‘Are you a professional actor?’
‘Indeed I am, Major Payne. Indeed I am. For my sins. As an unperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear is put beside his part. I should stop saying things twice. Have you noticed how I tend to say things twice? That’s a mannerism I decided “John de Coverley” would have. Once I get my teeth into a part, I find it frightfully hard to get out of it. So you noticed that the blasted monocle was made of plain glass, what?’
‘That – and the fact that you are right-handed whereas the real John de Coverley is left-handed. His sister told us.’
‘She did? What else?’
‘We saw Ella taking a plate of fried chicken to a room upstairs. Sybil had told us that chicken was John’s favourite dish. Ella looked a trifle furtive. John is supposed to bear everybody under this roof a terrible grudge. Besides, he nearly blew off Ramskritt’s head. You have been too tame and too amiable. A completely different character altogether. The real John is a good sailor – while you, in your own admission, are a complete wash-out.’
‘Did I say “wash-out”? How observant of you.’
‘Besides, you kept flirting with Sybil and she blushed girlishly and clearly welcomed your advances in a singularly un-sisterly manner.’
‘Was that so obvious?’
‘Well, yes.’
Feversham said that forbidden passion between siblings was not that uncommon. It happened more often than people imagined, especially among the upper echelons of society.
‘You may be right. Not between these particular siblings, though. Sybil warned us that relations between her and her brother were extremely strained.’
‘Are you always so uncannily accurate in your deductions?’
‘Not always,’ said Payne. ‘Most of the time, perhaps.’
‘Well, I was asked to play the part of Sybil’s brother John de Coverley. Romany – Mrs G-G – knows me. I’ve already taken part in a couple of Murder Weekends she’s organised in the past. Various moat hotels, you know. The grub is awfully good and they let you have drinks on the house, as many as you wish.’
‘I believe you are a character actor?’
‘Indeed I am. I specialise in middle-aged buffers with a diplomatic background. Once I played a former royal aide, to great acclaim. I was “Holbrook” in The Sleeping Prince. Rattigan, you know. I was also “Sir Rowland Delahaye” in Agatha Christie’s The Spider’s Web. This time, I was told, it would be different since the party was taking place at a private house on an island and everybody would be themselves, more or less. Romany encouraged us to perform prodigies of improvisation, invent whole loops of dialogue. Though of course the central situation was carefully thought through. It was to be staged with the minutest attention to detail.’
‘By “the central situation” you mean the murder,’ Payne said.
‘Yes, I do mean the murder.’ Feversham gave a little bow. ‘I was going to impersonate someone who was in the house, but who was not going to appear at all. Sybil’s brother. The real John de Coverley is an eccentric recluse who never leaves his room – unless it is late at night – and whose prowling presence is generally viewed as an irksome if innocuous pastime.’
‘John was never approached and asked to play himself?’
‘No. They knew he would never have agreed to it. But Romany thought he was too good a character to omit. Well, according to Romany’s script, it was John who was to be unmasked as the Sphinx Island killer in the end. John, that is, as impersonated by me.’ Feversham paused. ‘Acting on Romany’s instructions, Sybil paid you a visit and told you she suspected one of her guests was planning to kill another. Meanwhile a letter was sent to you, purporting to be from the mad killer.’
‘So the Riddler was part of the game too,’ said Payne. ‘That was overegging the pudding a bit, wasn’t it?’
‘Romany wouldn’t have it any other way. She wrote the letter personally. She found some ancient bottle of ink the colour of old blood – used to belong to one of Sybil’s uncles, apparently. Romany said she wanted to make absolutely sure your curiosity was sufficiently aroused. She was keen on introducing a fantastical element into the story. Something recherché. I believe she came across a pile of old Batman comics in the library – that gave her the N. Nygmer idea. The murder was to take place on your very first night on the island. The body was to be found in the library.’
‘It was going to be Sybil’s body?’
‘Sybil would have been “strangled” with the cord of a gentleman’s dressing gown. Not with the curtain cord.’ Feversham held up his eyeglass. ‘Later the dressing gown cord would have be traced back to me – I mean to “John de Coverley”. You’d have been told that Sybil was heard talking to someone in the library – some ten minutes before her body was found.’
‘There would have been a witness to Sybil’s last words?’
‘Yes. That would have been Ella, or was it Maisie? Can’t remember exactly which. Sorry – it’s suddenly hit me that Sybil is dead, really dead. I liked her an awful lot, you know.’ Feversham’s hand went up to his eyes. ‘Ella – I believe it was Ella, yes – was going to report to you what she had overheard Sybil say.’
‘What was that?’
‘Why did you make me go to the Paynes with this rigmarole? I insist on an explanation for the cock-and-bull tale you asked me to feed them. Why did you want me to say I suspected one of my guests was a murderer? I am fed up with humouring you. I do think you should see a doctor. Words to that effect. Meant to suggest that the idea of a killer preparing to kill someone was John’s, that it was some kind of crazy amusement he had dreamt up, with which Sybil had agreed to collaborate.’
‘And we would have deduced that she had been talking to “John”. The fake John. You. This is all terribly complicated but I believe I see.’
‘There would have been an additional trail of clues leading to “John”. His motive would have been the island. He would have killed his sister after learning of her decision to sell the island to Oswald Ramskritt. Sybil had left the island to her brother in her will.’
‘Oh yes. She told us about it.’
‘Romany wanted to keep as close as possible to the real-life circumstances of her main characters,’ Feversham went on. ‘Or rather the circumstances of her actors. You would have discovered “John” made Sybil go to you with a cock-and-bull story about a killer. Sybil’s murder would have been made to look as though she had been silenced.’
‘I see. Or I believe I see … While all along there’d have been no earthly reason for her to have been silenced. I see. That would have been a mere “strategy of deception”. The desk drawer then contained no real evidence?’
‘No.’
‘And you cut the telephone wires as part of the game?’
‘I didn’t. I was only to say it, but not actually do it. Someone else must have cut the wires – the real killer – unless it was the wind – do phone wires go under the sea? I was meant to make Sybil look dead by applying make-up – blue for bruises – a rubber band around the neck, little rubber bands round the wrists, so that you couldn’t feel any pulse … A cruel trick, I know, but we wouldn’t have kept you in the dark for long, I promise you.’
‘Someone strangled Sybil for real,’ Payne said. ‘Any idea who that might be?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest.’ Feversham sniffed. ‘I can’t believe I won’t see her again. I miss her already. I miss her dreadfully. We’d been getting on like a house on fire. She loved my impersonations, you know. She said I reminded her of her father who’d been endowed with charm, a fineness of spirit and notable intelligence. I feel pole-axed.’ Feversham dabbed at his eyes with a silk handkerchief. ‘Positively pole-axed.’
‘I examined the body at twenty past ten. She was still warm. I imagine she had been dead for no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Where were you between ten and quarter past ten?’
‘I was in the dining room. I was looking for one of my cufflinks. Here it is.’ Feversham hel
d up his left hand. ‘It was still there, under my chair. Did anyone see me? As it happens, Ramskritt did – he looked in and there I was on all fours. He said hallo. He and I chatted for a bit and then Mrs G-G appeared and – um – said she wondered whether poor Sybil was ready for the corpse make-up.’
20
WOMAN ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN
To start with Mrs Garrison-Gore’s voice was steady. ‘I was only following your aunt’s instructions. Make it as complicated as you can – remember they are awfully clever. Your aunt said that you have le gout du policier. She said you believed that murder followed you wherever you went. She said you’d been feeling jaded and that what you needed was an intellectual challenge to get you out of the doldrums.’
‘Jaded? Jaded?’ Payne turned towards Antonia. ‘Have we ever felt jaded?’
Mrs Garrison-Gore said she had decided on a plot involving a conglomerate of recognisable clichés. She had done it quite deliberately. ‘The clichés were meant to amuse you – to make you feel superior – but also to intrigue you.’
‘You will be pleased to know that you succeeded. We were intrigued all right,’ Payne said. Actually, she is by no means a fool, he reflected.
‘It was the Riddler’s letter that decided us,’ said Antonia. She had an idea her presence might be making Mrs Garrison-Gore a little self-conscious.
‘Ten people on a peculiarly shaped island. A house with a mysterious history. Warring siblings. A provocative epistle. The woman who knows too much. Bluffs and counter-bluffs. A plot which was to be as artificial as anything commedia dell’Arte has produced –’ The next moment, without any warning, tears sprang from Mrs Garrison-Gore’s eyes and coursed down her cheeks.
Payne rose and asked if she would care for a drink. Some brandy? Mrs Garrison-Gore declined.
‘I spent ages getting every little detail right, absolute ages! And for what? Sleepless night after sleepless night, scribbling away. I believed I was doing something worthwhile but I was deluding myself. I was doing it for the money, of course.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore sobbed. ‘Smoke and mirrors, that’s what detective stories are – ephemeral piffle – nothing to do with literature – all so pointless. I have been wasting my time, my mind, my energies! I have achieved nothing in my life, nothing at all!’
‘People love reading murder mysteries,’ Payne tried to reassure her.
Mrs Garrison-Gore went on to claim that she could have done better things. She could have helped mankind. She could have tried to improve the human condition. She could have become a teacher or a missionary. Or a nurse! She could have been a nurse at some leper colony in Honolulu or Honduras. She could have been primping the curls and buffing the cheeks of black babies. Instead of which she had been writing detective stories! She spat out the words with infinite disgust. ‘Edmund Wilson was right!’ She shook her forefinger. ‘Edmund Wilson couldn’t have put it better!’
‘You don’t mean the notorious Roger Ackroyd quip, do you?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. Nobody should care who killed Roger Ackroyd!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore cried. ‘Why should they? Readers should start boycotting these so-called “entertainments”. Bookshops should refuse to stock detective stories. Detective stories are bad for public health!’
‘This strikes me as a somewhat extreme view …’
‘It’s a perfectly balanced view!’
‘Detective stories have been with us for more than a hundred years and have always been vastly popular.’
‘They give unbalanced individuals ideas. The world is full of unbalanced individuals. Look at the people at this house, I mean at us. Look at us, just look at us! Are we all perfectly balanced? Are we? I mean us – not you – us! Look at us! We set you up! We played a game with you! Is that responsible adult behaviour?’
‘You were accomplices in a conspiracy of histrionics,’ Payne murmured.
Mrs Garrison-Gore beat at her ample bosom with her fist. Her costume jewellery rattled. ‘I killed Sybil de Coverley! As good as! It was my idea that she should be the victim. Poor Sybil! I killed her! I am a killer! I must be arrested!’
Oh dear. Antonia bit her lip. She remembered something else her copy-editor had told her, namely that Romany Garrison-Gore was a past mistress of the unexpected and extravagant emotional response.
‘You are clearly upset,’ Payne said. ‘Perhaps we should have a break?’
Mrs Garrison-Gore shook her head. ‘No, no breaks. That’s all right. I am fine. Hysterical reaction, that’s all. I do apologise. Hate myself when it happens. Nerves torn to shreds. Overworked, that’s the trouble. Not enough sleep. Living in a world of my own. You can ask me any questions you like. The least I can do is answer your questions.’ She produced a handkerchief and blew her nose rather noisily. ‘Shoot.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Shoot.’
There was a pause. Payne held his chin between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Where were you between ten and quarter past? Do you remember?’
‘Of course I remember. That’s when I popped up to see how Doctor Klein was,’ she said promptly. ‘He was lying on his bed, poor man. He said he was OK, though he looked far from OK. Terrible colour and so limp. Put me in mind of a beached whale. Then I went downstairs looking for Feversham. Wanted a word about Sybil’s make-up. I found Feversham in the dining room talking to Oswald. Then I went looking for Sybil. That was a couple of minutes later …’ She sniffed.
‘Do go on, please.’
‘It was time for her make-up, you see. I was getting nervous. Feversham was going to apply it. Feversham knew how, being an old pro. He’d brought his make-up kit from London. I went into the library and I saw Sybil lying there. At first I thought he had already applied the make-up. I remember looking at my watch and thinking Sybil had got the time wrong since it was too early for her to take her position in front of the fireplace … I called out to her … I thought she was shamming … Only she wasn’t … I touched her hand … She was dead … I believe I screamed. I screamed, didn’t I? I have the uncanny feeling she’ll walk in any minute and say it was all a joke!’
‘Any idea as to who might have strangled her?’ Payne asked.
‘No, no idea at all,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said. ‘I really wouldn’t want to speculate. I can but I won’t. It would be wrong. I’ve done enough harm as it is.’
Ella Gales had the clearest ice-blue gaze which Antonia had ever seen. It was like glass.
‘Yes, that’s correct. My story would have been that I’d been passing by the library door. I was to say that the library door was closed but I’d heard Sybil’s voice and that she was talking to someone.’ Ella held her hands clasped on her lap. ‘I was to tell you that Sybil had sounded agitated. That’s why I’d stopped and listened since it wasn’t at all characteristic of Sybil to show emotion of any kind. As it happens, I never left the kitchen. I only came out when I heard Mrs Garrison-Gore screaming … Between ten and quarter past? In the kitchen, I told you. I was with Maisie. There was so much to do –’
‘I was meant to interrupt you in the library. That was according to the script. I was to barge in just as Sybil was about to show you the “evidence”,’ Oswald Ramskritt explained. ‘My manner was to be brusque and jarring. Sybil was to allow herself to be led away like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter. Mrs G-G asked us to rehearse the scene several times. She kept cracking the whip. I felt like a circus animal being put through his paces. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I believe I managed to shepherd Sybil out in suspicious enough manner, didn’t I?’
‘That was in fact only a red herring …’
‘The “lead-up to the murder”, that’s what Mrs G-G called it. Mrs G-G’s purpose was to exercise your little grey cells.’ He tapped his forehead, then twirled an imaginary moustache. ‘Shouldn’t joke, really. Sorry. This is a terrible business.’ There was an odd expression on his face. He didn’t really look sorry, Antonia thought.
‘The breaking open of the desk drawer then
was also part of the plot?’
‘Yes. I did that myself. Sybil said the desk was only an imitation Sheraton. There was nothing in the drawer – only old theatre programmes, dinner party menus, odds and ends, one of those pens fashioned out of a silver bullet, which, as it happens, Sybil gave to Mrs G-G as a present. To protect her against evil.’
‘A real silver bullet?’
‘I believe it is, yes. Sybil said one of her ancestors went vampire hunting in Transylvania. It happened at the time of the Boer War. He was meant to go to Tansvaal, but apparently got on the wrong train. I don’t know if any of it is true. Sybil was in a skittish mood last night and no mistake. She probably made it up. She seemed to be in an odd state altogether.’
Antonia spoke. ‘What sort of state?’ She told herself she didn’t really trust this man.
‘There’s a word for it, I think.’ Ramskritt frowned. ‘A feeling of exalted happiness that precedes disaster –’
‘Fey?’
He slapped his knee. ‘That’s the one! She was all flushed – girlish – positively girlish – laughing – giving people presents – she gave me a Victorian antimacassar – she gave Doctor Klein an ivory cigarette holder – she gave Feversham a pair of tartan gloves that had belonged to her late father. I do believe she was sweet on the actor, Feversham. That might explain it; yes … She was acting like a girl in love … As though she was standing on the very threshold of ecstasy.’
21
THE DOOR IN THE WALL
Lady Grylls shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe it. Poor Sybil. Lying dead in an ugly heap in the library. Thank God her dear mother is no longer with us. I can’t help feeling guilty. The police could take ages, couldn’t they? Goodness, one o’clock – can that clock be right? It seems it’s already tomorrow.’
The Riddle of Sphinx Island Page 12
