Cherringham--Death Trap Page 2

  Rumour had it that she had been at the precipice of splitting up with Townes a dozen times over the years.

  Still, she stuck it out, only adding additional wrinkles, and deeper frowns as time went on.

  As she passed the woman, with whom she’d only ever had the most casual of conversations, Emily managed a troubled half-smile, and stuck out a hand.

  “Jane — you think you can get him to be careful? Slow down? The evening’s just getting started.”

  Jane managed a brave smile back. Agents often had to do more than simply negotiate percentages and film rights. “I will do my best!”

  She kept on walking.

  But even steps away she could hear Townes’s voice, booming, as it could be on occasion.

  “Entertaining the new talent, Humphrey?”

  Jane stayed a step back. Whatever was about to occur or be said, she didn’t want to appear complicit.

  I’m his agent, she thought, not his babysitter.

  Humphrey, for his part, managed a nod, a grin. “Yes, Lucy here has been telling me,” Lane’s eyes shifted back to the younger writer, “her very exciting plans for her new series.”

  Then, like a parrot kept for specific reassuring statements, Brice’s agent turned and announced to the outer circle, and Townes as well: “And already, some pretty major film and TV interest!”

  Jane heard one breathless blogger — iPhone out, recording it all — mutter, “Such a talent!”

  “Oh really?” Townes looked around. “Think we’d better let the real reviewers make that decision, hmm? The professionals?”

  Jane saw one of the serving wenches walk by, eyes darting at the group.

  “I mean,” Townes pointed to the woman doing her best to soldier on with a tray of flagons for those wanting a more thematic beverage, “unlike our friend here. Who, I imagine, actually knows a trick or two.”

  Jane saw the serving girl redden at the lewd joke.

  God — did Townes really just say that? thought Jane. What planet is he on?

  She remembered Townes had said that some of the players were local. These serving women, circling, were they local as well?

  Perhaps … did Townes have history with her?

  This was his village after all.

  Which must make the way Humphrey Lane was now fawning over the new writer even more embarrassing.

  Or rather, as it now seemed clear, enraging.

  But with Townes’s biting riposte, Lucy Brice pivoted. Piercing eyes. Holding a glass of sparking water.

  Of course …

  “You know, Townes, I’m so glad to be here.” She timed her pauses with a precise theatrical flare. “I do have one question. Writer to writer.”

  “Go on,” said Townes, puffing himself up to answer the question.

  “You never get tired of penning those Outlaw Knight stories? I mean, after so many years …” Another pause.

  Jane saw Lucy turn to her agent who stood at her side — the flash of a shared smile between the two young women, a little jolt of complicity.

  “…isn’t it about time someone caught the bloody outlaw?”

  The entire group — save Townes — erupted in laughter.

  Townes blinked uncertainly. Jane wished she could be almost anywhere else.

  “And your new one? The Squire’s Secret? That is the title, yes? I think the only secret …” — another artful pause — “is how they keep getting published! Sales figures — unlike authors — don’t lie.”

  More laughs. Another look between Lucy and Kate Shaw.

  A harder look this time. Icy. Almost … vengeful?

  And Jane thought that Townes, following those barbed words, now looked like a rabbit in the headlights. She also sensed — as his muscles tightened — that he might lay into the entire group.

  Wouldn’t that be fun?

  But then, as if saving the day, one of the medieval performers blew a horn whose shrill, loud note signalled …

  Showtime!

  A flurry of movement in the corner of the hall caught her eye. From a door to the side, bounded a quartet of people in costume, three knights, one in black — and a maid in purple with a peaked hat, a feathery ribbon trailing from the pointy top.

  The re-enactors, she thought.

  Thank God!

  And for now, they ended the chance of Townes erupting, and a real battle.

  While all eyes were trained on the faux one that was just beginning.

  3. Crossed Swords

  “Prepare to die, outlaw!”

  Please, no, Jane thought. They’re actually going to perform something?

  Bad enough that Edward had suffered — noisily — through the terrible TV adaptation of the first novels, decades ago. But now — to have the whole thing repeated, live, in front of his peers?

  She shot a glance at Townes and saw him standing stock-still. She knew that expression on his face of old.

  Not pleased. Barely repressing his anger.

  And she knew with Townes, “barely” didn’t hold up for long.

  “Outlaw, yes!” another knight said.

  And then he grabbed the maid, who seemed to be the mute trigger for this puerile display of bravado. “But die? That will be for you, Sir Percival!”

  And with that, the “Outlaw Knight” — she assumed — slid his sword out of its sheath in what seemed a rather smooth move.

  Behind her, she heard Townes make an audible groan, followed by, “Oh, God.”

  And now Jane feared that the drama might not be limited to the small performing area in front of the tapestry showing unicorns and courtiers enjoying a summer picnic.

  No picnic about to play out here.

  The other knight — Sir Percival, she imagined — had followed suit, removing his sword, as the two of them adopted a pose, rapiers pointed, tips crossed.

  Only a few clanks back and forth occurred before …

  Townes took steps towards the two.

  “Stop!” he yelled. “Enough.”

  For a moment, silence — the two re-enactors, frozen in the act.

  “This spectacle — has gone far enough. Ridiculously too far.”

  And with that, Edward took another step, reached out — and grabbed the “Outlaw Knight’s” rapier, right at the hilt and in one fast move, removed it from the young man.

  Who seemed as surprised as the guests looking on.

  For a moment, Townes waved the blade in the air.

  “You know,” he said to the now swordless actor, “Even putting to one side the rather inconvenient fact that the rapier wasn’t invented for at least two hundred years after my Outlaw Knight took to his horse — you could at least hold the damn thing properly. Call that a firm grasp? Can’t even get that right! Index finger under, thumb parallel with the ground. See? All to guide—”

  And at that, Edward Townes performed a swish that made everyone gasp as the sword flew through the air inches from the actor’s face, to end up pointed right at his chest.

  “—the tip of the blade. To slice perhaps, or, for the kill, to penetrate.”

  Jane looked left. Humphrey Lane had come beside her, finally lured from the attractions of his new writer.

  She did a half turn to him.

  “Humphrey — you have to do something!”

  She caught a bit of a nod.

  “And,” Townes said, now with all eyes on his mesmerising drink-fuelled performance, “if your goal is to kill, you really must—”

  He pulled the sword back.

  The actor, despite the relative chill of the room, was sweating. Eyes bulging.

  “Humphrey!” she said again.

  “Townes!” the publisher finally shouted and then stepped in front of the sword-wielding author.

  “This … demonstration has gone quite far enough.”

  For a moment, Townes wore a grin, almost as if he was saying or what?

  But then the sword lowered.

  The threatened actor’s chest heaved.

&nb
sp; Finally able to breathe again.

  Jane saw movement by the door.

  A few people, getting coats. Maybe having had their fill of the “entertainment” for the night? One of them — Edward Townes’s wife Emily.

  Who gave Jane a look.

  As if to say, I’ve had enough.

  Then out she went through the door into the cold — the icy air slipping in as a handful of other guests escaped.

  Townes had lowered the rapier.

  Then — almost graciously — he turned.

  And proffered the rapier to the actor. “Do try to remember what I said. For your next performance.”

  Humphrey nodded at “Sir Percival”. Indicating the show was over.

  And, as if knowing something must happen to get things back on track, a man in a leather jerkin and tights leapt up onto the small stage and announced, “My lords, ladies, gentlemen — and the rest of you scurvy peasants — the suckling pig is served!”

  He pointed to a table on one side of the hall, and then — when there was no movement — to the other side.

  “And, of course, an authentic medieval vegan option is available for those who require it.”

  Jane watched the crowd disperse, clearly glad to get away from Townes’s martial display.

  Most joined the queue at the vegan table.

  No surprise there, she thought.

  She grabbed another glass of wine, then headed for the carnivores’ queue — mostly comprising publishing veterans.

  No surprise there, either.

  As she waited, plate and glass in hand, she looked around the hall.

  Still full. Plenty of people drinking. This was going to go on for a few hours for sure.

  And on the far side of the hall, in a dark corner, she now saw Townes in heated conversation with the “serving girl” he’d insulted earlier.

  One hand on the wall by her head, the poor girl hemmed in, like some awful parody of a seventies pickup.

  The girl suddenly pushing Townes’s arm away and escaping.

  And once again she thought, This is going to be a long night.

  *

  Two hours later, Jane extricated herself from an intense conversation with the editor of a publishing weekly and grabbed another much-needed glass of red from the bar.

  She’d done her duty tonight, and some. Supported Townes, talked up a couple of potential new clients, taken the temperature of digital versus paper sales, and agreed to speak at the London Book Fair.

  And chatted to some bloggers who’d provided possibly the most intelligent feedback of the night.

  Just time for one last glass, she thought. Then back to the hotel.

  Fall asleep in front of the TV in my room.

  Over by the stage she could see a throng of young people trying to dance to the caterwauling band. Groups still sat at tables — most of them showing the effects of the free-flowing drinks.

  At one table, Kate Shaw and Lucy Brice talking intently.

  Plotting? No — looked more like … they were having an argument.

  Always reassuring to see another agent head to head with a client.

  Interesting …

  She headed to the back of the hall, where Townes was deep in conversation with one of the female bloggers she’d talked to earlier.

  So much for Townes’s scorn of bloggers.

  The woman looked like she needed rescuing.

  But before Jane reached them, Humphrey Lane strode over. She was close enough to hear Humphrey Lane say to Townes, “A word. Privately. Outside. Now.”

  Townes, still with a grin that signalled he welcomed such a chat said, “Soon as I get a refill, hmm? Fortify against the cold, you know.” He turned back to the young blogger. “Catch you later maybe?”

  But the blogger was already taking advantage of the opportunity to slip away.

  Jane Ellingham waited and watched, wishing she was not only out of here — back at the hotel — but safely back at her London flat.

  The blizzard and the world of publishing safely shut away.

  She saw Townes — new drink in hand — and Humphrey retrieve coats.

  To go outside.

  To talk about …

  Well, exactly what? she wondered.

  When they didn’t come back after a few minutes, she felt she had no choice.

  She drained her glass, hurried to the cloakroom. Handed over the ticket for the coat that had seemed to meet its match in tonight’s weather.

  The young woman at the counter fetched her coat: “You’re not thinking of driving, are you?”

  “What?” said Jane, thinking, Bloody hell! Do I look that drunk?

  “Roads in and out of the village are blocked,” said the woman, who looked positively excited by the idea. “They say it’s going to snow all night!”

  “Do they?” said Jane, not sharing the enthusiasm. “Well, let’s hope they are wrong, hmm?”

  She put on her coat, then headed out, the wooden door being helpfully opened by a young man, probably confused by the sudden exodus.

  Free food, free drinks. Why is everyone leaving?

  And then once outside, in the billowing snow, the heavy door shutting behind her.

  To see Edward and Humphrey, facing each other.

  But as soon as she was outside, unprotected, exposed, Townes turned to her.

  “You know what, dear agent? What this paragon of humanity just said?”

  Jane shook her head. In earnest. Things happening so fast, she hadn’t had any time to anticipate what Humphrey Lane was telling his out-of-control author.

  “Says The Outlaw Knight series has ‘had its day’. That this is the last book. This shindig is a farewell to the series and to me too, I imagine.”

  “Now, Edward, that is not precisely—”

  But the author was in no mood for listening.

  Instead, continuing his pursuit of battles wherever he might find them, he took a step towards her.

  “And you, dear Jane, my loyal agent. You could do nothing, nada, to protect me? Warn me? What kind of bottom-feeder are you anyway?”

  Jane shook her head. There had been occasions when Edward Townes had trained his tongue on her.

  But not this fierce …

  “Taking all that commission, enough to buy that charming little place in Provence, hmm? And now you just let me get … blindsided? You know,” another step towards her, “you really are a shark — just like those two bitches in there. Only difference, you’re an old shark, hmm? Toothless.”

  Humphrey Lane put a hand on Townes’s shoulder, at which point the writer spun around, and sent an awkward fist flying to Lane’s face, knocking the publisher to the ground, slipping on the snow.

  “Don’t bother getting up, Lane,” said Townes, half-leaning, swaying over the prone figure. “And don’t forget what I said, you little shit. Or you’ll regret it. I know where all the bodies are. Remember? All of them.”

  Then — back to her.

  “And you? You’re fired. Should have canned your useless self a decade ago.”

  Then, Townes looked down at the glass in his hand — and threw it against the stone wall of the medieval hall.

  The shattering sound — so loud in the muffled stillness of the heavy snow.

  And then, maybe the smashed glass ending his reverie — he turned away. Heading away from the hall.

  “Edward,” called Jane. “Come back inside. It’s too cold out here. The snow — getting bad.”

  But instead — as if summoned by a hidden klaxon — Townes continued his wobbly walk down the snow-filled path.

  Stumbling away into the village. And — in just a few seconds — he was no more than a dark blur in the blizzard of snow.

  Humphrey Lane got to his feet. Dusting the snow off. Rubbing the side of his face where Townes’s punch had connected.

  “Crazy bastard.”

  “He shouldn’t be going out there. Not alone. Not tonight.”

  But Humphrey Lane was done wit
h him. “Let him. Stupid fool can freeze to death for all I care.”

  And he went to the door, hurrying back inside.

  For a moment, Jane Ellingham didn’t know what to do.

  Part of her — the curious, gossipy, lascivious part — wondered what Townes had meant.

  “Bodies” he’d said.

  How exciting! A metaphor, to be sure. Still — which particular bodies might those be?

  But then — her fingers so cold, gloves still buried in the pockets of her coat — she slid out her phone. The fat snow crystals landed on the bright screen.

  And she thought, I know who to call.

  4. The Morning After

  Alfie Collins and his good friend Sam Houghton had decided to hit Winsham Hill before anyone else.

  Alfie knew this was mostly his idea. His mate Sam wasn’t so sure.

  Over protests from their parents, they decided to walk through the heavy snow — so deep, though now shining in the sun — to Cherringham’s best sledging slopes.

  Alfie knew that you didn’t often get the chance to sled in Cherringham. And snow like this? It was amazing! Even Mum had never seen anything like it!

  Mammoth! Huge!

  They were going to have days with no school!

  Won’t be a snow day; will be a snow week, he thought.

  Sam trailed behind him — his best mate but sometimes not up for all the adventure that Alfie craved.

  And now, he plodded through the thick white stuff, pulling a sled that must have belonged to his dad. Made of wood! Amazing!

  The rails, once red, faded, maybe even rusted. Some kind of painted flower on the side — the image barely visible.

  For Sam’s dad — for the family — money was always a struggle.

  Alfie’s was a sleek, plastic sled, new a few years back — a Christmas gift. Barely used. Many times Alfie wished they got the amazing snows he saw in the American movies!

  Full-on blizzards, and over there, they had those big trucks — snow ploughs. They even had them on the front of trains! Monster ploughs that took care of even the most massive snow, no problem!

  But here — nobody had machines like that. Which meant all the side roads and lanes around the village were completely closed. He hadn’t heard a train whistle since they started walking.