Staging Death Read Online Free

‘Put money in thy purse.’ He blew me an extravagant kiss, which I returned.
    A line from Othello ! A fat chance poor Meredith had of getting his teeth into Iago. There was one actress I loathed so much I’d have killed – literally! – for her part. I hoped Meredith wouldn’t harbour such resentment.
    And so it was back to the Ka for me. Bloody Toby – I wished I didn’t always wonder, every single time I left him, what might have been.

    Knottsall Lodge, on which I’d made notes I now had by heart, was a gem of a house, mostly Elizabethan. Half of it was black and white timbered, the rest stone built, with crenellations concealing an almost flat roof now covered in duckboards to protect the lead beneath. I always imagined the ladies of the house coming up here when they wanted a quiet gossip. Or perhaps their menfolk would have found it a good place to keep watch from during the Civil War, though my research hadn’t shown any family involvement. Since during that period, however, practically every family in the country had endured split allegiances, I might just hint at tragic associations if the Brosnics evinced any interest in history.
    I waited for them on the forecourt, and was just reading a text from Caddie when I heard their car. Mr Brosnic announced his arrival with a spray of gravel, parking the Bentley with extravagant, macho gestures. I knew the moment I saw him that they would not buy. Brosnic must have been six foot two in his socks, and was correspondingly broad. The original Elizabethan owners came in much smaller portions, codpieces apart, and not just the doorways of the house but also some of the lopsided ceilings would surely scalp him.
    It wasn’t my job to point that out, however, so I greeted them as if I knew they’d found their dream home. They expressed strongly accenteddelight at the charming approach to the house. At least he did. Mrs Brosnic was totally silent – silent to the point of bored, you might say. Or – if the hand-shaped bruise on her upper arm was anything to go by – to the point of intimidation. She was also dithering, though this was probably with cold. She was wearing what looked like an original Stella McCartney dress and Manolos on her bony little bare feet – an outfit more suited to Ascot. Since the wind hadn’t eased since I left Aldred House and the sun was no stronger, she’d have been warmer if she’d worn, not carried, that huge Anya Hindmarch bag. All those items were top of the range – so why did she look so decidedly un-chic? Because she was trying too hard? Certainly if she’d been a picture I’d have said she’d been painted by numbers.
    Brosnic strode in as if he already owned the place. For the first time I registered a bulge in his jacket the wrong size and shape for a wallet. I swallowed, and switched on my coolest persona. She teetered in his wake, silly heels inflicting God knows what damage on the ancient oak boards. In a mixture of mime and clearly enunciated English, I suggested she remove her shoes before attempting the steep and awkward stairs.
    Mr Brosnic was clearly not a man to admit defeat by a series of low lintels, but his visit to the roof was no more than cursory, with not asingle glance at the expanse of countryside. So why did he give what looked like a satisfied nod? He grunted something at his wife. The tour – the charade – was almost over. I prepared to usher them out and make appropriate noises about seeing them again soon.
    Slightly to my surprise, after they’d inspected every last cranny, at the same time they both asked to use the bathroom. Without waiting for a reply, they headed for two separate ones. Was this how Russian oligarchs behaved? All I could do was wait on the landing for them, leaning on an oak balustrade that might once have supported the Bard’s arms as he looked down at the revels below. Now that was a line I could spin to the next viewers.
    Soon, first one, then the second returned to me.