Last of the Great Romantics (21 page)

'I think I can safely assure you that no member of staff would accept any kind of bribe, no matter how tempting. We value loyalty here, you know.' Here I go, sounding like the Duchess of Devonshire again, Daisy thought. But bugger Julia anyway, she really had overstepped the mark this time. When she thought of poor Molly and Tim, slaving day and night so that the wedding would be a success and then Mrs Flanagan . . . This was a slightly more sobering thought.

'I wouldn't put it past that bloody family retainer of yours. Quite apart from the fact that she doesn't appear to actually do anything apart from watch TV and smoke, can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that if she were offered fifty thousand euros for a few photos and juicy titbits about Mark and Eleanor . . .'

'Out of the question,' replied Daisy firmly. Convincing herself proved to be a bit more difficult, though.

As soon as that morning's meeting had 'wrapped' (in Julia's words), Mick the head gardener bolted. He made his escape through the Yellow Drawing Room which led directly out on to the terrace and then into the marquee via a long, snaking overhead canopy, just in case the one thing Julia couldn't control, the weather in March, let them down on the day. She had issued poor, hardworking Mick with one of her legendary schedules, so that not one idle, stray leaf would befoul the driveway on the big day, and so the surrounding lawns would be at their elegant, manicured best, with time to spare.

'Any particular style or cut?' he'd asked her sarcastically at the end of the meeting.

'As close to a Brazilian as fucking possible,' replied Julia in a get-to-work-and-get-out-of-my-sight tone of voice.

'A what?' he muttered, removing himself from the line of fire.

'Just short and neat,' Daisy whispered back to him, 'a bit like a number one haircut.'

Andrew often used to say that Julia Belshaw could run the country with one hand tied behind her back and, it had to be said, he wasn't far wrong. With just days to go, everything had been organized with all of her usual super-efficient professionalism. The Hall, both inside and out, quite simply had never looked better. Even the tiresome distraction of actual paying guests had thoughtfully been removed by
Gotcha
magazine.

Insisting that their team have the full run of the Hall in the lead-up to the big day, they had requested that any visitors who had booked rooms at the Hall that fortnight be cancelled. This meant a bunch of white lies from both Daisy and Amber, as they contacted guests and pleaded overbooking, with the sweetener of a freebie weekend later in the spring, by way of an apology. It seemed that the entire estate was a huge, buzzing hive of activity, everyone hot-footing around the place desperately trying to stick to the impossible schedules Julia had issued them with. 'I'm not asking anyone to do anything I'm not doing myself,' had been her justification. 'If I can put in fifteen-hour days, we all can.'

Even Mrs Flanagan had been prised out of the family room, the TV guide ruthlessly snatched from her, and sent to make sure the bedrooms were at their pristine best. Luckily for her though, she was paired off with Molly, who happily scrubbed every spare surface in each and every room while Mrs Flanagan stood outside the front door smoking fag after fag.

'Could you kindly refrain from smoking out there?' Molly sniped at her, sticking her head out of an upstairs window. 'The smell carries, you know. It's stinking out this room and it's aggravating my asthma.'

'Do ya think I enjoy smoking, do ya? I'm doing this to get rid of the midges.'

'What midges?'

'My point exactly, I'm after smoking them all away for ya. Try and keep up, will ya, luv?'

It was well after eleven one night when Daisy wearily walked the indefatigable Julia across the driveway to her car.

'You've got exactly eight hours turnaround time before our next breakfast meeting,' Julia was saying, 'so do at least try to get some rest. We're in tip-top shape, you know; I'm very pleased. Naturally, there are major things like flower arrangements to sweat about, but not until D-Day minus three days.'

'You'd think you were launching the space shuttle,' Daisy yawned, marvelling at Julia's energy and wondering a) what she was on and b) if she could get her hands on some of it.

'Straight to bed now, you look exhausted and I need you firing on all cylinders for the rehearsal ceremony tomorrow.' Even after a fifteen-hour day, Julia could still sound bossy.

Ja, mein Führer, Daisy thought, suddenly getting an urge to goosestep all the way to her car, although all she said aloud was, 'Thanks, Julia. I'll just send Portia a quick email and then I'll be out like a light.'

'Give her and Andrew all my love,' said Julia, considerably more perked up. 'And tell them that I have everything under control here. I hate to tempt fate, but for once, I really feel confident that nothing, absolutely nothing can go wrong.'

As though on cue, a loud, wailing, screeching noise that sounded a bit like a demented banshee pierced the still night air. 'GET YOUR FILTHY PAWS OFF HIM, YOU IGNORANT BOORS, HE'S MINE AND I DEMAND THAT YOU LEAVE HIM ALONE!'

'All units alert, we have an SOS on our hands, I repeat an SOS. Request immediate back-up.'

'I'm standing beside you, you fucking eejit, will you for Jaysus' sake stop quoting Abba song titles?'

From around the side of the garden path came both security men, followed by a maniacal Lucasta screeching at them for all she was worth. 'All you're doing is frightening him, you BRUTES! Now he'll never trust me again!'

Daisy and Julia peered into the darkness and, between them, could just about make out a huge, hulking man's silhouette looming dimly out of the dark night.

'And you needn't think you're off any hooks either,' one of the guards yelled at Lucasta. 'You've a right load of explaining to do.'

'Ah, give the aul' one a break,' replied the other. 'She's probably some harmless local bag lady from the village. Look at the state of her, she must have been sleeping rough for years.'

'This is my mother, Lady Davenport,' said Daisy, judging it wise to step into the fray. 'It's quite all right, she lives here and poses no security threat.'

'Thank you, darling, I was beginning to feel like a terrorist there for a moment,' said Lucasta, fumbling in her pocket for a cigarette.

'Can you identify this man?' asked Tweedledum, indicating the Yeti beside them.

Daisy squinted into the darkness and one of the men obligingly shone his torch into the stranger's face. He was a giant of a man, impossible to put an age on, heavily bearded and filthy dirty. He said nothing, just blinked at the harsh light which must have been blinding him.

'I'm really sorry,' said Daisy, beginning to get nervous. 'I've never seen him before in my life.'

'Right, in that case,' replied Tweedledee, 'I'm calling in the local guards to deal with you, for trespassing on private property.' He went to grab their hostage roughly by the arm and then immediately backed off because of the revolting stench from him. 'Urghhhh, the bleedin' whiff off you!'

'I'm terribly sorry, lads, but theoretically, I'm not actually trespassing,' replied the Yeti politely.

'You can explain that to the guards,' said Tweedledum.

'Yeah, and maybe you'll decide to give them your name,' said Tweedledee, sounding like one kid that was about to tell on another over some bit of playground messing.

'Right so, lads,' said the Yeti in the tone of one who knows the game is up. 'Now, I have to tell you that, although I'm opposed to titles and ownership of land and all of that malarkey, as it happens, I do have a fundamental right to be here and—'

'Jesus, will you just give us your feckin' name and let us get in out of the freezing cold!'

'Well . . . in that case, I suppose I'm Lord Davenport.'

Chapter Fourteen

'It's a sitcom. I'm stuck in the middle of a bloody sitcom.' Julia was sitting at the bar in the Long Gallery staring into space and shivering from head to toe, as though she'd just been in a car crash.

'I think she could use a very large brandy,' Daisy said to Gorgeous George behind the bar, who instantly hopped to it.

'Give me anything, rubbing alcohol, anything,' Julia said numbly. 'As long as it's fermented, I don't give a fuck.'

'This is only a minor setback,' Daisy said firmly, trying to convince herself more than anyone, 'and we'll sort it out somehow, so just try and relax, OK?'

It was utter chaos in the Long Gallery, but fortunately for Daisy, years of living at Davenport Hall had inured her to dealing with complete bedlam. Tweedledum and Tweedledee had carried out their threat and called the guards, who were now questioning the intruder. Or at least trying to, given that Lucasta was still shrieking at the top of her voice and invoking the curse of the Davenports on all present. (No one batted an eyelid though, as Lucasta's curses were so ineffectual that they were generally thought to bring good luck to the object of her wrath, usually someone she owed money to.)

'I discovered him, he's my friend and he was incredibly sweet to Martini and we've been having some lovely chats so therefore he belongs to me so therefore YOU CAN ALL BUGGER OFF,' she screeched, as though this were a stray dog she'd found on the side of the road.

'Just a few questions, Lady Davenport, and then we'll all be out of your hair,' replied Ban Garda Noreen Reynolds calmly, well used to dealing with Lucasta and the various spectacular scrapes she'd got herself into over the years. In fact, the goings-on at Davenport Hall were almost the stuff of legend at Ballyroan's tiny Garda station and over the years had morphed into a kind of blooding ritual for new and inexperienced recruits, the theory being that if you could handle Lucasta, Bin Laden would be a comparative stroll in the park.

Noreen herself, as a young rookie some twenty years ago, could still remember getting a call from Lucasta to say that her husband, Blackjack, had just dropped dead having accidentally shot himself while cleaning his rifle and could the police please come and clear up the awful mess. Poor Noreen was there within minutes, puzzled by the sniggers of her colleagues when she told them she was headed for Davenport Hall. She did think it a bit odd though when Lucasta asked her to stop off at Devaney's pub on her way to pick up cigarettes and a fresh case of gin but put it down to the understandable shock of a newly grieving widow. Her years of training at Templemore weren't entirely wasted though; she began to smell a huge rat as soon as she arrived at the Hall and discovered the mother and father of all parties in full swing. She later found out that it was Blackjack who had let her in, looking in the pink of health and not lying in a pool of blood with a single gunshot to his head as she'd been led to believe. When Noreen eventually tracked down the Lady of the house, she found her pissed drunk under a billiard table, being felt up by a considerably younger man. The only explanation she could get out of her was: 'Oh, I didn't think you'd mind popping over with fresh supplies, officer. I'm far too locked to drive myself so just think, you've actually prevented a crime, you clever old thing.'

A charge of wasting police time was utterly ignored; Lucasta didn't even bother turning up in court and her solicitor got her off on an insanity plea. Not that she learnt any lessons; over the years she had even called out the fire brigade to help her take down a painting she couldn't reach ('I've simply got to pawn it before my husband does, darling. If he gets to this before me, the silly bugger won't even buy me as much as a box of ciggies'). On one famous occasion, she had sent for an ambulance sounding panic-stricken and saying that Daisy had been thrown from her horse and broken her neck. The ambulance duly trundled out all the way from Kildare only to discover that she actually wanted them to administer CPR on her favourite cat, who was a bit poorly. As far as she was concerned, the emergency services were nothing but unpaid staff, at her twenty-four-hour beck and call.

Professional as she was though, poor Noreen was utterly unprepared for this. For a start, the suspect completely panicked when he was taken inside the Hall and insisted on being questioned in a small, private room. Daisy leapt in and donated her office for the purpose, dying to sit in. She asked Noreen if she could be there for what she presumed would be an interrogation of sorts and was told no.

'We shouldn't be too long,' Noreen calmly told her, 'and I may have to make a few phone calls to verify his story. You just wait in the Long Gallery and I'll give you a shout the minute we're done.'

Secondly, the stench from him was so disgustingly overpowering that Noreen and her partner, a junior garda, had to take turns to run out of the tiny office and on to the upper corridor for gulps of air. Not exactly how they'd been trained to deal with a suspect being questioned for trespassing with intent, but then, this was Davenport Hall, always a bit of a black hole as far as the normal rules were concerned.

Mrs Flanagan had been woken up by the commotion and came waddling sleepily into the bar, where they were all waiting. 'So is it true what Tweedledum and Tweedledee are saying? That there's some escaped lunatic claiming to be a relation whose been living in the cowshed for weeks?'