The Sword in the Stone-Dead, page 7
part #1 of Great Vicari Mystery Series
Veronica broke open the shotgun and handed it to him.
“Six shots,” Vickery said.
“What?”
“I heard six shots. And there are five pigeons.”
“Missed one of the blighters,” Veronica said. “I’m out of practice with the gun.”
“Will the cook roast the birds?”
Veronica picked them up. “They will have pigeon pie ‘below stairs,’” she said. “Do people still say that?”
“Some people do,” Vickery said.
“Cook will save me a piece of pie for supper.”
“Because your brother doesn’t like pigeon pie,” Vickery said.
“That’s right, how did you know? Magic again?”
“A lucky guess. Again.”
“I don’t believe you ever guess, Mr. Vickery.”
“Please, call me Benjamin.”
“Perhaps I will. And you will call me ‘Miss Fulbright,’ won’t you?” She winked at him and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen, clutching her pigeons.
“Shooting, Mr. Vickery?” Linette asked as Vickery approached the rear of the keep. She held an unlighted cigarette between her fingers.
“I am merely the retriever,” Vickery said.
“She didn’t shoot at the bloody peacocks, did she?” Linette asked.
“Only pigeons.”
“My father will explode if he finds out she got her hands on a shotgun.”
“He takes a great interest in her behaviour.”
“Of course he does. So would you, given that—”
“—he had her locked away, yes, she told me.”
“Then you will understand why my father must remain vigilant,” Linette said.
“I didn’t tell him why I was locked up,” Veronica said, appearing beside them, still clutching the pigeons.
“Aunt Veronica!” Linette was startled, and evidently embarrassed at having been caught gossiping.
“Forgot the shells,” Veronica said, handing over a box of shotgun cartridges to Vickery. “Wouldn’t want to be caught with those in my possession.” Then she looked at Linette, expectantly. “Well?”
“Well what?” Again embarrassed.
“Aren’t you going to finish your story?”
“I wasn’t telling. I thought Mr. Vickery already knew.”
“I do not wish to intrude on anyone’s privacy,” Vickery said.
“It’s not a secret,” Veronica said. “And it is what you might call germane to your present hinvestigation.” The last she said in her best imitation of a stage police constable.
“It is?” Linette seemed confused.
“Oh, yes. The reason my dear brother had me confined to a loony bin—sorry, private sanatorium—was because...” She paused for effect. “I tried to kill him!”
“With a shotgun?” Vickery asked, affecting not to be startled by her revelation.
“Bow and arrow,” Veronica said. “I was distracted, missed his left eye by an inch. No chance to draw again. Now, tell me that doesn’t make me a suspect!” She grinned her broad grin, daring him to contradict her.
“Your brother doesn’t think so. He thinks you won’t ‘cook his goose’ because you need his golden eggs.”
“What comes out of my dear brother is not golden eggs, I assure you,” Veronica said, her face reddening. “It is daddy’s money he’s throwing into that ridiculous moving picture of his. And I’d be willing to bet that even if he could shit gold, it wouldn’t be enough to get the Ice Queen to prise open her legs.”
“Aunt Veronica!”
The anger left Veronica Fulbright’s face as quickly as it had arrived. “I’ll ask cook to send up some pie for your supper,” she said to Vickery. “She’ll be careful to pick out every last piece of lead shot.”
“I shall look forward to it, thank you.”
Veronica turned and disappeared into the keep.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Vickery,” Linette said.
“Don’t be, it was most enlightening. Shall we go in to breakfast?” Vickery indicated that Linette should lead the way.
“I’m afraid that you’re going to find everyone has a reason for wanting daddy out of the way,” Linette said, as they headed down a gloomy hallway.
“He does rather inspire strong feelings in people,” Vickery said.
“Do you have any idea who has threatened to kill him?”
“Your mother believes he may have sent the threats himself, in order to gain publicity for Arthur and Guinevere.”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” Linette admitted. “But then it is equally possible, I would say, that she sent them.”
“Your mother? Why would she do that?”
In reply, Linette just smiled and shook her head. “I have given away enough family secrets for one morning, I am afraid.” She skipped on ahead, then looked back over her shoulder. “If you haven’t found out by then, ask me again after lunch. In the meantime, I think you should speak to Malloy.”
“Everyone thinks I should speak to Malloy,” Vicary mused, as Linette disappeared into the dining room. “Everyone except Mr. Malloy, who disappears whenever he sees me.”
Chapter 6
The breakfast table was all but deserted. Linette and Oliver sat on one side of the table, sharing a private joke. Veronica sat opposite them, trying to give the impression of not listening to them. Margot McCrae, apparently, was breakfasting in her room. Dickie Bannister was still sleeping. No one had heard anything from Eleanor Trenton or Artie Delancey, though the latter was believed to be suffering from a hangover.
“Daddy’s up,” Linette said, “I heard him stomping about earlier.
“Almost forgot,” Veronica said, “Saw Malloy in the kitchen and he said to advise you to hide, Mr. Vickery.”
“Hide from what?” Vickery asked.
“I think you’re about to find out,” Garvin said.
A thundering sound came from the direction of the main staircase, followed by a bellow from Leo Fulbright.
“Vickery!” Moments later he appeared in the doorway. “There you are. A word in private, if you don’t mind. Now.”
Vickery looked down at his untouched breakfast. Reluctantly he rose, bowing slightly to the ladies as he excused himself. He followed Fulbright into the library and closed the door behind him.
Fulbright’s face was brick-red and he was breathing heavily. He slammed a piece of paper on the desk in front of Vickery.
“Well?” Fulbright demanded.
“Another letter?” Vickery said.
“I know it’s another bloody letter. It was pinned to my bedroom door this morning. What I want to know is how it got there.”
“I would say that our letter-writer is here in the keep,” Vickery said.
“You would, would you, Mr. Sherlock bloody Holmes? What else have you managed to deduce so far, do enlighten me.”
“Well, as of last night, I have a list of suspects.”
“Yes? And who is on this list?”
“I would prefer not to—”
“Who?” Fulbright demanded.
“Practically everyone.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
“No, there’s a maid who fetches that,” Vickery said quietly.
“What?”
“Something I heard last night. I thought it was funny at the time. I need to speak to Mr. Malloy.”
“Mister who?”
“Malloy.”
“He’s my driver. What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Mr. Malloy was keeping watch last night. I want to know if he saw or heard anything.”
“He said nothing to me,” Fulbright said.
“Did you ask him?”
“Why would I ask him, he’s—”
“Only the driver, yes, you said.”
“If anything significant had happened, he would have told me.”
“I’m sure he would. But I also wish to learn whether he saw or heard anything insignificant which might have a bearing on my investigation.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if I wouldn’t have been better to hire an ex-policeman instead of an ex-conjuror.”
“In my experience, people of all stations experience some reluctance in confiding in a policeman,” Vickery said, “even a retired one.”
“Whereas they are comfortable telling you everything, are they?”
“Apparently so, yes. I think you would be surprised, and disappointed, to learn what I have heard during the last twenty-four hours.”
“I am already disappointed, I am looking forward to being surprised in the very near future,” Fulbright said. “Now understand this, Vickery, if I received any more of these,” he prodded the letter, “you will be receiving a couple of letters from me: an ‘F’ and an ‘O.’ Do I make myself plain?”
“Exceedingly so, Mr. Fulbright.”
“I want to know who is behind these letters, and I want to know by the end of today. Now get out of my sight.”
Vickery turned to leave, then turned back, as if a question had occurred to him.
“This letter today, was there a second page to it?”
Fulbright looked up from the desk, expression slack for a moment. “One page,” he said, “as you see it.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Certain that Fulbright had just lied to him about the letter, Vickery exited the library. He stood in the hall a moment, regaining his composure, and considering whether he should add his own name to the list of people who might wish Leo Fulbright dead.
Vickery re-entered the breakfast room. The table had been cleared, and the room was empty except for Ted Kimball: he stood at the sideboard, pouring whisky into a glass. A plate of toast and marmalade sat next to the glass.
“Aren’t you going to tell me it is a little early in the day?” Kimball asked.
“For breakfast? I should say it is a little late. I appear to have missed mine,” Vickery said.
“I told them it was all right to clear, sorry,” Kimball said. “I can ring and have them bring up a tray for you?”
“That isn’t necessary. I have rather lost my appetite.”
“I heard Fulbright shouting.”
“Another letter appeared last night,” Vickery said. “Mr. Fulbright finds them a trifle disconcerting.”
“I wish whoever was behind them would stop messing around and just get on with it. If they did him in, there wouldn’t be many to mourn the loss,” Kimball said.
“You two must have been friends once?”
“I would still attend his funeral.”
“If you will excuse me, I think I shall pop down to the kitchen and rustle up a late breakfast. And see if I can find that elusive driver.”
“Golf?”
“Motor car.”
* * *
“Dammit, Margot, you’re my wife!”
“And what do you think that entitles you to, Leo? Everything that I am and everything that I own? Please be serious.”
“We are supposed to be partners—in this together.”
“But I am not in this, am I, Leo dearest? You found someone else.”
“Is that what this is about? A walk-on part in a moving picture? I offered you Morgana.”
“I will not be your witch! Not while you appear on screen with a new wife on your arm.”
“She’s not my wife. Margot, I’m not fucking her.”
“I am your wife, and you’re not fucking me either. Who are you fucking, Leo?”
“This is not about who I am sleeping with.”
“It’s about whatever I damn well say it is! You drag me out here to this god-forsaken folly and then parade your new mistress under my nose, in front of our friends.”
“She’s not—”
“—and then you have the absolute bloody gall to ask me if I wouldn’t mind coughing up some cash to finance your little vanity project.”
“This is not a vanity project. It’s our future. If we miss this chance, it’s over for people like you and me.”
“But it’s already over for me, Leo. I’ve been replaced.”
“Would you listen to yourself? You can’t expect me to believe that this is all about you missing out on the role that has all of a dozen lines in the script.”
“No, it’s not about that. It’s about me being at the end of my career, and needing to hang on to my money for my retirement. I’m not handing it over to you to piss away on some speculative fantasy.”
“It is not a fantasy. The studio is going to happen. I have the investment lined up. This is going to be better than what Korda is doing at Denham. Our own motion picture studio, Margot. We’ll be in at the flowering of the British film industry.”
“If it’s going to be so blooming wonderful here, why is Hitchcock talking about moving to Hollywood?”
“Because he’s a director for hire, not an entrepreneur.”
“I’d love to see you say that in front of Alma.”
“She’s a better businessman that he’ll ever be.”
“And that’s what you think you are, is it? You can’t even keep your bank account in the black.”
“This is on a slightly different scale than my personal finances.”
“That’s my point, you ass. You’re only a week into shooting this thing, and you’ve already run out of money to keep the cameras turning. That’s not business Leo. It’s not even youth theatre. Your first movie is circling the drain, and you’re talking about setting up a studio.”
“I told you, I have an investor—”
“Oh, and who is this mysterious ‘benefactor,’ Leo? Anyone I know.”
“As a matter of fact—”
“No! Please tell me you’re joking? Not him?”
“I approached him about putting money into the film, we got to talking, and I mentioned our idea of a studio—”
“Our idea?”
“He was dead keen, Margot. He loves moving pictures, and the thought of being involved in the industry...”
“—and he also happened to have a niece who is a struggling actress. I thought I recognised that insipid little bitch. She’s the spitting image of her mother. I can’t believe you managed to keep that secret from me.”
“It wasn’t a secret: Eleanor uses a stage name, it’s not that unusual.”
“Where is she now, your little mouse-queen?” Margot asked Fulbright. He looked away, and she took this as her cue to continue. “You and Geoffrey have come up with a cosy little deal, and as part of it, his niece gets her name up on the silver screen. That’s all fine and dandy, isn’t it? But do you know the bit I can’t work out? Why are you sniffing around me with your cap in your hand? If you’ve got Geoffrey’s money, why do you need mine?”
“Sir Geoffrey’s not investing in the film. He wants to see how it pans out before he will commit to the studio project. Once we have the film completed and a distributor in place, he’ll sign the letter of intent.”
“Geoffrey’s not prepared to risk his cash on your Arthur and Guinevere? Perhaps he’s brighter than I thought.”
“When the film is completed, you and I will have our first major asset. That’s why I want it to be our money—yours and mine—going into it. That way we will own Arthur and Guinevere. We can put that up as our stake, and be equal partners with Sir Geoffrey.”
“You have really thought this out, haven’t you?”
“I’ve been working on it for months.”
“And you and I will be in it together?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Explain one thing to me.”
“What’s that?”
“All those months of planning, but not one word to me in that time. Why do I find out about it so late in the day?”
“I didn’t want to bother you with the details,” Fulbright said.
“You must think I was born yesterday.”
“What do you—”
“You wanted to do this without me,” Margot said, realisation dawning.
“That’s not—”
“You were hoping you wouldn’t need me. You weren’t going to mention it until it was all signed and sealed. You thought Geoffrey would put up the money for Arthur and Guinevere. But when he declined, you had to come crawling to me.”
“Margot, that’s not how it—”
“You gave Guinevere to your talentless little ingénue because you thought she would bring the money with her, and when she didn’t, you needed me to bail you out. How that must have stuck in your craw, Leo darling, to think you were free of me, and then to have to come back on bended knee.”
“Do you want me to beg? I will if that what it takes.”
Margot let him get down on his knees before she answered. “No, Leo, that’s not what I want.”
“Then what?”
“I want Guinevere.”
“But it’s just a bit part. Twelve lines at most.”
“But I’m your wife, dammit,” she mimicked him, “it should be me there at your side in our first film.”
“Margot, you know I would, but Sir Geoffrey—”
“He’s a businessman, Leo. He will understand: sacrifices have to be made. It’s nothing personal.”
“Margot, I can’t—I’ve agreed with him—the studio...”
“But nothing’s signed yet, Leo. Everything is up for negotiation—between all three partners. We will all have an equal say.”
“Please, Margot, don’t do this.”
“You don’t have to give me an answer now, Leo,” she said, ever-so reasonably. “Take some time to think about it. Sleep on it, if you like. Go and talk to Geoffrey.”
“He’s coming here,” Fulbright said.
“What?”
“He’ll be here after lunch. We’re going to look over some plans. Possible studio sites.”
“Well, won’t this be a jolly little reunion.”
“Promise me you won’t make a scene.”
“Leo, darling, as if I would!”
* * *
“Mr. Vickery.” Fulbright’s driver nodded his head in greeting. He had his jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up. His shirt was open at the neck and without a collar.
