The Sword in the Stone-Dead, page 10
part #1 of Great Vicari Mystery Series
“I just saw Ted Kimball carrying the axe. What do you think he’s up to?”
“That would depend on which direction he was headed,” Vickery said.
“To the front of the keep, I think.”
“Probably not going to chop firewood, then,” Vickery said.
There was a muted crash from outside, and a tinkling of glass.
“Definitely not firewood,” Malloy said.
“But not someone’s skull either, to look on the positive side,” Vickery said.
“Probably just venting his anger in a little physical exertion,” Malloy said.
Another crash.
“I think perhaps we should intervene,” Vickery said.
“Let me say again: he was carrying a large axe.”
“Perhaps hold off on the intervention, then, eh?” Vickery said. “We’ll just go out and keep an eye on him. And ensure no one else tries to intervene.”
“Good plan,” Malloy said.
They opened the front door and walked across the courtyard.
“I do hope he has targeted the correct vehicle,” Vickery said.
They tiptoed under the gatehouse.
“Who do you think he is angry with?” Malloy asked.
They remained in the shadow of the archway and peered cautiously out. Kimball had taken the axe to the little blue two-seater.
“Oliver Garvin,” they whispered together.
“Should I go and tell Garvin?” Malloy asked.
“I fear that Mr. Garvin might try and come between Mr. Kimball’s axe and his sports car. I think our young friend has had quite enough excitement for one afternoon.”
Garvin’s car was already in quite a sorry state. Its headlamps were both smashed, and one had been detached completely and was lying in the gravel. The bonnet had received several heavy blows from the poll of the axe and was crumpled like paper. The windscreen was shattered, there were deep rents in the doors and gashes in the leather seats. Kimball finished by bursting each of the car’s tyres. Once this was complete, he stood back to admire his handiwork. Apparently satisfied, he hurled the axe into the pond. It bounced off a bronze dolphin with a dull clang, and then plopped into the water and sank from view.
“Now I think we may safely alert Mr. Garvin as to the fate of his motor car,” Vickery said.
Vickery and Malloy retreated across the courtyard and back into the keep, and almost immediately encountered Oliver Garvin. He was tip-toeing across the great hall, a manila envelope clutched to his chest. When he saw them, he put his finger to his lips and shushed loudly.
“Linnie thinks I’m resting,” he said. “Have you seen Ted Kimball? I was told he came this way. I must speak with him urgently.”
“You and he have had some sort of disagreement?” Vickery asked.
“We may be about to. I owe him an apology.”
“I think you may discover that he owes you an equal debt,” Vickery said.
“I’m sorry about your car,” Malloy said. “Hopefully a lot of the damage is only superficial.”
“Damage?” Garvin said.
“It could have been a great deal worse,” Vickery said, “had he encountered you before reaching the sports car.”
“What has happened to my car?” Garvin looked at them as if they were lunatics, and then hurried out into the courtyard.
“That way to tea and muffins.” Vickery pointed.
“But that way to the encounter between Garvin and Kimball.” Malloy pointed in the opposite direction.
After a split-second’s consideration, they both scurried back out into the courtyard.
Oliver Garvin was staring at his car, unable to speak. Kimball leaned back against one of the other cars, quietly smoking a cigarette.
“It would make a terrific photograph, don’t you think?” Kimball asked.
“Photograph.” Garvin’s voice was tiny. He looked over at Kimball, then back at the devastation in front of him.
“How did—?”
“Axe,” Kimball said.
“Ah.”
“How much would a car such as that cost to buy?” Vickery whispered.
“MG Midget? A hundred and eighty or two hundred pounds new, I suppose. That one’s a couple of years old,” Malloy said. “Repairs and new tyres will set him back a few quid. Why do you think Garvin did it?”
“Something to do with photographs. Oh, wait, of course—Fulbright’s second photographer, that was Garvin.”
“It was?” Malloy frowned.
“Let me see, what’s the shortest version? Artie Delancey took Mr. Kimball for after hours drinks at the Pink Gardenia—”
“But Kimball’s not—”
“Indeed not. They were photographed leaving—and Mr. Kimball assaulted the photographer, smashing his camera.”
“But there was a second photographer,” Malloy said, “who captured pictures of the attack?”
Vickery nodded. “Oliver Garvin. Who was present, I think, on the instruction of Leo Fulbright.”
“Blackmail?”
“Leverage, certainly.”
“Nasty piece of work, our Mr. Fulbright,” Malloy said.
“He plays a dangerous game, that much is true.”
Oliver Garvin was finally able to look away from the wreckage that had been his car.
“I was about to leave,” he said. “You’ve scuppered that.”
“Things don’t always go according to plan,” Kimball said.
“I deserve this, I suppose,” Garvin said, “and worse. I had wanted to apologise to you, before I left.”
“Is that right?”
“If I’d known what Fulbright meant to do with the photographs—no, that’s stupid, of course I knew what he wanted them for. It just seemed like a splendid adventure—a bit of cloak and dagger. And then on the night, it got even more exciting—and all I could think about was trying to frame the perfect photograph—getting your face clearly. I am sorry, Mr. Kimball.”
“Those more prints?” Kimball pointed his cigarette at the envelope. “I’ve already got a set for my scrapbook.”
Garvin held out the envelope towards him.
“Then you have the only set of prints,” he said. “And these are the negatives. I wanted to give them to you myself.”
Kimball stared at the envelope for a while—then reached for it. “This is a decent thing—” he said
“I wish I could say my motives are entirely altruistic—but I just wanted to make sure Fulbright didn’t have them. Now that he has terminated my employment.”
“Does he know you’re giving them to me?” Kimball held up the envelope.
“Not yet. I thought you might like to tell him. See his face.”
Kimball smiled. Then: “About the car—”
“As I said, a salutary lesson for me. We all have to learn to take responsibility for our actions—you have taught Mabel and I that lesson.”
“Mabel?”
Garvin nodded towards the battered blue sports car.
Chapter 10
“They’re all dressed normally tonight,” Margot said. “I’m tempted to go upstairs and put on fancy dress.”
“Who would you be tonight?” Vickery asked.
“Perhaps Leo’s right and I should be Morgana, the evil witch,” she said. She waited for a response, but was disappointed. “Only you, my dear, would resist commenting on that being perfect casting.”
“I make a point of avoiding the statement of the obvious,” Vickery said.
“Don’t you ever feel like being someone else?” Margot asked.
“I’m always being someone else,” Vickery said. “Sometimes I feel like being myself.”
“What is the real Benjamin Vickery like?”
“You wouldn’t like him, he’s very dull.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
“Mr. Garvin is still here,” Vickery said.
“Poor man hasn’t had the best of days, has he? What with Teddy putting dents in his car, and Leo putting a dent in his head.”
“Has Leo finally accepted the engagement?”
“Heavens no, this is merely a temporary lull in hostilities. Linette will have to do something dramatic to win her father round.”
“Such as?” Vickery asked.
“Threatening to emigrate to get away from him, that might work. Or getting married and asking someone else to give her away. Something that will ensure that Leo sees he’s losing something important to him. If it isn’t directly about him, he tends not to see it.”
“That is how your relationship functions?” Vickery asked.
“Absolutely. I convince Leo that it is all about him, and he does whatever I want. Sometimes that means saying the opposite of what I think, but once I’ve divined the appropriate strategy, he’s a pushover.”
“You won’t intervene on Linette’s behalf?”
“If she’s going to be married, she needs to develop these skills for herself, and who better to practice them on than her father?”
“You make marriage sound like a military campaign.”
“No, no. It’s much more like poker,” Margot said. “You have to do what you can with the hand you’re dealt. Do you play?”
“People tend not to want to play card games with a magician,” Vickery said.
“Do people really think that what you do is magic?”
“What makes you think it isn’t?”
They moved towards the dining table, which was almost fully occupied.
“Teddy, be a darling and move over so Benjamin and I can sit together,” Margot said.
“Eleanor and I are not speaking,” Kimball said sulkily.
“Then move the other way, you prune,” Margot said.
“I’ll move,” Eleanor said. She got up and moved to the other end of the table.
“Did I say something wrong?” Margot asked. “Perhaps she was afraid I’d be tempted to stab her with a fork.”
“Margot...” Vickery said.
“What?” Her innocent look was not at all convincing. “Did you see what she is wearing? Blood red? Is she determined to advertise that she’s for sale?”
“You are terribly old fashioned sometimes,” Vickery said.
Watching Eleanor Trenton take her new seat, Artie Delancey said: “I was hoping she would wear the blue dress.”
“You were?” Bannister asked. “Why?”
“What? Oh, no reason. It’s just a lovely dress.”
Margot and Vickery took their seats.
“The food is from Sir Geoffrey’s kitchen tonight: it has to be an improvement on yesterday’s ‘banquet,’” Vickery said. “What were those pellets they served with the pork, they were like catapult ammunition.”
“Sage and onion stuffing,” Margot said. “Leo managed to cut one of them open.”
“He had an axe at the table?”
“The wine will be from Geoffrey’s cellar too, he always had a fabulous selection,” Margot said. “Goes over to France and selects it himself. Keeps some of it for years.”
“Some things do improve with age,” Vickery said.
“Unfortunately husbands aren’t one of them,” Margot growled, as Fulbright took a seat next to Eleanor.
“Sorry I’m late, did I miss anything?” Fulbright asked.
“Being present when good manners were taught,” Margot muttered.
“What’s the soup taste like?” Fulbright asked loudly. “It looks like bilge water. And someone pass me a decent wine glass, this one’s not even big enough for sherry.”
“Pass me a bigger knife,” Margot said, “this one’s not big enough for boor.”
“Think pleasant thoughts and smile, Margot dear,” Vickery said.
“I was: I was picturing Leo bleeding to death.”
“Oh, look Auntie Margot, it’s Sir Geoffrey’s nephew,” Vickery said, as the boy was helped into a seat at the table.
“Dreadful child.” Margot shuddered.
“All children are dreadful,” Vickery said. “Fortunately they don’t all make dreadful adults.”
“Though some do,” Margot said, glaring across at Fulbright. “Is he really wearing a yellow shirt with a red tie? He looks like a boil that needs lancing.”
“Perhaps you’d like some more wine?”
“I’d like a gun with six bullets,” Margot said.
“That is rather harsh.”
“I could have asked for a Thompson submachine gun,” Margot said, reasonably she thought.
“Why did you come this weekend?” Vickery asked.
“To keep an eye on him.”
“Why? You know exactly what he’s going to do.”
“Yes, but the fun will be in discovering how I react.”
“Why don’t you challenge him at his own game, and flirt outrageously with one of the other guests?”
Margot looked glumly round the table. “I’ve been married to Geoffrey and fucked by Teddy, that leaves Bannister and the six-year-old nephew. Oh, and Linette’s fiancé, though he looks like he hasn’t planted his flag on anyone’s summit yet. Then there’s that driver, Malloy, but I think you’d have more luck with him than I would.”
“Do you think so?” Vickery looked up.
“Keep your fly buttoned, he’ll be downstairs dining with the real people.”
“Actually he’s having dinner down at the local inn this evening,” Vickery said.
“He is? Why?”
“Because I asked him to,” Vickery said.
“Really? Do you think Leo and you-know-who have done you-know-what?” Margot asked.
“Not yet,” Vickery said.
“How do you know?”
“Something in the way she looks at him.”
“I think you’re right. If she’d done it with him, she’d look like she’d been under a steamroller. Do you think she and Teddy—?”
“They are not on speaking terms, remember?”
“You don’t have to be speaking to do it. I forget you’ve never been married.”
“We’re not going to be subjected to a showing of Arthur and Guinevere tonight, are we?” Vickery asked, in an attempt to change the subject of conversation.
“Don’t worry, that reel isn’t going to be found any time soon,” Margot said.
“Why, what have you done with it?”
“Nothing too drastic.”
“What do we have to look forward to tonight?” Vickery asked.
“Once the drink’s taken, Artie will delight us with a selection of popular music hall songs,” Margot said, sounding anything but delighted at the prospect, “and then I think Teddy has a little something up his sleeve.”
“Magic?” Vickery asked.
“Monologue.”
“Sounds dreadful.”
“It won’t be, it will be rather wicked. I’ve had a sneak preview.”
“Is Ted Kimball any good?”
“At monologues or fucking?” Margot asked. “Don’t roll your eyes, people will think I’ve said something inappropriate.”
“You think I would enjoy his performance then?”
“He’s fine once the initial fumbling is done and he gets into his stride.”
The soup plates were cleared away and the main course was served.
“Do stop staring,” Vickery said.
“I wasn’t staring, I was glowering,” Margot said. “She’s just picking at her food like a sparrow. And she’s hardly touched her lips to that wineglass. It’s not stage food, love, you can tuck in!”
“Young people don’t know how to enjoy food,” Vickery said.
“She’s probably afraid she’ll balloon like a heifer if she takes a whole forkful,” Margot said.
“My mother always said that it didn’t matter how big a woman was, as long as she had slim ankles. Men don’t like women with ankles like tree trunks, she reckoned,” Vickery said.
“Is that really what men look for?”
“How on earth would I know? I’m more interested in the size of a potential partner’s feet.”
“You are, why?” And then it dawned on her, and Margot slapped his arm. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Better to be incorrigible than a codger, according to Betty.”
“Have you not got rid of that terrible girl yet?”
“I like her.”
“She shows absolutely no respect for anyone.”
“That’s why I like her. That and her steak and ale pie.”
“Sometimes you’re impossibly common, you know.”
“I rather thought I was just unique.”
“I’ve heard other words applied to you,” Margot said.
They ate in silence for some time: as predicted, the food was a significantly better than had been served on the previous evening. The roast beef was succulent and the gravy was flavoured with just the right amount of red wine.
“Whose conversations have you been dipping into this evening?” Margot asked, as the dinner plates were being cleared away.
“You don’t need to lip read to know what Leo’s been talking about,” Vickery said.
“I imagine he’s been talking Geoffrey’s ear off about the dawning of the British motion picture industry,” Margot said. “Shame movies aren’t still silent. I’d love a silent movie of Leo. I hope he manages to get a signature on something before Geoffrey sees that reel of Arthur and Guinevere.”
“Is it as bad as people are saying?” Vickery asked.
“Did I say that I had seen it? I’m sure I didn’t say that.”
“You do know it’s rude to smirk at the table before the dessert has been cleared?”
“I never smirk. I smile ironically. What is in that bowl?”
“Syllabub.”
“Isn’t that sour cream?”
“Yes, but it’s soured by alcohol,” Vickery said.
“I know the feeling. Is it supposed to look like curds and whey? Perhaps you would like mine?”
“Traditionally it is made by squirting milk straight from the cow’s udder into a jar of cider,” Vickery said, “or so they say.”
“You can definitely have mine.”
“This is made with cream and sweet sherry, you should try it.” Digging through the froth, Vickery extracted his spoon and sipped the liquor.
“Is that a nettle leaf on top?”
“It’s a sprig of fresh mint,” Vickery said.
