The Love Letter (30 page)

Vin Keiller-Myles was a barking bulldog of self-made, self-tanned self worth, with what was left of his thinning grey hair pulled back into a ponytail, his mottled jowls bulging over the stiff white collars of his shirt like pie crusts. A former music journalist and sometime progressive rocker, Vin had made his fortune in discount mail-order music sales, forming his own label to press cheap
compilation CDs, then getting out just before the internet boom killed his company with download mania. His third wife, American trust-fund babe Gayle, was a younger version of his two previous wives: strawberry blonde, pseudo-intellectual and high maintenance. They alternated between vast, minimalist houses in Hampstead and North Devon, never needing to pack because they maintained duplicate wardrobes at each end, Vin’s being filled with identikit pinstripe suits, white shirts and just a few very loud shirts for casual days, and Gayle’s being entirely populated by white, which was the only colour she ever wore, like a blank canvas.

‘I love this gaff!’ Vin was pronouncing to Kizzy’s disapproving parents Howard and Yolande. ‘It’s a man’s house, isn’t it?’

‘I think you’ll find it was a nunnery for most of the nineteenth century,’ Howard droned back with flat Canadian disinterest. ‘Haunted to buggery.’

‘Hallelujah!’ he cackled. ‘Give me a few see-though novices running around the corridors over en suites any day.’

Vin had never made any secret of his desire to own Farcombe Hall, which was why he couldn’t be more delighted by this summer’s turn of events. The hush-hush rumours about the Protheroe marriage combined with yet another Farcombe cash crisis had stoked his interest once more. It was clear that he now finally saw an opportunity to gain ascendency over Hector. Vin had already ensured that he was more or less a part of the family firm, and his inclusion in tonight’s intimate gathering made him ever more assured of his place as indispensible friend and festival mentor. The chip on his shoulder after three decades of professional jealousy and personal affront against Hector was about to splinter away. His swaggering demeanour tonight indicated that he firmly believed that it was only a matter of time before he began to run the whole shooting match, and the totty would be reward in itself.

Leering alternately at Legs and Kizzy, he sprayed them both with crumbs from the breadsticks he was stuffing back as he
described his most recent purchase of a crucifixion wall hanging fashioned entirely in empty contraceptive pill foils.

‘It’s called the Immaculate Misconception and was the most controversial piece in Black Hole Gallery’s “Blasphemy” exhibition,’ he bragged. ‘I’ve already had hate mail from all over the world for buying it.’

Vin had turned collecting bad taste art into a hobby. Although in a recent interview he claimed to enjoy spectating at a cage fight just as much as attending an exhibition, he was far from the ignorant plebeian Hector accused him of being. He might dress like a gangster with the ultimate moll as accessory, but he had a mind as sharp as his suits.

‘Hear there’s been some talk of calling off the festival this year? Not very clever with the Gordon Lapis news breaking.’

‘It’s a calculated risk,’ Kizzy said smoothly, sucking up to Vin who had once listed ‘dirty deals, clean sweeps and massurrealism’ amongst his interests in
Who’s Who.

‘Is that why you didn’t want him voted in by the committee?’ Legs asked her.

‘It’s only a small abstain on my character.’ She looked cornered. ‘I just don’t see what all the fuss is about. He’s a very mediocre writer who struck lucky.’

‘He’s mine and Gayle’s favourite novelist.’ Vin’s eyes glittered. He had that rare privilege of being rich enough to be unafraid of mixing the mainstream with elitism, and cocky enough to find Poppy and her cronies’ snobbery on such matters amusing.

‘Good for you.’ Legs beamed at him, holding out a bowl of almond-stuffed olives.

Vin smiled back, suddenly clocking the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Having given Gayle eight thousand dollars’ worth of LA boob job as a wedding present only to find she now wore a bra 24/7 like scaffolding round a precious public artwork, he was entranced.

‘You like the Ptolemy Finch books?’ he asked, moving forwards to claim a few finest green Manzanilla.

‘Love them.’ Legs kept the smile plastered to her face while he leered down the front of her dress. She huffed out some garlic fumes to keep him at bay.

Over his bald pate, she could see Kizzy’s attention being distracted by action across the room where Gayle was making stilted progress with Jax. Deprived of her warm Aga, the little motorbike-loving urchin had zipped up her leather jacket to cover her chin, sliding her tiny hands into opposite sleeves like a Geisha girl, and was perched in a window seat beside the tall shelves of books, where she could catch the last angled rays of sun as it came through the deep-set windows of the tower turret before slipping behind the woods and out to sea.

‘Do you like the Ptolemy Finch books, Jacqueline?’ Gayle asked in her over-sincere California accent as she kept one eye and one ear to her husband, not trusting him among such pretty young women, especially the clever-eyed, tousled blonde with the pale blue crocheted dress and beddable body.

‘I prefer vampires.’ Jax flashed her pointed little teeth. In their contrasting black and white, raven-haired and blonde, they looked like two allegories. ‘And call me Jax, love. I ain’t never been Jacqueline.’

‘So what is Jax short for?’

‘Ajax.’ She sneered her terrier smile. ‘Appropriate as I’m good with scrubbers.’ She glared into the centre of the room, where Kizzy was now sniping about Jago.

‘He has Poppy by the heartstrings tonight, poor darling, but he’s just an opportunist. One gets so many in a family like this.’ Kizzy looked up sharply as Édith floated in from the terrace, alighting beside her like a butterfly blown onto a greenhouse.

She had what must have been her fifth glass of wine on the go, eyes beginning to glaze, and she was happy to take the bitchy baton. ‘Of course he’s
bound
to be after the family money. Why else wait all this time to turn up? His father’s family are probably as poor as church mice. He still lives with them at his
grandparents’ farm in Ireland, we understand. Of course Poppy’s still far too overwhelmed to do the sums. They’re on the terrace exchanging witticisms like Noel Coward characters. Poppy keeps crying.’

‘Ah, but is she being genuine?’ asked Kizzy with a brittle laugh.

In detective mode once more, Legs registered a connection between them and felt a chill draught in her veins, sensing conspiracies at work. Kizzy seemed to light up now that Édith was here, her nervous energy almost incandescent.

Édith laughed too, her tone warm and infectious. ‘With Poppy, who can tell? The tears looked real enough, but then again wouldn’t we all cry if this happened? Buggers up tonight’s seating plan totally for a start.’ She helped herself to one of the almond-stuffed olives Legs was still touting about to try to shake off lecherous Vin.

‘Very fashionable to have a love child right now.’ He cackled. ‘Got a mate in PR who hires fake ones in from kiddy drama schools to boost his clients’ profiles.’

‘I believe Poppy and his father were married when he was conceived,’ Édith corrected.

‘My mistake. Not a love child at all! Far too late for that,’ he cackled louder.

He was lapping up all the talk of the prodigal’s return, knowing this development would infuriate Hector all the more. He longed to hear every detail, but Kizzy’s mother Yolande had just arrived in the room and, having signalled husband Howard, the two were soon steering him out of earshot in a seamless scissor movement, well practised through many festivals of scooping overeager speakers away from their public in order to keep the timetable moving to schedule.

‘Of course Poppy’s secretly horrified,’ Édith was saying in a more confidential voice now, although she was being far from discreet. ‘After all, who wants a middle-aged man rolling up announcing he’s your son? It must make her feel so
old.
’

Legs was outraged. ‘Byrne is hardly middle-aged!’ she fumed. ‘And what mother wouldn’t be overwhelmed with emotion to see her child again after so long apart?’

‘Why did he leave it so long and why shock her with a surprise like this?’ Kizzy queried. ‘It
has
to be about the money. Or he’s trying to give her a heart attack.’

‘He’s probably rolled up to bump her off.’ Édith widened her eyes dramatically. ‘I can feel death in the air, can’t you Kizzy?’

‘With this many character assassins gathered for dinner,’ Kizzy’s voice shook, ‘I’d say there’s every chance.’

Legs’ detective ears were on high alert, goosebumps popping on her skin. Surely nobody could think Byrne meant any harm? A huge lump had appeared in her throat at the thought of what he had confided to her last night about losing his own life

‘I’m sure he has a very heartfelt reason for making contact now,’ she insisted.

But Kizzy and Édith were like a pair of Gothic writers on a roll.

‘He might have already done her in,’ Édith mused.

‘He’ll be taking his time, waiting for the storm,’ breathed the redhead.

‘Is that what you’d do, Kizzy darling?’

There was an awkward pause. Kizzy’s green eyes flashed as she hissed, ‘I’d never have come here in the first place. Farcombe’s murder with or without a cadaver.’

Again, Legs was vaguely aware of a subtext, but she was too busy defending Byrne to pay it any heed. ‘It must have taken him huge guts to come here.’

Claiming another olive, Édith gave her elbow a playful budge, ‘Can’t you see this summer is just so fantastically exciting for a boring family like ours?’ she said plummily as the olive moved around her mouth. ‘First Daddy staging a John and Yoko walkout with your mother, then you turning up like Rebecca waltzing back into Manderley, now this. It’s thrilling.’

‘I’m nothing like Rebecca,’ she bleated. ‘She was dead.’

‘Oh yes, didn’t Maxim de Winter bump her off?’ Édith remembered with a giggle. ‘We can’t lose you again, Legs; you’re such bliss to have back. We must keep close tabs on Francis. No boat trips and no guns.’

Legs glanced at Kizzy, and blanched as she received a look of such intensity in return that she stepped back. Despite the pretty smile and winning tilt of the head, Kizzy’s green eyes were blazing. Yet they seemed almost as fearful as they did angry, as though trying to communicate some unspoken message or warning. This must be beyond horrible for her, Legs realised wretchedly, thinking again about the conversation she had overheard behind the baize earlier.

Even now, stalking into the room with his blond hair flopping, Francis headed towards Legs first, then seemed to remember himself and veered towards Kizzy to mutter something in her ear. Kizzy shook her head with a contemptuous laugh, but he repeated his words through gritted teeth with eyes like daggers, and she slipped from the room.

He cleared his throat and addressed the assembled guests, ‘Poppy will be coming in shortly to introduce us all formally to Jamie, I mean Jago, I mean – whatever.’ He looked close to explosion, but mustered his charming smile. ‘First, champagne is to be circulated for a toast.’

‘God, Poppy’s pulling out all the stops,’ Édith drawled, having joined Jax and Gayle at the window. ‘If it’s the 95 Krug we know somebody will be murdered by bedtime. Did you know Kizzy has a pack of tarots and pulled out Death three times earlier this evening?’

Legs felt her goosebumps spring up again. She couldn’t shake the image of redheaded corpses in the shopping trolleys from her mind. Suddenly it seemed very important to get away before Byrne reappeared.

Francis moved in beside her, muttering ‘You OK?’

‘I’m not feeling too well,’ she whispered, eyes darting to the door. ‘I think it might be better if I leave.’

‘No!’ Francis moved in front of her, voice low and urgent, big shoulders blocking out the light as he spoke quietly into her ear. ‘We agreed. You just have to say the word.’

‘I can’t.’ She started to panic.

He straightened up, blue eyes on hers, suddenly looking terribly sad. ‘I thought you felt the same way as I do.’

She looked away, her throat so full of ashes she couldn’t speak at first. Then she lamely muttered something about it not being fair on Kizzy.

‘Oh, Kizzy has her own agenda,’ he said bitterly.

Remembering that just an hour earlier she’d believed Kizzy was a different gender as well, Legs fought an urge to laugh hysterically. Her determination to rescue Francis seemed ludicrous now, as did any plans for a romantic reconciliation amid the family drama.

‘I should never have come,’ she muttered to herself.

He ran a hand through his unruly blond mop, voice hardening. ‘Well for God’s sake don’t go anywhere until we’re through this fatted-calf farce. Then you can pretend you don’t feel well and make your excuses.’ Impossibly tense, he stalked out of the room, only to appear moments later clutching two magnums of vintage Moët followed by Kizzy carrying a tray of crystal flutes that were rattling so much from her shaking hands, they sounded like a maddened celesta player.

Édith slid in alongside Legs again, voice low and confiding. ‘Isn’t Kizzy a darling?
So
devoted to love and to duty – or should that be torn apart by it?’

She swallowed miserably, fighting an urge to run out to the terrace and away over the parkland straight away. ‘I’ll leave Farcombe as soon as I can.’