Chapter Twenty Seven The Photographer
The drinks reception spilled from the great hall onto the terrace and the formal gardens beyond, guests clustering in groups of three and four, champagne in hand, gossiping about the bride and speculating about the groom and generally doing what wedding guests have done since time immemorial.
The snow had stopped falling, at least temporarily, leaving the grounds blanketed in sparkling white fresh snow and the air crisp and cold.
Guests who ventured outside huddled in their coats and scarves, their breath making small clouds as they talked.
The sun was beginning to set, casting everything in a golden light that made even Elizabeth’s disapproving expression look almost warm.
The official photographer, a rather young and fashionable man named Julian Montgomery had been hired by Elizabeth, vetted by Seb the wedding planner and briefed extensively on which angles were acceptable and which family members should be positioned in the back.
He was moving through the crowd, capturing candid moments and posed portraits with professional efficiency.
There was also another photographer.
I noticed him first because he wasn’t on the list. I had helped Elizabeth compile that list and I have a good memory for names and faces.
This man wasn’t Julian. He wasn’t even Julian’s assistant; an even younger female version of him, who dragged around lights, spare batteries and fresh shirts, so he always looked pristine.
The other photographer wasn’t anyone who should have been there.
He was lingering at the edges of the crowd, moving slowly toward the terrace where James and Anastasia were accepting congratulations.
His camera was a professional model; expensive and heavy-looking, he held it with the easy familiarity of someone who used such equipment regularly and wore press credentials around his neck as he surveyed the party.
He had found an unusual position, away from the main group, where he set up the long lens on a large tripod.
The tripod was not regular equipment. Mounted in a box under the camera, disguised as additional batteries was a silenced pistol, it was deadly and discreet.
He swept the lens around and locked on to James.
He was curling his fingers around the hidden trigger when Rupert came over and introduced himself.
Rupert had been a prop forward at university.
He had taken up rugby, he once explained, to get out of Latin prep and had discovered a natural talent for controlled violence that had served him well ever since.
He was built like a refrigerator that had been taught to run, with shoulders that suggested he could carry small vehicles if properly motivated.
He had also been assigned, along with the other ushers, the sacred duty of keeping the paparazzi away from James’s wedding.
James hated the press. Hated the way they lurked outside restaurants, hated the way they photographed people at their worst moments, hated the whole culture of celebrity journalism that seemed to find wealthy men inherently interesting regardless of whether they had actually done anything.
He had made the ushers promise; repeatedly and emphatically, that no photographers would be allowed except the official one.
Rupert took promises seriously.
‘Oi,’ he said, materialising beside the interloper with the sudden presence of a man who had spent years appearing unexpectedly in the blind spots of opposing scrum-halves. ‘Who are you?’
The photographer lowered his camera slightly. ‘Press. The family’s quite well known, you know. Public interest.’
‘The family doesn’t want press. James specifically said no paps. We’ve got a list of approved people and you’re not on it.’
‘I’m sure if you just let me get a few shots...’
‘I’m sure I won’t.’
The photographer tried to sidestep. Rupert moved with him, blocking his path with the easy confidence of someone who had spent years stopping much faster men from getting where they wanted to go.
‘Look,’ the photographer said, a note of irritation creeping into his voice, ‘I’ve got every right to be here. Public interest. Freedom of the press. You can’t just...’
‘Private property,’ Rupert said. ‘No right at all. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way: you leave. Hard way: I make you leave.’
‘You can’t threaten me. I’ll have you arrested for assault.’
Rupert smiled. It was not a reassuring smile.
‘Hard way it is, then.’
What happened next was very quick and very efficient.
Rupert’s tackle, honed by years of bringing down men who were actively trying to evade him, hit the photographer at approximately hip height, lifting him off his feet and carrying him several metres before they both hit the ground.
The camera went flying, landing in the grass with a heavy thud.
Before the photographer could recover, Rupert had him by the collar and was hauling him upright with one hand, the way a normal person might pick up a moderately heavy bag of shopping.
‘Nice camera,’ Rupert said conversationally, as he frogmarched the man toward the ornamental lake. ‘Waterproof, is it?’
‘What? No! You can’t...’
Splash.
???
The ornamental lake at Hartington Hall was a Capability Brown original, designed in 1762 as part of his famous work reshaping the estate’s grounds. It was serpentine in shape, approximately two hundred metres at its widest point and featured a small island in the centre with a temple folly.
It was also, in late December, absolutely freezing.
The photographer surfaced with a gasp, spluttering and flailing, his expensive clothes instantly soaked, his cultivated composure completely destroyed. He struck out for the shore, which was only a few metres away: Rupert had thrown him into the shallow end, more for convenience than mercy.
The photographer dragged himself onto the bank, water streaming from his clothes, teeth already chattering. He looked up at Rupert with pure hatred.
‘You’re insane. You’re absolutely insane. I’ll sue you. I’ll have you...’
‘You’ll have me what?’ Rupert bent down, picked him up by the collar again and threw him back in.
Splash.
‘Lovely lake, this,’ Rupert called out, standing at the water’s edge with his arms crossed. ‘Capability Brown, I’m told. Worth a second look, really. Very picturesque.’
This time when the photographer surfaced, he didn’t bother trying to threaten anyone. He just swam for the opposite shore, putting as much distance between himself and Rupert as possible and crawled out onto the grass like a man who had been shipwrecked on a hostile island.
He lay there for a moment, catching his breath.
Then he got unsteadily to his feet, looked back at Rupert across the lake, seemed to consider saying something, thought better of it and squelched away toward the service road at the edge of the estate.
Without his gun, now lost somewhere in the muddy depths of the lake with the tripod and camera, the job was off and he did not want to meet that enormous usher again.
He did not look back again.
???
Rupert appeared beside me, looking pleased with himself. ‘Reckon he’ll think twice before gatecrashing another wedding.’
‘I reckon he will.’
‘Bit odd, though, wasn’t he? Most paps run when you spot them. This one tried to argue.’
‘Maybe he really wanted those photos.’
‘Must have done. Did you see his camera? Looked expensive. Hope it wasn’t anything important.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t.’
We walked back toward the house. The guests had noticed the commotion, it was hard to miss Rupert tackling someone and throwing them into a lake, but the general consensus seemed to be that it had been hilarious rather than alarming.
Someone was already telling the story to a group of elderly relatives, complete with sound effects.
‘Brilliant,’ Freddie said, appearing at Rupert’s elbow. ‘Absolutely brilliant. Did you see his face when you picked him up the second time?’
‘I did.’
‘Like a fish that’s been told bad news. A very wet, very unhappy fish.’
‘That’s oddly specific.’
‘I’m an oddly specific person.’
???
Anastasia was standing by the French windows, watching the lake where the camera had disappeared.
Her expression was unreadable, but there was a slight relaxation in her shoulders and her hand which had been hovering near her thigh moved away.
She had been ready. She had known what that photographer was. And she had been prepared to act.
She hadn’t needed to. Rupert had done it for her, with enthusiasm and complete ignorance of what he had actually accomplished. Her guard was not down, but she could see at least one attempt had failed. She had done nothing and was not sure how she felt about that, but the result was still a win.
James appeared at the French windows, beaming, champagne glass in hand.
‘There you are! Did you see what Rupert did? Threw a man in the lake! Twice! It was magnificent!’ He put an arm around Anastasia’s waist. ‘Best wedding ever. Absolutely the best. Come on we are wanted and I’ve got a surprise for the evening that I think you’re going to love.’
He led her away, chattering happily about surprises. Anastasia glanced back at the lake, just once. The cameraman was climbing the wall to escape the chaos; he was out of the game.