The Murdstone Trilogy (21 page)

In the Reform Club, Perry Whipple touched Minerva’s glass with his own.

‘Happy Christmas, darling.’

‘Cheers,’ she said cheerlessly.

‘I love what you’re wearing. You look immensely pluckable.’

Her black feather gilet, worn above black silk trousers by Philip Lim, had troubled the severe doorman of the Reform. However, and understandably, the club’s dress code made no mention of black feather gilets.

‘Thank you, Master Whipple.’

‘The tinsel tiara is especially nice.’

‘Yes. Evelyn made it for me.’

‘So why the long face, as the barman said to the horse?’

Minerva sighed. ‘You know.’

‘Hmm.’

Peregrine Whipple, founder, guiding spirit and CEO of the Shaman Agency, was rumoured to be at least seventy years old. His nude and considerable pate fronted a
nimbus of white hair that resembled a manifestation of ancient wisdom. The tip of his white goatee rested on the knot of his blue and silver tie. He was currently dating a celebrity chef twice his size and half his age and looked well on it. He sipped his Manhattan, then set it down on the little table and studied it critically for a few seconds.

‘I’ll tell you what I know, my child. Which is that in two short months
Warlocks Pale
has made, according to my estimates, at least twenty million pounds. That’s just print sales. I do not know, and do not wish to know, what your film and other media deals are worth, but I cannot imagine that you’ll be dining courtesy of the Salvation Army for some considerable time. BlogsCan, which I check daily while saluting the dawn, tells me that twenty-one per cent of postings concern Philip Murdstone. That’s nine per cent more than God, even taking Islamic sites into account. Rumours of his disappearance, madness, death …’

‘Which, I have to say, you’ve stage-managed brilliantly.’

Perry dismissed the congratulation with a gesture. ‘Nothing at all, my dear. A pleasure. Marketing opportunities like that are as rare as a footballer’s adverb. How’s your Mojito, by the way? No, please don’t shrug. Never shrug when you’re wearing feathers. It makes you look as though you’re striving to lay an egg. And I strongly suspect that laying eggs in the Reform is considered seriously
de trop
.’

‘Sorry. I shall try to be more demure.’

After a delicate pause Perry said, ‘Were you fond of him at all, my dear? I don’t recall you actually saying, one way or the other.’

‘No, there was nothing … well. No, nothing like that. And truth to tell, I don’t give a toss, at a deep level of toss, that the great Murdstone Trilogy will never be completed. In fact, if all fantasy trilogies consisted of only two books the world would be no worse a place.’

‘Amen,’ Perry agreed solemnly. ‘So, at the risk of seeming repetitive, and considering that you have made a fortune, why the long face?’

‘I have failed to deliver.’

‘Ah.’

‘And I do not fail to deliver. Failing to deliver is something I do not do. I am not happy because right now it looks as though Minerva Cinch will achieve everlasting fame as the agent who came up with
two-thirds
of a work of genius. Two-thirds of the biggest thing since the Bible, the Koran and Harry Potter. And it pisses me off. Professionally and in every other way, it pisses me off.’

‘As it must and should. I have given the matter some thought, as it happens. Discreetly lower your sad and lovely head, my dear. I have a Christmas prezzie for you.’ From an inside pocket Perry produced a small black object that might have been a coffin for a doll’s house. It was attached to a woven chain of white gold links. Perry looped it around her neck. ‘I am deeply ashamed that it’s not gift-wrapped. The fact is that I took receipt of it
only an hour ago. I had to do ghastly things to get it.’

Minerva peeked down at it. ‘It looks like a memory stick.’

‘It does. It is.’

Perry sipped from his glass while surveying the room. He and Minerva were snugged into a softly-lit corner screened by a trio of columns. The only man within earshot was an eroded, handsome man who had spent so many years impersonating Tom Stoppard that even Tom Stoppard called him Tom Stoppard. He was alone and immersed in the
Telegraph
. In another nearby nook a former ambassador to the Vatican was deep in conversation with an Israeli arms dealer.

Minerva waited. She enjoyed taking cocktails in the absurd grandiosity of the Reform Club. It made her feel naughty. It was like drinking in church.

Quietly, Perry said, ‘Sally Quinn. Vernon Betts. Kit Mellors. Those names mean anything to you?’

‘Umm. Mellors. He writes for the telly, doesn’t he? Or she?’

‘They all do. Between them, they’ve written forty per cent of all episodes of all British soap operas during the past three years. Their fecundity and narrative grasp are extraordinary.’

‘So are they looking for a new agent?’

‘No. They couldn’t. They don’t exist.’ Perry lowered his voice another notch. ‘On that little gizmo you’ll find a programme called
Xtrapol8
. It reads previous episodes and generates plot lines and dialogue for future ones. It
checks continuity and speech patterns and so forth. I’ve had a young supergeek of my acquaintance tweek it for your purposes.’

‘My God.’

‘You exaggerate. I merely have networks.’

‘Are you saying that this …?’

‘Yes. You slip that little doo-dah into your laptop while you’re listening to the King’s College Choir. Feed it Murdstone. At the very least it will come up with something we can work on.’

‘Perry, I don’t know what to say.’

‘Say nothing, darling. I shall think of ways you can thank me.’

‘I’m sure you will.’

Perry polished off his Manhattan. ‘And now, lovely as this has been, I must hasten unto Pimlico, where Merlin awaits. We’re going to Bungay tonight.’

‘Is that a euphemism?’

‘No, it’s a perfectly charming little place in Suffolk. Have you been to see him lately, by the way?’

‘Who?’

‘Philip Murdstone.’

‘Oh. Yes, a couple of weeks back.’

Arcadia occupied a little under fifty landscaped acres of Sussex on the northern fringe of the South Downs. The house had been built in the 1780s as a gentleman’s estate for the bastard son of a belted earl. His descendants, several of them also bastards of one sort or another, had
finally run out of money in the 1990s and had sold the place to Havencare Inc.

It was a hellish schlep from Notting Hill but, Minerva had reflected, turning off the hailswept A26, it was rather handy for Glyndebourne; in the summer she could sweeten the pill with Strauss and strawberries. Mind you, a hundred and fifty grand a year was a lot to pay for discretion, even of the absolute variety. She might have to find somewhere cheaper. Who knew how long he might last?

She declared herself to the speakerphone set into the brick column on the right-hand side of the gates and they slid silently open. At the front door, she was greeted by Gwendolyn, the black and stately assistant matron, who escorted her to the smaller of the two day rooms.

‘How is he?’

‘Oh, much the same, Miss Cinch. No worse, which is something we can be positive about. Although we did have a slight crisis a few days ago when we offered him risotto for lunch. He became very agitated.’

‘Oh dear,’ Minerva said. ‘Still on about maggots, is he?’

‘Yes. When he talks at all, which is not often. Here we are. You’ll have the room to yourselves. Tea? And chef has made a rather nice Victoria sponge.’

‘Thank you. Lovely.’

Minerva braced herself and walked to his chair. He was wearing maroon pyjamas under a thick night-blue dressing gown. By now, she thought, his hair must have
grown back, but he still wore the white woollen cap. There were grey and white strands in his beard.

‘Darling,’ she said. ‘You do look splendid. Like a sage or something from one of your books.’

He did not look up. He continued to stare fixedly at the hands clasped on his knees. He had not known that the dead would still have hands. That would sometimes move. He was watching them in case they did. With his other eyes, his sideways eyes, he was watching, as always, always, the pictures of his death.

They made no sense because, obviously, he was senseless. He knew this in the way that a worm in the ground knows that it is a worm in the ground. The Swelts carry him through darkness and light and darkness again. He can feel the hardness of their paws in his armpits and hear their snuffling and their tread. He feels his bowels loosen. Then there is a gap, hiatus, in the film. He must have fainted during projection because his place of execution is the town square.

Crowded. Two female Gremes with their thumbs in their mouths. A man in black making signs in the air. A Porloc serving food asking questions. Noise and raised fists. An atmosphere of brutal festivity. Death to the Fly. The scaffold lit by revolving light.

He is strapped into a wheeled conveyance. He turns his head to beg. The Swelt has put on a human mask and a luminescent green tunic with silver stripes. And says, ‘Hello, mate. With us, are you? That’s good. Very good. Stay with us. My name’s Gary and the Swelt to your left
is Mike. You’ve had a nasty turn, Philip. We’re going to take you to the Hospy Thule in Exeter, OK?’

Then he is on his back, tethered. Instruments of torture are attached to him. ‘Just make it quick. Please.’

‘Don’t you worry, Philip. Mike’s a demon. We’ll be there in no time.’ Examines an instrument. ‘So, you are
the
Philip Murdstone, yeah? Seriously sorry to see you in this state, man. You are the absolute dog’s bollocks.
Warlocks Pale
blew me away.’ Needle in the arm. ‘You’re gonna get sleepy now, Phil.’ Produces a book with a lurid cover. ‘Would you mind signing it for me, Phil? Before you get woozy?’

His dying wail rotates above his head. Is still rotating above his head while he is looking at his hands.

The Swelts carry him through darkness and light and darkness again. He feels the hardness of their paws, feels a hand on his head.

‘Phil, darling?’

He looks up and beholds a maiden of unnatural beauty standing before him. Shapely golden legs. Thighs and belly like a musical instrument known only to angels. Proud breasts. The soft oval of her face framed by sweeps of auburn flame. Her eyes the colours of the waters of the Middle Sea.

He licks his rough lips and speaks her name.

Perry said, ‘Any change?’

‘No. He didn’t even know who I was. He called me Helen.’

Out on Pall Mall Perry conjured a cab out of nowhere. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I get back.’

‘Do that. And Merry Christmas, Master Whipple.’

His smile was a miracle of dentistry. ‘And you, my child.’

She waved him off. A muzak version of ‘Silent Night’ threaded the rumble and squeal of traffic. A mob of young men wearing business suits and Santa hats or flashing antlers advanced along the pavement. One of them, admiring her plumage, wagged his elbows and crowed like a cock. Minerva recognized him as Wayne Dimbleby, late of Pegasus, now of Click4Books. He invited her to a party. She went on the off-chance that he might still have a brain worth picking.

Night falls upon Sussex. Above the downs the stars take their seats. In the wings, the moon arranges its face. Frost brittles grass and leaf. Standing water quietly pings and crackles its skin of ice. A barn owl, a white shadow, begins its haunt. Crossing a golf course, a fox pauses to assess the darkness. All is calm.

The moon makes its entrance. All is bright.

In Arcadia, it is time for meds.

I’m exceedingly grateful to Peter Cox for taking this unruly mongrel on walks. I’m equally grateful to David Fickling and Simon Mason for offering it a loving home and house-training it during my absences. And it’s thanks to Elspeth Graham, of course, that I acquired the dog in the first place.