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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Southwold Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
1960. Lady Fawcett is eager to vet her daughter Amy's current beau, aspiring film director Bartholomew Hackle who is shooting his first major project in Southwold. While Amy is unable to accompany her mother, Rosy Gilchrist is strong-armed into tagging along. On the set of The Languid Labyrinth nobody really knows what is going on - least of all Felix Smythe whose bit part is constantly changing thanks to Hackle, much to Felix's chagrin. But the unambiguous death by gun-shot of a female cast member brings a drama to proceedings lacking in the film itself, and Lady Fawcett, Rosy and Felix are once again at the centre of a murder mystery in which further victims may face the cut.
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Seitenzahl: 333
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
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Shot in Southwold
SUZETTE A. HILL
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
From his office window overlooking Parliament Square, Tom Carshalton MP surveyed the swirling traffic. He took a sip of tea, eyeing the few cyclists perilously weaving their way among the streams of vehicles, and thought of his young niece (or rather his half-niece by marriage) and her newly acquired bicycle.
Really, who on earth would choose to ride a bike in London these days? he mused. Only the vain and insane! But then of course, in his estimation Tippy was both. She always had to be different, which generally meant difficult. He took another sip, and continued to gaze at the mass of cars and lorries manoeuvring far below, and for a moment a smile twitched his lips. Perhaps the girl would get run over. A handy resolution! Ida would be upset, of course, but a trip to Paris and a new dress would soon settle that … For a few moments he allowed the convenient thought to flutter gently in his mind. But then, with a prick of shame, he banished it abruptly, put down his cup and took out a fountain pen. He picked up the telephone and dialled his secretary. ‘I am ready to go over those accounts now, Miss Fielding,’ he said briskly.
CHAPTER ONE
It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Professor Cedric Dillworthy’s mews house dozed sedately in the mellowing sun. Seated on the sofa, its occupant would also have liked to doze, but the crossword was being so beastly that scholarly pride denied such luxury until at least six clues were solved. The professor frowned, took another sip of tepid coffee, and was about to redouble his efforts when there was the sound of the doorbell. With a muted curse, he cast pencil and newspaper aside and went to the window to peer down into the little courtyard.
From that angle the bell ringer could just be discerned: slight, dapper and carrying a smart attaché case. It was his friend Felix Smythe, owner of the fashionable Sloane Street flower shop Smythe’s Bountiful Blooms (with a royal warrant, no less). Cedric was puzzled. Why was Felix here at this hour? No arrangement had been made, and besides, couldn’t he have telephoned – or was the Knightsbridge exchange out of order again? And what did the briefcase signify? Floral briefings from Clarence House? He smiled, thinking of his friend’s devotion to the gracious patron. Well, if that was where he had been one could kiss goodbye to crossword clues, let alone a nap!
Easing the cat from the top of the stairs, Cedric went down and opened the door.
‘Ah,’ Felix said, ‘glad I’ve found you; thought you might be napping or something.’
‘I was,’ Cedric lied, ‘but I am fully awake now.’ He stood back and ushered the visitor into the narrow hall and hence upstairs to the drawing room.
Felix surveyed the cooling coffee pot and the sofa’s discarded crossword. ‘But not asleep on your bed, I note. I should hate to think I had disturbed genuine slumber.’
‘It was perfectly genuine until you rang the doorbell,’ Cedric sniffed. ‘Why are you here? It’s Sunday. We never meet on Sundays.’
Felix gave a mild shrug. ‘Indeed. But exceptions can be made and this is one such.’
‘Evidently.’
‘I thought you might be interested in my news. You see, I have had rather an intriguing proposition, and I wanted to discuss—’
‘My dear chap, you don’t mean that at long last old Blakely-Edwards has declared himself, do you? I knew he would one day!’ Cedric leered, his disturbed peace no longer an issue.
‘Oh, nothing so tiresome; much more diverting. The proposition is to do with me featuring in a film: I have been approached by the director. What do you think of that?’ Felix slicked his hair and beamed.
Cedric, initially puzzled, said, ‘Oh … you mean some sort of commercial venture to do with London flower shops? I don’t have television, as you know, but I gather that nowadays there is a channel that displays advertisements. Is that what this is, a little item promoting porcelain cache-pots or royal florists? Will you be sharing the screen with a corgi?’
‘Certainly not,’ Felix replied, clearly nettled, ‘this has nothing to do with advertising or commercial television! This is a proper film, a serious artefact for distribution in public cinemas and, who knows, possibly even in the United States.’
‘Goodness! You mean like Ben Hur? Now that really was something. I had no idea that gladiators actually fought with—’
‘Er, no, not quite on that scale – rather more intimate, more subtle. Apparently very British but essentially avant-garde; all to do with the current “New Wave” so I gather … although I have to admit I am not quite sure what that means. At least not entirely, but doubtless all will be revealed. The main thing is that he clearly feels I could contribute a certain je ne sais quoi and that my left profile is especially photogenic.’
‘Who does?’
‘What? Oh that boyfriend of Angela Fawcett’s loud daughter: Bartholomew Hackle. He has been dabbling for ages, and now he actually has a sponsor who is prepared to back a full-length picture. Very enterprising, don’t you think?’
Cedric said nothing, recalling that Bartholomew Hackle’s enterprises were many and unremarkable. (Or possibly too remarkable: the stewards at Newbury were still smarting from his wild attempt to run his uncle’s filly in the Hennessy – a disastrous undertaking resulting in five horses being brought down and two jockeys hospitalised.) Still, it seemed churlish to dampen his friend’s excitement, and instead he enquired where the film was being shot.
There was a pause while Felix adjusted his cufflink and cleared his throat, and then said casually, ‘Uhm, Southwold actually.’
Cedric stared in astonishment. ‘Southwold, in Suffolk?’ But you said that nothing would induce you to go there again – not after that frightful flower festival drama we had to endure.1 Why, only last week I heard you telling Rosy Gilchrist that even the very thought of the east coast was enough to give you a heart attack.’
‘That was last week; circumstances do alter cases – or so our Latin master was always muttering. One cannot be too rigid in this life … Besides, Cynthia Paget’s last party was so crashingly awful that one had to say something to enliven things.’
‘Hmm. Not notably efficacious. In fact, rather the reverse, I seem to recall. But tell me more about this film; and when do you propose going up there?’
There was a further pause. And then Felix said winningly, ‘Actually, Cedric, I rather thought that we might travel up at the end of next week … Oh, and by the way, I’ve brought you some chocolates, your favourite Charbonnel et Walker.’ With a flourish he produced a large beribboned box from the snakeskin briefcase and laid it on the console.
Cedric regarded the package in silence, and then enquired sternly whether the assortment contained the rose or the violet creams.
‘Both!’ Felix declared triumphantly. ‘And the vanilla ganache!’
‘Most kind,’ Cedric murmured. ‘Remarkably so.’
In the purlieus of London’s Sloane Street, blackmail was also being applied … or at any rate its way was being paved. Lady Fawcett’s drawing room was considerably larger than the professor’s, and in this domain it was the guest who was the target not the incumbent.
They were discussing her daughter’s marriage prospects. ‘You see,’ she said earnestly to Rosy Gilchrist, ‘although Bartholomew seems perfectly pleasant, one cannot be sure. Fundamentally decent, of course – I knew his father – but just a trifle headstrong, though I daresay age will remedy that. And his manners are impeccable, not like that terrible Desmond she produced last year. He was a disaster – almost as bad as the extraordinary Frenchman she had in tow when we returned from Suffolk that time. Do you remember? Well, at least that’s all over, thank goodness!’ Lady Fawcett closed her eyes in painful recollection. Opening them, she added, ‘After all, the dear girl is nearly twenty-five; it is high time she was settled. Wouldn’t you agree?’
At thirty-six and unmarried, Rosy wasn’t entirely sure what she was expected to say. ‘Er, well, I suppose—’ she began tentatively.
The supposition was unfinished for in the next instant the older woman had said hastily, ‘Well of course it’s different for you, Rosy dear. I mean you have that important post at the British Museum and your fiancé was killed in the war – a real hero – but Amy has no such excuse. She really must pull herself together.’
Rosy smiled. ‘Are you feeling broody for grandchildren?’
‘Not in the least. One generation is quite enough. No, as it happens I am thinking of Amy’s future; marriage would be so stabilising … Besides, I am becoming just a teeny bit tired of Mr Bates; he’s so shifty. I found him eating jam in the pantry the other day.’
Rosy was startled. ‘Mr Bates? Who’s he?’
‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? A replacement for Mr Bones; he died and we’ve buried him under the pear tree. Amy was inconsolable so I bought her this whippet. Not as cuddly as the pug but less lazy, and actually he is quite lucrative. It certainly means I don’t have to increase Amy’s allowance.’ She laughed.
‘Really? In what way lucrative?’ Rosy was puzzled.
Lady Fawcett lowered her voice. ‘He has stud potential, if you see what I mean. She takes him on little missions and charges the most outrageous fees … And that is why I need your help.’
Had she not been eating a slice of cake, Rosy’s jaw might have dropped. What on earth was the woman talking about? How could the whippet’s amatory missions have anything to do with her?
‘Er, I don’t quite follow …’ she began.
‘Well it’s Bartholomew, you see. He is about to make a film, or “movie” as he calls it. It’s his first proper go and he is most eager for Amy and me to visit and lend support – you know the sort of thing: dispensing sandwiches and being generally helpful on the set.’
An image of Lady Fawcett being helpful on a film set did not come readily to Rosy’s mind; but she nodded, still unclear of her link with the whippet or indeed the latter’s connection with the cinema. She was to learn.
‘Anyway, the problem is that Amy tells me she cannot possibly oblige as it cuts across Mr Bates’s busy schedule in Shropshire, and she suggests that I go alone … Frankly, I’m not too keen on that as I don’t know Bartholomew all that well, and anyway such ventures are much more fun with a chum. Thus I was about to bow out gracefully, when it suddenly occurred to me that it would be an excellent chance to get to know the young man better, while at the same time making a crafty assessment of his suitability for Amy. Indeed, with the dear girl absent one might get a better perspective.’ She laughed gaily. ‘Don’t you think that’s a neat wheeze? Pretty canny, as my Gregory used to say!’
Politely Rosy agreed that it was very neat, and enquired the film’s location.
‘Well that’s just it,’ her hostess exclaimed merrily, ‘Southwold. It is being shot in Southwold. Would you believe it?’
Coincidences being more frequent than popularly supposed, Rosy did believe it. She was surprised, nevertheless; but even more so by Lady Fawcett’s evident elation. After all, with two murders and a suicide, their visit to the little place a couple of years previously had not been what you might call a feast of gaiety. The town, of course, was delightful, but the circumstances had been less than enlivening.
‘But don’t you think that could be a bit worrying?’ she asked. ‘I mean, you might feel haunted by certain memories – your friend Delia, for example, buried in St Edmund’s churchyard …’
‘Oh no,’ the other replied blithely, ‘few things haunt me – except perhaps that frightful Frenchman of Amy’s in his beret! In fact, returning to Southwold in happier circumstances will probably be a good thing; lay the ghosts, as it were. And as for dear Delia, well naturally I shall pay her my respects, and I am sure she will welcome me at her graveside … Uhm, remind me, it was the third yew they put her under, wasn’t it?’
Rosy assured her that it was, and then asked if she might not feel at a bit of a loose end on her own: ‘Obviously during the day there will be Bartholomew and his film crew, but the evenings could be a little dull; and without Amy to do the driving won’t it be a bit tricky getting about?’ And then feeling that sounded too negative, she added hastily, ‘although naturally there are bound to be local buses.’
Lady Fawcett looked faintly puzzled (a not infrequent expression) and said vaguely, ‘I don’t think I am mad about local buses …’ She took a sip of tea, while the mild eyes abstractedly roamed the room before once more alighting on the young woman opposite. She flashed a dazzling smile and proffered more cake. ‘And that brings me to you, Rosy dear.’
Oh yes – it would, wouldn’t it, Rosy thought grimly. I asked for that; walked straight in!
But before she could muster any sort of response, with practised agility Lady Fawcett had outlined her proposal. This was to the effect that Rosy should come as her guest to Southwold. (‘No worries, my dear, it is totally all my treat! They say the bedrooms at The Swan are so restful, and don’t you remember those superb dinners we had at The Crown last time?’) She urged that when not ‘hobnobbing’ with those ‘doubtless delightful film people’, she and Rosy could explore the Suffolk countryside, immersing themselves in local history and toying with cream teas at Aldeburgh or Snape. It would be, she assured the lucky chauffeuse, a veritable feast for mind and palate. Rosy sighed … Hmm, perhaps.
In fact, Rosy was warily fond of Angela Fawcett and could certainly think of far worse people to spend time with in Suffolk. And in spite of its grisly events, her earlier trip with the older woman had been largely congenial … Yes, she had to admit that the prospect was quite appealing – especially as apparently expenses would be minimal! But what about the film business? Did she really want to be roped in to serve sandwiches and be factotum to a novice camera crew and a bunch of amateur actors? Instinctively she thought not … Yet from the back of her mind she heard her mother’s voice of long ago: ‘Oh, go on, Rosy, don’t be such an old stick-in-the-mud. You’ll love it, really.’
And echoing the past, her companion’s voice exclaimed: ‘You know, I think we might love it – a treat for both of us!’ And then more pressingly: ‘I really do need a second opinion of Bartholomew, and an ally in these matters is such a comfort. Gregory would undoubtedly have had a view. But alas, the dear man is no longer here. So you will come, won’t you?’
Rosy nodded. ‘I would love to,’ she said.
1 See A Southwold Mystery
CHAPTER TWO
Once home and mission completed, Felix busied himself with making preparations for Southwold. During their previous sojourn when attending its flower festival, they had stayed at The Sandworth in Aldeburgh, glad to be distanced from the hurly-burly of jousting gardeners and crowded marquees. Indeed, the quieter town had been a refuge not simply from the drama of the festival but also from the melodrama of murder … or nearly so, at any rate.
This time, however, there would be no murder, and the public melee of the festival would be replaced by the private melee of a film set … a film in which he, Felix, was to play a modest role. Thus, to be at the heart of things in Southwold itself was essential – which is why he had already made arrangements to rent a most charming cottage on the edge of the town. This was pleasantly secluded, and yet the film ‘studio’ (a large, unkempt villa on the East Cliff, procured from a Hackle cousin) could be reached in only a few minutes’ walk. It had been an excellent choice and he knew that Cedric would approve.
Recalling the afternoon’s visit he smiled at how compliant his friend had been. Not at first, of course, he rarely was. (The professor had a tendency to object to things on principle.) But it had taken only a little cajoling to persuade him that such a trip would be mutually beneficial: gratifying for Felix, and for Cedric a welcome rest after the chore of indexing Cappadocian Capers, his new geological memoir. Personally, Felix rather questioned this title, unable to envisage Cedric capering anywhere, let alone amidst the rocky heights of Cappadocia. But the author had defended his choice by declaring that the note of levity had ‘layman’s appeal’ and that fingers would thus reach more readily into wallets. After being shown the cover proofs of a dauntingly harsh and arid landscape, Felix rather doubted this. His quizzical reaction had not been well received, and saying no more he had privately dwelt on capering amidst the seductive charms of Biarritz.
Currently, however, it was not the charms of Biarritz that occupied him but those of Southwold. The sartorial question was paramount.
It was all very well for Cedric, Felix reflected, for his friend’s garb rarely varied: the statutory dark suit and cream shirt (with just an occasional blue alternative to lend a touch of frivolity). Even on the beach Cedric’s bathing trunks were uniformly black. But for those of a more creative ilk, such as himself, a wider repertoire was required.
Thus Felix pondered his meticulously arranged wardrobe. A selection of the usual items would be needed: an assortment of stylish shirts, slightly raffish ties, a couple of natty jackets (plus the new smoking one) and a tailored suit or two for evening; and to fit any occasion, a range of footwear, from casual moccasins to highly polished Oxfords. Yes, naturally he would take all the main stuff. Two suitcases should suffice, though a third might be safer …
Well, those were the broad generalities. But what specifically should be worn in a film studio? The last thing he wanted was to commit the faux pas of being overdressed. Still, he was damned if he was going to sport Hawaiian shorts and ‘sloppy Joe’ jumpers as seen in those movie magazines idly scanned at the barber’s. Or, indeed, blue jeans as favoured by the followers of the late American star James Dean. Felix had never worn jeans in his life and he certainly wasn’t going to start now! He frowned, thinking of his own heroes: James Mason, George Sanders and David Niven. What did they wear when not in costume and lounging about in casual mufti? Something comfortable, no doubt, but essentially English and with just the merest nod in the direction of elegance … Ah yes, of course, beige slacks and a silk neck scarf. Ideal! He would go to Jermyn Street the very next day.
With that happy prospect he was about to pour himself a glass of sherry; but before he did so another thought struck him. What about headgear? Being ‘on location’ many of the scenes would be shot in the open air; and thus when not personally on call surely some sort of casual hat might be appropriate – not, of course, one of those Hemingway forage caps (Felix shuddered) no, a jaunty panama was the thing. His present one was beginning to look a trifle worn, a bit bendy in fact; high time for a replacement. Yes, indeed, after Jermyn Street a short stroll to Lock’s was clearly indicated.
The sherry was consumed with much satisfaction.
Meanwhile Cedric, having fewer sartorial choices, was less concerned with the number of suitcases he should take than whether the cottage had an efficient heating system. Admittedly at that time of year one was not expecting icy blasts. But even in London the unseasonal cold day was not unknown; and that east coast wind blew in straight from the Urals! A scarf and gloves might be a wise precaution. He made a mental note to put some in the car.
Of course, assuming the place was decently heated and not dripping with damp, it could indeed be very agreeable. Felix’s report had been glowing – which was just as well, for when his friend had revealed its name, Cot O’Bedlam, he had very nearly refused to go. However, apparently the amenities were entirely in order and offered everything to ensure a reasonable stay: large sitting room, two bedrooms and bathrooms, a hyper-modern kitchen, a conservatory with terrace, plus a small sheltered garden (most reassuring).
Yes, the prospect was not unpleasant; and after all, as Felix had insisted, it would be a way of relaxing after the tedious index business. What a chore that had been! Still, all finished now and he could take his ease and indulge in a little light reading. He must decide what to take to Southwold: a couple of Forsters and some Waugh perhaps, Saki naturally (his vade mecum), splendid Sydney Smith – and oh yes, the chance to reacquaint himself with the stories of WSM, a volume presented by the author himself when they had last visited his villa at Cap Ferrat. He was tempted to take a Simenon – but given the events of their previous visit to Southwold, crime, however cerebral, seemed not quite the thing. It wouldn’t do to strew further hostages in Fortune’s way!
Immersed in thoughts of his reading schedule, Cedric had momentarily overlooked the main point of their prospective visit: the film and Felix’s part in it. Thus selection made, and sipping a cup of lapsang, he sat on the sofa and contemplated.
What on earth was it all about? Felix had been appallingly vague, and apart from stressing that it was ‘terribly experimental’ didn’t even seem to know the title. But then with Barthlomew Hackle in charge any title probably changed from day to day. The young man’s mind was not of the most constant … And why had he chosen Felix for a role? (Luckily not a large one, the strain would have been intolerable!) The dear chap certainly exhibited thespian sensitivity; but as to having actual talent in that direction, Cedric rather doubted – unless of course you counted melodrama a skill. Perhaps it was indeed the photogenic profile, as Felix had coyly hinted. Certainly his profile was very clear, but it was sharp surely rather than ‘chiselled’ or ‘sculptured’; and those thin cheekbones and short spiky hair did not exactly bring to mind Clark Gable. For a moment Cedric harboured an image of Felix with the latter’s moustache … Impossible, he would look like a spiv. He smiled. Personally he found his friend’s face rather endearing; but the profile, clear though it was, was not exactly of the Novello mode … unless perhaps shot in a dim light with brilliantine and black hair dye.
Cedric’s reverie was interrupted by the telephone. It was Angela Fawcett.
‘My dear,’ she announced, ‘I am so sorry, but I am afraid I shall have to forgo your birthday lunch next week – overcome by events, as one might say. Rather exciting, really, and I’ve had to reschedule everything. You see, I shall be going to Southwold to see a film being shot. It’s the Hackle boy – you know, Amy’s current beau – he has a backer at last and is all poised to try his directional skills on the Suffolk coast. Great swathes of swirling clouds and freezing sea, I suppose. Anyway, he is full of enthusiasm and has very sweetly suggested that I go as a sort of encouraging observer … and, well, to be generally useful, I gather. Amy can’t go, so therefore I’ve asked—’
Interrupting the breathless spiel, Cedric replied casually that yes, he had heard about the film and that, as it happened, Felix would be playing a major role in it.
There was a gasp followed by a long pause. ‘Felix? But why? … And did you say a major role? How strange – I shouldn’t have thought that …’
Cedric smiled, and admitted that, actually, as far as he knew the part was very small; and that as to the reason he had no idea, but presumably the Hackle boy knew what he was doing (something which he firmly doubted). He added politely that Amy must be thrilled at the prospect.
‘Oh, indeed she is – but as I said, she won’t be there. Or certainly not to begin with. It’s the new whippet, you see: he is going to make her a lot of money in Shropshire.’
‘Really? Going to be the star turn in some dog show and win rosettes, is he?’
‘Ye-es. That is one way of putting it, I suppose … Anyway, luckily I shan’t be alone as dear Rosy is coming with me. I clinched the deal this afternoon. It’s all arranged!’
Lady Fawcett’s triumph was not especially shared by Cedric. He had nothing against Rosy Gilchrist; but to learn that she was to be with them as in the earlier visit with all its dire vicissitudes, gave him an uneasy flash of déjà vu. ‘How nice,’ he said smoothly, ‘just like old times … So where will you be staying?’
‘At The Swan. I have fixed everything. And then my Amy will join us after’ – she cleared her throat – ‘after Mr Bates has, er, dealt with things …’
‘Will that take long?’ Cedric enquired.
Lady Fawcett indicated that she was not cognisant with such matters, but was sure that Amy would arrive as speedily as possible. ‘She’s awfully fond of young Hackle, you know. Actually I think this might be the one!’
‘And does he think so?’
‘That’s what I aim to find out,’ she replied firmly. ‘Now, mind you keep on the qui vive and let me have your opinion as to his suitability. I trust your judgement, Cedric.’
With such faith ringing in his ears, she rang off.
Cedric lit a cigarette and reflected. Really, was he expected to act as some sort of voyeur or Fifth Columnist in the Fawcett affairs? It was a bit much.
However, irritation was soon dispersed, for the prospect of the forthcoming trip began to take a hold on his imagination. His memories of being stationed in the little town during the war were still sharp, and held a pleasurable nostalgia that the grim events of the previous visit had failed to eclipse. This time, without the menace of murder to cast a shadow, he could indulge those memories freely and retrace some of the old haunts … Yes, with his books and the cabaret of dear Felix’s film performance to keep him amused, it could indeed prove a most civilised holiday.
He lifted the telephone and dialled his friend’s number. ‘Dear boy,’ he began …
CHAPTER THREE
This time the drive up to Southwold proved smoother than before, Rosy being more familiar with the route, and Lady Fawcett being less prone to gesticulate wildly at grazing ruminants while wrenching the chauffeur’s eye from the road to admire the passing scenery. Evidently the novelty of unchartered territory beyond the metropolis had waned somewhat, and thus the journey was without hazard.
However, after Blythburgh, and approaching the large girls’ school in the vicinity of Reydon, Rosy felt a nervous jolt as memory of the earlier experience became disturbingly real. They had just driven past the narrow turn to the house from which so much of the drama had emanated; and while the house itself had been peaceful, the events surrounding it had been considerably less so … She glanced at her companion. But Lady Fawcett’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere: not of the past but the imminent future, for she had taken out her compact and was busily powdering her nose in readiness for The Swan.
Installed in her bedroom, Rosy unpacked, chose something suitable for the evening, and then spent five minutes at the open window gazing down at the high street.
A little later they were to meet Bartholomew Hackle whom Angela had invited for a drink in the hotel lounge. Rosy had never met the young man, but knew him by reputation and Amy’s garbled reports. From all accounts he was an amiable chap, cheerful and kindly but given to wild enthusiasms not always productive. Well, it was to be hoped that the film project worked – and perhaps, more importantly, that his current interest in Lady Fawcett’s daughter proved one of his more viable ventures! Rosy was quite fond of the younger girl (despite the latter’s noise and unremitting mirth) and, like her mother, felt it would be nice to see her ‘settled’. Much as an exuberant spaniel, Amy Fawcett needed a firm hand and loving playfellow. Would Bartholomew fit the bill? It remained to be seen.
With such thoughts in mind Rosy idly scanned the street below, alert for any changes from their last visit. But all was much as she remembered: charm without contrivance and a general air of quiet busyness. In Market Place the stalls beneath the Victorian lamp post were slowly packing up, women gossiped, dogs scuttled, the sun shone … and the wind blew. Rosy surveyed the string of hectically flapping bunting on the shopfront opposite. Oh yes, some things never altered!
Before turning back to the room she glanced to her right, and halfway down the street saw a couple of men engaged in animated conversation – or at least, one of them was certainly animated: a tall youth astride a bicycle and waving his arms with graphic gusto as if making some vital point. His companion was also distinctive, less by his gestures than by his hat: a smart panama worn at a distinctly jaunty angle. The promenade at Cannes sported many such hats, but here in Southwold it seemed just a trifle too chic. Rosy gazed – and then gasped. Oh lord, it was Felix!
Ah, of course – she had momentarily forgotten. According to Angela, the two friends had rented a cottage somewhere in the town to facilitate Felix’s involvement in this much-vaunted film of Bartholomew’s. Thus one could expect the pair to be ubiquitous … But who was the cyclist? Perhaps one of the film crew; yes, bound to be. She couldn’t imagine Felix chatting to a complete stranger, let alone one attached to a ramshackle bicycle. Oh well, presumably all would be revealed the next day ‘on set’. She smiled, and decided to take a quick bath before joining Angela and her guest for the preprandial drink.
Rosy was right in her recognition of Felix. He and Cedric had arrived at Cot O’Bedlam the previous day, and apart from its excruciating name, were well pleased with their temporary home. As Felix had hoped, it offered all the listed amenities, and Cedric was impressed with the spacious sitting room, large collection of books, small conservatory and its surprisingly comfortable veranda. ‘Film or no film,’ he had observed, ‘this couldn’t be a better place for a well-earned rest.’ Felix had agreed but muttered something about the film being paramount.
To celebrate matters they had dined at The Crown that night. But the following day Felix was eager to sample the pristine kitchen, and that afternoon had wandered into the high street in search of wine and ingredients for ‘une casserole du poisson à la Southwold’. Mission accomplished, and immersed in plans for his special concoction, he had stepped off the kerb unaware of the bicycle bearing down upon him.
‘Christ!’ exclaimed Bartholomew Hackle, ‘that was a near one. You almost had me in the gutter!’
‘Could have rung your bell,’ Felix retorted testily, and adjusted his panama.
They glowered at each other; and then as recognition dawned, simultaneously uttered ‘Ah!’
Mutual apologies were exchanged and hands shaken. Felix, still clueless about the projected film and eager to hear more of his own role, took the opportunity to invite the young man back to the cottage for a cup of tea to ‘discuss logistics’.
Bartholomew deemed this a good idea as he could then outline the shooting schedule and tell Felix about the other members of the cast. ‘You’ll love them,’ he enthused, ‘an absolutely first-rate bunch!’ Felix wondered about that, but nodded compliantly.
Thus with the movie director trundling the bicycle, its basket and panniers freighted with undisclosed ballast, they walked back to the cottage. Here Bartholomew leant the bike against the side of the porch and started to unload its cargo.
Felix was mildly surprised. ‘What’s in there?’ he enquired. ‘Film stuff?’
‘You could say so,’ was the cheerful reply. ‘Vital provisions for the set – Adnams’ Special. The cameramen won’t work without their tipple, and the grips get shirty if we don’t have the right brew.’ He paused and grinned: ‘Come to that, so does the director. But I daren’t leave it on the bike, you’ve no idea how sneaky people can be … at least, they are in London; maybe it’s different here. Still, one doesn’t want to risk it.’ He heaved the bags into the porch, while Felix went inside to alert Cedric.
Settled on the sofa with a cup of tea and munching a garibaldi biscuit, Bartholomew surveyed the room and nodded his appreciation. ‘Hmm, this is a bit of all right, isn’t it,’ he observed. ‘Very cosy. Much better than that barracks of a place we’ve got on the East Cliff! Far more civilised.’
‘But I thought that belonged to your cousin; surely it’s quite habitable?’ Cedric enquired. ‘I should have thought that at that size it must accommodate you all very comfortably.’
‘Oh it accommodates us all right,’ the young man replied, ‘but I don’t think comfort figures very strongly. It’s bleak, barren and draughty, and with some very dodgy plumbing. Shouldn’t wonder if there aren’t rats too; the girls won’t like that. Still, one isn’t there for sybaritic gaiety, we have a job to do: to make The Languid Labyrinth a howling success and to pot bags of money.’ He gave his biscuit a decisive bite, scattering crumbs over Cedric’s neatly folded jacket on the cushion next to him.
Felix craned forward. ‘Oh, is that its title? I had meant to ask you … Er, what does it mean exactly?’
‘Oh no meaning is exact,’ Bartholomew replied airily, ‘and even in its generality there is always the subjective factor, wouldn’t you agree?’
Felix replied uncertainly that he did agree but that surely the word ‘labyrinth’ was likely to hold some special significance.
‘You bet it does,’ Bartholomew exclaimed, ‘it’s what you might call an “existential conundrum”, a conundrum that evolves variously and whose resolution is determined by the skill of the exponent. It’s all to do with inner nuance and the play of shadows.’
‘I see,’ said Felix blankly.
‘But why “languid”?’ Cedric enquired. ‘I mean, if I got lost in a labyrinth I doubt if I should be in a state of languor … after all, one might encounter the Minotaur.’ He gave a dry laugh.
The other regarded him solemnly. ‘I say, that’s quite a good idea; I hadn’t thought of it like that. We could use the motif of the Minotaur as an underlying metaphor for the helplessness of man’s condition in the face of nihilism and grief. It could be given a—’
‘Fascinating,’ Cedric interrupted hastily. ‘Now, do give us a rundown on your team – quite a mixed group, I imagine. Any established stars among them?’
Bartholomew grinned, his earnestness gone. ‘Not unless you count the dog, Pixie. She belongs to Fred, the chief cameraman, and he won’t go anywhere without her.’
‘Oh yes? Nice little thing is she?’
The other grinned again. ‘You could say that … but presumably you mean the humans.’
Cedric nodded.
‘Well, my great coup is Alicia Gorringe. She was rather well thought of at RADA and won a prize in her final year. Currently she is “resting”, as these actresses put it, but she has had some filming experience and is very photogenic. Except that she’s brunette and not blonde; she’s a sort of Monica Vitti type.’ He paused, and then added thoughtfully, ‘Hips a bit wider perhaps – verging on the voluptuous, you might say. Walking away from the camera she’ll look jolly good, and I know Fred will do her justice. Actually,’ he added, taking another garibaldi, ‘I’m a bit worried that there could be a whiff of tension between her and Tippy Tildred, you know what the girls are like!’
Cedric was vague on the subject, but asked who Tippy Tildred was.
‘One of Hector Klein’s casualties. They had a spectacular bust-up a couple of months ago; and as she was at a loose end, and to stop her banging on about Hector’s beastliness, I asked if she would like to join the cast.’ He frowned. ‘It seemed a good idea at the time and I’ve given her quite a significant part. With luck it will work; she’s certainly got plenty of zest.’
‘Is she amusing?’ Cedric asked.
Bartholomew reflected. ‘She thinks she is.’
‘Ah – tedious you mean.’
‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’
‘But verging?’ Felix suggested.
The young man shrugged and smiled. ‘Verging or not, the point is she’s got the looks plus all the confidence to prance about in front of a camera. With a bit of polish she could be most useful. If our leading man, Robert Kestrel, does his stuff the scenes between them might be rather good.’
Cedric cleared his throat. ‘And what is his stuff exactly?’ he enquired with interest.
‘He smoulders.’
‘He does what?’
‘Smoulders – it’s his forte. He likes being dark and brooding.’
‘You mean like Mr Rochester?’ Felix asked brightly.
‘More like Marlon Brando, I should say. He met him once in New York. I gather Brando shook his hand, mumbled for twenty seconds, lit a cigarette and then went silent. Ever since then Kestrel has gone around declaring the chap is his mentor.’
‘So apart from smouldering, what’s his normal job?’ Felix asked.
‘He’s an insurance clerk in Surbiton.’
As a lavish provider of blooms for the Queen Mother, and in any case being far more concerned with his own part, Felix was unimpressed. He was about to quiz Bartholomew about this part, when the latter looked at his watch, gave a gasp of horror and said that he had to dash as he had been summoned for a drink with Lady Fawcett at The Swan.
‘You never know,’ he chortled, ‘she may become my future mother-in-law. Mustn’t keep the lady waiting, and I’ve got to take this stuff back to the studio first.’ He stood up and started to gather his impedimenta from the porch.
‘But what about my—’ began Felix.
‘Oh, it’s frightfully subtle,’ the other said hastily over his shoulder. ‘But don’t worry, all will be revealed tomorrow!’ So saying, he threw himself on to his saddle and pedalled precariously towards the high street.
