Death in Disguise Page 38

  After this it was just a matter of time. Within days Ken and Heather had been taken under the wing of Baz Badaistan, second only to Malcolm McLaren in the promo business. They were soon channelling to packed houses up and down the country. These sessions were always concluded by a demonstration of healing by Heather. Smiling celestially, she would place the tips of her fingers on the forehead of the supplicants who then obligingly fell back into Ken’s arms. If they didn’t, the pressure from Heather’s fingers would increase until they did.

  From the first their television audience-participation programme, The Perfect Medium, was a huge success. Ken and Heather, in jewelled and sequined kaftans, would laughingly try to beat each other’s astral points on the Karmic Klapometer whilst simultaneously clobbering Coronation Street in the ratings. Heather always finished with a casual strum and a song the latest of which, ‘Shake A Little Ether and Smile, Smile, Smile’, quickly rose to number one in the charts.

  In spite of their determination to remain unencumbered by earth-anchored cogitations and material goods, the Beavers quickly accumulated so many of the latter that they were compelled to purchase a four-bedroomed penthouse on Canary Wharf to put it all in. Here a housekeeper and secretary run their lives, for Ken and Heather are both far too tied up with cosmic decrees and divinations, with business meetings and plans for a second TV series, to concern themselves with day to day affairs. Next year—Europe and the States.

  Seventy-six Beauclerc Gardens, W11, was a tall narrow four-storey building with elaborate iron balconies rather like those to be found in New Orleans. You couldn’t miss it, for it was painted indigo and had a bright yellow sun smiling down from the roof.

  It was owned by The Lodge of the Golden Windhorse, an organisation devoted to meditation and healing, and consequently regarded as pretty much run of the mill by the rest of Holland Park. The village of Compton Dando on the other hand, where the group had previously been sited, had murmured ‘Good riddance’ on the news of their departure. One or two inhabitants even going as far as to cross themselves excitedly as the removal vans went in.

  The new house was divided neatly into four. Basement: two large rooms for interviewing, counselling and group workshops. Ground floor: reception, book stall and library. First floor: general treatment rooms. Top floor: private accommodation. This comprised a large and comfortable sitting room, a tiny bedroom with shower and a fitted kitchen.

  Janet lived in the flat which had been specially converted and was given rent-free in exchange for twenty-five hours’ administration work per week. In fact Janet did much more than this, having discovered both a talent and a liking for the job. She ran her reception office, the beautiful high-ceilinged sitting room full of flowers, with flexible precision like the captain of a ship. So far she had refused all offers to bring in paid assistance. There were three telephones and a computer on her vast leather-top desk. On the wall, posters of coming events and a large calendar studded with dressmaker’s pins with coloured heads.

  The thing that surprised Janet most about her new role was how easily she had slipped into the welcoming side of things. Meeting people, giving information, making suggestions as to various courses and methods of treatment. She was playing a part, of course. The real Janet (the old Janet) standing aside watching, often with a caustic shake of the head, would have been hopeless at it. She shook her head, too, over the silky tweed skirts and slippy, narrow jumpers, and as for the haircut…Felicity had brought that about, tactfully suggesting that perhaps corduroy bags and a wiry untamed mop might not be quite the thing for a receptionist.

  Janet went out quite frequently now. When she had first moved to London, she had been wary of leaving the house—both fearing and longing for an encounter with Trixie. (Slough was not that far away.) When she finally did start going shopping, she ‘saw’ Trixie at least once on each occasion. One time she ran after a blonde girl in a knitted beret and followed her all over C & A’s until the girl, who was not Trixie at all, threatened to call the manager.

  But, eventually her apprehensions began to fade and if she saw someone now who even vaguely resembled her former friend she would look the other way until they had passed. Or even cross the road perhaps, to avoid a meeting. Time had put her former enthralment into a far saner perspective. She saw what a pathetic figure she must have cut and flinched at the memory. In the matter of day-to-day existence she was still not happy and still believed that such was never to be her portion. But she was not unhappy and occasionally experienced moments of contentment.

  The tentative, awkward yet persistent beginnings of a friendship had sprung up between herself and Felicity. They would talk occasionally, sometimes at great length, about philosophical matters which puzzled Felicity and to which Janet had no answer. In the late spring they went to the open-air theatre in the park and once Janet suggested a concert at the Festival Hall. She chose a programme much lighter than the one she would have preferred but Felicity had no knowledge of classical music and Janet was anxious not to put her off. She was delighted when, after borrowing various tapes and compact discs, Felicity expressed a liking for Palestrina. They had had supper one evening, sitting in the gathering dusk on Janet’s iron balcony, listening to the Missa Brevis.

  Felicity’s appearance was much changed. She was plumper and her hair, left to its own devices, was now the colour of pewter and wrapped in a shiny French pleat. Her inward transformation, though continual, was of a daunting, hesitant and frequently alarming nature. But May’s hand was always present should Felicity stumble, which she did all the time.

  They shared a house two doors away from Number 76 which had also been purchased with money from the sale of The Manor. This had raised over a million pounds, four hundred thousand of which had been safely and ethically invested, the interest being used to fund day-to-day running expenses, modest salaries, outreach projects and bursary assistance for the financially impoverished—of whom there seemed to be many. All four members of the organisation agreed that, although sending out the light was of the very essence, sometimes practical help was even more important. Very occasionally this kindness was abused but their serene and good-natured collective heart stayed steadfast through all adversities which, in any case, were minor compared to those in the recent past.

  Arno had a garden flat in this second house, which was also home to an elegant tortoiseshell cat. Although a stray, it had the most exquisite manners—being both timid and refined. He named it ‘Calypso Two’ after the goat—now browsing, supercilious as ever, on a Welsh hillside.

  Arno felt extremely blessed. In fact, as his joy increased, he sometimes felt he might burst under the strain. To his amazement and relief, his earlier florid declaration of undying love had not resulted in immediate banishment from May’s sight. And when, sober and desperately contrite, he promised unconditionally to withdraw his offer and never, ever refer to the matter again, he received only a kind and gentle chiding. He thought at first she was merely being sympathetic, for he was in considerable pain from the injury caused when the spike of her beloved cello had gone through his foot. But later conversations soon revealed that her affection, too, had been quite seriously engaged for some time.

  Almost a year later, and on the day our story ends, four people gathered in the vestibule of Chelsea Registry Office. Felicity in a full-length rainbow dress and Janet, clad in lilac silk and clutching a nosegay of rosebuds. Arno wore his best suit, steam-pressed to a shining gloss. The bride arrived radiant, carrying an extremely large bouquet of flowers in every conceivable shade of blue.

  As the shimmering column of white satin and lace, crowned by a wreath of orange blossom and foaming clouds of veil, sailed across the carpet and came to rest by his side, Arno tilted his newly hennaed beard to its most triumphant angle ever.

  Five minutes later it was all over. Everyone kissed everyone else and the groom, happy beyond his wildest exaltations, led his lawfully wedded wife out to greet the world. May Cuttle (star name ‘Pacif
ica’) had finally and for ever become May Gibbs. And Arno’s Valkyrie queen.

  Read the first chapter of Written in Blood, the next title in the “Inspector Barnaby” series!

  Chapter One

  The Invitation

  Afterwards, talking to the police, no one could quite agree as to who had put forward Max Jennings’ name. One or two people thought it was Amy Lyddiard, who was sure it was her friend Sue Clapton. Sue disagreed, suggesting Rex St John, who said it certainly couldn’t have been him because he had never heard of the man let alone read his books. Laura Hutton admitted she might have been responsible, having recently come across an article in Harpers describing the author’s recent move to a village barely twenty miles away. Brian Clapton said whoever it was had inflicted on him the most boring evening he had ever spent in his entire life. But what Amy and Sue both agreed on was that poor Gerald’s reaction to the suggestion had been most dramatic.

  No sooner were the words ‘Max Jennings’ uttered than, according to Amy who wrote block-buster fiction, he had apparently jumped, blanched, trembled, been taken aghast, stared wildly round or winced as if from some mysterious blow. And then he had dropped his coffee cup. There was immediately much fuss over the stained trousers and what with that and scraping the sugary residue off the carpet it was some ten minutes before the group reassembled. Sue made some fresh coffee using the special chocolate-truffle variety that Gerald had left ready and which Brian said he couldn’t tell from cocoa.

  When she took the tray in Gerald was standing in front of the gas fire holding damp trousers away from his scalded knees and saying, ‘Terribly sorry about all this. A sudden twinge…’ He laid his hand briefly against his white shirt front.

  ‘You must go and see the quack,’ said Rex.

  Laura thought, it’s his heart, and felt nauseous and quickly cold. But he’s not fat. Or even overweight. The right age though. And you didn’t have to be fat. There were all sorts of other factors. Oh God. Oh God.

  ‘I think Rex is right—’

  ‘It’s just indigestion. Some jugged hare—’

  ‘Even so—’

  ‘Do you think we could get on?’ Brian made a great show of looking at his watch. He didn’t like Gerald for a variety of reasons and thought more than enough time had been spent fussing over him. ‘I’ve got marking to do before I go to bed. We’re not all members of the leisured class.’

  They returned to their discussion, which was on the difficulties of finding a guest speaker. Just before the accident Amy had suggested a woman who lived in nearby Martyr d’Evercy and wrote about the humorous antics of her Pekinese dogs, of which she had a very large number.

  ‘I know who you mean,’ said Sue. ‘She produces the books herself and takes them round to all the local shops.’

  ‘Vanity publishing is strictly verboten,’ said Brian. ‘We want real writers or none at all.’

  ‘It’s only four times a year,’ said Honoria Lyddiard, picking up the last pimento-and-cream-cheese vol-au-vent. There were two flaky frills resembling the wings of infant angels sticking out. She placed it on her large tongue like a pill and swallowed it whole. And that makes eight, observed Amy quietly to herself.

  ‘I would have thought,’ continued Honoria, ‘that between us we could manage that.’

  Between us was stretching it. Although quick to deride most of the names mentioned, Honoria rarely suggested anyone herself. The people who did come she nearly always deemed unworthy and was often extremely rude about them, not always waiting till after their departure.

  ‘We could ask Frederick Forsyth,’ said Rex, who was writing a thriller about a hit man, code name Hyena, and his attempt to assassinate Saddam Hussein.

  ‘No point,’ said Brian. ‘These people always pretend they don’t have time.’

  This was demonstrably true. Among the people who had not had time to address the Midsomer Worthy Writers Circle over the past few years were Jeffrey Archer, Jilly Cooper, Maeve Binchy and Sue Townsend although she had sent a very nice letter and a signed paperback.

  Only once had they had any sort of success. A poet, garlanded with prizes and praise and visiting the Blackbird bookshop in Causton for a signing session, had agreed to come and talk to them on the same evening. It had been a disaster. He had only stayed an hour, which was spent drinking, reading out his reviews and telling them all about the break-up with his boyfriend. Then he burst into tears and had to be driven all the way back to London by Laura, the men in the party having declined the honour.

  And so the group perforce had had to be content with far lesser luminaries—a journalist from the Causton Echo, an assistant producer (tea boy really) from the town’s commercial radio station and a local man who published from time to time in Practical Woodworking and consequently thought himself too grand to attend on a regular basis.

  ‘What about that idea you had at breakfast, dear?’ Sue Clapton smiled timidly across at her husband. She was as neat and smooth as he was untidy, with long stringy hair the colour of milk chocolate tucked behind her ears and large round glasses with multi-coloured frames. She wore a long wrapover skirt the colour of clover printed with tiny daisies and her feet, in unlovely leather clogs, were placed just so. ‘The one—’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Brian flushed with annoyance. He had planned to introduce his suggestion coolly; absently, almost throw it away when the usual bickering had reached its nadir. ‘I do have a contact who might—repeat might—just come and talk to us.’

  ‘What does he write?’

  ‘He doesn’t.’ Brian gave Gerald an amused smile. ‘He’s a devisor.’ He chuckled and his ironic glance spread to include them all. Plainly no one knew what a devisor was. Typical. ‘Mike Leigh?’

  ‘Now that would be a coup,’ said Laura, crossing elegant silk-clad honey-coloured legs. The friction produced a whispery hiss that had an effect on all but the man it was meant for.

  Sue wished she had legs like that. Brian wished Sue had legs like that. Honoria thought the movement extremely vulgar. Rex boldly fantasised a wisp of lace and a suspender. And Amy smiled at Laura in simple friendliness—paying for it later over the Horlicks.

  ‘I didn’t say it was Mike Leigh.’ The colour on Brian’s cheeks deepened. ‘I was merely making a comparison. Last week the school had a visit from Nuts N Bolts—theatre in education?—who gave this really brilliant account of a day in the life of a comprehensive—’

  ‘Bit coals to Newcastle, what?’ said Rex.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Brian shook his head and laughed. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? Bouncing their own experience back to these kids but in a new dynamic form gives their lives a thrilling authenticity.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘They recognize the grammar of the narrative as being identical with their own.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Brian, ‘I caught up with Zeb, the guy who runs it, while they were loading the van and asked if he’d come and give a talk. We’d have to pay—’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Honoria. ‘We never pay.’

  ‘Just expenses. Petrol and—’

  ‘Honoria’s right.’ Rex struggled to inject a note of regret into his voice. ‘Once we start doing that sort of thing…’ He tailed off, wondering, as he had often done, if such parsimony wasn’t perhaps counterproductive. Maybe if they’d offered John le Carré his expenses? Honoria was speaking again. Loudly.

  ‘Of course if you’d like to fund a visit from this person yourself?’

  Honoria regarded Brian coldly. He really was an absolute mess of a man. Straggly hair, straggly beard, straggly clothes and, in her opinion, an extremely straggly political viewpoint.

  Sue watched apprehensively as her husband retreated into a sulk, then started to play with her hair. Beginning at the scalp she lifted a narrow strand and ran her nails down it, pulling the hair taut before letting it go and starting on the next piece. She did this for the rest of the evening. It was only half an
hour but all present felt by then that they had, at the very least, entered the next millennium.

  And so, eventually, through many digressions and much argument, the conversation described a full circle and Max Jennings’ name came up again.

  ‘I really feel we might have a chance with him,’ said Amy, ‘living nearby. Also he’s not a hundred-percent famous.’

  ‘What on earth’s that supposed to mean?’ said Honoria.

  ‘I think,’ said Sue, ‘Amy means just quite well known.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ said Brian, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Whilst having no time for the rich and famous he also had no time for the not really all that rich and only very slightly famous. Truth to tell, if you were not at the very bottom of society’s dung heap and being ground further into the primeval sludge by every passing jackboot, Brian would almost certainly be giving you the complete kiss off.

  ‘I heard an interview with him on the radio,’ said Amy. ‘He sounded really nice.’ Too late she remembered it should have been ‘wireless’ and waited for Honoria to click her tongue. ‘I’m sure it’s worth a try.’

  ‘I can’t stand these poncy nom de plumes. No doubt for Max we are meant to read Maximilian. Probably born Bert Bloggs.’

  ‘I read his first novel, Far Away Hills. He was brought up in absolute poverty in the Outer Hebrides. His father was a terribly cruel man and drove his mother to her death. She killed herself when he was still quite young.’