скачать книгу бесплатно
No! Eden Thackeray assured himself firmly. This was the last time he let a kindly impulse move him off the well-worn rails of legal procedure, not even if he saw one of his own family chained to the line ahead!
‘Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts …’
Aye, Lord, mebbe thou dost, and if so, nivver hesitate to pass them on to that silly old bat if she happens to drift in thy direction! thought John Huby savagely.
All those years of dancing attendance! All those cups of watery tea, supped with his little finger crooked and his head nodding agreement with her half-baked ideas on Lord’s Day Observance and preserving the Empire! All those Sunday afternoons spent crammed - no matter what the weather - into his blue serge suit, the arse of which always required a good hour’s brushing to remove the thick layer of cat and dog hair it picked up from every seat at Troy House! All that wasted effort!
And worse. All those debts run up in the expectation of plenty. All those foundations already dug and equipment already ordered for the restaurant and function room extensions. His heart fell flat as a slop-tray at the thought of it. Years of confident hope, months of tremulous anticipation, and barely twenty-four hours of joyous attainment before Lexie came home from that bloodsucking bastard’s office and broke the incredible news.
Oh yes, Lord! If like the vicar says, thou knowst what’s going on in my heart, then pass it on to the silly old bat pretty damn quick, and tell her if she hangs around a bit, she’ll likely catch Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale coming up the chimney at the Old Mill after her!
‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed …’
The pleasure, dear God, is entirely yours, thought Stephanie Windibanks, née Lomas, first cousin once removed of the dear departed, as she grasped a handful of earth and wondered which of those around the grave would make the best target.
That low publican, Huby? Rod’s suggestion that she should console herself with the thought that she had been dealt with no worse than that creature had only fanned her resentment. To be put on a par with such an uncouth lout! Oh Arthur, Arthur! she apostrophized her dead husband, see what a pass you’ve brought me to, you stupid bastard! At least, dear God, do not let them find out about the villa!
But what was the use of appealing to God? Why should He reward faith when He was so reluctant to reward works? For it had been hard work cultivating the Yorkshire connection all these years. Of course, it might be pointed out that she had long been aware - who better? - of Cousin Gwen’s central dottiness. Indeed, she had to admit that on occasion she had even actively encouraged it. But who would have guessed that when it pleased Almighty and entirely Unreliable God of His great mercy to take Gwen’s soul unto himself, it would also amuse him to leave her dottiness wandering loose and dangerous on the terrestrial plane?
God then her target, rather than Huby? But how to strike the intangible? She wanted a satisfyingly meaty mark. What about God’s accomplice in this, that smug bastard Thackeray? It would be nice, but long experience of the world of affairs had taught her that lawyers loomed large in the ranks of the pricks it was fruitless to kick against.
Keech, then? That downmarket Mrs Danvers, peering with myopic piety at a point a little above the vicar’s head as if hoping to see there and applaud the ascension of her benefactress’s soul …
No. Keech had done well, it was true, but only in relation to her needs. And think of the price. A lifetime of those creatures and that smell …! It required the soul of an ostler to envy Miss Keech!
This then was the worst moment of all, the moment when you realized there was no one to vent your rage on, a nothingness as insubstantial as the spirit of that silly old woman doubtless smiling smugly in her satin blancmange mould six feet below!
She hurled the earth with such force against the coffin lid that a pebble rebounded straight up the vicar’s cassock, producing a little squeal of shock and pain which translated the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection into the sure and certain hype of the Resurrection. No one was surprised. Was not this, after all, the age of the New English Prayer Book?
‘I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write …’
Dear Auntie Gwen, thought Stephanie Windibanks' son, Rod Lomas, Mummy and I have come up to Yorkshire for your funeral which has been rather Low Church for my taste and rather low company for Mummy’s. You were quite right to keep these Hubys in their place, as dear Keechie puts it. They are the product of very unimaginative casting. Father John looks too like a bad-tempered Yorkshire publican to be true, and Goodwife Ruby (Ruby Huby! no scriptwriter would dare invent that!) is the big, blonde barmaid to the last brassy gleam. Younger daughter Jane is cast in the same jelly-mould and where this superfluity of flesh comes from is easy to see when you look at the elder girl, Lexie. In shape no bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman, I swear she could enter an ill-fitting door by the joint. With those great round glasses and that solemn little face, she looks like a barn owl perched on a pogostick!
But all this you know, dear Auntie, and much else besides. What can I, who am here, tell you, who are there? Still, I must not shirk my familial obligations, unlike some I can think of. The weather here is fine, corn-yellow sun in a cornflower sky, just right for early September. Mummy is as well as can be expected in the tragic circumstances. As for me, suffice it to say that after my brilliant but brief run as Mercutio in the Salisbury Spring Festival, I am once more resting, and I will not conceal from you that a generous helping of the chinks would not have gone astray. Well, we must live in hope, mustn’t we? Except for you, Auntie, who, if you do still exist, must now exist in certainty. Don’t be too disappointed in our disappointment, will you? And do have the grace to blush when you find what a silly ass you’ve been making of yourself all these years.
Must sign off now. Almost time for the cold ham. Take care. Sorry you’re not here. Love to Alexander. Your loving cousin a bit removed,
Rod.
‘Come ye blessed children of my Father, receive the kingdom prepared for you …’
I hope the preparation’s a bit better than yours was, Dad, thought Lexie Huby, sensitive, as she had learned to be from infancy, to the rumbles of volcanic rage emanating from her father’s rigid frame. She had giggled when Mr Thackeray had told her about Gruff-of-Greendale but she had not giggled when she broke the news to her father that night.
‘Two hundred pounds!’ he’d exploded. ‘Two hundred pounds and a stuffed dog!’
‘You did used to make a fuss of it, Dad,’ Jane had piped up. ‘Said it were one of the wonders of nature, it were so lifelike.’
‘Lifelike! I hated that bloody tyke when it were alive, and I hated it even more when it were dead. At least, living, it’d squeal when you kicked it! Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale! You’re not laking with me are you, Lexie?’
‘I’d not do that, Dad,’ she said calmly.
‘Why’d old Thackeray tell you all this and not me direct?’ he demanded suspiciously. ‘Why’d he tell a mere girl when he could’ve picked up the phone and spoken straight to me? Scared, was he?’
‘He were trying to be kind, Dad,’ said Lexie. ‘Besides, I were as entitled to hear it as you. I’m a beneficiary too.’
‘You?’ Huby’s eyes had lit with new hope. ‘What did you get, Lexie?’
‘I got fifty pounds and all her opera records,’ said Lexie. ‘Mam got a hundred pounds and her carriage clock, the brass one in the parlour, not the gold one in her bedroom. And Jane got fifty and the green damask tablecloth.’
‘The old cow! The rotten old cow! Who got it, then? Not that cousin of hers, not old Windypants and her useless son?’
‘No, Dad. She gets two hundred like you, and the silver teapot.’
‘That’s worth a damn sight more than Gruff-of-sodding-Greendale! She always were a crook, that one, like that dead husband of hers. They should’ve both been locked up! But who does get it then? Is it Keech? That scheming old hag?’
‘Miss Keech gets an allowance on condition she stays on at Troy House and looks after the animals,’ said Lexie.
‘That’s a meal ticket for life, isn’t it?’ said John Huby. ‘But hold on. If she stays on, who gets the house? I mean, it has to belong to some bugger, doesn’t it? Lexie, who’s she left it all to? Not to some bloody charity, is it? I couldn’t bear to be passed over for a bloody dogs’ home.’
‘In a sense,’ said Lexie, taking a deep breath. ‘But not directly. In the first place she’s left everything to …’
‘To who?’ thundered John Huby as she hesitated.
And Lexie recalled Eden Thackeray’s quiet, dry voice … ‘the rest residue and remainder of my estate whatsoever whether real or personal I give unto my only son Second Lieutenant Alexander Lomas Huby present address unknown …
‘She’s done what? Nay! I’ll not credit it! She’s done what? It’ll not stand up! It’s that slimy bloody lawyer that’s behind it, I’ll warrant! I’ll not sit down under this! I’ll not!’
It had been an irony unappreciated by John Huby that in the old church of St Wilfrid, what he had sat down under was a brass wall plaque reading In Loving Memory of Second Lieutenant Alexander Lomas Huby, missing in action in Italy, May 1944.
It was Sam Huby, the boy’s father, who had caused the plaque to be erected in 1947. For two years he had tolerated his wife’s refusal to believe her son was dead, but there had to be an end. For him the installation of the plaque marked it. But not for Gwendoline Huby. Her conviction of Alexander’s survival had gone underground for a decade and then re-emerged, bright-eyed and vigorous as ever, on her husband’s death. She made no secret of her belief, and over the years in the eyes of most of her family and close acquaintances, this dottiness had become as unremarkable as, say, a wart on the chin, or a stutter.
To find at last that it was this disregarded eccentricity which had robbed him of his merited inheritance was almost more than John Huby could bear.
Lexie had continued, ‘If he doesn’t claim it by April 4th in the year 2015, which would be his ninetieth birthday, that’s when it goes to charity. There’s three of them, by the way …’
But John Huby was not in the mood for charity.
‘2015?’ he groaned. ‘I’ll be ninety then too, if I’m spared, which doesn’t seem likely. I’ll fight the will! She must’ve been crazy, that’s plain as the nose on your face. All that money … How much is it, Lexie? Did Mr sodding Thackeray tell you that?’
Lexie said, ‘It’s hard to be exact, Dad, what with share prices going up and down and all that …’
‘Don’t try to blind me with science, girl. Just because I let you go and work in that bugger’s office instead of stopping at home and helping your mam in the pub doesn’t make you cleverer than the rest of us, you’d do well to remember that! So none of your airs, you don’t understand all that stuff anyway! Just give us a figure.’
‘All right, Dad,’ said Lexie Huby meekly. ‘Mr Thackeray reckons that all told it should come to the best part of a million and a half pounds.’
And for the first and perhaps the last time in her life, she had the satisfaction of reducing her father to silence.
‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ …’
Ella Keech’s gaze was not in fact focused on some beatific vision of an ascending soul, as Mrs Windibanks had theorized. Myopic she was, it was true, but her long sight was perfectly sound and she was staring over the clerical shoulder into the green shades of the churchyard beyond. Money and descendants being alike in short supply, most of the old graves were sadly neglected, though in the eyes of many, long grass and wild flowers became the lichened headstones rather more than razed turf and cellophaned wreaths could hope to. But it was no such elegiac meditation which occupied Miss Keech’s mind.
She was looking to where a pair of elderly yews met over the old lychgate forming a tunnel of almost utter blackness in the bright sun. For several minutes past she had been aware of a vague lightness in that black tunnel. And now it was moving; now it was taking shape; now it was stepping out like an actor into the glare of the footlights.
It was a man. He advanced hesitantly, awkwardly, between the gravestones. He wore a crumpled, sky-blue, lightweight suit and he carried a straw hat before him in both hands, twisting it nervously. Around his left sleeve ran a crepe mourning band.
Miss Keech found that he became less clear the closer he got. He had thick grey hair, she could see that, and its lightness formed a striking contrast with his suntanned face. He was about the same age as John Huby, she guessed.
And now it occurred to her that the resemblance did not end there.
And it also occurred to her that perhaps she was the only one present who could see this approaching man…
‘… the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore. Amen.’
As the respondent amens were returned (with the London Lomas party favouring a as in ‘play’ and the Old Mill Huby set preferring ah as in ‘father’) it became clear that the fellowship of the newcomer was not so ghostly as to be visible only to Miss Keech. Others were looking at him with expressions ranging from open curiosity in the face of Eden Thackeray to vacuous benevolence on the face of the vicar.
But it took John Huby to voice the general puzzlement.
‘Wha’s yon bugger?’ he asked no one in particular.
The newcomer responded instantly and amazingly.
Sinking on his knees, he seized two handfuls of earth and, hurling them dramatically into the grave, threw back his head and cried, ‘Mama!’
There were several cries of astonishment and indignation; Mrs Windibanks looked at the newcomer as if he’d whispered a vile suggestion in her ear, Miss Keech fainted slowly into the reluctant arms of Eden Thackeray, and John Huby, perhaps viewing this as a Judas kiss, cried, ‘Nah then! Nah then! What’s all this? What’s all this? Is this another one of thy fancy tricks, lawyer? Is that what it is, eh? By God, it’s time someone gave thee a lesson in how decent folks behave at a funeral!’
So saying, and full of selfless eagerness to administer this lesson, he began to advance on Eden Thackeray. The lawyer, finding himself in the Court of Last Resources, attempted to ward him off with the person of Miss Keech. Sidestepping to get at his proper prey, John Huby’s foot found space where it looked for terra firma. For a second he teetered on one leg; then with a cry in which fear was now indistinguishable from rage, he plunged headlong into the open grave.
Everyone froze, then everyone moved. Some pressed forward to offer assistance, some pressed back to summon it. Ruby Huby leapt into the grave to succour her husband and landed with both knees in his kidneys. Eden Thackeray, no longer needing Miss Keech for aegis, released her and was then constrained to grab her again as she too started the easy descent into the pit. The vicar stopped smiling comfortingly and Rod Lomas looked across the grave, caught Lexie Huby’s eye, and laughed aloud.
Gradually order was restored and the unquiet grave emptied of all but its proper inmate. It was only now that most of those present realized that at some point in the confusion the catalystic stranger had vanished. Once it was ascertained that the only permanent damage was to John Huby’s blue serge, Miss Keech, still leaning heavily on the arm of Eden Thackeray, signalled that the obsequies were back on course by announcing that a cold collation awaited those who cared to return with her to Troy House.
Walking away from the graveside, Rod Lomas found himself alongside Lexie Huby. Stooping to her ear, he murmured, ‘Nothing in Aunt Gwen’s life, or her fortune for that matter, became her like the leaving of it, wouldn’t you say?’
She looked at him in alarmed bewilderment. He smiled. She frowned and hurried on to join her sister who glanced back, caught the young man’s eye, and blushed beneath her blusher at his merry respondent wink.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_7faa6353-1531-5d30-9eae-1f7ea6133c8e)
The façade of the Kemble was a mess. To rescue the old theatre from bingo in these hard times; to renovate, refurbish and restore it; to divert public money and extort private sponsorship to finance it; these had been acts of faith or of lunacy depending on where you stood, and the division in the local council had not been on straight party lines.
But the will had been great and the work had been done. Creamy grey stone had emerged from beneath a century of grime and Shakespeare’s numbers had triumphed over the bingo-caller’s.
But now the huge eye catching posters which advertised the Grand Opening Production of Romeo and Juliet had been ripped down, and what caught the eye now were aerosoled letters in primary colours taking stone, glass and woodwork in their obscene stride.
GO HOME NIGGER! CHUNG = DUNG! WHITE
HEAT BURNS BLACK BASTARDS!
Sergeant Wield took a last look as he left the theatre. Council workers were already at their priest-like task of ablution, but it was going to be a long job.
When he got back to the station, he went to see if his immediate superior, Detective-Inspector Peter Pascoe, was back from the hospital. Long before he reached the inspector’s door, a dull vibration of the air like thunder in the next valley suggested that Pascoe was indeed back and was being lectured, doubtless on some essential constabulary matter, by Superintendent Andrew Dalziel Head of Mid-Yorkshire CID.
‘The very man,’ said Dalziel as the sergeant entered. ‘What odds is Broomfield giving against Dan Trimble from Cornwall?’
‘Three to one. Theoretical, of course, sir,’ said Wield.
‘Of course. Here’s five theoretical quid to put on his nose, right?’
Wield accepted the money without comment. Dalziel was referring to the strictly illegal book Sergeant Broomfield had opened on the forthcoming appointment of a new Chief Constable. The shortlist had been announced and interviews would take place in a fortnight’s time.
Pascoe, slightly disapproving of this frivolity when there was serious police business toward, said, ‘How was the Kemble, Wieldy?’
‘It’ll wash off,’ said the sergeant. ‘What about the lad in hospital?’
Pascoe said, ‘That’ll take a bit longer to wash off. They fractured his skull.’
‘The two things are connected, you reckon?’ said Dalziel.
‘Well, he is black and he is a member of the Kemble Company.’
The attack in question had taken place as the young actor had made his way to his digs after an evening out drinking with some friends. He’d been found badly beaten in an alleyway at six o’clock that morning. He could remember nothing after leaving the pub.
The trouble at the Kemble had started with the controversial appointment of Eileen Chung as artistic director. Chung, a six-foot-three-inch-tall Eurasian with a talent for publicity, had gone instantly on local television to announce that under her regime, the Kemble would be an outpost of radical theatre. Alarmed, the interviewer had asked if this meant a diet of modern political plays.
‘Radical’s content, not form, honey,’ Chung said sweetly. ‘We’re going to open with Romeo and Juliet, is that old-fashioned enough for you?’
Asked, why Romeo and Juliet? she had replied, ‘It’s about the abuse of authority, the psycho-battering of children, the degradation of womanhood. Also it’s on this year’s O-level syllabus. We’ll pack the kids in, honey. They’re tomorrow’s audience and they’ll melt away unless you get a hold of them today.’
Such talk had made many of the city fathers uneasy, but it had delighted a lot of people including Ellie Pascoe who, as local membership secretary of WRAG, the Women’s Rights Action Group, had quickly got in touch with Chung. Since their first meeting, she had talked about the newcomer with such adulation that Pascoe had found himself referring to her in a reaction, which privately at least he recognized as jealous, as Big Eileen.
It was after her television appearance that trouble had started in the form of obscene phone calls and threatening letters. But the previous night’s attack and vandalization had been the first direct interpretation of these threats.
‘What did Big Eileen have to say?’ inquired Pascoe.
‘Miss Chung, you mean?’ said Wield, correctly. ‘Well, she was angry about the paint and the beating-up, naturally. But to tell the truth, what seemed to be bothering her most was getting someone to replace the lad in hospital. He had an important part, it seems, and they’re due to open next Monday, I think it is.’
‘Yes, I know. I’ve got tickets,’ said Pascoe without enthusiasm. It was Ellie who’d got the tickets and also an invitation to the backstage party to follow the opening. His objection that there was a showing of Siegel’s The Killers on the telly that night had not been sympathetically received.
‘Do we count it as one case or as two, sir?’ inquired Wield, who was a stickler for orderliness.
Pascoe frowned but Dalziel said, ‘Two. You stick with the assault, Peter, and let Wield here handle the vandals. If they tie in together, well and good, but at the moment, what’ve we got? Someone gives a lad a kicking after closing time. Happens all the time. Someone else goes daft with a spray can. Show me a wall where they haven’t! It’s like Belshazaar’s Feast down in the underpass.’
Pascoe didn’t altogether agree but knew better than to argue. In any case, Dalziel didn’t leave a space for argument. Having disposed of this policy decision, he was keen to get back to the main business of the day.
‘Who’s Broomfield making favourite, Wieldy?’ he asked.
‘Well, there’s Mr Dodd from Durham. Two to one on. Joint.’
‘Joint? Who with.’
