8

A Bluffer’s Guide to Polite Conversation

The dining room looked like it had been decorated for a wedding. White strands of web hung in all the corners and were draped like netting across the furniture. Miss Havisham would have felt right at home here. Someone had made an effort to clean the room; the webs on the floor had been swept into corners where they piled up like indoor snowdrifts. As it was evening the spiders were more active too. Armies of them marched across the floor or dangled from the ceiling seeking out food. Miss Muffet had thought ahead though. As well as kitchen-boy duties, Jack had been drafted in, with a sweeping brush, to attack any arachnids that came too close.

He was being kept very busy.

In order to maintain appearances as well as giving Basili an opportunity to eavesdrop, I’d managed to get him a table all to himself in the corner, where he was the subject of many curious looks. If anyone tried to approach the table I intercepted them with a ‘Mr Schmidt-Heye wants to be alone’ and what I thought was a very forbidding stare. It seemed to work, as any would-be fans slunk away without disturbing him.

Satisfied that Basili wouldn’t be talking to anyone, I left him to his meal and took my seat at the nearest table. Mr Spratt and a woman I assumed to be Mrs Spratt sat on either side of me. Across the table was a pompous-looking gentleman. ‘Nimble. John B. Nimble,’ he’d replied curtly when I’d introduced myself. ‘Antiques.’ I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to his job or to the other two guests at the table. Then he went back to reading his newspaper, ignoring the rest of us.

‘Charming,’ I muttered.

‘Oh, he’s not too bad once you get to know him,’ said Mr Spratt. ‘By the way, I’m Jack and this is my wife, Muriel.’ He indicated his wife, who was as round as he was thin, and she gave me a tiny wave. Side by side they looked like the number 10 and were in direct contrast to John Nimble in that they never stopped talking. Muriel Spratt had confirmed what Miss Muffet had said: the Spratts were celebrating fifty years of marriage by returning to the guest house they’d stayed in for their honeymoon. Miss Muffet’s B&B in Grimmtown; wow, they had really pushed the boat out the day they got married.

‘And how about you dear?’ asked Mrs Spratt. ‘Is there any romance in your life?’

‘I’m firmly focused on my career,’ I bluffed. ‘There’s no time in my life for a relationship at present’, which wasn’t entirely untrue either.

As I watched I couldn’t help but notice that the Spratts had a strange habit of sharing the contents of their plates with each other. She’d cut the fat off her meat and pass the rest on to her husband and he reciprocated by passing the fat from his food on to her plate. They ate so fast they got to finish everything before the spiders got to it. Mrs Spratt noticed me watching them eat and giggled nervously. ‘It’s a diet thing,’ she said. ‘He likes the lean bits and I like the rest, so we never go hungry.’

I spent the rest of the meal beating spiders away from my plate as I tried to eat my salad faster than they could steal it. It was a close contest, but victory was mine – the dead arachnids scattered around my plate testament to the brutal struggle. All the way through I fielded questions about Basili’s solitude; all my answers being variations on a theme of being anti-social with a fear of being touched or spoken to.

After dinner we all migrated to the lounge for ‘mingling and conversation’, as Miss Muffet put it. From what I could see, it seemed to mean an evening of awkward silences and everyone standing around looking very self-conscious. In fact, until one of the guests, Mr Nocchio, a tall, thin gentleman with a funny lumbering gait and skin the texture of wood, came up and quizzed me about Basili, who was standing behind me still trying to look superior, we might have all been in a very arty silent movie (in black and white, of course).

‘Who eez thees movie-director you ’ave behind you?’ he asked in heavily accented English.

‘He’s the famous Alain Schmidt-Heye,’ I replied haughtily.

‘Famous? I ’ave not ’eard of ’eem.’

There was a chorus of ‘me neither’s as everyone in the room suddenly took an interest in our conversation. It was time for some arty-type bluffing.

‘Of course you haven’t heard of him, unless you’re the kind of discerning movie-goer who enjoys documentaries. He’s very highly thought of on the global cinematic stage.’ Attacking their artistic pretensions while fabricating Basili’s cinematic catalogue might divert their interest. If they figured they didn’t know as much about high art as they thought, they might just go along with what I was saying so as not to appear less cultured. Ah, intellectual snobbery, how I admire thee.

‘Ah, yes, now that you mention it, I do recall reading something about him in the arts section of the Grimmtown Globe. Didn’t he do that film on the secret life of Prince Charming?’ said a well-dressed man leaning against the mantelpiece at the far side of the room. I was surprised he’d even noticed us; he seemed to be constantly keeping Miss Muffet in his eye line as she hovered around her guests, making sure they were comfortable. What was making her so interesting, I wondered? This well-dressed man now needed to be kept in my eye line; that was suspicious behaviour – in my book at any rate.

‘Yes, that was one of Mr Schmidt-Heye’s,’ I replied, going with the flow. ‘It was very well received and there are rumours it may get nominated for a Gifty.’ If I was going to bluff, I might as well go all the way and spin out as convincing a back-story as I could. It would only have to hold up to scrutiny for another day or so. After that it hopefully wouldn’t matter.

‘Gifty? What’s a Gifty?’ asked a small, dapper man, sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire.

‘It’s the Grimmtown International Film and Television Awards, darling,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘Goodness, do you people know anything about culture?’

There was a brief pause followed by much knowing nodding and variations on ‘Ah, the Awards. I didn’t realise they were known as Giftys by the masses.’ Nothing like intellectual pretension to aid in a cover-up.

Basili nodded smugly and raised his cigarette holder to his mouth once more.

The dapper man, whom, based on a process of elimination, I suspected to be either Thomas Piper or William Winkie, stood up and walked across the room towards me.

Uh, oh, I thought. This isn’t good.

‘I much preferred your earlier, funnier material,’ he said, trying to approach Basili. ‘Don’t you do that kind of stuff any more?’

I interrupted and blocked the spoofer. ‘Mr Schmidt-Heye appreciates his fans, but doesn’t like to be touched. You may address any comments through me.’

Then, to my horror, Basili decided to engage in some role-play – and in direct contravention of orders. ‘There is a favourite film of mine that you are liking? I am most gratified to meet a true fan, and, perhaps, you are telling us your name.’ Nice one Basili; maybe he might turn out to be good at this after all.

The dapper man preened at being acknowledged. ‘Willie Winkie’s the name,’ he said, stretching out a hand that I immediately slapped away, giving him a warning look at the same time.

If he was Winkie then the man by the fireplace must be Thomas Piper. Licken and Lurkey I already knew – and, fortunately, they weren’t in the room – so that meant that the only person I hadn’t met was Queenie Harte.

So far, so good – now all I had to do was find out what they did. ‘Mr Schmidt-Heye is thinking about moving from documentaries into dramatic motion pictures. To that end he is engaging with a number of significant backers with a view to raising funds for this exciting venture. If any of you are interested, perhaps you might provide me with your details. So far, all our investors have received a significant return on their investment.’

There was an excited murmuring and a swathe of business cards was thrust into my trotters.

‘What kind of movie are you considering making?’ The formerly abrupt Mr Nimble sat up straight in his chair and suddenly seemed very interested too.

‘We’ve received a very promising script for a horror film that we believe we can use to take the genre into significantly new directions. In fact, that’s why we’re staying here. We feel that it may be a great location for some of the opening scenes, set in a haunted house.’ More nodding and knowing looks – suddenly they were all experts.

Ah, what a bit of pandering to artistic snobbery can get you.

Just as they were all falling over themselves to tell me how great Basili was, how they were secretly fans of his all along and how they’d be most interested in discussing investment opportunities, there was the sound of the front door banging and loud shouting from the hallway. Every head – except mine and Piper’s – swivelled apprehensively towards the lounge door. I turned to Basili and whispered, ‘Be on your toes, things might get a bit out of hand.’

He looked confused. ‘Why, Mr Harry, what is happening?’

Before I could answer, the lounge door crashed open and in walked a giant chicken garbed in a clown costume, followed closely by a much smaller turkey dressed as a nun. My worst fears were confirmed: Licken and Lurkey had come home to roost – and from the way his eyes narrowed, Licken had immediately seen through my disguise. It was time for some quick action. I rushed towards him arms outstretched. ‘Licken darling, it’s been so long. How ARE you?’ I exclaimed while grabbing him by the shoulders and attempting an air-kiss. Mwuah, Mwuah. ‘Don’t let on it’s me,’ I whispered into his ear. ‘I’ll explain later. As far as you’re concerned I’m Harriet, okay?’

To his credit, Licken bought into my story and nodded vacantly, trying to catch up with what was going on.

‘And Lurkey too, how wonderful!’ Another air-kiss, followed up with a hug that squeezed the breath out of him before he could say anything. ‘Not a word,’ I hissed. ‘Or I tell all about you know what.’

Before he could respond, I turned to the other guests. ‘I’m sure you’ve all already met Grimmtown’s foremost comedy duo, Lurkey and Licken,’ I announced. ‘They’re very old and very dear friends of mine,’ a statement that wasn’t exactly untrue either. ‘They’re such darling people and I’m so glad to see them again after such a long time.’ Behind me I could hear Lurkey gasping for air while Licken seemed to be whispering in his ear. Hopefully Lurkey wouldn’t say anything stupid, though he was by far the dumber of that particular duo, so I wasn’t sure he’d caught on. Licken, on the other hand, was giving it large.

‘Ah, yes, our dear friend Harriet. Remember when she used to sell ice-cream at the Grimmtown Grand Old Comedy and then the punters used to chuck it right back at her. Ah, she’s come a long way since then.’ Then he caught sight of Basili. ‘Is that who I think it is? Surely it can’t be—’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ I interrupted before he said something stupid. ‘It’s Alain Schmidt-Heye,’ adding, ‘the famous movie-director’, when I saw the confused look on his face.

‘Oh, yeah, right; him,’ Licken stammered, clearly confused.

I needed to get them out of the room before they gave something away, but at the same time I couldn’t leave Basili there on his own with his new fan club. He’d definitely give something away.

‘Sir,’ – I grabbed Basili by the arm – ‘perhaps we could take these two fine gentlemen outside to catch up, so as not to bore our other friends here.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Willie Winkie. ‘We wouldn’t be bored at all. I’m sure your tales of the glamorous showbiz life you lead would be the perfect after-dinner conversation piece.’

I was about to spin out an excuse as to why we had to leave the room right that second – just as soon as I could think of one – when I saw something that sent the case in an entirely new and unwelcome direction. Above the mantelpiece, almost totally obscured by webs, was a portrait. This wasn’t just any portrait, though. Oh, no, even hidden by all those strands of webbing, the face in the picture was immediately recognisable: Grimmtown’s most notorious pirate, Sinbad El Muhfte. Now that I could see his face clearly, I also recognised him as the subject in all those pictures on the stairway wall.

Then the links began to coalesce in my mind.

El Muhfte. Not much of a stretch to Muffet.

Sinbad El Muhfte and Miss Muffet; the names were slightly different, but the similarity was surely no coincidence.

Now, looking more closely at the portrait, I could see the family resemblance and the awful truth struck me: Miss Muffet must be Sinbad’s daughter. The daughter of one of the most famous criminals in the town’s history, who was currently doing a twenty-to-life stretch in Grimmtown’s maximum security prison. And in all the pictures on the stairway wall, he wasn’t waving to adoring fans, as I had originally assumed; oh no, they were portraits of him taunting the pursuing police, having successfully evaded them once more.

Now I’m not a great believer in coincidences, so considering who daddy was and combining it with Miss Muffet’s current predicament, I got a horrible feeling that this case had just taken a major turn for the worse – and I was smack in the middle of it.