Staging Death (15 page)

Much as I’d have liked to go to the police with news of the Turovskys’ new persona, Heather talked me out of it. There was no crime, she said, in using a different name, at least as far as she knew. But she would ask around, and if she got any hard evidence would tell both me and the authorities. I didn’t like to override her, but what with that incident and the presence of mysterious cars in the neighbourhood, not to mention silent phones and empty envelopes, I was beginning to get rattled.

Fortunately, out of the blue, Allyn summoned me, not to make changes to our plans for the house but for a new scheme altogether. She’d conceived an overwhelming desire for stained glass for what was currently a disused and probably deconsecrated chapel. Since it was built in 1780, and was unadorned to the point
of nonconformist in all respects, I suspected that the plain glass now
in situ
was either original or at very least authentic. It wasn’t my job to tell her she was committing an architectural sin, but I spent a long time on the internet hunting for an artist with the sensitivity and the skill to tackle the job.

It was fortunate that I had something to absorb me. The phone absolutely refused to ring about any of my other projects. Caddie didn’t return my calls; Ambrose emailed me to say his contact was at a conference in Perugia, but would be returning to the Barber on Friday; Heather was suddenly rushed off her feet, people liking to put their houses on the market in spring when the sun was shining; and no one wanted to look at any of Greg’s properties, not even the Thorpes’. There was nothing more I could do in the garden. I was reluctant to use my car for anything, and not just because of the cost of petrol. At least cycling would give the figure a bit of a boost. Just to add to the general gloom, I put myself on my annual really low-fat diet, which always made me bad-tempered.

So one Friday afternoon, I was thinking I might have to settle for watching daytime TV.

And a miracle happened. The phone rang.

No, it wasn’t Caddie. It was Greg.

‘I thought as how I should let you know,’
he began, obvious glee bringing the Blackheath tones strongly to the fore, ‘that Knottsall Lodge is sold.’

‘What? The Turovskys?’

‘Who? Them Russians? No, an old mate of mine. Well, not strictly a mate. But I’ve met him on the golf course. Or somewhere. Anyway, he checked it out on the internet, gave me a bell and I showed him round. I know, but he was a mate, see. No arguments about the asking price. I’ve been on to the Westfields, and they’re more than happy. The solicitors are on to it. Only thing is he wants a full structural survey. And in a property that age, who can blame him?’

‘Who indeed?’

‘You might sound a bit pleased,’ he whined.

‘Pleased? I’m delighted for you. Well done. The truth is, Greg,’ I confessed, ‘I shall really miss the place.’

‘Come on, Vee, you’re paid to make other folk like it, not fall in love with it yourself. I mean, it’s hardly your price range, is it?’

‘Ever tactful, Greg.’ If I didn’t control my voice with irony, it might go and break on me. I only survived mixing with rich people like Toby and selling houses costing millions by pretending it was all fantasy. ‘No, nothing’s in my price range, is it?’

‘Well, who knows? – you may get another
of them voice-overs for an advert. That’d bring home a bit of bacon, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would indeed. I shall just have to keep my fingers crossed.’

‘You can keep them crossed for something else and all. It’s not our usual thing, but someone’s thinking of selling a spanking new barn conversion through us. He’ll let us know on Monday. And you shall be the first to show round all the punters streaming through the door.’

‘Thank you.’ He meant well after all. Possibly. ‘Any more enquiries about Sloe Cottage?’

‘It’s a bit
slow
, if you get me.’ He paused for my obedient titter.

‘We have to get the Thorpes out for any future viewings,’ I said, having obliged. ‘They’d talk the hind leg off a donkey, wouldn’t they? And when they gabble on, I can’t tell who’s speaking or whom I should reply to. Another thing, they can’t accept offers because they need the precise amount of the asking price to buy their dream bungalow. And that was before they registered the need to pay stamp duty and your fee. You did make it clear, didn’t you, Greg?’

‘Make it clear? I even wrote it down. Honest! But you know what they’re like. So if they won’t accept offers, what are we going to do?’

It was a long time since Greg had spoken to me as someone whose opinion might matter, so
I was tempted to describe my behind-the-scenes activities with their pictures. But I wouldn’t break my promise. ‘I’ve had an idea for getting them out during some viewings at least,’ I boasted. ‘Though it may involve dipping into your pocket. I get hold of matinee tickets for them.’

‘Can’t that mate of yours rustle up some comps?’

‘How could I possibly ask him something like that?’ I demanded, my voice full of convincing outrage. To change the subject, I said, ‘I suppose there’s no chance of your putting in a word for me with the guy who’s bought Knottsall Lodge? As an interior designer? I’ve never done an Elizabethan house and it’d be a real challenge. And bring in a lot of shekels.’ I was Greg’s sister, after all.

‘Leave it as it is?’ Allyn’s voice rang through the chapel.

Three of us were present: Allyn herself, me, and the stained-glass expert I’d invited to see the windows, Arwel Gryffydd, a Welshman in his forties.

‘But I’m employing you to change it,’ she snapped.

Arwel Gryffydd’s eyes blazed at her. ‘To put tatty modern stuff in that – and I include my own poor efforts, madam – would be more than an insult, it would be blasphemy.’

‘Just for the record, Mr Gryffydd, since you’ve come all this way, from Pembrokeshire,’ she stressed the last syllable in the American way, ‘what would your recommendations be? I’ll pay, don’t you worry, both for your journey and for your professional services.’ Her tone was extremely patronising.

I could almost see red-dragon smoke issuing from Arwel’s nostrils. ‘You already have an adviser, madam.’

‘But the floor – look at these broken tiles! Shall I carpet it? For warmth? Just the central aisle, maybe? And by the altar, when we’ve sourced one? Fancy someone taking away the altar!’ she exclaimed.

‘I don’t think it ever had an altar, not as such.’ He spread expressive hands at the box pews and huge pulpit, probably six feet square, complete with a heavy sound-reflecting canopy. ‘They’re in the right disposition as they are, Mrs Frensham. The more I look at it the more I’m convinced you’ve got a real gem here. A chapel from the time Methodism was beginning to influence church architecture. As for the floor, someone should be able to replace those damaged tiles. I know an architectural antiques dealer who might be able to help. At very least he won’t fob you off with Victorian rubbish. And I’m sure Ms Burford can deal with the kneelers and pew cushions.’

Not being able to spend money, or in Allyn’s case, someone else’s money, didn’t seem to me to be a reason to fall into a sulk. At last Arwel agreed to take some cash off her for replacing a few cracked panes, and for cleaning the glass and mending any damaged lead, though he made it clear that he couldn’t start the job until late summer.

I have never pretended to be brave, morally, that is, so I really did not wish to hang behind and speak to Allyn in private. I don’t think she wanted to speak to me either. I assumed that Toby’s explanation of any snapshots in the gutter press, which I never took anyway and therefore hadn’t seen, had failed to convince her that our meeting was innocent.

‘Allyn, is everything all right?’ I began, a spineless, neutral question if ever there was one. I must follow it up with something more specific. ‘Did that bloody snapper blazon Toby and me all over some red top?’

‘No. You did well there,’ she admitted grudgingly. Then curiosity got the better of her. ‘Acting one thing, saying another. How do you do it?’

‘Easy. Stamp your foot and wave your arms as if you’re furious, and tell me what you had for breakfast in a quiet gentle tone – as befits those rice cakes,’ I added with a grin. ‘Come on, you
must have done it the other way round. When you’re at some posh Hollywood do with a bloke who’s treated you badly and you both have to smile for the cameras? Try it!’

By the time she’d repeated deadpan all the ingredients in one of her health drinks, stamping her foot and tearing at her hair, I reckoned we’d mastered it. We’d also managed something else – a small step in the direction of friendship. If ever she forgave me for saving her about a million quid, that is. I’d better not push my luck and suggest we played tennis, however, even though she walked down to the stable yard with me.

Christopher Wild hove into view. He greeted us both with enthusiasm, kissing my hand first, which was clearly a mistake, resulting in the circumambient temperature dropping about ten degrees.

Without being asked, another mistake, which reduced the air to below minus on the Celsius scale, he embarked on a detailed account of his arboreal activities, down in the area of what he now called, with quite visible capital letters, the Sculpture Park.

‘A
son et lumière
?’ Allyn repeated. ‘Since when?’

Silently I tried to urge caution, but it was like scowling at one of the statues.

‘Oh, Toby and I agreed it weeks ago,’ he
responded blithely. ‘Probably just the two voices, of course, but if push came to shove I thought we could use you as a third, Vee.’

I jumped in with both feet. ‘But how very much more appropriate to use Allyn as one of them. As your hostess, Chris,’ I said pointedly, ‘and your employer’s wife. Not to mention as a damned fine actress.’

He might once have had sufficient actorly skills to convince audiences that he was a brainless yokel – though I was cross enough to wonder whether he was simply typecast as an idiot – but he didn’t have enough nous to retrieve that gaffe. ‘Oh, of course – if you’d rather she did it.’

Allyn’s lips were pinched so tight they had almost disappeared.

‘It’s not for me to decide,’ I said. ‘I’m just working here, Chris, the same as you are.’

‘But I thought that someone with your reputation—’

‘Reputation as what?’ Allyn cut in, her ego obviously burning.

‘As an old warhorse of an actress,’ I declared heartily. ‘Never a star, but always ready to turn my hand to anything. All those years in weekly rep, darling.’ I had a terrible feeling that he was going to declare that that humble background made me a better choice than some jumped-up Hollywood star. ‘Look, Chris, this is a matter
for Toby and Allyn. It’s their home.’

‘Ah, and those lads of hers,’ he muttered bitterly. How much had he drunk? It was only just noon, but he’d plainly been imbibing for some time. Unless he was still hung-over from last night. I knew he had a reputation as a lush, but I had a terrible fear he might be a fully
paid-up
alcoholic. What had I done, to bring him into Toby’s life? Apart from getting him a nice big fee to buy further booze?

Which he would drink while operating a chainsaw and/or up a ladder.

I prayed for some interruption. Anything – from a thunderbolt to a summons from Miss Fairford. There was a deep and threatening moment of silence. It was up to me, then.

‘How are they getting on with their cricket coaching?’ I asked Allyn, deliberately turning my back on Chris, and somehow setting Allyn in motion again, even if it was away from my car. ‘It would be wonderful to see two American-born lads play at Lord’s.’ Hell, that sounded familiar.

‘That’s what Toby says,’ she said resentfully. At least she seemed to have forgotten that I might have heard him. And then she tensed.

Another car was sliding into view – a macho gas guzzler with tinted windows. It throbbed with the bass notes of something on the music system. The engine stopped. The pulsating noise
stopped. And Allyn’s breathing stopped.

From the driver’s seat emerged this Greek god, six foot plus in his thick tennis socks, shoulders wide enough to carry a willing virgin back to his bed and a bum to die for. He had as many gleaming teeth as Allyn herself, and a perma-tan as deep as hers. He dived into the back of his vehicle and produced a bag capable of carrying as many racquets as Andy Murray might use on the Centre Court. Then he dug out a basket on stilts, full of yellow tennis balls. Yes, he was fully established as a bona fide coach. So why did he look so nonplussed to see me, and she so guilty? Need I ask? No wonder she didn’t want to practise her tennis with me.

I applied my brightest smile, and told Allyn that I must go. But not before Apollo had strolled over to me, with an irritating
my-balls-are-
so-big
swagger. He shoved a manicured hand in my direction, and switched on his own smile, full of appreciation for my feminine charms, even though I was old enough to be his mother.

Poor Allyn, falling for this louse.

Since it was still well before noon, I reckoned I would find Chris still on the premises, with luck on his own, toiling away in the sculpture park. He was more or less toiling, but the most back-breaking work was being undertaken by a lad of much the same build as the tennis coach,
but with, presumably, different proclivities. I summoned Chris with a jerk of the head.

He sidled over, looking apprehensive, and raising his hands in surrender. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Rather put my foot in it there.’

‘At least you’re sober enough to realise it.’ There was no point in beating about the bush, was there? ‘How dare you drink when you’re doing work like this? What sort of fool are you?’ Chainsaws might be one hazard. Others included saws and axes. ‘I wash my hands of you, Chris, I really do.’

‘I was only trying to put a bit of work your way,’ he whined. ‘A sort of quid pro quo.’

‘You ought to realise I wouldn’t get any quids for helping a couple of friends, nor would I expect any. It would be—’ I nearly said
a labour of love.
‘It would be fun just to be acting again, as it happens. But when a man’s got his wife handy – a Hollywood star, no less – he couldn’t possibly ask any other woman to help. And speaking of acting, I’ll thank you to return my accent CDs.’