Eat, Drink and Be Buried (15 page)

She shifted her body to an even more awkward position in the uncomfortable chair. “In that case, and if it was deliberate, then they were shooting at the girl.”

“I don't know any reason for that, either.”

“H'm,” she grunted. “I'll talk to them all.” I was a little surprised. I had thought she might dismiss it, but she added, “Coming after that bow and arrow business, we need to know more about it.”

“You heard about that?”

“Lord Harlington told me. Just missed the other daughter.”

I decided not to say that it just missed me, too. The less I said the better.

One of the constables came over. “Excuse me, Inspector, could you take this call? It's—” She cut him off with a chopping motion of one hand. It wouldn't do to let me hear who she was going to talk to.

I took the opportunity and said quickly, “I'll be gone this afternoon for a few hours. I'm having lunch with a former police officer, an old friend.”

She hesitated, then nodded and went to take the call. I decided to get away before she could ask me anything further.

The London Heralds' Society is in the area known as the City. Most of the financial institutions are here, crammed into this relatively small area. Here banks, insurance companies, stockbrokers, and commodity exchanges conduct worldwide business; the society met on Throgmorton Street near the Bank of England.

Stone steps led up to highly polished wooden doors with large brass handles. I pushed a brass button and one door opened to reveal an elderly but dignified man in a smart uniform. I told him I was to meet Edgar Sampson here and he conducted me into a glass-walled cubicle where Edgar was already waiting.

We were both taken into an adjoining room. It was large, airy, and had a skylight that took up a major part of the ceding. Shields and banners covered the walls, but they were widely spaced, minimizing ostentation. One half of the room was raised from the rest and on this half was a circular table with a shiny wooden top. A man sat there waiting for us. Edgar introduced me.

Francis Somerville was the Knight Pursuivant, I learned. It was one of the highest titles in the society, the purpose of which was to maintain the traditions of heraldic symbolism and aid persons in tracing their genealogical roots. He was a large man and his blue velvet jacket had been tailored for him before he had put on weight. His face was florid and his hair was white. His pudgy fingers fluttered as he talked through oversized white teeth. His voice was sonorous; he obviously loved being the center of attention.

Edgar buttered him up with a glowing description of his prominence in the field, then cleverly introduced me with a minimum number of words, ending with “This is a highly confidential investigation, you understand, Francis.” That blocked the Knight Pursuivant from asking any questions and at the same time preempted his using similar phrasing to decline to tell us about the Harlington family. Not that any likelihood of that seemed probable—Francis Somerville liked to show off his knowledge, and once he was absolved of any suggestion of breaking confidences, he was only too ready to talk.

First, though, he insisted on taking us on a tour of the large room, pointing out the shields on the walls. They were carefully chosen, he explained, in order to show how shields tell the story of a family through generations. He pointed out the “tinctures,” the name given to colors used in the coat of arms. Gold and silver were the most prominent, then came sanguine for blood, sable for black. Animals and birds featured extensively, particularly lions, wolves, and eagles.

“Heraldic symbols,” he told us in his fruity voice, “developed in the Middle Ages with the use of armor. The suit of armor made it difficult to distinguish friend from foe during violent, hand-to-hand combat and knights developed heraldic symbols so that they could identify each other.” He took us, step by step, through several of the shields on the wall, telling us of the significance of the symbol of a tower—the family home; three arrowheads—a battle won by archers; a lion wearing a crown—loyalty to the king, which brought honors to the family.

I found it fascinating. Edgar listened with rapt attention even though he had obviously heard it all before. It was Edgar who thanked Francis for his exposition and then brought him gently back to the Harlington family.

We went up to a vast, highly polished table. Francis nodded to us to take places and he took an imposing chair with a red silk seat and intricately carved arms and back. He pulled forward a large leatherbound book that was lying on the table. He opened it at a tasseled bookmark. “This is the Harlington crest. It is a very old family. In the fourteenth century…” Edgar politely let him finish a couple of sentences, then eased him into the present.

“Oh, yes,” Francis said in his rounded tones, “we don't dwell only in the past here, you know. We keep abreast of all of our families. Many are still prominent and successful today. Harlington is one of them. His father did a magnificent job of saving the castle when it was in danger of becoming a ruin after the Second World War, and the present Lord Harlington has continued that policy. The idea of having jousts and banquets and things—and letting hordes of people in every day—raised a few eyebrows at the beginning, as these things did in a few other landmark buildings. But Harlington Castle has been saved from decay and dilapidation and is preserved for posterity, for a few more decades at least.”

“I have found Lord Harlington to be extremely friendly,” I said. “I haven't met his wife, though. She doesn't seem to be around at all.”

“Poor Sylvia. She'll never be able to take her place at the castle again, I'm afraid.” He shook his white head sadly.

“I thought she was recuperating in a nursing home and coming home soon,” I said.

“I doubt she'll ever be able to return,” said Francis.

“Cancer, isn't it?” asked Edgar innocently.

“Yes, but her earlier affliction is more of a problem,” Francis said. He looked from Edgar to me. “Terrible thing.”

It was clear he wanted to tell us. We gave him a moment, then Edgar leaned forward. “Earlier affliction, Francis?”

“She is quite insane, poor woman.”

“I didn't know that,” Edgar said, appalled.

“Violently so,” Francis added. “Very sad. Hereditary: her mother died in an institution. Lord Harlington's first wife died of cancer too, you know. The onset came very quickly, she died in six months.”

“Yes, I remember,” Edgar confirmed.

“Yes, Gerald did very well to take on two more children—though, of course, they were almost grownup by then.” Francis saw my look of surprise. “Oh, didn't you know? Richard and Felicity were his children by his first wife, Marion. When Gerald married Sylvia, she already had Norman and Angela.”

“I didn't know that,” I admitted.

“I didn't either,” said Edgar. “I've been out of touch with the family for some years.”

“They seem to get along very well,” I remarked.

“I believe so.” Francis chatted on for some time, a fountain of knowledge about the aristocracy, royalty, and stately homes. Then he asked me casually, “Is he coping all right, Sir Gerald?”

“Coping? With the running of the castle and the jousts and all that, you mean?”

“Yes. It's an awful lot of work.”

“He certainly seems to be. He's involved in everything. Knows what's going on.”

Francis nodded imperturbably. It was Edgar, knowing him much better than I did, who said, “Why do you ask, Francis?”

The Knight Pursuivant drummed his fingers on the carved arm of his chair. He had what would have been, on another, a coy look. On him, it was a look of careful consideration as to whether this tidbit of knowledge could be entrusted to our small assembly.

Edgar leaned forward expectantly. “If it's something that will ease the task of our friend here,” he began.

“We wouldn't want you to betray any confidences,” I added. “On the other hand, I like Lord Harlington, and if there were any ways in which I could help him…”

“Under those circumstances, I am sure,” said Francis in a pontifical tone, “that I am justified in telling you this. I don't doubt that you have his best interests at heart. Everybody who knows him feels the same way.” He drummed his fingers again. Edgar still leaned forward expectantly. Francis nodded, sat back, and spoke.

“Lord Harlington has only six to twelve months to live.”

“Good Heavens!” Edgar exclaimed. “Are you sure, Francis?”

The Knight Pursuivant turned on his reproving look. “His personal physician is one of our members here.”

I felt a profound sadness. It was as if I had known the man much longer. Edgar straightened up, shook his head. “I really am sorry to hear that,” he said. “I have only met him a few times but I liked him very much.”

“As does everyone who meets him,” said Francis.

We were outside when I said to Edgar, “Well, you were right. Hardly a sparrow falls from a battlement that Francis doesn't know about it.”

“He's a great old gossip, isn't he? Thought you'd find it useful,” said Edgar. “How about a drink?”

W
E HAD TWO DRINKS.
Edgar liked American-style martinis; I had gin and tonic. We went to “The Captain's,” one of the numerous bars that sprang up during the peak of the Thatcher era to cater to the large numbers of prosperous yuppies who flocked into the City. Many of these establishments were like the one we were in, a remodeled underground wine cellar. The domed brick ceilings, the tiled floors, the hidden lighting, and the semiconspiratorial air of the whole place put one in mind of the Gunpowder Plot or a Cold War espionage rendezvous.

Most such places still thrive and some have added upscale eating facilities. This was one and we decided to eat. Edgar, not an adventurous eater, had a prawn cocktail and a grilled salmon steak. I had a tomato, arugula and ricotta salad, followed by lamb chops with a yogurt and mint marinade. The chops were grilled with most of the marinade still sticking to them. This place catered to a wide range of tastes.

Although it was still early, it was already crowded. Most customers were young men and women leaving their offices and their computers for the day and needing sustenance to face the hour or more train ride back home to the suburbs. Glistening faces, clattering glasses, shouted orders, snatches of conflicting conversations: these things made it an exciting place to be, although perhaps the financial arenas that most of them had just left were equally exciting.

The train back to Hertfordshire was just as crowded, but it left and arrived on time. At the castle, I went into the hall and spotted one of the young constables who had been with Inspector Devlin in the billiard room. I asked him to inform the inspector that I had returned, and as he nodded and walked away, I was accosted by an attractive young blonde. She greeted me with a smile. I returned it and told her how glad I was to see her.

She was Sergeant Winifred Fletcher of Scotland Yard's Food Squad, but she gave no clue of that affiliation. She was wearing a trim gray suit that fitted her to perfection and her hair looked as if she had just come from the beauty parlor. I complimented her on her appearance. “A perfect disguise. No one would ever suspect you of being a”—I looked around with a conspiratorial air— “a you-know person.”

“Good. I wouldn't want to shatter your image by having people think you were a nose.”

I knew that she and her superior, Inspector Hemingway, liked to throw Victorian underworld slang into the conversation occasionally, hence her use of the word for a police informer. We both paused as another constable walked past us without giving us a second glance. “You could get by anyway,” I told her. “The place is full of jacks.”

She smiled at the word for detectives. “Are they progressing?”

“You must know more about that than I do. As far as we civilians are concerned, Inspector Devlin did not learn sharing in school and hasn't picked up the virtue since.”

Half a dozen Asians in shiny new suits that they must have bought the day before came across the floor, chattering happily. One of the servants passed, carrying a large envelope, and several businessmen, evidently here for the banquet, stopped to discuss some weighty matter of commerce. Winnie and I waited to see the flow of pedestrian traffic subside, then walked over to stand some distance away from the foot of the wide staircase. Here, we had a tiny oasis.

“Inspector Devlin has prevailed on the Chief Constable not to call in the Yard just yet. Lord Harlington has put on some pressure too; he doesn't want any wild press stories about the persons poisoned earlier. You probably saw the press release—it only referred to an unfortunate death. That suits us at the Food Squad fine. We all want to keep it that way. The forensic people are making further tests on boro-amine. The only item that has come out so far is that boro-amine in this form, whatever it is, contains a significant amount of vitamin K.”

“Is it added for some reason? Can't imagine why, though.”

She shook her head. “Doesn't seem like it. More probably it's an integral component.”

“Does that tell us something?”

“If so, we don't know yet what it is.”

“Well, I'll keep it in mind,” I said. “It might fit in—somewhere.”

“Anything new here?” she wanted to know.

I told her of the discrepancies I was finding in the castle's quality control of its suppliers. She seized upon the implication immediately.

“If their QC's lax, some dangerous ingredient might be present.”

“Yes. The supplier of fish runs a very sloppy operation. But I have nothing definite on them. Meat seems okay, but I was suspicious of the bread.” I told her of my visit to The Muffin Man and she spotted the trend of my thinking at once.