The Archivist Page 7

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  BS woke at four o’clock the following morning. He lay staring at the lightening window because he couldn’t rid his mind of a frustrating series of worries. Eventually he swung his legs heavily over the side of the bed and felt around in the half dark with his toes until he located his slippers. Patricia rolled over in the bed beside him and placed a hand in the small of his back. ‘Are you all right, dear?’ she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

  ‘Yes, my love, just wide awake. You go back to sleep.’ He made his way through to the bathroom, his first few steps the stiffest and slowest, and stood staring at his reflection in the mirror as he waited to pee.

  Recently he had successfully filled up Sam’s time with background work, but he knew he couldn’t spend the next month ferrying her around the estate and taking her out for long lunches, enjoyable though her company was. Then a thought struck him. He wondered how much of this scheme had been discussed directly with the earl. Very little, he imagined. The earl was old school, old family, congenitally wealthy, the class of person who didn’t have to buy his own furniture. Earning money was anathema to him. His father had opened the doors of Duntisbourne back in the fifties purely as a tax dodge, inheritance tax not being levied on the parts of the estate that had public access. Making money from the visitors had not been the primary objective – Duntisbourne Hall was not a company and the earl was not a businessman. He abhorred the visitors, seeing them as a necessary evil, and BS doubted that he wanted more of them to pour in through the doors and snigger over the antics of his own ancestors. Of course the earl was the person to whom he should appeal. The earl would put a stop to this.

  His Lordship had returned yesterday – he had been abroad for the winter – and done his usual walk-through of the Hall to check that nothing had gone awry during his absence, but BS had missed seeing him. He resolved to ring Dean the butler first thing and arrange to lay his concerns before the earl himself, show him that this was the top of a greasy pole down which the Hall might slide. What could that lead to? The earl’s son, heir to the title, appearing on reality TV? The earl would never allow this kind of media rot to begin and BS was the earl’s man.

  BS recognised that the earl didn’t really know how to categorise him. He was better educated than the earl, clearly more intelligent, but His Lordship was well connected and intensely well bred, so it was hard to define which of them had the upper hand. BS thought the earl probably regarded him in much the same way he did the local vicar. However, he had been his advisor for years, his speech writer, his supporter, Thomas Cromwell to his Henry VIII, and he was confident the earl had no hand in pushing this ridiculous exhibition.

  Buoyed by his decision, he made his way downstairs. The kitchen clock said six, but the Aga kept the kitchen cosy. BS poured himself a bowl of cornflakes. He spied a pot of cream which Patricia had tucked away at the back of the fridge, and glancing over his shoulder to check he was alone, he splashed a generous tablespoonful on to his cereals, then topped the pot up with milk so that she wouldn’t notice and scold him about his weight. After eating, he poured himself a cup of tea and took it back upstairs. He had an hour and a half to kill before he could ring Dean, and thought it could be usefully spent on making himself spick and span to create a good impression on the earl.

  After showering, he braved the magnifying side of the shaving mirror, lathering the upper part of his cheeks and carefully shaving down towards the edge of his beard. He couldn’t abide men who let their beards straggle up towards their eyes, thin and bitty, blurring their faces as if they were out of focus, or allowed them to creep down over their throats, making them look unwashed. He liked to keep his topiaried, proof that it was not the idleness of old age that made him sport his magnificent Verdi beard. Carefully checking to make sure that all errant whiskers had been snipped off his cheeks, he then trimmed his beard into the sink with scissors and patted pungent cologne on to his skin. He smeared a little vaseline on his fingers and ran them along his eyebrows to flatten the tougher hairs, took a brush in each hand and pushed them one after another over his hair, checked to make sure no cereal adhered to his teeth following his breakfast and finally scrubbed his fingernails and pushed the cuticles back. He made his way through to the spare bedroom which he now used as a dressing room, pulled on a crisp handmade shirt and took his smartest double-breasted suit out of the cupboard, sweeping the cashmere fabric on the shoulders with a stiff brush before laying the jacket to one side until he had finished dressing. He took the greatest pleasure from being able to afford these luxuries in his latter years. He sat down on the end of the bed to tie the laces on a pair of Ducker shoes which Patricia had polished to a glass-like finish, then he picked out a silk tie and fastened it with a Windsor knot. He put the jacket on and admired himself in the full-length mirror, arranged a triangle of handkerchief in his top pocket, chose his smartest walking stick and went slowly downstairs. He found his wife in the kitchen.

  ‘Goodness me, BS,’ she said, looking up from her Daily Mail and peering at him over the top of her reading glasses. ‘You look as smooth as a rat with a gold tooth.’

  ‘Thank you, my love,’ he answered. ‘Good enough to talk His Lordship out of going ahead with this ridiculous exhibition, do you think?’

  ‘Dressed like that, you already look the victor.’

  ‘Snow this evening,’ Pugh called out when he saw BS in the courtyard heading over towards the private apartments. ‘Hope you’ve got your snow chains.’ BS raised a hand and smiled. He knew Pugh’s cheerful portents of doom too well to take much notice. He pulled the handle at the side of the wooden door and heard a bell ring deep in the undercroft. Several moments later he saw Dean through the glass of the door stooping to turn the key in the lock.

  ‘Good morning, BS’ the butler said. ‘Come in.’ BS slipped past and descended the stone steps. He waited at the bottom until Dean had secured the door. ‘The earl is expecting you,’ he said.

  ‘Is he in a good humour this morning?’ BS asked. The butler looked back over his shoulder and pulled a face.

  As they passed through the double doors into the back of the undercroft, BS smelt the remnants of a cooked breakfast mixed with the scent of gun oil, and passing under the vast bell boards they made their way up the steps and into the butler’s pantry. ‘You’d better wait here,’ Dean said. A Labrador stirred from a pile of old blankets underneath the pantry table and clicked across the wooden floor towards him. BS leant forward to pet her as he waited for the butler to return. The dog flopped on to the floor at his feet and exposed her stomach, but BS straightened up and sniffed the tips of his fingers, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand.

  ‘Dirty girl,’ he muttered. The dog’s tail thumped the floor.

  After a few minutes Dean beckoned to him, and he followed along the thick carpet until they reached the smoking room.

  ‘Mr Moreton, Your Lordship.’ Dean stood to one side then departed, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

  The earl was sprawled in his favourite corduroy armchair in the smoking room, a tray of coffee at his elbow and a newspaper spread across his lap. He didn’t look up when BS came into the room. BS stood in the centre of the Savonnerie carpet, swaying slightly on his stick, as he waited patiently for the earl to finish the article he was reading. After a minute or so the earl put the paper aside, took off his reading glasses and reached for a packet of Dunhill Internationals. He placed one between his lips, lit it with a heavy silver lighter and blew a plume of smoke into the air as he turned to face BS.

  ‘What do you want, Moreton? I hope you’ve dug up something a bit more bloody interesting than another laundry list from 1820,’ he drawled. ‘I’m rather busy this morning, and frankly I may not be able to summon up a great deal of interest in how many hand towels the ninth countess embroidered in the summer of 1818.’ He flashed a sarcastic smile at BS and took another long drag on his cigarette.

  BS, nettled by his insolence,
ignored the lack of an invitation to be seated and limped over to a chair in front of the earl. He sat down heavily and said, ‘I’ve come to acquaint you with the facts surrounding a new exhibition which has been instigated by your CEO, Simon Keane.’ The earl studied the old man from beneath his hooded lids. Tucking the still smoking Dunhill between his lips, he narrowed his eyes against the smoke and reached forward to pour himself another cup of coffee. BS ploughed on. ‘Keane wants me to help an outside curator to set up a public exhibition of the Dywenydd Collection, and as I know that the very idea would appal Your Lordship, I thought it expedient to lay the proposition before you in order for you to prevent any more valuable money being spent on this futile enterprise. I know that people like Keane put the pursuit of money above everything else. Apparently he even intends giving women access to the exhibition when it’s complete. I also know that he acts on a need-to-know basis and imagine that he did not think there was a need for you to know about this scheme.’

  The earl brought his hand back to his cigarette, he drew on it deeply, then turned to flick the sagging column of ash into a leather bin at his feet. It fell instead on to the carpet. ‘For God’s sake, Moreton, of course I know about it. I suggested the damned thing.’

  ‘You?’ BS said, adding hastily, ‘Your Lordship?’

  ‘Bloody unmannerly of you to think I didn’t know, Moreton.’

  BS was thrown off balance. He had never meant to show the earl a lack of courtesy, but the revelation rendered him momentarily speechless. The earl continued in a tone that added to BS’s feeling of discomfort. ‘In fact, bloody impertinent of you. This is my house. What on earth made you think anything happens here without my knowledge? You’re getting above yourself man.’

  ‘But ...’ BS floundered for a reply and chose his words badly, ‘... this is bastardising the memory of your ancestors to make money.’

  ‘What?’ The earl ground his cigarette down into the ashtray, smoke snorting from his nostrils, before he looked across at BS with ill-concealed irritation. ‘On your feet when you speak to me, man!’ BS heaved himself up out of the chair. ‘Do you mean to lecture me on the memory of my ancestors?’

  ‘I certainly do not, My Lord.’

  ‘Really?’ The earl got to his feet and took a step towards BS. ‘Or on the need to keep this place solvent then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Then let me explain once again. This exhibition will go ahead, and you will do what I pay you to do. I don’t care about your feeble Catholic principles. You either shape up or you ship out.’

  They stood facing one another for a few moments until the chiming of the quarter hour from the ormolu clock on the chimneypiece broke the stand-off and the earl barked out, ‘Dean?’ The butler must have been within earshot of this altercation as he slipped around the door within seconds. ‘Moreton’s leaving,’ the earl said before returning to his chair and retrieving his newspaper with a histrionic snap and rustle.

  Dean led BS back through the butler’s pantry to save him having to use the stairs again and let him out into the morning room of the main Hall. He didn’t comment on the shortness of the meeting and BS was thankful – he felt humiliated enough as it was. He passed Rosemary bustling along from the offices. ‘You look smart,’ she said. ‘Got an audience with His Lordship?’ BS grunted and continued through the state rooms towards the library, desperate to get up into his office before he had to engage in conversation with anyone else.

  He was glad to have the office to himself for the rest of the morning. He knew Bunty would be coming up to see him in the afternoon to discuss the allocation of guides for his special tours, and he hoped his ill humour would have evaporated by then. This tradition had been established so long ago that no one queried BS’s involvement in the rota except for Maureen Hindle.

  ‘She probably thinks we sit up here and gossip,’ said Bunty.

  ‘Which we do,’ BS said, ‘but as my dear mother, God rest her soul, used to say, “Show me someone who doesn’t gossip, and I will show you someone who isn’t interested in people.’’’

  That afternoon the first thing Bunty said was, ‘Are you ill, BS?’

  ‘No, I think I’m ageing,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I’m at my wits’ end, Bunty.’

  ‘We’d better have a cup of tea then,’ she said. ‘And a chocolate biscuit, I fancy.’ She went over to a cabinet near the window where a kettle, a caddy and a handful of milk pots from the canteen stood on a tray. She clicked the kettle on and rooted around in the cabinet below to retrieve two mugs and a spoon. ‘Come along, BS,’ she rallied over the clatter and pop of the kettle. ‘Get the biscuits organised while I do this.’ Pushing down on the arms of his leather chair which creaked under his weight, he rose to his feet. He manoeuvred around Bunty.

  ‘Just lean forward a bit,’ he said, opening a cupboard by her shoulder and drawing out a tin of Cadbury’s Chocolate Biscuit Collection which he put on the desk before negotiating his way back.

  He landed heavily in the leather chair behind his desk. ‘Oh dear, let me get my breath back, I’m a bit puffed today. I’ll just rest for a moment,’ he said, shutting his eyes and folding his pudgy hands across his belly. He heard Bunty clinking the cups before placing them on the desk, then her rustling around in the biscuit tin. After a few moments he felt revived and heaved himself forward.

  BS liked Bunty. She had the round, cheerful face of a countrywoman, her cheeks brilliant red from the thousands of tiny veins under the skin which had broken through years of strong sun and biting winds. She wore flat, comfortable moccasins which were scuffed and muddy, a pleated tartan skirt down to her calves, and a knitted jumper frayed at the cuff. Bunty was well into her sixties, but still ran her livery stables for polo ponies. Her husband was many years older than her, ex-army, and BS knew they were wealthy. He recognised breeding when he saw it. A woman couldn’t get away with so little grooming unless she was rich and well connected.

  ‘Oh, Bunty,’ he said, ‘I’m feeling very much under siege at the moment.’

  ‘The exhibition?’

  ‘Of course the exhibition. I’m fed up to the back teeth with the whole business – molars awash. I’ve just had a distressing meeting with the earl. He’s always supported me, but although it beggars belief, he says the exhibition was his idea.’

  ‘Doubt it,’ said Bunty. ‘Probably likes to think it was though.’

  ‘I imagined he knew nothing about it. I couldn’t believe he would let an outsider come in and stir around in those licentious artefacts, and to add insult to injury, I’m supposed to help.’

  ‘It’s a bit late in the day now, isn’t it? Everything’s under way. You should have spoken out earlier if you were this uncomfortable about it. And besides, you wouldn’t have wanted it handed over to an outsider without being involved, would you?’

  BS sighed again. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Bunty. Perhaps you’re right. But you’ve seen who they’ve sent to work with me? A woman! I simply can’t credit it.’

  ‘You embarrassed, BS?’

  ‘Embarrassed? Of course not.’ He crunched down mournfully on a digestive and brushed the crumbs from the summit of his stomach. ‘Well, it does make it rather awkward, I suppose. I mean, there are things in that collection I wouldn’t even want you to see.’

  ‘You’re being oversensitive BS, and it’s because you’re too much of a gentleman.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, flattered by her observation.

  ‘Of course. A charmer and a gentleman.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Bunty.’

  ‘But times have changed, people move on. Sam Westbrook isn’t some blushing girl on work experience – she’s from London, she must have dealt with this sort of stuff before or they wouldn’t have sent her.’ She bit down on her biscuit and then a thought seemed to strike her and she added between chews, ‘Come to think of it, Noel was talking about the Warren Cup – he went and saw the exhibition at the British Museum. It’s buggery, you know.’


  ‘What is?’

  ‘The theme of the cup.’

  ‘Buggery? How on earth can a cup have anything to do with buggery?’

  ‘The images are male lovers.’

  ‘Well, blow me down to the ruddy ground!’

  Bunty stopped crunching her biscuit and laid it down next to her mug. ‘If this whole thing really is too difficult for you BS, ask Noel to deputise for you. This sort of thing doesn’t bother him in the least.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m some kind of a prude?’

  ‘No. Maybe a bit.’

  ‘I’m a man of principle.’

  ‘Of course you are. So why don’t you get Noel to steer Sam Westbrook through the collection?’

  ‘Because I’m the archivist,’ he answered.

  ‘You can’t have it both ways, BS. You either suppress your sensitive side and work with this woman, or you swallow your pride and let Noel handle it. Either way it’s going ahead, and there’s precious little you can do to stop it.’

  BS stared out across the courtyard. A deep gloom seemed to fill the park as if the evening was coming early. ‘It’s all very tiresome,’ he said.

  After Bunty had gone, he thought over her scheme and came to the conclusion that it had a number of advantages. The first was obvious: it saved him the embarrassment of sifting through these objects with a woman, although he was reluctant to let Noel enjoy Sam’s company, but that couldn’t be helped. The second advantage was that if the exhibition was a flop, he would be above reproach. He could say that unfortunately his deputy was not as fully acquainted with the collection as him, but that his enormous workload had prevented his full involvement. And the third advantage was that as Noel had never seen the inventory, there was no chance of being caught out by a slip of the tongue about a piece of the collection that might have been misplaced. He was free to squirrel away as many of the more contentious objects as he liked and no one would be any the wiser.