Eat, Drink and Be Buried (23 page)

At least two and maybe three of those guesses registered. She did not yet have sufficient experience at evasion. I went on before she could speak.

“I told you there will no trouble for you of any kind. I mean that.”

“Is it true Kenny was poisoned?”

“It looks that way but it's not certain yet. In any case, I know you had nothing to do with it.”

She shook her head violently and her blond hair trembled. “I just made a special salad for Richard every time he was going to joust. I made it the way he likes it—with coriander, cloves, and dill. I put it in a chilled compartment under the buffet table so no one else would take it.”

Three spices that were strong enough to cover the taste of the owlsfoot. It might have been wolfsbane, but owlsfoot sounded more likely. Both have a bitter taste.

“Kenny knew you prepared that salad for Richard, didn't he?” I asked.

She nodded.

I had a further thought. “Frank knew too.” She didn't respond but I knew I was right. “But he didn't say anything because he didn't want to see you blamed.”

“I wasn't to blame, I only—”

“I know. I know. I'll see to it.”

I spent a few more minutes setting her mind at rest. When I left, she was back to her normal cheerful demeanor. My mind wasn't at rest, though. Someone else had known about the salad. They had awaited their chance and put owlsfoot in it.

My stroll outside was made more difficult by the activity. Seating was being erected, speakers installed on poles; vehicles of all kinds buzzed and roared, and people toiled everywhere. I returned for lunch, and, being among the earlier eaters, I was able to check quickly and find the Styrofoam box still in place. A few sniffs confirmed my previous finding.

After that substantial breakfast, I limited myself to a slice of quiche and an apple for lunch, and an hour later I was sitting with Felicity in the rows of seats erected especially for the event. Extra flags fluttered from the battlements of the castle behind us and huge colored streamers on the walls gave it a flamboyant air. A good crowd had gathered and the speakers were playing martial music that sounded like the work of Sir William Walton.

“You know something of the history of the castle, don't you?” Felicity asked.

“Just the brochure,” I said. “Fill me in.”

“All right. It starts with Ethelfleda, the warlike Queen of Mercia. She built a wooden fortress on this site in about
A.D.
916 as defense against marauding tribes from South Wales. Sometime during the following century, it was expanded to a motte and bailey—”

“Translation please,” I requested.

“Oh, sorry. A motte is a wooden tower perched on top of a mound of earth and surrounded by wooden palisades. A bailey is an outer court with another palisade around it. In 1068, William of Normandy, after his conquest of England, decreed the castle to Henry of Donningford. This was unusual as most such bequests were made to Norman knights.” Felicity smiled. “We surmise that Henry was an English traitor.”

“A blot on the escutcheon—isn't that the phrase?”

“Very appropriate. The period from 1100 to 1300 was the period of building—castles and cathedrals all across Europe, well over a thousand of them.”

“Wasn't that because builders had just discovered how to use stone blocks?”

“That's right. Stone and brick. John of Lakeland came back from the Crusades and Richard the Lionheart rewarded him for his loyalty by giving him Harlington Castle. It was John of Lakeland who enlarged it enormously and gave it walls twenty feet thick. I could go on—it gets to be a catalogue of names, dates, and battles.”

“At least tell me about the Battle of Moreston Marsh,” I said, “so I know which side to cheer for.”

She gave me a frown of mock reproval. “This is not a football game, it's a historical pageant.”

More spectators had arrived by now and the seats were all filled. The sky had cleared and some fuzzy white clouds cruised gently at high altitude. The stirring music was appropriately that of a prelude to battle.

“The scene of the Battle of Moreston Marsh is as follows: about 1460, the Manor of Harlington was granted to Robert Courtenay by Henry the Sixth,” Felicity began. “Robert was a rich Bristol merchant and a direct ancestor of my father. His daughter married the grandson of a previous owner of Harlington Castle and so pushed back the connection between family and castle. Now here's where the intrigue sets in—”

“Good,” I said. “I love intrigue.”

“Richard of York determined to depose Henry the Sixth and proclaim himself king. The queen, Margaret, was quite a warrior herself and gathered an army to meet Richard in battle. But Richard had moved fast from the north and he headed for London. In his path lay one obstacle…”

“Don't tell me. Harlington Castle.”

“You're good at this, aren't you?” She smiled.

“But why is it called the Battle of Moreston Marsh?”

“The land on this side of the castle was marshy in those days. Some of the attackers were caught in it. The major part of the battle, though, was right here in front of the castle.”

“So now you've brought me up to date?”

“Yes. What happened next will be reenacted—here they come now, Richard of York's army,” she said. The land in front of us fell away gently, rolling green grass with an occasional stand of trees. From that direction, an insistent drumming was audible. It persisted, then grew steadily louder. Splashes of color came into sight, battle flags in blue, green, and white. They became taller as if they were rising out of the ground.

A shrill blare of trumpets sounded, an explicit threat augmenting the menace of the drumbeat. A line of cavalry came trotting into sight, armor gleaming, lances high and the richly caparisoned horses snorting as if they smelled blood.

“In the original battle,” Felicity said, “we think there were twenty rows of cavalry with at least forty men in each row.”

Her words startled me. I had become lost in the past and the magnificent display had assumed a striking if transitory reality.

“We can't run to that many today, neither horses nor riders. As it is, we have to coopt the local riding club, the county fox-hunters, and the Hertfordshire polo team.”

The cavalry was in full view now, riding toward the castle. Behind them came several rows of infantry, some with swords, some with pikes in hand. Horsemen detached themselves from the ends of the ranks and galloped out, bright-colored scarves and sashes flapping.

“They are the officers,” Felicity said.

“Where are the defenders?” I asked.

“We have to take some liberties with history,” she said. “A few years back, we had some siege weapons built, but one collapsed and crushed a man's arm, so we've dispensed with that. Now we show the cavalry and infantry part of the battle.”

Even as she spoke, the castle gates swung open and a troop of horsemen came racing out. Flags rippled, swords came out of scabbards, and the hoofbeats were a dull thunder on the drawbridge over the moat. It was an impressive scene.

“You should be filming this for a—” I started to say as Felicity pointed to where a battery of cameras already whirred at the foot of the castle walls.

Ahead of the defending troops, a horse and its rider pulled out and I could see a pennant fluttering wildly. It was the scarlet, black, and gold of the Harrington family.

“That's Richard,” breathed Felicity.

The attackers were urging their steeds into a gallop now. The crowd was completely silent as the two armies charged at one another.

They met with a clash of steel that echoed off the castle walls like a thunderclap. Then they were fighting man-to-man, sword against sword, the horses prancing and weaving, and death a heartbeat away.

Severed limbs and gushing blood were not necessary, for the battle scene had a ferocity about it that was chilling. There was a sudden roar from the crowd. Felicity grabbed my arm. “It's Richard! My God, he's down!”

The figure in the armor with the scarlet, black, and gold insignia had taken a powerful blow from an adversary and fallen from his horse. We could no longer see him. He was hidden by a milling throng of horses and clouds of dust.

I felt a hand clasp my shoulder. I turned. Another hand was on Felicity's shoulder. We both looked up to see a mischievous grin on the face of—Richard Harlington.

He squeezed in between us. Felicity's face was still white. “Richard! You're all right!” Her expression changed. “But who's that out there?”

“That's Frank Morgan. Don't worry about him. We rehearsed this. Look, there now—see, he's on his feet.”

We watched as the armored figure stood erect, swung his sword, and unhorsed one of the rebel army. Then he climbed into the empty saddle and rode into the throng.

“So…” said Felicity. The color was returning to her face. “You saw reason for once. You also scared us to death!”

He laughed boyishly. “Not to worry, sis. We spent days working all this out.”

“So why aren't you in it?” Felicity demanded. She was becoming increasingly angry now that her concern was banished.

“Oh, I don't know,” Richard said. “Comes a time when you have to give up doing it and be content with planning it.”

“I doubt if it was anything I said,” Felicity commented tartly.

“It was Frank who persuaded me actually,” Richard said, intently studying the movements of the combatants.

The battle continued until the attacking army fled in confusion. The crowd booed them off the field. The victors celebrated with a triumphal ride past as they returned to the castle. The music rose to a crescendo as they disappeared inside the gates.

The people left the seats and moved inside the castle grounds, where minstrels, clowns, stilt walkers, jugglers, mimes, conjurers, magicians, and animal acts entertained them. A band played musical comedy hits and Daniel's cuddly Dancing Bears put on one of their most endearing performances. I was glad we were not going to eat them.

I stayed where the crowds were thickest for the rest of the afternoon. I even watched a Punch-and-Judy show. Finally, it was time to get bathed and dressed for the evening banquet. Before I did, I phoned a friend in one of the larger financial institutions in the City of London.

H
ALF AN HOUR BEFORE
the banquet, I sauntered casually through the room where places had already been set. The large tables were resplendent with gleaming white tablecloths, polished crystal, and glitteringly bright silver. Candles had just been lit and their flames sent shadows flickering among the rafters in the high ceiling. The only persons present were two or three waitresses in pristine uniforms, setting out tall, wooden salt and pepper shakers.

I checked the seating nameplates. I was at the table with members of the Harlington family and several others whose names were not familiar. That was good, but I needed further advantage on my side. When the waitresses were occupied at a distant table, I made a rapid switch of two of the nameplates. I strolled next to the serving bay where the carts stood ready to receive the dishes from the kitchen. It looked very unlikely that any individual could control the distribution of the dishes to the tables. Still, I could see the bay clearly from my new place.

I went into the anteroom where cocktails were being served and most of the guests were already assembled. I accepted a Pimm's Number One from a passing waiter and talked with one of the members of the Stony Stratton Hunt Club. He had been one of the rebel cavalry and I consoled him on his defeat.

“You can't win them all,” he said with a laugh.

“If you repeat this every year,” I said, “you don't win any of them. Must be frustrating.”

“One of these years, we'll have to rewrite history.”

A good-looking woman in a striking purple gown said she was headmistress of the Stony Stratton Village School. I told her she was lucky to have a castle so handy. It must be useful in teaching history, I suggested to her.

“It tends to be taken for granted,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Adults recognize the gap of a thousand years, but children don't accept the time difference so easily.”

The mayor was out of town, but his deputy chatted affably. He was a wispy man with sparse hair and lively as a cricket. He dropped his official role and became interested in my work once he had asked me who I was and what I was doing here. After I gave him the ostensible answer, he wanted to know why his homemade tomato sauce never tasted as good as the supermarket variety.

“In the past, homemade sauces tasted better,” I told him, “because they allowed the sauce to cook for three or four hours. Today, we don't have time for that, so the standard way of offsetting that slightly sharp uncooked taste is to add some brown sugar.”

“Doesn't that make it sweet?”

“Only if you add too much. Start with a little and keep adding if you need more. Give it a few minutes after each addition to absorb the sweetness. Another way,” I added, “and one of my secrets, is to add a spoonful of orange marmalade. It contains about fifty percent sugar so the sweetening result is similar but the richness of the orange flavor adds to the richness of the sauce and the fruity touch improves it further.”

He was pleased with that and was about to tap me for further insider tips, but I beat him to it. “You must be concerned about these two accidental deaths recently. Are they keeping visitors away? It's beginning to sound as if Stony Stratton is a dangerous place.”

He looked concerned. “We haven't seen any influence on visitors' numbers so far, but I do hope that the people who keep telling me these things come in threes are wrong.”

“A doctor dying in a neighborhood is always distressing. Patients like to think of their doctors as being next to immortal.”