The Sword in the Stone-Dead

   

  Copyright © 2016 by Paul Tomlinson

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted, in whole or in part, or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in the context of a book review.

  The Sword in the Stone-Dead is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental. References to actual persons in the 1930s film industry are made in a fictional context.

  First published May 2016

  Publisher: Paul Tomlinson 

  www.paultomlinson.org

  Cover image and design © 2016 by Paul Tomlinson 

  To my parents, who bought me my first typewriter 

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Map - The Scene of the Crime

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Afterword: ‘How to Not Write a Whodunit’

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

   

  Chapter 1

  Sunset and the clouds were lit pink like the inside of seashells. Off the main road, two massive crumbling gateposts stood like sentries: no gates between them and no walls beside them, but still it seemed that they could refuse access. A weathered sign: Silberman’s Keep. The unpaved road wound through trees that dusk had already turned into spiky shadows. Darkness grew deeper under the canopy of leaves. Suddenly the road broke out of the trees into ground. The surface changed to pale  crushed stone and it became a long, straight driveway, running between regimented lines of poplars. At the top of the drive stood the keep.

  The crenellations of the tower were a medieval silhouette against the rosy sky. The keep was a castle in miniature, its walls rough-faced stone, the corners standing out in smoother limestone, like mortise and tenon in a dresser drawer. Windows in the upper floors were dark, but orange light flickered lower down, as if the tower had been placed on a bonfire.

  In front of the tower was a gatehouse: square turrets on either side of an arched entrance, portcullis raised. The diamond panes of mullioned windows above the gate caught the evening light like dragon scales.

  Before it reached the gatehouse, the driveway split and curved around a circle of grass that contained an ornamental pond. In the centre, three monstrous bronze dolphins rose out of the water, mouths gaping, but the fountain they promised did not appear. The surface of the pond looked oily and dead, mottled with the leaves of last year’s water-lilies.

  Beyond the gateway was a courtyard, alive with activity. To one side, a huge cone-shaped pile of timber blazed, splashing a shifting orange light up against the tower. On the other, close to a line of rough wooden tables, was a glowing pile of coals over which a spit was being turned: the roasting hog glistened like brown toffee and its juices dripped and crackled on the embers. Servers carried platters and jugs and huge wooden bowls out of the main hall, and laid the banquet on the trestle tables. The men were dressed in simple smocks over tight leggings; the women in tightly-laced bodices and full skirts. A group of musicians occupied a corner of the courtyard, all in simple peasant dress, nursing fiddle, lute, drum or recorder, awaiting the arrival of the guests.

  Mist rose over the open ground as the sun disappeared. The croaking of a horn came from somewhere in the woods, and then two glowing yellow discs appeared, like eyes peering through the rolling vapour. There was a throaty rattling and rumbling as something emerged from the trees, crunching over the gravel, and moved towards the gatehouse. Cries arose from within the courtyard.

  “It’s here!”

  The rumbling and crunching drew closer, and again the horn croaked out a warning. The coach loomed out of the mist, gleaming red and cream paintwork, twin silver bumpers beneath the black radiator grill. People began spilling out of the side door before the wheels had stopped turning. The women wore full-length gowns—no serving wenches, these—and the men in white shirts, velvet doublets, and hose. They had all been brought here from the set of the motion picture Arthur and Guinevere: the medieval banquet was a ‘thank you’ from their director. Or perhaps he was doing it for the sake of publicity

  As its passengers trooped in through the gateway, the coach rattled into life again, bluish smoke clouding the air behind it. It ground slowly around the pond. There was a violent honking of horns as a small bright blue sports car sped around the fountain in the opposite direction, directly towards the coach, swerving at the last minute to avoid a collision. The coach driver leaned out of his window to hurl words at the grinning young man who clambered out of the little MG, and who seemed to be dressed as an off-duty knight. A Rolls Royce Phantom drew up to a more statesman-like halt. But its apparent calm was short-lived, as a wild-haired, red-bearded giant threw open the rear door, bursting out: Leo Fulbright looked like a Viking stuffed into the costume of a medieval King. He bellowed at the drivers of the coach and sports car.

  “Get them out of the bloody way! I said no vehicles!” He stomped back towards the Rolls, where the driver stood looking lost. “Why is it that no one can take bloody direction these days?” Fulbright fumed. “You,” he pointed at his driver, “I want all of these cars out of sight. I don’t want to see a single one. This is meant to be medieval bloody England!”

  Fulbright’s driver, Malloy, moved towards the MG. He was a broad-shouldered young man with dark hair and bright blue eyes that were almost turquoise.

  “Where are you going?” Fulbright bellowed at him. “After you’ve fetched Miss Trenton from the station, you idiot!”

  Malloy shuffled back towards Fulbright’s car: he walked with his eyes down and head turned in an attempt to hide what might have been a grease smudge on his chin, but was probably a bruise. 

  As the Rolls Royce was pulling away, another limousine purred up behind Fulbright. He harrumphed and strode towards the latest arrival. Standing with his hands on his hips, he tried to present a regal figure and assert his mastery.

  A uniformed chauffeur opened the door of the Bentley and helped his passenger out. She wore a long black evening dress and a black shawl; leaning on a silver-topped walking cane, she stood aloof and erect, like a Victorian dowager.

  “Leo,” she said, by way of greeting. He looked her up and down, clearly displeased with what she was wearing.

  “You might have made an effort, Margot.”

  “I did: I am here, aren’t I?” Without sparing him another glance, she strode past him towards the gateway, limping slightly.

  Leo Fulbright muttered something under his breath as her Bentley drove away. He turned and was startled to find someone standing beside him. The thin man wore evening dress, his hair was slicked back and parted on one side, and his pencil-thin moustache twitched as his lips formed a half-smile.

  “Vickery,” Fulbright said, still regaining his composure. “You came.” Was there a hint of disappointment in his voice? “No costu
me?”

  “I feel I am too old for dressing up,” Vickery answered. “I shall leave that to you actors.”

  “I—” Fulbright missed his cue.

  “Shall we go in?” Vickery smiled his half-smile again, and set off towards the gateway into the courtyard. After a moment, Fulbright blew air out through his moustache and stomped after him.

  “Benjamin, darling, how lovely to see you,” Margot McCrae said as Vickery entered the courtyard. She was standing on some stone steps looking down on the goings on in the courtyard with an expression of disdain. “You avoided the fancy dress too, thank you.”

  Vickery shrugged. “My armour is at the dry-cleaners, they’re trying to get a rust spot out of it. What is that smell?”

  “They’re burning a pig on a spit–presumably because they couldn’t find the Standard theatre critic.”

  “A wild boar in place of a vile boor?” Vickery said. “We’re not dining alfresco one hopes?”

  “Only the hoi polloi are eating at the outdoor trough,” Margot said. “You and I will be joining the blue-bloods and gentlefolk for a banquet in the ‘great’ hall.”

  “I do feel ever so honoured,” Vickery mock-gushed. “Are all these people working on Leo’s motion picture? There are dozens of them.”

  Margot looked down on those milling around in the courtyard. “And they will all be shipped back to civilisation on the charabanc come midnight—lucky blighters.” She looked up at the keep and shivered. “I can’t believe we’ve agreed to stay in this dreadful place for the whole weekend.”

  “It is rather medieval,” Vickery said. “Though it’s all fake, of course, a folly built as the country home for a wealthy Victorian businessman. He put all of his money in a South African diamond mine and lost it. The money, not the mine. No diamonds, you see. Drowned himself in the lake behind the keep, though his family maintained it was a boating accident.”

  “Who drowned himself?” Margot asked.

  “Ephram Zilberman—of Zilberman’s Pickles: made his fortune bottling eggs and onions, and later tried herring and pig’s feet, but they never really caught on. Rumours that he requested his body be preserved in vinegar before burial are entirely spurious.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Benjamin? I have almost no interest in the living, never mind the dead.”

  “I want people to think we were deeply engaged in a fascinating conversation,” Vickery said.

  “Since when do you care what people think?”

  “When I am seeking to deceive them,” Vickery said.

  Leo Fulbright stomped across the courtyard, looked out through the gateway, and then stomped back to the door into the keep, where he shouted over the heads of the servers.

  “Where’s that butler chap, Crawley? I said I wanted that bloody fountain working before nightfall. And did it happen,” he muttered, “did it buggery.”

  “Tell me, how is your secret investigation progressing?” Margot asked.

  Vickery sighed. “Does everyone know my purpose here?”

  “Only the family, dear. Everyone else thinks you’re here to teach that old drunk a few tricks to make him look like a master magician.”

  “Oh, to have my services rated so highly.” Vickery rolled his eyes.

  “Was King Arthur really medieval?” Margot asked, watching Fulbright progress around the courtyard and stir the musicians into life.

  “No, earlier. Until the French adopted him: they were mad keen on tales of chivalrous knights.”

  “I was married to a knight. He wasn’t at all chivalrous. Though he does have a castle, apparently.”

  “The keep belongs to—?”

  “My ex-husband, yes.”

  “Sir Geoffrey?”

  “I only have one ex-husband—at the moment.” She growled this last as she watched Leo Fulbright trot across to the gateway to greet the latest arrival.

  Eleanor Trenton was his Guinevere, here tonight, and in the motion picture that Fulbright was currently directing. She was dressed in a long, pale dress, with tightly laced bodice and a richly embroidered belt. She wore her hair in a single long plait, and it was topped with a plain metal coronet. 

  “What do you think of Leo’s leading lady?” Margot asked.

  “Everyone knows he has only one leading lady, Margot.”

  “Insipid isn’t she? I have never seen such absence of colour in a woman. Even her eyelashes are pale—like a piglet’s. I suppose you think she looks angelic, you men are all...” Margot caught herself and coughed. “I’m sorry, Ben, I didn’t...”

  “It is nothing.”

  “Do you know her? When I first met her I thought she seemed familiar,” Margot said.

  “I don’t believe I have ever seen her before,” Vickery said.

  “Hmm, there’s something about her...”

  “Where do you think you’re off to, Molly?” Fulbright yelled at the driver who had delivered Miss Trenton.

  “To ‘shift those bloody cars’ like you asked,” Malloy answered, his voice calm and with a hint of an Irish accent. 

  “Yes, well, be quick about it. And then come and find me inside. I want you to set up the screen and the projector, if it’s not beyond your ability.”

  “Sire.” Malloy bowed and exited.

  “Why do people stay in his employ?” Vickery asked.

  “They don’t. Malloy is the third driver this year—and it’s only May.”

  “Malloy, that’s his name?”

  “Jamie Malloy. You know him?”

  “I—he used to work for someone—an acquaintance,” Vickery said, staring after the departing figure.

  “But his name wasn’t Malloy?”

  “I’m sure it was. I just forget these things.”

  “But you remembered his face. Interesting...”

  “What is?” 

  “The fact that I can never guess what you’re thinking.” Margot smiled and shook her head.

  Fulbright took Eleanor Trenton’s hand and led her around the courtyard, like a young man on a high school date.

  “Does your husband’s behaviour embarrass you?” Vickery asked.

  “You know I was unfaithful to my first husband with Leo?” She said.

  “I had heard that,” Vickery replied.

  “Actors are flighty. We are not to be depended upon. You know what it’s like in the theatre, Benjamin. A lot of scurrying around behind the scenes to make everything look effortless. Then a few short hours of high emotion—that’s the thing we crave. Anything that occurs away from the limelight is only ever half as bright. Real life never quite reaches the heady peak of a first night performance.”

  “Even love?” Vickery asked.

  “Even love. So it would be hypocritical of me to throw a tantrum now, wouldn’t it? And it’s not as though I have any great desire to share my bed with him anymore. Husbands are like children, they stray if you’re too strict with them. Or in Geoffrey’s case, not strict enough.”

  Vickery stifled a laugh. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be: I think it was hilarious. Geoffrey loves dominant women—not a word from you! He strayed because I wasn’t... strict enough with him. But when he was caught with his trousers down in Madame’s dungeon, well, I just had to divorce him.” 

  “It must have been a terrible shock when poor Geoffrey’s secret was made public,” Vickery said.

  “Well, of course, one has to give that impression,” Margot said. “Though you have to be careful with the moral outrage—particularly when you’re carrying another man’s child. That’s why I married Leo—for Linette’s sake. It certainly wasn’t for his money!” She seemed to think this particularly amusing. “Geoffrey saw to it that I would never be penniless. And I got to keep the London house. He withdrew from public life, as they say. The divorce, marriage to Leo, it was all sorted before Linette was born. As with all plots, timing is the key.”

  She and Vickery regarded each other for a moment.


  “Did Sir Geoffrey ever come to suspect that Leo was behind his public disgrace?” Vickery asked.

  “Leo had nothing to do with Geoffrey’s exposure, far too subtle a plot for him,” she said.

  “I see. Sir Geoffrey is unlikely to be a suspect then?”

  “Suspect?”

  “The death threats that Leo has been receiving,” Vickery said.

  “You mustn’t take those too seriously,” Margot said. “I’m sure they are just an attempt to court publicity. That sort of melodrama Leo is quite capable of plotting himself.”

  “Will he be here this weekend, Sir Geoffrey?”

  “I very much doubt it. He’s rarely seen in public nowadays.”

  “You two are still on speaking terms?” Vickery asked.

  “We weren’t on speaking terms when we were married. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Leo has obtained the use of Sir Geoffrey’s folly, for the party tonight, and for the filming of some scenes for his motion picture. Does it not strike you as odd that your husband and your ex-husband should engage in any kind of business transaction.”

  “Should it?” Her tone suggested that it didn’t

  “If I were Sir Geoffrey, I’m sure I wouldn’t even want to be in the same room as Leo Fulbright,” Vickery said.

  “Benjamin, dear, nobody wants to be in the same room as Leo, we do it because we have to.”

  Vickery spied Margot’s daughter across the courtyard. She was wearing the long dress of a medieval lady in a rich green colour, the sleeves trailing almost to the ground. She had on a pillbox-like hat with her hair in gold crispinettes.

  “Who’s that young man with Linette?” Vickery asked. “I saw him arrive in a tiny sports car.”

  Margot raised her lorgnette and peered across the courtyard.

  “He’s a photographer—Oliver something. Fast car, easy smile—could charm the knickers off a nun, as they say.”

  “Linette seems rather taken with him.”

  “Hopefully she’s doing it to spite her father. Leo has forbidden her seeing him.”