Dead on Cue (7 page)

The audience for the Son et Lumière were to sit in the courtyard which had been formed by the Tudor dining hall on the right-hand side, the Georgian buildings to the left. Immediately opposite them were the ramparts with some medieval archways underneath. Behind them stood Lady Marguerite's oak tree. Action would take place all around them, as it were, and Nick felt he must enjoin his parishioners to buy tickets as it was obviously going to be an incredible sight to witness. Feeling in good spirits he crossed the moat and made his way within.

Gerry was rushing around with a baseball cap on his head. He wore this sideways with the peak over his right ear and the back over his left. He carried a clipboard on which were attached a copy of the script and several important-looking documents. The sound people – a professional team hired from London – were quietly getting on with organizing the speakers. While the lighting people – also professional – were crawling all over the lighting rig. Meanwhile Gerry shouted instructions through a loudhailer which everybody ignored.

The actors had been given a large tent behind the scenes for costume changes and make-up and despite being early Nick discovered that a lot of the rest of the cast had done likewise. He got into his opening costume – a medieval builder – then wandered round to Marguerite's oak tree to watch what was going on. The entire acting area was now plunged into impenetrable darkness through which the only sound that could be heard was that of Gerry bellowing. And then suddenly, as if by magic, the lights began slowly to come up, bathing the old castle in an ethereal silver. It was at that moment that a white barn owl flew across the courtyard and disappeared into the darkness beyond. It was as if it had been created by supernatural means and Nick found himself transfixed. He heard the movement of someone beside him and saw that Jonquil, too, was totally enraptured.

In the dimness the sound of Rafael Devine's awe-inspiring voice spoke the opening words.

‘The year is ten sixty-seven and that grim and bloody battle which would become known in history as the Battle of Hastings is over. Fighting alongside William of Normandy was his cousin and lifelong friend, Fulke Beau de Grave, present in Westminster Abbey when William, now styled the Conqueror, was crowned King of England. He was rewarded amply for his loyalty to the crown, being granted great swathes of land, one of which included a large holding in Sussex.'

The soundtrack faded out and Gerry's voice could be heard saying, ‘Hey, what's going on?' only to die away as the spotlight suddenly blazed on a solitary rider coming through one of the medieval arches and looking about him in the darkness. Nick felt so inspired that he gripped the hand of the person standing next to him. He felt that he was looking on the true Fulke Beau de Grave, dressed in chain mail and flowing crimson cloak. Indeed he was so overcome with emotion that his eyes actually filled with tears.

‘We'd better go round. You're on next,' a voice whispered in his ear, and he turned, much embarrassed, to see Jonquil smiling at him.

He rapidly let go of her hand, saying ‘I'm sorry,' in a muffled voice.

‘Don't apologize. I was feeling exactly the same as you were,' she answered.

And he could see that she really meant it.

The rest of the rehearsal went smoothly enough until it came to the show-stopper, the Elizabethan Fair scene. At this, Gerry, who had remained suspiciously quiet after his opening gaffe, called all the players into the courtyard and stood up on a chair.

‘Well, kids, it's all going a gas at the moment. It's real cool. But I just thought I ought to warn you that I have slightly altered the Fair scene. I have invited a troupe of morris dancers – the Casselbury Ring Men – to perform in this scene.'

He consulted a piece of paper on his clipboard.

‘As you are probably all aware, morris dancers have been around a hell of a long time. The first known reference to them was in 1448.'

He's been on the Internet, thought Nick.

‘And they were very popular in Tudor times. William Kemp danced a solo morris from London to Norwich in 1600 and the Bard of Avon referred to them in one of his plays, saying, I quote, “As fit for a morris for May Day”.'

There was a stunned silence.

‘Anyway, these Casselbury guys are pretty busy with other engagements and I'm afraid that they cannot be with us until the dress rehearsal, in other words the day after tomorrow. They will dance just after the gypsies have come on with the performing bear. Is that OK with everybody? 'Cos if it ain't, that's tough.'

Nick waited for somebody to raise an objection but surprisingly nobody did. Ricardo, who had joined the company ten days ago, whispered to Nick, ‘Who are these people he's talking about?'

‘They're quite well known. They come from West Sussex and they've named themselves after a local feature, Casselbury Ring, which is a ring of trees supposed to have mystic powers.'

‘Will they spoil the show?'

‘No, I don't think so. In fact they might enhance it.'

‘Good.'

‘OK, people,' said Gerry. ‘Let's proceed.'

The actors vanished to begin the Elizabethan Fair but not before Nick had caught a glimpse of a man's face watching the proceedings from a window in the Tudor feasting hall. So Rufus had been there all the time, he thought, and Nick hoped he was impressed.

After the rehearsal was over there was the usual gathering of people in a local pub, The Beaudegrave Arms. Nick had joined them for the first time, accompanied by Ricardo, who was looking gorgeous in a silk shirt, open at the neck and displaying a beautifully waxed chest. He had obviously been spray tanned and the colour of his skin was enhanced by the mauveness of his clothes. There was quite a flutter of women wanting to sit next to him and luck had fallen on Meg Alexander, who was eyeing him up like mad.

‘What do you think about the addition of morris men to the Fair?' asked Paul Silas, taking charge as always.

‘I think it could work well,' answered Robin Green.

He was clad in his usual style, baggy brown shorts and sandals, with a turtleneck sweater in a slime-green shade above. Nick caught himself wondering why men with particularly nasty legs should insist on showing them and made a mental note to inspect his own carefully before next summer.

‘Well I think it's just going to make the whole show too long and unbalanced,' said Mike Alexander, determined as ever to rock the boat. ‘I mean, it was wonderful the way Ben Merryfield wrote it and I think out of respect to his memory we should alter nothing.'

‘Rubbish,' said Annette Muffat, leaning across Meg and addressing Ricardo directly. ‘What do you think, sunshine? Let's get your opinion.'

‘I think I am too new to your show to voice such an answer,' he answered, bestowing on her a glance fit to melt her undergarments.

‘If you ask me,' put in Estelle Yeoman, whose opinion was much respected as she was that marvellous thing in amateur eyes, an ex-professional, ‘there's no point in belly aching about it now. Let's wait and see what it looks like and if it's pants then we'll go to Harlington and tell him so.'

‘That sounds like a good idea to me,' said Nick mildly.

‘I agree.' This from Barry Beardsley, the verruca wizard.

The plain girl called Cynthia Wensby, who could never make up her mind, came to a decision. ‘Estelle's right. We'll just have to wait and see.'

Jonquil, who had been at the bar, slid into a small gap beside Ricardo. ‘Are you enjoying the show, both of you?'

She addressed the remark to the masseur and to Nick.

‘Very much. It is so English,' Ricardo answered in his amazing Italian accent.

Nick, remembering how he had grabbed her hand during the opening scene, was more than somewhat effusive as he said, ‘I think it's wonderful. And the soundtrack is terrific. What a magnificent voice Rafael Devine has got. It reminds me of recordings made by Richard Burton.'

‘Absolutely right. Have you heard his
Under Milk Wood
? It's sensational.'

‘My mother saw it on the stage and raved about it.'

‘My grandmother saw Burton as Henry the Fifth and stood up and cheered,' answered Jonquil.

‘What is this
Under Milk Wood
?' asked Ricardo innocently.

Nick tried to explain but realized that his efforts were wasted as the masseur was clearly paying him no attention, preferring to eye up Jonquil who wasn't taking any notice of him.

Estelle spoke above the general hubbub. ‘Listen, folks, we've got to give a good show for the sake of young Oswald.'

Nick racked his brains and remembered an enthusiastic teenager who was hanging round on the sidelines. Gerry treated him as a general dogsbody and was forever sending the boy off to get him cups of coffee. It had been the vicar's impression that the poor child had definitely wanted to learn the craft of theatre direction and had been fobbed off rather cruelly.

He turned to Ricardo. ‘How is Mrs Harlington these days? I hope she's coming to see it.'

‘She is – somewhat reluctantly.'

‘Why is that?'

‘I think she fears that her husband is going to try and modernize the show and feels that she could not bear that. It is my belief –' Ricardo bent his handsome head and lowered his voice to a whisper – ‘that they don't get on too well.'

Nick, who tried his very best not to indulge in local gossip, adopted his wise-owl look and merely said, ‘Ah.'

At that precise moment Ekaterina, who was wearing a rustling creation by Vivienne Westwood, crossed her beautiful legs, and said, ‘Thank you. I will have another small vodka. But remember I have to drive home.'

‘We're sitting ducks for the police,' answered Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, taking her glass to refill it.

‘It is just as bad in America.'

‘But you're not American, surely. What is that gorgeous accent you have?'

‘I was born in Russia,' she said, and offered no further information.

‘I thought it was somewhere like that,' he answered.

Ekaterina looked around her. They were seated in the Victorian drawing room, elegantly furnished with comfortable sofas and deep chairs. A chaise longue rested against one wall, a large fern in a big brass pot standing beside it. The curtains were drawn against the night and Rufus had a big fire going in the generous grate.

‘This is a very beautiful place,' she said appreciatively.

‘This is only a quarter of it,' he answered. ‘Allow me to show you round in the daylight sometime.'

‘I would like that. And it is about this castle that is the indirect reason I called on you.'

‘I see. Go on.'

‘I believe you have a Son et Lumière taking place at the moment.'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, my husband has been called in to direct it.'

‘Yes, Gerry Harlington. This all happened because poor Ben Merryfield died very suddenly. Anyway, what about your husband?'

Ekaterina took a sip of her drink and sat up straight. ‘I do not wish to be disloyal to the poor man but frankly, my dear sir, he has very strange ideas. You see he was trained as a hip-hop dancer and he wants to modernize the show. He starred in some rather poor films about the Wasp Man. That is his background.'

Sir Rufus was suddenly all attention. ‘You know, I used to enjoy those films enormously. Took my kids to see them. They couldn't get enough of them.' His expression changed. ‘But I do understand what you mean. However, I watched some of the rehearsal earlier this evening and there appeared to be nothing untoward going on.'

Ekaterina emptied her glass. ‘Then I am sorry to have bothered you.'

‘Not at all. But you've finished your drink. Can I get you anything else?'

Ekaterina put her head on one side. ‘Alas, no. As I said earlier, I must consider driving home.'

Sir Rufus put out his hand. ‘I'm sorry you are going. I've really enjoyed talking to you. Please come again.'

She took it and he held her fingers a fraction longer than was necessary.

‘Thank you. I will try,' she answered, and allowed him to show her out.

S
unday in Lakehurst. An early autumn stillness hung over the trees while the sun rose lazily through a lawn of low-lying mist. The village was unusually quiet, interrupted only by the occasional bark of a dog or the distant sound of children playing. Other than for that one could think of it as deserted or in a time warp, a Brigadoon that only appeared every hundred years. And even though on that particular morning it was only a sleepy Sussex village, it had a rich and fascinating history, much of it dark and disturbing. In recent memory there had been a series of murders perpetrated by a single hand, but years before that the village had had its share of saints and smugglers, of witches and wizardry, of deranged old men who would drive their coach and four down the cobbled road to wake up all the citizens sleeping in their dreamless couches.

As this was his busiest day of the week Nick had set his alarm for six and thus was able to witness first light, the sun huge and red as it came up through the fog. Putting on his dressing gown he paused a moment at the window, feeling a great oneness with the whole of humanity, his soul leaping and his mind questioning. But then the sensation passed and he went downstairs and fed Radetsky, who sat like a small ginger sentry at the bottom of the stairs, standing up and purring as Nick appeared.

The vicar was just conveying a spoonful of muesli to his mouth when the telephone rang. It was Gerry Harlington.

‘Hi ya, Vic. How are things?'

‘Well I'm going to be rather busy today. I've a couple of christenings to do this afternoon. In fact I'm not going to get any time off until this evening. I do hope you're not calling an extra rehearsal.'

Gerry laughed a trout-gurgling laugh. ‘No, sir. I think the show is just fine. I've got some personal work to do on it but you needn't concern yourself with that. No, I really rang you to apologize for not coming to church today. Sorry, but the castle is calling, as they say.'