Worthless Remains (22 page)

‘What did you do?'

‘Threw up out of the window.'

‘Inspired.'

‘I heard a lot of retching on the way up, I think half the house is sick. Must be the Roman feast.'

‘I feel fine.'

‘I'm so happy for you,' she groaned.

‘Anything I can do?'

‘Go kill that woman who cooked the stuff.' Beads of perspiration had gathered on her forehead. I left her with a glass of water and a promise to return soon. As I stepped into the corridor Carla appeared from the bathroom, ashen-faced, steadying herself against the wall as she went.

‘You can use it if you must but be quick, I might need it again in a hurry,' she said weakly.

‘I don't seem to be affected,' I said, feeling almost guilty. ‘Which dishes did you eat?'

‘A bit of everything.'

‘Is everyone ill?'

‘Some or all, I don't care. My insides are on fire and . . . and . . . excuse me.' She groped her way back to the bathroom.

On the first-floor gallery where the production team had their rooms everything seemed quiet at first. The door at the end opened and Mark Stoneking appeared. He looked fine.

‘How is Annis?' he asked.

‘Wanting to die.'

‘Don't say that. I've called my doctor, he should be here soon. I feel fine but most people who had the Roman food are feeling pretty awful. You're all right too?'

‘So far. What did you eat?'

‘Same as you. I'm not one for offal and all that and I didn't want to fight the girls over the custard.'

‘It must have been the fish sauce, it went into everything apart from the dishes you and I ate.'

‘My doctor suggested I make a vat of peppermint tea for the invalids, keep everyone hydrated. I'm off to the kitchen.' He clattered down the stairs.

I rapped on Guy's door. There was an indistinct sound I chose to interpret as an invitation to enter. Guy was on his knees in front of the toilet bowl, looking wretched. ‘It's you,' he said in an accusing tone. ‘Go and fetch me a doctor.'

‘Doctor is on his way,' I assured him.

‘I'm dying,' he wailed. ‘I've been poisoned.' Pearls of sweat ran down his face.

‘You and the rest of the crew. Everyone who ate the Roman food.'

‘Then why aren't you ill?' he asked. ‘I saw you eat it.'

‘I had already swallowed the antidote.'

‘Oh,
God
,' he groaned. ‘I want to throw up but can't. I'm empty. So why do I feel so bad?'

I helped him to his bed where he flopped on to the pillow, wild-haired and sweaty. Through the open window came the sound of distant retching and the flushing of toilets. Outside it was getting dark.

Guy noticed it too. ‘Oh God, what time is it? I have to hand over the money. I don't think I can make it.'

‘Surely he'll understand? And for all we know he might be feeling the way you do.'

‘I can't risk it. At the very least he'll demand even more money next time.'

‘I'll do it.'

‘You can't, he'll be expecting me.'

‘Exactly. I'll borrow your hat and jacket. It'll be dark. He'll be expecting you and in the dark that's what he'll think he is seeing.'

Guy probably felt too weak to argue because he showed me where the money was, a considerable wad of notes in a Manila envelope. I slipped into his jacket and took his hat. ‘I'll look in on you when I get back.'

‘Just send in the bloody doctor you promised. And don't lose that money.'

On my way back up to our attic room I passed a window from where I could see that the bloody doctor was getting out of his car. When I reached our floor Annis was just returning from her latest trip to the bathroom. She let herself fall back on the bed. I thought her pallor looked slightly less worrying.

‘Threw up again?' I asked unnecessarily.

‘I threw up everything I ate at the feast. I threw up today's breakfast and yesterday's supper. I threw up green stuff I've not seen before. I threw up stuff I probably still need.'

‘The doctor has arrived; he'll be making his rounds. I've got an errand to run for Guy.'

‘At this time of night? What time is it?'

‘Nearly eleven,' I said, using a rubber band to pull my hair into a ratty little ponytail. ‘Back soon.' Just then there was a knock at the door. I answered it.

‘Mint-flavoured rehydration for the inflicted mural painter.' Stoneking came in balancing an enormous brown teapot and some cups on a tray.

I grabbed Guy's hat and hurried downstairs, let myself out of the front door and rammed the hat on my head. The sliver of a waxing moon had risen above the woods, making the night brighter than I would have wished. It was very still in the grounds. No Britons, no legionnaires' camp, and the catering van long locked and shuttered. It was going to be a sticky night. There was a single cricket in the grass somewhere, rasping hopelessly, making the silence feel even larger. I hurried across the lawn, keeping an eye out for unscheduled holes and tools left lying about. The scale of the gardens and the absurd statuary dotted about here and there made me feel like I was walking through a James Bond set; in this light any one of the sculptures could have been a person standing very still, waiting to attack with improbable weapons. I patted the envelope bulging the jacket pocket, dived through the gateway in one, then another hedge and came to the edge of the lake. There was the narrow wooden landing stage, pointing like a scrawny finger at the black silhouette of the wooded island. The old rowing boat was again nowhere to be seen. There had been no instruction as to where Guy should leave the money, just to be on the landing stage by eleven. I checked my watch: it was eleven now. Slowly I made my way across the dry, creaking planks to the very end. I took the envelope out so it could be seen and patted the palm of my hand with it. Two thousand pounds. Was this about greed for the money or was it simply a way of hurting Middleton? Very distantly I could hear the odd snatch of talk or laughter from the digger camp in the woods; no retching there, of course, since they had all eaten Delia's food from the van. I checked my watch again. Five minutes past. Were blackmailers usually on time or was making the victim wait yet another power play blackmailers enjoyed? There was the odd croak and quack in the reeds and a fish rising sent tiny ripples across the moonlit surface of the lake. I kept my head bowed a little to shade my face under the broad-brimmed hat. Was it too flimsy a disguise? Had I failed to pass myself off as the
Time Lines
presenter? The thin moon sickle moved into a cloud, plunging the entire scene into darkness. With no visual reference points I was beginning to feel uncomfortable out there with water all around me.

I heard quiet footfall behind me and turned. Then there was a light, too, the beam from a powerful torch, dancing along as its owner moved through the trees. The beam swept towards the landing stage, picked me out and stopped, resting on my face and blinding me. I shielded my eyes but said nothing. If I had to speak I would groan as though feeling sick from food poisoning. The beam left my face, the unseen person moved on a few paces, then the beam picked me out again for a second look. After that it went out completely, leaving me squinting into the dark and listening out for the footsteps. They continued behind a hedge now, quietly moving in the direction of the glasshouse.

I waited. The moon reappeared from its hiding place and I could see my surroundings more clearly again. There was no one near. Had I been rumbled? I had not really expected the blackmailer to turn up in person; I had thought I would find another note or sign at the end of the jetty, some kind of hollow-tree scenario. I waited. Perhaps the blackmailer was himself wrapped around a toilet bowl back at the hall? Sixteen minutes past. I would give it another four, then go back and check on Annis. A distant splash but no ripples showed on the lake. Three. Then it occurred to me. If the blackmailer didn't show because he was feeling as bad as his victim did, it would mean he had been at the Roman feast, which would narrow the field a bit. Two more minutes. Unless he was double-bluffing, and had
not
been at the feast but was pretending to have been to make Guy think he belonged to the circle of VIPs. One minute. Then again if he did show up he could have been at the feast and not been affected, like Stoneking and yours truly. Another brilliantly useless bit of reasoning from Aqua Investigation's top operative.

Right, sorry, blackmailer, your time is up. Then I heard it. A soft, whirring kind of sound, out on the lake. The moon played hide and seek in the clouds and for a moment all was dark again, too dark to make out what was producing the noise. I concentrated on it, noticing variations in pitch. It was changing directions, moving across, coming closer, now directly towards me. Then it stopped. There followed a long, agonizing minute of standing very still in the dark on a narrow, rickety landing stage until at last the moon reappeared and I saw what it was, sleek and grey, pointing a gun up at me.

A
Royal Navy frigate. Very slowly and quietly it glided nearer to the landing stage now, turning to starboard. The engine cut and it came to an elegant stop at the edge of the landing stage, port side towards me. The grey Second World War frigate was about 24 inches long and probably ‘faithfully reproduced in every detail'. Had this been a Bond movie then the guns would of course have fired deadly miniature shells; as it was the little boat just sat there. There were no instructions but as a method of collecting money with menaces it was perfect. I got to my knees and wedged the envelope between some deck fittings behind the front turret and the bridge and stepped back. The boat listed a little to port now. The motor whirred and the miniature warship glided away in a playful arc towards the island until it was lost in the dark; then the sound too faded and the money was gone. Whoever was operating the remote control of the model frigate could obviously see me, but try as I might I could not spot him out there. The knowledge that I was being watched by unseen malicious eyes made me uncomfortable enough to move quickly away from the lake. For a moment I considered trying to hunt for the blackmailer around the lake but he would definitely have had the edge on me. I'd get him some other way, I decided, when the odds were in my favour.

Back at the house the doctor was still making the rounds. All the patients seemed to be stabilizing into a post-puke stupor. ‘Food poisoning is the most likely cause,' the doctor told me when I managed to grab him between rooms on the first-floor gallery. ‘It would be difficult to tell what it was now, unless there are samples left, but even so it would take chemical analysis.' I told him about my fish sauce suspicions. ‘Yes, home-made fish sauce could do it, if it wasn't produced properly. But then again if it hadn't been it would probably stink to high heaven. We might never know what caused this outbreak. None of the patients are elderly or very young, which is a bonus. I'm not too worried; they are all feeling less sick already. My guess is they'll be up and about again soon and fine in a few days' time. But in future, please, no more food labelled “best before 100 AD”.'

‘Should we contact the woman who cooked the food?'

‘Yes, the TV director gave me her number. I'm going to check on her too once I'm through here, as she might not be feeling too clever herself.'

‘Let me have the number, I'll do it now.' I was feeling guilty for having had nothing but murderous feelings for the woman, never thinking that she might herself have been poisoned. It was a Bristol number. I called from the desk in the cluttered gunroom on the ground floor by the light of a green-shaded banker's lamp. At the other end the phone rang and rang for a long time before it was answered.

‘This better be good,' a voice croaked.

‘Hilda? It's Chris. Chris Honeysett.' Silence. ‘Rabbits? Tarmford Hall?'

‘Yes, yes, sorry, I'm not feeling too good; got some kind of food poisoning.'

‘How bad is it?'

‘Well, I stopped puking and my heart rate seems to be going back to normal, so I expect I'll live.'

‘Most people who were at the Roman feast went down with it.'

‘I was afraid you might say that. I was too scared to call, to be honest. I've been wracking my brain over what could have caused it; all the ingredients were so simple, so safe.'

‘I have a theory about that. I think it was the fish sauce, the
garum
.'

‘No, absolutely not.'

‘Both Mr Stoneking and I are fine and we had nothing with
garum
in it.'

‘The fish sauce is not to blame,' Hilda insisted.

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘Because I didn't make it. It was Thai fish sauce and I bought it at the supermarket and poured it into a fancy bottle. I can't be arsed to ferment fish guts for months. It stinks so bad even the Romans didn't allow
garum
to be made inside their towns.'

‘Then that theory's out of the window.'

‘I suppose everyone thinks
that
stupid cow Hilda Carson poisoned us with her Roman muck
?'

‘I think you can take them off your dinner party list.'

I would never get used to these stairs; I didn't know how Carla did it all day long. The house was quiet now, as the constant flushing of toilets had stopped and hopefully all the invalids were on their way to recovery. Annis stirred under the sheets as I entered our moonlit room. I undressed and slid into bed beside her.

‘How are you feeling?'

‘Exhausted. But I no longer feel the urge to turn inside out. How did your errand go?'

I told her of the blackmail and the novel way the money was collected.

That Guy had attracted a blackmailer didn't surprise her. The way the money was collected did. ‘How can you be sure it was the blackmailer? Could have just been someone playing around with model boats. Two grand.' She yawned and turned over. ‘I hope you got a receipt, hon.'