Eat, Drink and Be Buried (10 page)

“When we heard about this case, we had just had some computer correlation. It showed that all of the people we knew to have been affected had visited Harlington Castle recently. It took some time for this to emerge because we had to interrogate all the friends and relatives of the victims. They are not all from this area, of course.

“As a result of this, we had decided to send someone here to do some on-the-spot investigating. We are a bit shorthanded at the moment, so learning you were here was good news.”

I had the sinking feeling that I had been volunteered without my cognizance.

“You mean—”

“Yes,” said Inspector Hemingway. “A bit of luck for us. We have a man on the inside. You!” He tapped on the glass partition to alert the driver. “Keep us informed, won't you? Sergeant Fletcher will be your contact as before. Leave liaison with Inspector Devlin to me. And remember, no more rash diagnoses.”

Winnie pulled the door open for me and I stepped out. There didn't seem much to say so I didn't say it.

It was a pleasant day with just a hint of rain in the air but also the likelihood that it might pass. As I approached the main castle building, I recognized the figure coming toward me, Don McCartney.

“Have a good day in London?” he asked. News evidently traveled fast.

I gave him a brief outline of my visits regarding both meat and fish without elaborating too much on the Seven Seas. “Sounds like you're making progress,” he said.

“One thing I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I understand all supplies are purchased by a central operation. Who runs that?”

“Donna Rowlands.” Then he asked, “Is there some problem with food supplies?”

I have learned that an answer to a different question often suffices when you don't want to answer the original question. “We are going to be trying some foods that haven't been served before. Hopefully, we can use the same suppliers.”

He nodded. “Donna will be very helpful. She's had a lot of experience.”

He left me to hurry across to the adjoining buildings. As I approached the castle doors, another figure materialized beside me. She was attractive and smartly dressed and gave me a slight smile as I opened the door for her. She went in, crossed the hall, and disappeared.

I mulled over the Seven Seas situation. I could not believe that anyone visiting the facility would be satisfied with it. Gontier's responses were not entirely satisfying. He had not visited Seven Seas for at least a year. He said that the supplies office handled the ordering and added that he “had nothing to do with that.” I was just deciding that the supplies office should be my first task of the next morning when I saw a couple approaching.

Angela, the younger daughter of the Harrington clan, wore a light blue mini-slip of a dress that combined the modern with the medieval very cleverly. Her flawless complexion was without makeup, but the damp English climate kept it fresh and appealing. Her dark eyes looked bigger than ever as she introduced the young man with her. “My cousin, Neville Woodward.”

He was lean, almost thin, and had an aristocratic face with a mouth that looked as if it were about to sneer. After a few minutes of conversation, I realized that I was not necessarily the target of such an expression—it was natural.

“You got out of the maze all right, I see,” she said with just a tinge of amusement.

“No problem,” I said, airily if untruthfully. I looked at Angela. “I'm surprised at you, though, Angela. Hope you don't send paying customers in there. You might not see them again.”

Her face was all innocence. “I didn't say a word. It was Norman who directed you that way. He considers it a short cut.”

“When you know it, maybe it is.” I turned to Neville. “Are you active in the castle operations?”

“Good Lord, no!” He was emphatic.

“Neville's a trader, in foreign currencies.”

“Are you with one of the banks in the City?” I asked.

“No. I'm an independent.” He had a slightly languid air that fitted his answer. I supposed it was one of the curses of the nobility.

“He makes lots of money, don't you, Neville?”

I was not sure whether Angela was praising him or being caustic at his expense. His reply did not support either view. “Like all traders, my dear, I do, at times…then one experiences those other times.”

“I hear the deutsche mark is on the rise,” I said.

“For a while,” he said dismissively. “Until the chairman of their central banking system makes his speech next month at least.”

I had no idea what the deutsche mark was doing, but I wanted to see if he really was in currency or if it was just a pose. A murder on the premises makes me suspicious of almost everybody. I would have to call a knowledgeable friend and check on that answer.

We chatted about the castle and the ramifications of its myriad activities before Neville became noticeably impatient to leave. Angela darted him a swift glance, evidently recognizing the symptoms.

“We'll be off then,” she said brightly. “Next time you feel like a prowl around the maze, let me know. There's a secret corner of it, called the Bower. It used to be a trysting place in the old days.”

“But no longer? You mean people don't tryst any more?”

She gave me a provocative pout. “I'll take you there soon. We can find out.”

Before they were out of sight, Neville's arm was around her and they were kissing. Maybe it was for my benefit or maybe cousins were closer in the country. I wondered if I had a knowledgeable friend who could answer that one, too.

“L
EAVE LIAISON WITH INSPECTOR
Devlin to me” had been Hemingway's parting words. I knew him well enough to know that meant I did not have to tell Devlin that I was reporting to Hemingway. It was not that Hemingway was a devious man—well, that's not true, he could be extremely devious—but it was not a matter of keeping Devlin in the dark so that the Food Squad could grab the glory. The specialized involvement of the Food Squad meant that any information I unearthed could be better interpreted by them rather than the local police. “A little rationalization does wonders to clear the mind” was a suitable dictum, I reminded myself.

My intended visit to the supplies office had slipped in priority since I had been conscripted by the Food Squad. I still needed to talk to Donna Rowlands, but a morning spent in getting better acquainted with the castle and its occupants was surely more immediately useful.

The grounds were festooned with banners and flags proclaiming today as being a “Children's Festival,” and figures in brilliantly colored costumes were already flitting all over the lawns, which still glistened with the remains of a morning dew. I saw Don McCartney in his role as Entertainments Director giving instructions to a group of minstrels, radiant in bright yellows, greens, and reds. Over by the tents, several horses broke into a canter, urged by leather-clad riders, apparently practicing some maneuver. The
thump-thump
of their hooves on the grass and an occasional snorted cloud of steam lent an authentic air to the proceedings.

McCartney finished speaking to the minstrels and came in my direction. “Morning,” he said. “You'll enjoy today. Oh, I know it's mainly for the kids, but it's always a great day's entertainment. Adults love it as much as the kids. You're going to be around, aren't you?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Looking forward to it.”

“We don't have any violent stuff, as some of the kids are quite young. A few sword fights, some wrestling with the bears, minstrel shows with some slapstick and a few pratfalls—that kind of thing. A couple of Punch-and-Judy shows, they're always popular. Don't miss the archery display, by the way. On the stage over there, we're putting on reenactments of fairy tales, and the local Shakespeare Society is doing excerpts from plays—”

“
Midsummer Night's Dream
, no doubt.”

He grinned. “Naturally. They take a lot of liberties with it. Bottom dons his ass's head several times more than the script calls for, so if you're a purist…”

“Not on Children's Day,” I told him.

He went to assist two young women in flowing robes who were having a problem locating the place where they were due to perform. Before they had gone, a man dressed as a woodsman and carrying a plastic ax came to protest that Red Riding Hood had failed to appear. “But she doesn't have any lines, does she?” asked McCartney. The woodsman admitted that she did not, whereupon McCartney rapped, “Then get any girl!”

Children were now flowing in, bringing their parents, who looked just as eager. A group of musicians was circulating. One had an instrument like a viola, another a harp, a third a flute, and a fourth tambourines. They mixed in some tunes that sounded medieval with a few Beatles numbers.

A crowd was gathering and I went over to join it. Felicity, the elder of the two Harlington girls, was the first familiar face I saw. “You're just in time,” she said, helping me to squeeze through to a clear space with a good view. “I love this show. We put it on all the time, of course, but this is a special version of it for children.” She pointed. “That's Daniel—and here come his Dancing Bears.”

Daniel was a youngish man with a thick bush of curly hair. He had appropriately classic features and wore an outfit in light gray with scarlet piping, collar and cuffs. On his head was a peaked hat with a scarlet plume. He played a small flute with a limited range, but the bears apparently understood it. They reared on their hind legs, making the children press back with small cries of excitement. The bears twirled, dropped on all fours, and repeated their performance.

“Aren't they great!” said Felicity, clapping her hands in delight. She wore a dress in a salmon color that made her look like a slightly older version of the children around her. “I love this show.”

I decided not to recount the conversation with Victor Gontier and Madeleine Bristow when I had suggested bear meat as a suitable food for the banquets. Watching the gyrating animals, I knew that the whole idea of serving bear was doomed to oblivion. They were small enough not to be menacing. They were brown and fuzzy and the children were loving them.

Felicity waved to someone on our left and a man in his late twenties came through to us. “Have you met?” Felicity asked. She introduced me and said, “This is Frank Morgan, he worked with Kenny.”

He was dark and athletic-looking. He nodded.

“You're the stuntman who plays Sir Harry,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

“He's on tonight, aren't you, Frank?” asked Felicity.

“Yes. Having to double up now there's only the two of us.”

His complaint brought a disapproving look from Felicity, but instead of reprimanding him, she said lightly, “We're looking for a replacement. Don McCartney has an old friend coming in to talk about the job.”

“Sooner the better,” the stuntman said. “Can't rely on that irresponsible brother of yours. He's likely to go streaking off into the village to see that girlfriend of his and leave us all in the lurch any time.”

“At least Richard is more concerned about poor Kenny's death than you are,” Felicity retorted.

“He should be,” said Morgan. “Kenny's death is his fault.”

Felicity was about to come back with a biting response, but she glanced at me and her upbringing as a polite young woman prevailed. “This isn't the time for an argument of this nature,” she said. “We'll see you later.”

She took my hand and pulled me away. Frank Morgan gave me another nod and pushed his way through the crowd in the opposite direction.

“I'm sorry,” she said, when we stopped after a few paces. “Richard is a little reckless, I know, and he seems to have lost his head over that girl.” She stopped as she realized the unfortunate allusion, but she went on, “He really is a feeling person and he is still devastated over Kenny's death.”

“I haven't seen him around at all.”

“No, he's been staying out of sight. He'll be here today, though.”

A troupe of stilt walkers came waddling toward us, Pied Pipers with a stream of admiring children behind them. More wandering minstrels appeared, their flute notes shrill and their drums persistent. Felicity was silent and I sensed she was depressed. “Cheer up. Try and get into the spirit of the day. It might help.”

She gave me a grateful if wan smile and we turned to find people moving toward a Punch-and-Judy show that had just begun. I steered Felicity in that direction and we watched for a few minutes. “We criticize television,” I said as the policeman beat Punch over the head with his truncheon, “but perhaps its violence had some origins here.”

“At least this is quieter,” Felicity said. “No explosions, no gunfire, and no burning buildings collapsing.”

Judy was comforting Punch now that the policeman had left. “I think Punch is faking,” I said.

“No, no, he's hurt. Just because he isn't bleeding—”

“He's enjoying all the attention he's getting. I'm sure I saw him wink at the audience.”

“Is that your technique?” Felicity asked. “Pretending to be hurt?”

“As a technique, it has its place. It works very well.”

It was good to hear her laugh, even if it was only a small chuckle. “I'll remember that—Oh, listen—” The public announcement system was telling us that the archery contest was to commence in about five minutes.

“I want to see that,” Felicity said. “Richard is in it.”

We passed two jugglers throwing clubs to one another and they made mock-threatening motions of throwing a couple at us. “Stop that, Carlo!” Felicity called out to an Italian-looking fellow in blue and yellow pantaloons and blouse. He grinned and threw a club straight up into the air. Another club flew at him from his partner. He deftly caught and returned it with one hand, then with the other scooped up the falling club almost as it was about to land on the grass.