She reversed herself in the chair, making it clear that the conversation was at an end.
“I met Phyllis Wyvern this morning,” I said.
Daffy did not reply, but I saw that her eyes had stopped moving across the page. At least I had her attention.
“I talked to her while she was bathing,” I confided. I did not mention that this had taken place in Harriet’s boudoir. Whatever I was, I wasn’t a rat.
There was no response.
“Aren’t you interested, Daffy?”
“There’s time enough to meet these thespians later. They always put on a dog and pony show before the actual filming begins. A grace and favor thing. They call it ‘yakking up the yokels.’ Someone will take us round and show us all the ciné gear and tell us what a bloody marvel it is. Then they’ll introduce us to the actors, beginning with the boy who plays the hero as a child and falls through the ice, and ending with Phyllis Wyvern herself.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
Daffy preened a little.
“I try to keep myself well informed,” she said. “Besides, they shot a couple of exteriors at Foster’s last year, and Flossie dished the dirt.”
“I wouldn’t expect there was much dirt if they were only shooting exteriors,” I said.
“You’d be surprised,” Daffy said darkly, and went on with her reading.
At four-thirty, the doorbell rang. I had been sitting on the stairs watching the electricians as they snaked miles of black cable from the foyer to far-flung corners of the house.
Father had ordered us to keep to our quarters and not to interfere with the work at hand, and I was doing my best to obey. Since the eastern staircase led up to my bedroom and laboratory, it could be considered, technically at least, as part of my quarters, and I certainly had no intention of interfering with the ciné crew.
Several rows of chairs had been set up in the foyer as if a meeting were planned, and I threaded my way through them to see who was at the door.
With all the noise and bustle of the workmen, Dogger mustn’t have heard the bell.
I opened the door and there, to my surprise, amid the whirling snow, stood the vicar, Denwyn Richardson.
“Ah, Flavia,” he said, brushing the flakes from his heavy black coat and stamping his galoshes like a cart horse’s feet, “how lovely to see you. May I come in?”
“Of course,” I said, and as I stepped back from the door, a certain foreboding came over me. “It’s not bad news about Father, is it?”
Even as one of Father’s oldest and dearest friends, he seldom paid a visit to Buckshaw, and I knew that an unexpected vicar at the door could sometimes be an ominous sign. Perhaps there had been an accident in London. Perhaps the train had run off the tracks and overturned in a snowy field. If so, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be the first to hear it.
“Good lord, no!” the vicar said. “Your father’s gone up to London today, hasn’t he? Stamp meeting, or some such thing?”
Another thing about vicars was that they knew everyone’s business.
“Will you come in?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.
As he stepped inside, the vicar must have seen me looking past him in astonishment at his tired old Morris Oxford, which sat in the forecourt looking remarkably spruce for its age, a layer of snow on the roof and bonnet giving it the appearance of an overly iced wedding cake.
“Winter tires plus snow chains,” he said in a confidential tone. “The secret of any truly successful ministry. The bishop tipped me off, but don’t tell anyone. He picked it up from the American soldiers.”
I grinned and slammed the door.
“Good lord!” he said, staring at the maze of cables and the forest of lighting fixtures. “I didn’t expect it to be anything like this.”
“You knew about it? The filming, I mean?”
“Oh, of course. Your father mentioned it quite some time ago … asked me to keep mum, though, and so, of course, I have. But now that the vast convoy has rolled through Bishop’s Lacey, and the caravanserai set up within the very grounds of Buckshaw, it can be a secret no longer, can it?
“I must admit to you, Flavia, that ever since I heard Phyllis Wyvern was to be here, in the flesh, so to speak, at Buckshaw, I’ve been making plans of my own. It’s not often that we’re gifted with so august … so luminous … a visitor and, well, after all, one must grind with whatever grist one is given—not that Phyllis Wyvern may be said to be grist in any sense of the word, dear me, no, but—”
“I met her this morning,” I volunteered.
“Did you indeed! Cynthia will be quite jealous to hear of it. Well, perhaps not jealous, but possibly just a tiny bit envious.”
“Is Mrs. Richardson one of Phyllis Wyvern’s fans?”
“No, I don’t believe so. Cynthia is, however, the cousin of Stella Ferrars, who, of course, wrote the novel Cry of the Raven, upon which the film is to be based. Third cousin, to be sure, but a cousin nonetheless.”
“Cynthia?” I could scarcely believe my ears.
“Yes, hard to believe, isn’t it? I can scarcely credit it myself. Stella was always the black sheep of the family, you know, until she married a laird, settled down in the heathered Highlands, and began cranking out an endless procession of potboilers, of which The Cry of the Raven is merely the latest. Cynthia had been hoping to pop by and give Miss Wyvern a few pointers on how the role of the heroine should be played.”
I almost went “Phhfft!” but I didn’t.
“And that’s why you’re here? To see Miss Wyvern?”
“Well, yes,” the vicar said, “but not on that particular topic. Christmas, as you’ve no doubt heard me say on more than one occasion, is always one of the greatest opportunities not only to receive but also to give, and I have been hoping that Miss Wyvern would see her way clear to re-create for us just a few scenes from her greatest triumphs—all in a good cause, of course. The Roofing Fund, for instance—dear me—”
“Would you like me to introduce you to her?” I asked.
I thought the dear man was going to break down completely. He bit his lip and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his glasses. When he realized he had forgotten to bring them with him, he blew his nose instead.
“If you please,” he said.
“I hope we won’t be intruding,” he added as we made our way up the stairs. “I hate to be a beggar but sometimes there’s really no choice.”
He meant Cynthia.
“Our last little venture was something of a bust, wasn’t it? So there’s all that much more to make up this time.”
Now he was referring, of course, to Rupert Porson, the late puppeteer, whose performance in the parish hall just a few months ago had been brought to an abrupt end by tragedy and a woman scorned.
Bun Keats was sitting in a chair at the top of the stairs, her head in her hands.
“Oh dear,” she said as I introduced her to the vicar. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I have the most awful migraine.”
Her face was as white as the crusted snow.
“How dreadful for you,” the vicar said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I can sympathize wholeheartedly. My wife suffers horribly from the same malady.”
Cynthia? I thought. Migraines? That would certainly explain a lot.
“She sometimes finds,” he went on, “that a warm compress helps. I’m sure the good Mrs. Mullet would be happy to prepare one.”
“I’ll be all right …” Bun Keats began, but the vicar was already halfway down the stairs.
“Oh!” she said, with a little cry. “I should have stopped him. I don’t mean to be any trouble, but when I’m like this I can hardly think straight.”
“The vicar won’t mind,” I told her. “He’s a jolly good sort. Always thinking of others. Actually, he came round to see if Miss Wyvern could be persuaded to put on a show to raise funds for the church.”