Country Pursuits (18 page)

‘We don't want any trouble here, bad for business,' added Jack Turner, who was busy wiping down tables.

Rance let out a disgruntled sigh. What a bloody waste of time. ‘Penny, we'll leave these people to the rest of their evening.' He waited until the young PC had opened the door for him. ‘Let's stop at the
twenty-four-hour garage on the way back, eh? I quite fancy some of those choc-chip Boasters.'

THE FRENCH EVENING
raised a staggering twenty thousand pounds. ‘Jack, that's wonderful!' Clementine exclaimed when he dropped the takings round for her to put in the fund. The committee had opened an account with the private bank in Bedlington.

‘Only another fourteen million, nine hundred and eighty thousand or so to go,' said Jack gloomily.

‘Oh nonsense, it's a good start!' said Clementine. ‘I'll bank this later. Now, what's this about a dust-up? Camilla's terribly upset Angus's friends were involved . . .'

That afternoon, Clementine was driving up the Bedlington Road in her ancient Volvo estate, Errol Flynn sitting with his head hanging out of the passenger window, when the Revd Goody suddenly appeared outside the rectory and flagged her down.

‘Everything all right, Reverend?' asked Clementine, when he'd trotted up to her window. She looked at him. ‘My dear man, what's wrong?' The Reverend looked pale and clammy, as though he'd just had a nasty shock.

‘I was down at the church this morning,' he started, ‘when some people came in. I told them there wasn't a service today but they just stood there.' He gulped. ‘That's when I recognized
him
.'

‘Who?' asked Clementine.

‘Sid Sykes!' replied the Reverend. His mouth trembled. ‘Not a nice man, is he? He had two awfully menacing chaps with him, as well.'

‘Reverend, did he threaten you?' asked Clementine quietly.

‘No! I mean, not as such.' The Revd Goody smiled weakly. ‘He wanted to know if I could slip a couple of lines into my sermon about what a good idea the housing estate would be for the village. Something about growth and prosperity as I recall . . . Anyway, he said he would make it worth my while financially.'

‘He tried to bribe you?' gasped Clementine, appalled.

‘I guess that's what you would call it,' the Reverend replied. ‘Of course, I told him no such transaction would take place in the house of God and sent them on their way.' He shivered. ‘I don't have a good feeling about him; he seems like a nasty character.'

‘Indeed he is,' she said grimly. ‘And if he comes down here intimidating anyone else, I will inform the police. Good day, Reverend.'

‘Good day, Clementine,' he responded, and stood for a long time in the road after she had driven away.

‘Darling, you in there? Your bedroom light's on. Wake up!'

‘Jesus fucking Christ!' Sabrina yelped when she heard Sebastian's voice crackling through the intercom. She leapt up from bed, hurriedly pulling on her silk pyjamas. Piers's ruffled head looked up sleepily from the pillows. Panicking, she threw his clothes at him and told him to get out. Even though they were on the second floor. Once he'd actually realized she was serious, Piers muttered something about how lucky it was he'd done an abseiling course at school, sat on the window and tentatively lowered himself out. As far as he was concerned, it was actually a lucky escape. Bloody older women were nothing but trouble!

‘What took you so long?' asked Sebastian irritably. They were standing in the hall, Sabrina locking the door carefully behind him. ‘One of Caro's friends lives in the next street. I can't be seen hammering on my mistress's door.'

‘Sorry, darling,' purred Sabrina. ‘I just wasn't expecting you yet.' She caught sight of her bed-head hair in the hallway mirror and hastily smoothed it down.

Sebastian looked at her. ‘You seem on edge. What's wrong?'

‘Nothing, nothing!' she trilled. ‘I was just er, having a bit of a spring clean before you came. It's left me a bit worn out.'

‘Now I know you're lying,' said Sebastian, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes bored into hers. ‘Have you got someone up there?'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

But Sebastian was already leaping up the stairs two at a time. ‘Seb, wait!' cried Sabrina. ‘I can explain!' She took off after him and got there just as
Sebastian wrenched the door to her bedroom open.

The bed lay unmade, but it was empty. Sabrina did a lightning sweep of the room but, thankfully, there was no incriminating evidence, just an open window, the curtain flapping in the slight breeze. She breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Sebastian turned to look at her. ‘You see!' said Sabrina haughtily, regaining some of her composure. ‘I can't believe you would accuse me of that.'

Sebastian lifted his hand and gently stroked her cheek, before his fingers found their way around her throat. ‘I'll give you the benefit of the doubt this time, my precious, but if I ever find out you've been making me look stupid . . .' For a second his fingers pushed into her skin: ‘I'll bloody kill you.'

Later that night, Freddie was on his way home from a dinner with some old rugger friends in Cheltenham. As he turned left at the green on to the Bedlington Road, something caught his eye. A shadowy figure was standing back from the road, against the wall outside the rectory, as if it didn't want to be seen. Freddie frowned. What on earth were they up to? He stopped the car and let down the window slightly.

‘I say, are you lost? Can I help you?' Freddie's words trailed off. The figure had vanished. The moon went behind a cloud, making shadows dance on the dense leaves as they rustled in the breeze. Freddie rubbed his eyes. Had he imagined it? He started up the car again and drove off, checking the rear-view mirror for as long as he could, but seeing nothing.

THE NEXT MORNING,
the sinister figure was firmly out of Freddie's mind. He had more important things to think about. Today was the day he would tackle Devon Cornwall about getting involved with the charity ball. And each time Freddie had been round to see him so far, the housekeeper had politely informed him that her employer wasn't in.

Devon was still going through one of his more anti-social periods, spending all of his time reading or practising yoga. A suggestion from Nigel that he should go to the French evening had been met by a look of horror. ‘Nige, I haven't been in a pub since 1989 and I don't intend to start now,' he had informed him. ‘Besides, you know I don't like eating refined carbs after eight o'clock.'

At the same time, Devon longed for some time away from this strange house, which seemed to creak and groan constantly. At night he'd been hearing the strange shuffling noises downstairs again. Nigel put it down to the fact that Byron Heights was an old house and that, structurally, of course it would make the odd creak; but Devon wasn't convinced. Since the night he'd stuck his
head out of the door and seen that horrifying white apparition, he'd been too scared to go and investigate, instead lying fearfully in bed waiting for the door handle to slowly start turning. ‘You've been watching too many horror films,' Nigel had said firmly, and promptly banned Devon from watching anything with a certificate 18.

It was a dull morning, warm but sluggish. Freddie decided he could do with some exercise and would walk across to Byron Heights. For some reason he'd been feeling a bit foggy-headed lately and, as he was still diving into the biscuit tin every five minutes, his waistbands were a little tighter. Freddie just couldn't understand it. Maybe he was going through the male menopause or something.

As he walked up the vast drive to Byron Heights, Freddie took in the turrets and gargoyles looming over him. He could never live here. It was like something out of a horror film.

He rang the large bell on the doorstep and heard it reverberate through the bowels of the house. After about thirty seconds, Nigel appeared.

‘Frankie!' he said.

‘Freddie, actually,' Freddie said apologetically.

‘Oh, gracious!' squawked Nigel, going red. He was furious with himself; he hadn't forgotten a name in thirty years.

‘Don't worry,' Freddie smiled kindly. ‘I was wondering if Devon was at home?' He looked expectantly past Nigel.

Like the housekeeper, Nigel had been instructed by Devon to say he was unavailable to callers. But Freddie had such a nice demeanour and open, friendly face that Nigel couldn't resist. Besides,
he was fed up with Devon shutting himself away.

‘Of course, do come in,' said Nigel. ‘Can I offer you anything to drink? Tea, coffee, something a little stronger?' He led Freddie into the drawing room and went off to find Devon.

As he expected, Devon was furious at being called down to see Freddie. ‘I bloody moved to the country to get away from people, and it's like Piccadilly bleedin' Circus here!' he grumbled.

‘Oh, shush,' said Nigel firmly. ‘Mr Fox-Titt is a perfectly nice man, and it won't be too much of a hardship to spend a few minutes in his company, will it?'

‘No, Nanny,' replied Devon sulkily as he followed Nigel down the corridor.

Nigel had to hand it to his boss; he knew how to turn on the charm. As soon as he entered the drawing room Devon was all smiles, and shook Freddie's hand heartily, inviting him to sit down again, and making sure he had the beverage of his choice. After a few minutes of pleasantries, Devon found himself warming to this easy-going visitor. Then Freddie steered the conversation round to the Meadows.

‘Yes, we saw that on the local news the other week. Dreadful business,' said Nigel, taking a sip of his Earl Grey.

‘The guy's a first-class crook from what I hear,' Devon commented.

‘Well, we have decided to put in our own bid for the land,' explained Freddie. Devon whistled. ‘You must be talking millions, the prime estate around here.' Byron Heights had cost him a small fortune. Well, actually quite a lot of his dwindling fortune.

‘Rather,' Freddie agreed, and he outlined the plans for the ball and auction. ‘I'm on the committee, you see. It's our job to get as many people involved as possible.'

‘You want some Devon Cornwall signed merchandise?' asked Nigel perceptively. ‘That should be no problem at all.'

Freddie shifted forward in his seat. ‘Well, actually, we would like a bit more than that.'

Devon groaned. ‘You're not wanting me to do a bleedin' meet and greet as well?'

‘It's nothing like that,' said Freddie hurriedly. ‘It's actually something a lot bigger.' He paused, making sure he had their undivided attention. ‘We'd really love it, Mr Cornwall, if you would perform at the ball.'

Nigel's cup had paused half-way to his mouth. Devon sat upright, stiff in his chair. ‘Are you 'aving a laugh?'

‘We're hoping to get Mick Jagger or someone as well,' Freddie added hurriedly. ‘You'll be in similar esteemed company.'

Nigel cut in. ‘Sorry, Devon doesn't mean to be rude, Freddie. It's just that, well, he hasn't performed for nearly
twenty
years.'

‘Left it all behind when I went to rehab and cleaned up me life,' said Devon. ‘To put it bluntly, Mr Fix-Tott, wild horses wouldn't drag me back on stage.'

‘Er, it's Fox-Titt.'

‘Besides,' Devon carried on. ‘No offence meant, me old mucker, but if I was going to make a comeback, it would be at Wembley, not some posh ball in the friggin' Cotswolds.'

The colour drained from Freddie's face and he stood up. ‘Well, then, I'm sorry to have wasted your time, gentlemen,' he said stiffly, turning for the door.

‘Freddie, wait!' cried Nigel, leaping up. He shot a murderous look at Devon. ‘I think it sounds like a marvellous suggestion. I think Devon just needs a bit of time to come round to the idea—'

‘I do not!' interrupted Devon indignantly.

‘Leave it with me, I'll talk to him,' Nigel continued.

Freddie looked at him, slightly mollified. ‘Thanks, Nigel.'

‘I'll show you out,' offered Nigel.

Two minutes later he bustled back into the drawing room. Devon was standing by one of the huge windows, gazing out on to the gardens.

‘Did you have to be quite so rude?'

Devon waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don't start!'

‘Well, I'm afraid I'm going to! This is a really good thing they're putting on, and it's for a wonderful cause. One which affects you, too, may I point out. I don't know if it has escaped your attention, but it's not exactly down and out country round here. It's the society event of the year and you're dismissing it as some little village knees-up!'

‘Whatever,' said Devon, sulkily. This enraged Nigel even more.

‘Performing at this ball might be the best thing you've ever done, Devon!' he shouted. ‘You know, I look at you cooped up in here for weeks on end and it makes me want to weep. You've turned into a grumpy, lonely old man, and do you know why?'

‘No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me.'

‘Because you're bored! You're bored with your life and you don't like yourself very much any more either. And you say you're over music! Devon – you were
born
for music. I can't stand seeing you in here, day after day, just existing, refusing to face up to things.'

By now Devon had turned quite pale. ‘Enough.'

But Nigel hadn't quite finished. ‘I think a comeback at this ball would be just the thing to turn your life around. The trouble is, you're just too bloody stubborn to admit it.' He turned and stalked from the room, trembling.

Devon stood motionless, still staring out of the window.

IT WAS JULY
and Churchminster was looking almost indescribably lovely. The heavy rains of spring had left the countryside even more fertile and blooming. There had been clear blue skies and soaring temperatures for a week now, and people were slowing down their normal hectic routines and making the most of it. The Jolly Boot's beer garden was filled every afternoon with relaxed punters enjoying jugs of Pimms and al fresco lunches. Delicious smells of barbecues wafted from people's back gardens, while Stacey Turner and her equally nubile young friends almost caused a riot when they sunbathed in thong bikinis on the green one day, until an outraged Jack Turner rushed out of the pub and told them to cover up.