The Sword in the Stone-Dead, page 3
part #1 of Great Vicari Mystery Series
“Perhaps he’s hoping that Leo may look more favourably on him in future.”
“If he thinks that, then he’s definitely an idiot,” Margot said.
“Places everyone!” Fulbright’s voice echoed out, silencing everyone. They set down empty champagne glasses, and moved to their places around the table. Once they were seated, Fulbright leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him. For a moment it looked as though he was about to say grace.
“Dear friends,” he said. “I want to thank you all for coming here this weekend. And I also want to thank you for being part of Arthur and Guinevere—our first motion picture together! Like all productions, there will be a great deal of work put in before our performances are seen by an audience, but this time we are creating something that will not fade from memory after a handful of performances, it will entertain audiences for generations to come!” He got to his feet and raised his glass. “To Arthur and Guinevere!”
“To Arthur and Guinevere!” Everyone echoed.
“Let the feast begin!” Fulbright bellowed.
Silberman’s Keep was not Sir Geoffrey Atterbury’s main residence: when he had left London in disgrace, he had purchased a large house just outside Bath. The folly was a country retreat that was overseen by Crawley, who lived in the gatehouse and acted as butler and factotum when Sir Geoffrey was in residence. There was a cook, Mrs. Battison, and three maids who also lived permanently in the keep. The gardener, Grives, lived in a cottage in the village a mile or so away. It had the appearance of a country house in miniature, but at the same time there was something not quite real about it. A suitable back-drop for this round table of theatrical gentry.
After they had eaten their fill, people got up and lit cigars or cigarettes, and set about the cheap champagne again.
“You’ve read the photoplay,” Margot said, “what do you make of it?”
“It’s not exactly Shakespeare,” Vickery said.
“Can’t film Shakespeare, Vickery,” Fulbright said, butting in and slapping Vickery heartily on the shoulder. “The hoi polloi get numb bums if they have to sit for much more than an hour. You’ve got to give them sword fights and dramatic death scenes. A villain to boo, a hero to cheer, a break halfway through to buy ice-cream, then a couple of gory corpses and a wedding at the end.”
“You’ve just described half of Shakespeare’s plays!” Margot said.
“Yes, but we’ll do it in half the running time,” Fulbright said. “The Yanks are making thousands doing it: don’t see why we can’t do the same.”
“A draughty shed in Hertfordshire isn’t exactly Hollywood, though, is it?” Margot said.
“Come through to the drawing room when you’re ready. We’ve set up a projector to show the first scenes we shot.” Fulbright wandered away to perform more hearty back-slapping.
“Can they really do King Arthur justice in six reels?” Margot wondered.
“The script includes all the famous scenes. But it owes more to those school storybook retellings than to Mallory or Wordsworth,” Vickery said. “And there seems to be a suggestion that Arthur stole Guinevere from Lancelot, perhaps they had to do that to make the love story seem slightly less adulterous.”
“Or perhaps Leo put it in to make a point of his own. Do you think Teddy is a bit old for Lancelot? I always imagined him younger and more—virile.”
“I imagined him as blond with a neat little beard,” Vickery said. Margot looked at him and smiled.
“What do you think that’s all about?” Margot asked. Across the room, Ted Kimball and Artie Delancey were having what appeared to be a heated discussion in hushed voices.
“Pretend that I’m listening to you, while I watch them, then I’ll tell you what they’re saying,” Vickery said.
“How? You read lips?”
“And sign language. I was deaf for over a month after a stage explosion during my act was rather more vigorous than expected.”
“Is that true?”
“No, but it sounds better than saying I learned so I could eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.”
“What are they arguing about?”
“Give me a few seconds to catch the rhythm and then I will repeat what I hear. Artie is saying something about not knowing ‘he’ would be there, but I’m not sure who he is...”
Vickery nodded as if attending to what Margot was saying, and kept watching the two actors. After a few moments he began repeating their dialogue.
Kimball: “Did you know what sort of club it was?”
Artie: “Of course I did.”
Kimball: “Why the hell did you take me there?”
Artie: “It’s the only place I know that serves gin to drunks after midnight. Well, that and the bar in the Houses of Parliament.”
“You’re awfully good at this,” Margot said.
“How would you know?” Vickery asked. “I could be making all of it up.”
“Are you?”
“I’m guessing at some of it.”
“What about whispering?” Margot asked.
“We could,” Vickery stage-whispered, “but I don’t think they can hear us all the way over there.”
Margot slapped him on the arm. “I mean, can you lip-read when they’re whispering?”
“Sometimes—depends how stiffly they hold their lips. Or if they do it out of the corner of their mouths. Mr. Kimball is accusing Artie Delancey of having done it on purpose to ruin his reputation. He’s just a jealous little queen.”
“Kimball?”
“No, Delancey, according to Kimball. No, don’t turn your head away.”
“Who said that?”
“I did. Ah, he’s back.”
“He called my name, Artie. How did he know I was there?” Kimball asked.
“Perhaps somebody tipped him off,” Artie suggested.
“I thought you people had a code. Aren’t you supposed to be discreet?”
“We are, darling. We have to be because of the way you people behave towards us. No one in that bar called the photographer: it must have been someone else.”
“You think somebody followed me there?”
“Possibly. Or somebody knew that I went in there sometimes and guessed I’d take you there.”
“I’m still not sure you didn’t set this up.”
“Do you really think I would do that to you? Why would I?”
“Because you can’t have me.”
“Darling, I’ve already got you. I wouldn’t jeopardise that: You’re my friend.”
“But you want more.”
“I’m a grown-up, I know that isn’t going to happen. I can’t give you what Eleanor’s got.” Artie couldn’t manage to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“You are jealous then. That’s why you had that photographer there. You wanted to break up what she and I have.”
“If you want to believe that, then fine, believe it. Next time you can find someone else for your after-hours pub crawl.”
“Admit that you are jealous of her,” Kimball insisted. “You wish I was on top of you, not her.”
“You’re a drunken oaf. I feel sorry for her.”
“You make me sick!” Kimball said.
“No, that’s the whisky, love.”
“I should bloody smack you.”
Artie stood with his arms wide, presenting his chin. “If you really want to hit me, fucking do it. You won’t be the first.”
Kimball, too late, realised he’d gone too far.
“Artie, I didn’t—”
“No, maybe you are right, Teddy. People like you and people like me can’t just be fiends.”
“Artie, please—”
But Artie was already striding away, resolute.
“Lover’s tiff?” Fulbright, at Kimball’s elbow, laughed.
“We’re not—”
“Lovers? I know that, you idiot. I’ve seen you at work, remember? The hunter and the prey. Chasing down some poor unsuspecting doe-eyed bint.”
“And you’re so different?” Kimball asked.
“I’m the King of the Beasts, Teddy—they come to me!”
“How much longer will that last? How long before Leo the Lionheart is a toothless tabby?”
“I’m King Arthur, my boy, not Richard. My legend will last forever!”
“But has King Arthur’s sword been in Guinevere’s stone yet, that’s what all the groundlings want to know.”
“It doesn’t matter if I have or I haven’t—”
“No then.”
“It’s what they believe that matters.”
“They believe you’re an old goat. And every one of them has a reason to hate you. Does that make you feel like a king, Leo?”
“They’re supposed to hate me, you fool: they’re afraid of the King’s power over them. Your problem is you think everyone should love you. That’s why you keep dear old Artie around to fawn all over you, you love to be worshipped. But how much longer will that last? Keep at that bottle, my boy, and those matinee idol looks will fade quicker than a politician’s smile.”
“I should be more like you then?” Kimball sneered.
“There comes a time when you have to stop filling a role, and become a character. You will face that choice very, very soon. Better to be a bastard than to be a has-been. When the looks go, it’s the forceful personality that gets the women wet.”
“Artie said I was an oaf...”
“There you are then, there’s hope for you yet. And try and lay off the booze. You know where it gets you.” Fulbright roared as if this was the best joke he’d heard all night.
“Bastard!” Kimball hissed as Fulbright swaggered away.
“You shouldn’t let my brother provoke you.” Veronica Fulbright handed Kimball a half-glass of whisky, no ice, no water. “He hates it if you don’t rise to the bait. He feeds on anger and tears, like a leech.”
“Are you two not close, then?” Kimball favoured her with a smile over his glass—then took a good gulp of whisky.
“No one is close to Leo. How could they be?”
“Did you really try and shoot him?” Kimball asked, slyly.
“Did you really fuck his wife?” Veronica smiled. He grinned back at her.
“If he dies, do you inherit?” Kimball asked.
“Why, are you planning to kill him?”
“Haven’t the guts—even with this.” He held up the empty glass.
“Pity,” Veronica said.
“Perhaps we should have a whip round and hire an assassin.”
“Would you hurt him, if you could?” Veronica asked. “If you thought you would get away with it?”
“Would you?”
“I didn’t get away with it. Had to pay the price.”
Kimball gave her a quizzical look.
“Locked up for my own good,” Veronica said.
“Why’d you try and kill him?”
“Because he’s Leo.”
“There must be more to it than that.”
“We lived in the same house for twenty years, with my parents, then just me and him. One day I thought I’d found a way to escape. I was in love, Teddy, can you believe that? Someone loved me!”
“Leo didn’t approve of him?”
“Leo didn’t approve of the fact that I was older than him, and would inherit half of daddy’s estate if I married.”
“What did he do?”
“He did what Leo does. How do you think that photographer happened to be outside that backstreet bar the other night?”
“Not Leo?”
“Someone ought to give him a taste of his own medicine, don’t you think?”
“I’ll drink to that.” Kimball raised his empty glass. Veronica produced the whisky bottle and provided a refill. “Not joining me?” Kimball asked.
“I don’t drink. Don’t want Leo thinking I’m not in control of myself.”
“That man takes away all the pleasures in life.”
“Not all of them,” Veronica said.
A hand seized Leo Fulbright by the shoulder and spun him round.
“It was you!” Kimball’s face was bright with anger.
Fulbright expression registered confusion, perhaps even fear, but then he recovered himself and grinned—triumphant.
“Did you figure it out yourself, or did someone have to explain it to you?” Fulbright gloated.
“Why?”
“For Eleanor’s sake. You weren’t the right man for her.”
“And you are?” Kimball asked.
“Of course not. But then I’m not going to keep her. I’ll go back to Margot, I always do. I just needed to rescue Eleanor first.”
“Bollocks!”
Fulbright considered this, then nodded. “You’re right: I didn’t do it for Eleanor at all. I did it because I wanted to. Because of what you did to me—to Margot!”
“Leo, that was one night, six years ago!”
“You made me look like a fool!” He began stabbing Kimball in the chest with a pointing finger, in time with his words. “No one makes me look like a fool. Ever!”
Kimball took a step back, his own anger swept away in the onslaught: he was staring into the open jaws of the lion for the first time.
And then the storm passed, and Leo was smiling into his face.
“Consider it over. I’ve won.” And then dismissively: “Go and get yourself another drink.”
Kimball felt his cheeks redden.
“You didn’t win. This is not over. You didn’t get your wretched pictures. I stamped on his camera, ruined his film!” His eyes were bright with this small triumph.
“There is more than one photographer in my kingdom, Teddy.” Fulbright’s voice was quietly mocking. “I got my pictures. And you gave me so much more when you attacked that poor fellow.”
“You’re lying.”
“I have a set of prints upstairs. They’re a little dark, but you can make your face out plainly enough. I’ll push the envelope under your door later.”
“I don’t—You haven’t—Has Eleanor seen them?”
“I don’t think she will need to. Do you?”
“No. I’d sooner she didn’t.”
“Now,” Leo smiled magnanimously, “how about that drink?”
“I don’t—” But Leo’s look said he wasn’t going to accept a refusal.
“Scotch, no ice,” Kimball said quietly.
Edward Kimball didn’t think it was possible for him to feel any smaller. Until he glanced up and saw that Veronica Fulbright had watched the whole exchange between him and her brother. He couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on her face, and so turned to follow Leo Fulbright.
“Mr. Vickery? We weren’t introduced properly earlier, I’m afraid.”
“Miss Trenton, how delightful.” He took her hand and bowed his head slightly before releasing it. “I feel I should say ‘your majesty’!”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” She took off the coronet and dropped it on a table. Her hair was white-blonde, as were her eyebrows, and her eyes a deep blue. She was coolly beautiful, and yet there was also something of the gamine about her. Vickery suspected that she had been quite the tomboy in her youth.
“That dress looks frightfully uncomfortable,” Vickery said.
“It is. But no one can see my feet, so at least I escape having to wear heels.”
“And can instead wear tennis shoes,” Vickery said.
“You can see?” She sounded horrified that her secret was known.
“The merest glimpse earlier as you crossed the room. No one else witnessed it, I assure you.” He smiled and, finally, so did she.
“You must be used to this sort of party,” she said.
“One’s tolerance increases as the years pass,” Vickery said. “I avoid them as much as I am able.”
“I hate it that everyone seems to be staring at me. Or am I being paranoid?”
“No, they are staring,” Vickery confirmed. “After all, you are the star, and also the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“Thank you, but—”
“A statement of fact based on observation, not merely flattery.”
“You are very kind.”
“And old fashioned and a little boring,” Vickery said.
“To be truthful, that’s quite a relief from—all this.”
“Ah, then I am pleased to be of service, and shall continue to bore you!” He smiled.
“It is good to speak to someone who is not quite so—”
“Actorly?”
She laughed. “Yes. It is all rather insular. I feel a longing for real people. Is that terrible of me?”
“Perfectly wicked. I approve! Though I should, in the interests of honesty, point out that I am not entirely untainted: I too used to ‘tread the boards.’”
“Yes, I thought there was that whiff about you.” Eleanor Trenton mocked his mockery.
“It does not matter how often one’s things are laundered, alas the smell seems to linger.”
“But you are not an actor?”
“Didn’t Shakespeare say that we are all actors?” Vickery asked.
“Did he?”
“He did.”
“Does that mean that none of us are ever quite what we seem?” She asked.
“Perhaps. Or that we all have to play our parts in a larger story. We adopt different roles depending on where we are and who we are with. Sometimes you are the actress; sometimes a daughter; and sometimes a lover. But none of these roles are all that you are, or ever will be.”
“Did Shakespeare say that?”
“He would have done, if he’d been here instead of me. Only he’d have made bits of it rhyme.”
“All the same, I am glad it is you here, rather than he.”
“Indeed, he was both an actor and a writer—terrible combination. Actors have enough pride without they become writers too.”
“Or directors?” She asked.
“Since we are both currently in the employ of a director, I shall refrain from expressing an opinion.”
“But he is rather pompous?”
“I shall not say.” Vickery shook his head.
“Overbearing?”
“Not a word.”
“In love with the sound of his own voice?”
“That I might concede.”
