard, and there she sat, like some Russian noblewoman supervising the serfs at harvest time.

The children had drenched the Dutch Garden during the morning, but rather than come round to the lawns and be under their mother's eye, they had taken themselves off to the kitchen gardens, to weed the vegetables. The rest had resumed mowing and snipping, for the lawns and hedges seemed endless once they had started in on them. Sometimes, since Phil seemed such an unexpectedly tough nut to crack, one or other drifted over to talk to his wife. Dixie dealt easily with Michele's advances: they were, after all, two of a kind, and Dixie had the experience and the weight. She was more genial with Trevor, but killingly on her dignity with Lady Joan. She had a friendly chat with Chokey, but after he drifted back into the house she simply sat there, like some complacent Buddha, or vast Tongan monarch surveying her island fiefdom. She began to feel quite drowsy.

So drowsy, in fact, that she failed to notice when the routines of rural labour, the timeless, Constable-esque activities, were interrupted. Her eyes were reduced to slits, and sometimes her head nodded down into her splendid chest. She noticed a police car driving towards the house, but the police were always going backwards and forwards. She paid it no special attention. The slits of her eyes closed. Dixie dozed.

But the car, in fact, never reached the forecourt where Dixie sat. It had stopped near the working party, and a policeman had got out and hailed the figure of the Earl of Ellesmere, who was hacking at tall grass with a scythe towards the far end of the largest lawn. Phil, grimy and sweaty, had ambled over amiably, glad of the break.

If Dixie had been noticing she would have seen the policeman enter into serious conversation with Phil, gesturing towards the car. Then she would have seen Phil walk over, lean through the passenger window, and talk to somebody in the car. Then she would have seen a young man get out of the car, seen Phil give him a hug, and seen the two of them in conversation for some minutes. Then she would have seen Phil look in her direction in some uncertainty, square his shoulders, and begin ushering the newcomer along the path towards her.

As it was, when she opened her eyes Phil and the young man were no more than a few yards away. The boy was about twenty—dark, sallow, lustrous-eyed, with a soft down on his cheeks signifying a premature attempt at sideburns. His clothes were standard casual, but clean, and his wedge heels suggested that he chafed at his short stature. Before Dixie had entirely collected her senses, the two were up to her.

‘Oh, Dixie, old girl, I want you to meet Raicho,' said Phil, with a brave front of confidence.

‘What-so?' Dixie's forehead was creased, as if a vague bell had been rung.

‘Raicho. You know—you've heard of him. Raicho, my son.'

‘Y
OUR SON
!'

Dixie's voice warbled from bass to soprano, replete with all the outraged disbelief of Lady Bracknell at her most handbageous. Then Dixie put on one of her scenes.

Dixie had risen to her feet, and stood facing them, hands on hips, biceps bulging beneath her pink blouse. As always when she threw a scene, she was oblivious of all else but the cause of her rage, and now she was certainly oblivious of the figure of Peter Medway, standing casually on the steps of the Great Entrance, watching her.

‘And what the bleeding hell does he think he's doing here?' she yelled.

‘He's my son, old girl,' Phil patiently explained. ‘You know: I told you about him years ago.'

‘Oh, I knew you had a by-blow somewhere or other. That wasn't my question, was it? I asked what the bleeding hell he's doing here,
now?'

‘Just come to pay a call, haven't you, son?' said Phil, turning to Raicho, his face wreathed in a paternal smile. ‘He's in Europe, you know. It's natural he should want to see his dad.'

‘Pardon me while I split my sides. Natural he'd want to see his dad? When his dad hasn't clapped eyes on him since he was six months old?' As Dixie ladled on the irony her face became red with passion. Dixie crossed, or Dixie with a grievance, was never a pretty sight, and she reminded Medway of a sergeant-major apoplectic with outrage. ‘I'll tell you what he's here for. He's after the loot—like the rest of this shower.' Dixie gestured in the direction of her family and friends, who one by one had straggled over to watch developments, or merely to enjoy the histrionic display, and were now assembled on the edges of the lawn, simply inviting Dixie's wrath.

‘Don't be daft, Dixie. How could he have known?'

‘Who are you calling daft? How could he have known? He read it in the f— newspapers, same as the whole bleeding country has by now.'

‘It was in the newspapers
yesterday,
old girl. Can you really see the news getting over to Canada, him whipping over here and getting down to Chetton the day after?'

‘ 'Course he could. Christ, Phil: we're not living in the age of the paddle-steamer. He flew. Anyway, you said he was in Europe.'

‘He's just come—'

‘Don't you believe it. He was in England, saw the papers yesterday, and down he pops to Chetton. For all we know he could have been down here on Saturday night and done in your dad. Get this, Phil: he's after the money.'

‘He doesn't know anything about the money, Dixie. He just came to see me.'

‘Christ, you're so bleeding soft you'd win the sucker of the year marathon. He's come down wanting his cut! Got the message? Over and out.'

‘You want your head reading, Dixie. Anyway, even if he does, he's as much right as anyone else.'

Dixie glared at him in outrage.

‘He's
what?
As much right as anyone else. As much as—' Dixie looked around for a child to clutch to her bosom, but her infant phenomena were still occupied far away among the vegetables, so she was baulked of a fine Mrs Crummles-like effect in the pathetic line. ‘As much as Gareth and Cliff? As much as Karen and Damon?'

‘He's mine, old girl, I'm sure of that. And he's my eldest.'

A nerve seemed to click in Dixie's forehead.

‘You'll regret that crack, Phil. You must be out of your mind, or just plain wicked. We're your family. We're the ones you're supposed to provide for, though God knows you haven't done much providing in the last few years. You've been playing it close, Phil—'

‘Playing it close, Dixie?'

‘Yes, you have. Even with me, and don't think I haven't noticed. But get this straight. You've inherited this pile—it's all yours, what you can keep from the bleeding government. Yours! It's not your ma's—she's had her go. It's not your sister's or your brother's, however much they'd like you to think it should be. And it's certainly not little Johnny-come-lately's here.'

She took a step towards the dark, sallow boy standing by his father. He seemed inclined to take a step backwards, but by an effort of will he stood
his ground, and looked her in the face, his large black eyes taking in every detail of that visage, distorted as it was with passion.

‘Get this straight, you. We're your father's family—me and my kids. What he's come into is ours, and we're going to get rid of all these leeches here and enjoy it. You've come here to line your pockets, but you'd better think again, sonny boy.'

‘I'd never even heard—'

‘Put a sock in it. You heard of the gravy train and you came here to jump on it. Well, get this into your pretty head: there's too many on that train already, and you're not joining it. And I tell you one more thing, for your own good:
KEEP OUT OF MY SIGHT
!'

And she swung round and lumbered up the main steps, past Peter Medway and into the shadow of the Great Hall.

‘Dixie's a bit upset,' said Phil.

•   •   •

‘That,' said Hickory, ‘was a performance and a half.'

He had been alerted by walkie-talkie from the gate about the arrival of Raicho Spender, and had watched the scene, fascinated, from a window of the Pink Damask Room.

‘She certainly held nothing back,' agreed Peter Medway. ‘An awful lot seemed to have been bottled up there.'

‘Greed, lust for power, jealousy, spite . . . The Lady Macbeth of East London, that's who
that
lady is.'