Staging Death (12 page)

I tried again. ‘But—’

‘Look, he seriously pissed me off, and one day he’ll know how it feels. But he looks bloody fit, and you know I’m a lily-livered coward.’

I knew nothing of the sort, of course. ‘I’d hate
you to do anything you might regret. With this wonderful chance coming up, especially.’

‘I’m not going to kill him. So just drop this anxious-auntie act, will you?’ He swigged. ‘How are you two getting on? Has he got his leg over yet?’

Why had I ever thought an evening with an old friend would be a better option than sitting at home worrying?

‘He is a married man,’ I said tartly. ‘With two young children,’ I added for good measure.

‘His wife’s, not his.’

‘He couldn’t treat them better if they were his own,’ I declared, ready to list examples of his kindness. But then I thought better of it. I grabbed the bull by the horns and re-routed the conversation back into more helpful channels. ‘This here house scam, Merry. What do you think’s going on?’

‘Why do you call it a scam?’

‘Because there’s a pattern emerging. Well, it’s emerged, and is sitting on the roof waving a great big flag. A set of punters come round three particular properties and I never see hide or hair of them again. Then they’re followed by an English set—’

‘Aren’t the first set English, then?’

‘Foreign. One set claimed to be Russian but I’d swear is Albanian. The other set of foreigners
never said they were anything, but sounded Russian – you know, darling, all those accent CDs we endlessly play.’

‘You’re getting me very confused.’

I’d have said it was his third pint of Greene King, but started again, very slowly. ‘A foreign couple visit three of our properties and then drop from the radar. Then an English couple visit the same three, and also disappear. Then another foreign pair see the same properties, and vanish. And an English team come and see the same ones. And I bet they’ll disappear. In fact, I sincerely hope they do. From the face of the earth.’

‘A bet? Who can see the most top houses?’

‘Only ever three. In our agency at least.’

‘OK. That is weird.’ At least I had what passed in his case for full attention.

‘This is my theory for what it’s worth: Couple A drop something for Couple B to collect. Then when whatever it is has gone, Couple C drop something off and today’s Couple D take it. I’ll bet,’ I continued, warming to my theory, ‘that you could take Knottsall Lodge apart now, and find nothing at all. But after the next pair—’

‘Couple E?’ he prompted, sage with alcohol.

‘Exactly, Couple E will leave something for a Couple F to pick up. And whatever it is, believe me, Merry, I shall find it!’ OK, I might have been pot-valiant, but I meant it.

‘And how will Brother Greg react to you taking apart his favourite properties? Aha – caught you out there, Vee!’

He had, hadn’t he? I managed a grin. ‘If he sacks me, it looks as if I shall have to take up your offer of a vehicle swap, Merry.’

But by now he looked altogether less keen. Perhaps he was lily-livered after all, these days. Perhaps I really didn’t have to worry about him.

Which just left Cope and his friends to disturb my slumber.

At St Jude’s next morning there were as many buckets as members of the congregation. Apparently one afternoon some scaffolding had appeared up the side of the building, with a perfectly respectable roofer’s sign clamped to it. The following day both sign and scaffolding had disappeared. It transpired, according to the churchwardens, that because everyone had seen the roofer’s sign elsewhere, no one had bothered to check that the roofers themselves were genuine. Every last square inch of lead had been stripped from the roof. Ginnie, the generously forgiving rector, prayed for the thieves; I rather hoped for the Old Testament version of God zooming down to exact a bit of revenge – and then spent a while prayerfully beating myself up. Ginnie was embarrassingly grateful for the news that Greg had pledged five thousand pounds to the repair fund,
and promised to pray for him too. St Jude might be the patron saint of lost causes, but I fancied he’d have his work cut out there. Especially when I got round to telling Greg exactly how much I’d pledged on his behalf. But he could afford it and more – one of the reasons he’d wanted the keys back in Stratford by six on Saturday evening (I managed to drop them off at half past) was that he was flying off on holiday later that night. He was to spend the next two days playing golf on the Algarve. So my immediate desire – to tell him where to put his job – was frustrated.

In contrast to the weekend, Monday morning was fine and dry, promising warmth later. And it was further brightened by a phone call from Caddie.

‘Darling,’ she greeted me, ‘you can sing, can’t you?’

‘Er…’ I liked to be honest, but when there was work in the offing…

‘And you can dance?’

I wouldn’t mention the touch of arthritis in the right knee. ‘Of course.’

‘And you’re a fine actress of a certain age?’ Without waiting for a reply she said, ‘They’re casting for a tour of
Sunset Boulevard
.’

Before she’d said the last consonant I was in heaven. Norma Desmond! The part might have been written for me. In fact, parts of it
hit painfully home: the former star no longer considered for roles still dreaming of the greatest part. I put that aspect aside very swiftly.

‘…the trombone?’ Caddie asked.

‘I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?’

‘I was asking, darling, if you could play the trombone?’

‘Norma Desmond play the trombone?’ I repeated. Stupidly.

‘Who said anything about Norma Desmond playing the trombone?’ Not waiting for a reply, thank goodness, she rushed on, ‘It’s a small company, darling, and everyone has to be able to sing, dance and play an instrument. They’re having real difficulty finding a trombone, you see, and I just wondered… No? Well, I shall keep on trying. Still nothing definite about that new soap, but keep on with the accents, darling. How’s your Welsh? They’re thinking of changing the setting to Anglesey or Barry Island or somewhere.’

Before I could go draw enough breath for a truly satisfactory scream, the phone rang again.

The call was from Claire. ‘Greg forgot to ask you to go and have a look at something that came on our books a couple of weeks back. The guy from Henley really isn’t cutting the mustard these days, and people have started to ask for you, so Greg thought you should get briefed just in case.’

People had started to ask for me because they knew they could threaten me into accepting their scam. People who knew my Ka and now knew my car. All the same, I asked, ‘Where is this new property?’

‘Wilmcote.’

‘Wilmcote?’ I repeated, disbelievingly. ‘As in Mary Arden’s house?’

‘The same. A period cottage.’

‘So how’s it managed to stay on the market for two weeks? Places for sale out there are like hens’ teeth. They’re sold before the photocopier ink’s dry.’

‘There has been some interest,’ she said. ‘Quite a lot of interest, actually. But the vendors may not have been entirely realistic about the price, and of course there is the credit crunch… Greg thought a woman’s touch…’

‘Who am I supposed to be touching? The vendors, to tell them to accept offers, or the punters, to tell them to reach for their wallets?’

‘He did say you might try your hand at negotiating.’

Did that mean becoming one of the permanent staff with a regular wage? But that was a question I could hardly ask Claire.

‘So I’ve got to go and sweet-talk the owners?’

She said carefully, ‘Of course, if an opportunity comes up while you’re doing your homework…
A Mr and Mrs Thorpe. Shall I phone and tell them to expect you before lunch?’

Claire deserved far more than the measly bunch of flowers Greg had seen fit to give her. She deserved a medal, even a halo. Greg knew I wouldn’t have accepted such a suggestion from him, not without clarifying my position. But I couldn’t tell Claire what I thought of the idea, not while she was still dewy-eyed with gratitude for the irises and tulips, which were probably dying already.

It would look more professional to bowl up to the Thorpes’ front door in the company Ka rather than in my Fiesta. I reasoned that I was going off my usual beat, and the cottage wasn’t the sort of property to attract the interest of Couples A, B, C and D. Or indeed Couples E and F, if and when they turned up.

Out came the Nicole Farhi viewing suit again. It still looked beautiful. The shoes, however, wouldn’t cope much longer – the polish I regularly applied was probably thicker than the leather underneath it. I cycled to the office to pick up the Ka, even though it meant touching up the slap and the hair once I’d got there. And changing. There was no way I’d expose the suit to the perils of a cycle chain. It didn’t seem to mind being folded into my backpack.

Sloe Cottage was the sort of place that
Meredith Thrale assumed I’d live in, and in the same ideal location. The very sight of it, set in an old-fashioned country garden, almost made me dribble. Perhaps I would have done if the price the Thorpes wanted hadn’t already made my eyes water. However, I resolved not to mention that until I had visited every lovely room, making notes in my impressive Burford Estate Agents leather-bound folder. With a fountain pen, no less. (These touches had been my idea originally – Greg had adopted them enthusiastically, but with no concrete expressions of gratitude.)

Mr Thorpe was an upright man in his seventies, his wife – much the same age, probably – a ditzy white-blonde whose hands sawed the air every time she spoke. It was hard to work out where the power lay, however, because although he held himself well and was smartly dressed, his intermittent barks of opinion (stated as facts) suggested that not much lay between the impressively bewhiskered ears. Her giggles – which with the whirling hands must have afflicted him every day for the fifty-six years she told me they’d been married – would have been grating in a girl of seventeen, let alone a woman deep into bus pass territory.

I managed to disentangle just about enough information about the history and structure of the cottage, which was contemporaneous with
the more famous place just down the lane, to convince a bored flea. So if I did have to show anyone round, I might have to spend more time explaining that the house everyone thought was Mary Arden’s wasn’t in fact hers at all, current scholarship suggesting that in fact it was a nearby property, until recently occupied by a very old lady reluctant to make any changes – a historian’s dream.

Surely they could give me something more to go on? Anything.

‘You’d like a cup of tea? Or coffee? And I made some cakes this morning. Something about making sure the house smells nice when you’re showing visitors around?’

I didn’t have the heart to point out that I wasn’t a punter, but accepted the tea as an opportunity to speak to Mr Thorpe on his own while Mrs Thorpe fussed audibly in the kitchen. It transpired that Mr Thorpe had been in the army, and had reached, as he put it, his majority. Mrs Thorpe had accompanied him all over the world, moving some twenty-three times in twenty-five years. Apparently they never threw away the original packaging of any large item, so they’d be ready to move at the drop of a cheque. She could speak half a dozen languages, most of them, however, he said with a slight smile, in the imperative. I couldn’t square the idea of makers
and maintainers of world peace with the two loquacious old people in front of me.

‘He’s never been telling you about the ghost, has he? Silly old duffer,’ she said, without waiting for an answer. She plonked a tray with far less elegance than I’d achieved with Allyn’s on what looked like an antique table. ‘He’s always rabbiting on about things people don’t want to hear.’

‘Not that cake, Isobel, I told you to bring biscuits,’ he declared simultaneously.

‘Ghost?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘We have this Elizabethan lady—’

‘Jacobean, she can never tell the difference—’

‘Only I don’t think she’s a lady, if you know what I mean.’

‘How can you tell? It’s not as if she holds her knife like a pen, woman.’

‘Knife?’ I croaked.

‘Not that sort of knife anyway, not cutlery. More like that.’ She pointed at a poniard in a small painting on one side of the window. The dagger was in the hand of a young man with a spade beard and a ruff. The painting was too filthy and ill-lit to see anything of his clothes, so I had no idea what period he came from. I didn’t do antiques, but I had a friend who did, and I reckon he’d have loved to get his hands on it, if
to do no more than hold it up to the light and recommend restoration.

‘So you’ve got the ghost of a woman who carries a poniard,’ I said.

‘You must think he’s off his head. Ghosts, indeed.’

‘But have you seen it too?’

‘Of course she has. She has a bit of a weep and a wail and—’

‘Not me, the lady. Fancy you calling it a poniard. It’s not a thing we girls know about.’

‘I told you I knew her. I saw your Beatrice, madam…’ He offered a most courtly bow.

‘I didn’t realise you’d left the stage, Lady Vena.’

‘I’m not a lady. Not in that sense,’ I added swiftly. My head was reeling, what with their double act and their ghost. A resident ghost! I could sell this place in ten minutes, with a bit of editing and embellishment to the story.

Provided I could get them out of the house while I did it. ‘It’s about time you were. Made a lady,’ she clarified.

Music to my ears.

He nodded. ‘All the other old actresses seem to be. Or dames.’

Old!

‘Mostly dames,’ she corrected him. ‘I can’t
think of any ladies. Not that you shouldn’t be. Not with your lovely voice. We had a record of your reading the sonnets with Whatshisname. And didn’t you do that advert?’

‘No, she wouldn’t stoop to advertising.’

‘They were wonderful chocolates,’ I said, to deflect them from the other voice-over. Just to make sure, I added, ‘And you made that equally delicious-looking cake yourself, Mrs Thorpe?’

‘Oh, and I haven’t even offered you a slice, and that tea will be cold.’

‘That tea’s coffee,’ Mr Thorpe declared.

It was. And it was cold.

During the subsequent discussion about whether it should be reheated, I managed to raise the question of price. ‘Most vendors these days set a target figure,’ I said, ‘but then consider any offers in the light of the current market and accept one on the basis of the estate agent’s advice, taking in the would-be purchaser’s own situation, the financial climate, other properties in the area and so on. Have you had any thoughts on the matter?’ I asked casually.

‘A price is a price, Dame Vena. I’ve only asked what I want to get. So let’s have no talk of offers if you please.’

‘We need the money, you see, to pay for our bungalow,’ she almost pleaded. ‘We wouldn’t get a mortgage at our age. We need to buy outright.
And Henry thinks that this price will cover all the costs of removal.’

‘And stamp duty and the agency fee,’ I murmured.

‘A fee? We have to pay a fee?’

‘Didn’t my brother explain? Mr Burford?’

‘He said something about a sliding scale.’

‘The higher the price the higher the fee. We usually negotiate that before we put the property on the market.’

‘He did say something… But what if we don’t get what we need?’ she wailed, genuinely upset.

‘You could always sell something. That picture – have you had it long?’ I pointed to the young man.

He blinked. ‘It was here when we bought the place. As a matter of fact, one of the people looking round offered to buy it. He said it was worth a couple of hundred.’

‘It might be worth more than that,’ I said carefully. ‘Whatever you do, promise me you won’t sell it without getting it properly valued.’

He spread his hands and winced. Given the poor arthritic knuckles it was hardly surprising. ‘Who could I trust to do that?’

I didn’t do altruism, any more than my brother did. Yet I heard myself saying, truthfully, ‘I know someone who’s as honest as the day is long. Do you want me to take it to him?’

‘It’d be safer than leaving it there with all these people traipsing round the place,’ he said.

‘What he means is we’d be ever so grateful.’ With a surprisingly decisive action, she removed it from the wall.

‘Don’t be grateful until we know what it is. Meanwhile, it would be helpful if we can cover that patch.’ I pointed to where the picture had obviously hung for a very long time.

‘We’ve got plenty in the loft. I’ll send him up for one.’

‘Anything like this?’ I asked carefully.

‘You mean as old as this?’ he asked.

She surprised me. ‘Or the same topic?’

I hate being nonplussed, but wasn’t sure how to answer. ‘Anything,’ I hazarded, ‘that wouldn’t attract unwelcome attention.’

‘But if someone made us a good offer, that might be welcome attention.’

‘She doesn’t think two hundred pounds is a good offer, woman!’ he yelled.

‘It might well be,’ I said. ‘But it would be good to make sure. There are a lot of dishonest folk about.’

‘And how would we know this friend of yours is honest?’ he demanded.

‘I only thought he might value it, not that he’d offer to buy it.’

‘That wouldn’t do any harm, would it?’ she
temporised. ‘Now what are you doing?’