Last Act of All Read online

  She could try taking him to court, but the man Neville had retained was the sharpest operator in the business, and she didn’t fancy her chances. Lawsuits were the surest way to ruin, and anyway, once the word was out that you were likely to sue, any future prospect would have a lawyer along on every date and a palimony agreement ready to sign before you exchanged the first kiss.

  She had never, god knew, been romantic about marriage. Life hadn’t encouraged her to be romantic, and anyway, what did marriage to Neville really consist of? In private, they shared some fairly expert love-making and a lot of discussion of ‘Bradman’; apart from that, it was a relationship conducted almost entirely in public.

  The best thing about it was that it had given her, on a silver plate, all she needed at present. He was her passport to success and financial security — and he had, she knew, his reasons too, selfish and probably perverse, though she had never really bothered to wonder what they might be. It had been a bargain, no less binding because it had been dressed up in the language of soap opera.

  She had been content to be used, provided that payment was made in full, but anyone attempting to bilk languid Lilian Sheldon was going to find her true to her ancestry of street-fighters who had come over on the Irish boat and never learned the meaning of a clean fight.

  *

  The asthmatic tick of the long-case clock in the Red House sitting-room had always seemed to Helena an almost uncannily soothing sound, easing away the cares of the day with every swing of the pendulum.

  Tonight, however, the charm had lost its potency. She was restless, deeply troubled about Stephanie’s future, and Edward, unnaturally silent, was clearly both worried and depressed.

  It was shortly after nine o’clock when she first became aware of the noise. Uncertain at first, she glanced at Edward, and realized that he too had heard it, and stiffened.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ she said, getting to her feet as the sound became more distinct; the noise of a crowd in movement, with shouts and a strange, metallic banging.

  It was dark now, though they had not yet closed the curtains, and she could just make out a mass of people moving in the little square outside.

  ‘Switch off the lamp, Edward — I can’t see properly,’ she said over her shoulder, and as he complied the scene sprang into sharp focus.

  Under the yellow street-lamp by the old horse-trough, about twenty-five dark-clad people had gathered; men, she imagined, though, since their faces were covered by hoods or black balaclava-style masks, it was impossible to be sure. Four or five held up pitch torches, flaming smokily; the rest carried pots, pans, or metal bin lids which they were striking with thick wooden sticks in a rhythm almost tribal in its intensity.

  As she gazed in horrified incomprehension, a ragged cheer went up as another group marched into the square together, carrying on their shoulders a chair on poles in which lolled an effigy, stuffed and dressed as if in early preparation for Bonfire Night.

  The crowd parted before it, and it was carried in triumph to the centre under the street-lamp, where a phalanx formed about it. It was only at that moment, as the light fell on the guy’s tweed jacket and jaunty trilby hat, that Helena understood.

  ‘Oh, dear god,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Neville — it’s meant to be Neville!’

  She sensed Edward shifting uneasily in the dimness behind her. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘But Edward, whatever is going on? We must do something, stop them — oh no, look, they’re moving off!’

  At a brisk, determined pace, they were marching off in the direction of Radnesfield House, the shouts more threatening in tone now, the banging louder and more insistent than ever.

  Instead of answering, Edward pulled across the curtains, then switched the light back on, leaving them blinking like owls. ‘I don’t think we saw that, my dear.’

  Helena gaped at him. ‘But — but do you know what’s happening? What are they going to do?’

  ‘Now, don’t get upset. No one’s going to come to any harm. It’s a very old custom, one that ancient communities used for hundreds of years to demonstrate their anger when one of their number behaved in an intolerable way.’

  She was still bemused. ‘But what are they going to do?’

  ‘All they’ll do is to serenade him with the pots and pans — rough music, they call it — then they’ll set fire to the effigy, and that will be that. It’s an uncomfortable experience for the person at the receiving end, I grant you, but then Neville hasn’t exactly been considerate of other people’s feelings. It may be quite salutary.’

  ‘Edward, it’s barbaric! What if it gets out of hand — what if they attack Neville and Lilian? We’ve got to warn them, at least, or phone the police.’

  ‘I think that would be asking for trouble. If you let things take their course, nothing will get out of hand. But if you warned Neville, he would probably go and fetch a shotgun. If he wants the police, he can phone them himself.’

  She felt a frightening gulf opening between them, a sense that they were talking across the divide of centuries. ‘You’re on their side, really, aren’t you?’

  Distressed, Edward tried to bridge it by physical means, drawing her to him. ‘I sympathize, yes. But I can see why you would find it threatening. In today’s world we are used to demanding that outside agencies do all our social discipline for us, whereas Radnesfield has its own rules, and unlike modern fragmented communities, has unified support for those rules, and consensus on when enough really is enough. They don’t often do this, you know; I’ve only heard of it once before.’

  She hesitated, put under pressure by his need that she should see his point of view. And yes, in a way, she could almost understand it, if not quite sympathize.

  ‘You mean, this is a sort of safety-valve? It just seems so — so primitive!’

  ‘Ah well, there’s no denying that.’ Sensing her softening, he laughed gently. ‘We don’t like to acknowledge it, but an awful lot of our behaviour is primitive, even in civilized society, so-called. Just look on it as a rather dramatically-presented opinion poll. Neville and Lilian will be perfectly safe, I promise you.’

  She moved out of the circle of his arm to face him. ‘But Edward, think of it from the other point of view. Neville and Lilian won’t understand that it’s only a gesture. They won’t understand that the violence will be confined to banging pots and pans.’

  The sound was more muffled now. Edward, busying himself with folding a newspaper, did not meet her eyes.

  ‘In that case, perhaps he’ll give a little thought to the violence he’s inflicting on the community, and realize that he can’t hope to live in a selfish vacuum.’

  She drew breath to reply, but before she could speak he went on, trying hard to lighten the atmosphere, ‘Just “watch the wall, my darling!” It’s one of the oldest and wisest of village commandments.

  ‘Now, I know it’s early, but we might as well start getting ready for bed, don’t you think? We’ve had a stressful day.’

  Weakly, she allowed him to change the subject, though she could still hear the thump-thump-thump of the improvised drums. ‘That’s putting it mildly. And tomorrow is going to be worse.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I’m going to have to go and see Neville. I just can’t bear the thought of uprooting poor Steph, when she’s had such a difficult time already. I think I’ll phone and ask if we can have her home tomorrow. Neville has always professed to adore her, so she might manage to coax something out of him.’

  ‘I could collect her before lunch. I said I’d go and see the vicar in the afternoon. He muttered something about the roof of the church porch, but I’m sure it’s more than that. He’s in a state about something — wringing his hands even more than usual. He said Marcia had been very much upset by Neville’s decision.’

  ‘Hasn’t everyone?’ Suddenly, Helena found herself yawning hugely. ‘You should never have mentioned bed so early. All at once I feel absolutely shattered.’

  She glanced
at her watch, then shook it in annoyance. ‘Oh, drat the thing – it’s stopped again.’

  ‘Give it to me. I’ll take it in to Willie Comberton on the way to the church tomorrow. He still takes such a pride in his clock-making skills, poor old boy.’

  She took it off obediently, struggling with a sense of unreality. The village where everyone indulged old Willie was the same village where men who looked like terrorists marched on another man’s house to scare him into good behaviour. She believed Edward when he said there would be no violence, but the distant, sinister beating still made her shiver as she went upstairs.

  *

  Wrapped in a hazy cloud of well-being, Neville was enjoying his evening. Lilian appeared to have retired to her bedroom to brood on cost-effective revenge, while he lolled before the television in his study at the side of the house with a whisky decanter at his elbow, watching, with satisfied contempt, a rival drama series.

  Lilian’s sudden reappearance did not startle him. ‘Look at this — the man’s hopeless!’ he crowed, without turning as his wife entered the room.

  She went over and snapped off the set, ignoring his indignant protests. ‘Shut up, Neville. Something’s going on — saw it from the bedroom window. You’d better come.’

  Her heels skittering on the tiled floor, Lilian hurried to the dining-room, on the right of the front door, and did not switch on the lights. The noise was loud now, loud and menacing.

  ‘What in hell—’

  Neville crossed to the window, shouldering Lilian aside, and thought for a confused moment that he had strayed on to a film set, with extras playing sans culottes demanding aristo blood.

  Men were marching towards him — an indeterminate, but alarming number. They were hooded and faceless shapes, like Irish terrorists, and they howled a voiceless, bloodcurdling paean of hate. The drumming of wood on metal, which had been keeping march time, mounted to an erratic crescendo, until his head throbbed with the din. Lilian crouched in the opposite corner, hands over her ears.

  The brandished flares formed an aisle, and down it, from the back, moved a procession, carrying high the figure lashed to its chair which they set down in full view of the window.

  Neville drew back into the shadows, but the surge of sound from the mob told him they had seen him. He was sweating now, afraid to stay, afraid to move.

  One of the figures, bearing a torch, moved to the front, and at a violent gesture from him a hush fell, shocking after the din.

  ‘You’ll be next, Fielding!’ His yell broke the silence, then he thrust the torch to the scarecrow figure which the cowering victim inside recognized as a caricature of himself.

  In a shower of sparks, the guy, composed mainly of dry hay, flared spectacularly, to renewed cheers from the crowd and even more frenzied drumming, as they advanced to circle it triumphantly.

  ‘Oh god!’ Lilian whimpered. ‘What are they going to do now? Do something, Neville! Stop them!’

  Fear was almost expelled by rage at her stupidity. ‘What the hell do you expect me to do?’ he snarled in a savage undertone. ‘Reason with them, or attack them single-handed?’

  But even as they spoke, abruptly it was over. The noise died. The torches were extinguished. The black figures faded into the darkness. Within seconds, no sign of their ordeal remained except the collapsed, smouldering embers of the effigy, and the remnants of a tweed jacket and a trilby hat beside a scorched and broken chair.

  With the removal of immediate danger, he turned on Lilian, incandescent with rage. ‘Well, phone the sodding police, woman, why don’t you? Do they have to burn the house down first?’

  Without argument, Lilian fled.

  *

  The interview with the police did nothing to calm Neville’s rage. Having assured themselves that, despite Lilian’s incoherent distress, the mob had in fact dispersed, they took almost an hour to come from Limber, and then were less than sanguine.

  ‘Not a lot we can do about it till morning, sir, when we can go round and ask some questions. Though we’re not likely to get much out of them — close-mouthed in Radnesfield, they are. Famous for it.’

  Fielding was starting to go white about the mouth. ‘Don’t you think you might just possibly try for a few arrests tonight? There were dozens of them involved, after all.’

  The sergeant, with a disapproving intake of breath, shook his head. ‘Not tonight, no, sir. We’d have them complaining about midnight raids and Gestapo tactics and such over what is just really a nasty prank, when all’s said and done. Unless you can think of anyone who might be harbouring a particular grudge?’

  Lilian, sipping a brandy, sneered. ‘Apart from the whole village, you mean, sergeant? He’s planning to turn it into Welwyn Garden City, and for some funny reason they’re not very pleased.’

  ‘That’s still not exactly a lead, madam. If you were in a position to be more specific, now—’

  She shot a sidelong, vindictive look at her husband. ‘Oh, try Jack Daley,’ she said. ‘The bungalow up towards the Home Farm. He’s got such a common little slag for a wife; just Neville’s mark.’

  ‘Bitch!’ The venomous exclamation was surprised out of him; the policemen exchanged significant glances.

  ‘Perhaps we’ll pop round there before we go,’ the sergeant said pacifically. ‘Gives us something to go on. We’ll show ourselves out and take a look at the remains of the fire round the front.’

  Fielding followed them to lock up. When he returned, he poured himself another whisky, his hands shaking with fury. He had been made to look an impotent fool, and the world was going to pay for it. Lilian being the most immediate target, he turned on her.

  But bullying her was unrewarding, now she had nothing to lose. He discovered that, possibly to her surprise as much as his, she had lost none of her one-time command of pungent invective, and retired to the spare room, still raging. Smashing a pretty Chinese bowl afforded him only limited satisfaction.

  *

  When Jack Daley came to the door, he was in short sleeves and slippers. He looked relaxed, and artistically surprised to see the representatives of the law on his doorstep.

  ‘Stone the crows, if it isn’t the Fuzz,’ he said humorously. ‘What can I do for you? Surely you’re not chasing stolen cars at this time of night?’

  ‘Er — no. Sorry to trouble you so late, sir, but we saw your lights were on. Just a routine enquiry, really. Can you give me some idea of your movements this evening? There’s been a bit of a disturbance in the village, see, and we’re trying to find out if anyone saw anything unusual.’

  ‘Disturbance? In Radnesfield? That’s a bit funky, isn’t it, lads?’ He was laughing at them, and the sergeant, who was not a stupid man, eyed him narrowly as he went on.

  ‘Well, being a public-spirited citizen, I’d have loved to be able to help you, but I’ve been at home, haven’t I, having a quiet evening with the old trouble and strife. So I’m not going to be much use to you, am I?’ The light brown eyes were hard and bright. ‘But of course, you don’t like taking anybody’s word, do you? Sandra!’ he called over his shoulder, ‘Come here, will you?’

  Sandra Daley, looking sullen, appeared from the lounge, and Daley put his arm round her.

  ‘Oh there you are, pet. Tell the nice gentlemen where I was this evening. They’re afraid I might be telling naughty porkies when I say I didn’t go out.’

  She hesitated, but only for a second. ‘That’s right,’ she said tunelessly. ‘He was here with me all evening.’

  ‘Very good, madam.’ The sergeant’s voice was expressionless, but he gave his subordinate a speaking look. ‘We may need a full statement later, but we won’t disturb you any more tonight.’

  Daley was still smiling as they drove away, but as he closed the door his smile faded.

  ‘You didn’t need to hurt me.’ She was resentful. ‘I’ll have bruises on my arm tomorrow.’

  ‘So?’ He swung away from her, back to the lounge and the late-night film.

&nb
sp; ‘Where — where were you, anyway?’

  Without replying, he shut the door. She was left standing alone in the hall, rubbing her painful arm with a nervous movement.

  *

  Lilian stayed in bed on Saturday morning. Sharon, looking scared, had given Neville breakfast with the air of one putting meat into a lion’s cage, then scuttled about to light a fire in the study before withdrawing to the comparative safety of the kitchen.

  Neville, suffering the after-effects of whisky and bad-temper, settled himself once more in the study with the newspapers. He flicked through impatiently, scanning them for any mention of the Bradman furore; finding none, he threw them crumpled to the floor in annoyance, and went back to his unrewarding thoughts.

  Exhilaration, that was what he was entitled to feel. Freedom was so nearly within his grasp, freedom from those pettifogging restrictions that little men kept trying to impose on Harry.

  It almost made him laugh. Restrict Harry? Tie down a hurricane! Harry had grown too big for them, and Harry was taking Neville with him. In fact, these days it was pretty hard to be sure where he stopped and Harry began.

  He frowned thoughtfully. There had been differences, at one time, but when he looked back, all he could envisage was a blank canvas, waiting for Harry’s bold brushstrokes to give him identity.

  He had no doubt of his power now. He could do as he chose, and he had noticed that as his personal behaviour became more and more confidently outrageous, his victims became less and less able to use the polite barricade of assumed indifference.

  It was hugely pleasing. Sometimes he felt like one of the great film directors — Buñuel perhaps, or Godard — but greater than any, of course, since they dealt in celluloid and he in people’s lives. Helena, Jack Daley, Sandra, Lilian, George Wagstaff, Chris, even the vicar’s unspeakable wife — he had them all helplessly dancing to the tune he piped.

  Last night’s episode, however, was not part of his composition. He had pencilled in orchestration for opposition and hostility, and it had all been quite clear in his head. The angry peasantry, lumpish and inarticulate: he, suave, Olympian, turning them aside with mocking superiority.