The Skull Beneath the Skin

by P. D. James

  But before anyone had a chance to respond, the launch had turned the eastern edge of the island and the castle itself came suddenly into sight.

  2

  Although Cordelia wasn’t aware that she had consciously thought about the architecture of Courcy Castle, it had, nevertheless, formed itself in her mind as a grey-stoned, massive, crenellated sham, over-ornate in its Victorian solidity, an unsatisfactory compromise between domesticity and grandeur. The reality, suddenly presented to her in the clarity of the morning sunlight, made her catch her breath with wonder. It stood on the edge of the sea, almost as if it had risen from the waves, a castle of rose-red brick, its only stonework the pale, flush lines and the tall, curved windows which now coruscated in the sun. To the west soared a slender round tower topped with a cupola, solid yet ethereal. Every detail of the matt-surfaced walls, the patterned buttresses and the battlements was distinct, unfussy, confident. The whole was compact, even massive, yet the high sloping roofs and the slender tower gave an impression of lightness and repose which she hadn’t associated with high Victorian architecture. The southern façade overlooked a wide terrace—surely wave-swept in winter—from which two flights of steps led down to a narrow beach of sand and shingle. The proportions of the castle seemed to her exactly right for its site. Larger and it could have looked pretentious; smaller and there would have been a suggestion of facile charm. But this building, compromise though it might be between castle and family house, seemed to her brilliantly successful. She almost laughed aloud at the pleasure of it.

  She was unaware that Ivo Whittingham had come up beside her until he spoke.

  “This is your first visit, isn’t it? What do you think of it?”

  “It’s remarkable. And unexpected.”

  “You’re interested in Victorian architecture?”

  “Interested, but not at all knowledgeable.”

  “I shouldn’t tell Ambrose that. He’ll devote the whole weekend to educating you in his passions and prejudices. I’ve done my homework so I’ll forestall him by telling you now that the architect was E. W. Godwin who worked for Whistler and Oscar Wilde and was associated with the aesthetes. What he aimed for—so he tells us—was the careful adjustment of solids and voids. Well, he’s achieved that here. He did some perfectly awful town halls including one at Northampton—not that Ambrose would admit to its awfulness—but I think that he and I will agree about this achievement. Are you taking part in the play?”

  “No, I’m here to work. I’m Miss Lisle’s secretary, her temporary secretary.”

  His quick glance was surprised. Then his lips curved in a smile.

  “So I should imagine. Clarissa’s relationships tend to be temporary.”

  Cordelia said quickly: “Do you know anything about the play? I mean, which company is acting in it?”

  “Didn’t Clarissa explain? They’re the Cottringham Players, said to be the oldest amateur company in England. They were started in 1834 by the then Sir Charles Cottringham, and the family have more or less kept them going ever since. The Cottringhams have been mad about acting for over three generations, their enthusiasm invariably in inverse proportion to their talent. The present Charles Cottringham is playing Antonio. His great-grandfather used to take part in the revels here until he was imprudent enough to cast a lascivious eye on Lillie Langtry. The Prince of Wales made his displeasure known, and no Cottringham has spent the night under the castle roof ever since. It’s a convenient tradition for Ambrose. He need only entertain the leading lady and a few private guests. Judith Cottringham has a house party for the producer and the rest of the cast. They’ll all come over tomorrow by launch.”

  “Where did they act before Mr. Gorringe offered the castle?”

  “It was offered, I imagine, by Clarissa rather than by Gorringe. They gave an annual performance in the old assembly rooms at Speymouth, an occasion more social than cultural. But tomorrow shouldn’t be too discouraging. A Speymouth butcher, appropriately enough, is playing Bosola and he’s reputed to be good. Ferdinand is taken by Cottringham’s agent. Hardly Gielgud, but Clarissa tells me that he knows how to speak verse.”

  The sound of the engine died to a gentle shudder and the launch slowly edged towards the jetty. The stone quay curved from the terrace in two arms to form a miniature harbour. At intervals, steep steps festooned with seaweed led down to the water. At the end of the eastern, longer arm was a charming folly, a circular bandstand of delicate wrought iron, painted white and pale blue with slender pillars supporting a curved canopy. Beneath this stood the welcoming party, a group of two men and two women, as immobile and carefully positioned as a tableau. Clarissa Lisle was a little to the front, her host attendant at her left shoulder. Behind them, waiting with the impassive, careful non-involvement of servants, stood a dark-clad man and woman, the man out-topping the group in height.

  But the dominant figure was Clarissa Lisle. The immediate impression, whether by chance or design, was of a goddess of classical mythology with her attendants. As the launch drew alongside the quay Cordelia saw that she was wearing what looked like shorts and a sleeveless top in closely pleated cream muslin with, over it, a loose-fitting, almost transparent shift in the same material, wide-sleeved and corded at the waist. Beside this deceptively simple, cool flowing elegance Roma Lisle in her trouser-suit seemed to exude a sweaty and eye-dazzling discomfort. The waiting group, as if under instruction, held their poses until the launch gently bumped the landing steps. Then Clarissa fluted a small cry of welcome, spread bat wings of fluttering cotton and ran forward. The pattern was broken.

  During the chatter which followed the formal introductions and while Ambrose Gorringe was supervising the unloading of luggage and the humping ashore of boxes of supplies from a locker in the stern, Cordelia studied her host. Ambrose Gorringe was of middle height with smooth black hair and delicate hands and feet. He gave an impression of spry plumpness, not because he carried excess fat but because of the feminine softness and roundness of his arms and face. His skin gleamed pink and white, the circular flush on each cheekbone looked almost artificial. His eyes were his most striking feature. They were large and sparkling bright as black, sea-washed pebbles, the surrounding whites clear and translucent. Above them the brows curved in a strong arch as tidily as if they had been plucked. The ends of the mouth curved upwards in a fixed smile so that the whole face held the shining humorous animation of a man enjoying a perpetual internal joke. He was wearing brown cotton trousers and a black short-sleeved singlet. Both were highly suitable for the weather and the occasion, yet to Cordelia they seemed incongruous. Something more formal was needed to define and control the latent strength of what she guessed was a complex and, perhaps, a formidable personality.

  In his way the manservant, now supervising the loading of the luggage and crates of supplies on to a small motorized truck, was equally remarkable. He must, thought Cordelia, be well over six feet in height and with his dark suit and heavy white lugubrious face had the spurious gloom of a Victorian undertaker’s mute. His long, rather pointed head sloped to a high and shiny forehead topped with a wig of coarse black hair, which made absolutely no pretensions to realism. It was parted in the middle and had been inexpertly hacked rather than trimmed. Cordelia thought that such a bizarre appearance could hardly be inadvertent and she wondered what perversity or secret compulsion had led him to contrive and present to his world a persona so uncompromisingly eccentric. Could it be revulsion against the tedium, the conformity or the deference demanded of his job? It seemed unlikely. Servants who found their duties frustrating or uncongenial nowadays had a simple remedy. They could always leave.

  Intrigued by the man’s appearance, she scarcely noticed his wife, a short, round-faced woman who stood always at her husband’s side and didn’t speak during the whole course of the disembarkation.

  Clarissa Lisle had taken absolutely no notice of her since their arrival but Ambrose Gorringe came forward, smiled and said: “You must be Miss Gray. Wel
come to Courcy Island. Mrs. Munter will look after you. We’ve put you next to Miss Lisle.” Cordelia waited until the Munters had finished unloading the launch. As the three of them walked together behind the main party, Munter handed his wife a small canvas bag with the words: “Not much post this morning. The parcel from the London Library hasn’t come. That means Mr. Gorringe probably won’t get his books until Monday.”

  The woman spoke for the first time. “He’ll have plenty to do this weekend without new library books.”

  At that moment Ambrose Gorringe turned and called to Munter. The man moved forward, changing his quick steps to a stately unhurried walk which was probably part of his act. As soon as he was out of earshot Cordelia said: “If there’s any post for Miss Lisle it comes first to me. I’m her new secretary. And I’ll take any telephone calls for her. Perhaps I’d better take a look at the post. We’re expecting a letter.”

  Rather to her surprise, Mrs. Munter handed over the bag without demur. There were only eight letters in all, held together in a rubber band. Two were for Clarissa Lisle. One, in a stout envelope, was obviously an invitation to a dress show. The name, but not the address, of the prestigious designer was engraved on the flap. The second, an ordinary white envelope, was addressed in typing to:

  The Duchess of Malfi,

  c/o Miss Clarissa Lisle,

  Courcy Island,

  Speymouth,

  Dorset

  She walked a few steps ahead. She knew that it would be wise to wait until she reached the privacy of her room, but restraint was impossible. Controlling her excitement and curiosity she slipped her finger under the flap. It was loosely gummed and came apart easily. She guessed the communication would be short and it was. Inside, on a small sheet of the same paper was a neatly drawn skull and crossbones and typed underneath just two lines which she instinctively knew rather than recognized were from the play.

  Call upon our dame aloud,

  And bid her quickly don her shroud!

  She put the message back into the envelope and slipped it quickly into her jacket pocket, then lingered until Mrs. Munter had caught up with her.

  Cordelia saw that the main rooms opened on to the terrace with a wide view of the Channel, but that the entrance to the castle was on the sheltered eastern side away from the sea. They passed through a stone archway which led to a formal walled garden, then turned down a wide path between lawns and finally through a high arched porch and into the great hall. Pausing at the doorway, Cordelia could picture those first nineteenth-century guests, the crinolined ladies with their furled parasols, followed by their maids, the leather, round-topped trunks, the hatboxes and gun cases, the distant beat of the welcoming band as that heavy Germanic prince carried his imposing paunch before him under Mr. Gorringe’s privileged portals. But then the great hall would have been ostentatiously over furnished, a lush repository of sofas, chairs and occasional tables, rich carpets and huge pots of palms. Here the house party would congregate at the end of the day before slowly processing in strict hierarchical order through the double doors to the dining room. Now the hall was furnished only with a long refectory table and two chairs, one on each side of the stone fireplace. On the opposite wall was a six-foot tapestry which she thought was almost certainly by William Morris: Flora, rose-crowned with her maidens, her feet shining among the lilies and the hollyhocks. A wide staircase, branching to left and right, led to a gallery which ran round three sides of the hall. The eastern wall was almost entirely taken up by a stained-glass window showing the travels of Ulysses. Motes of coloured light danced in the air, giving the great hall something of the quiet solemnity of a church. She followed Mrs. Munter up the staircase.

  The main bedrooms opened out of the gallery. The room into which Cordelia was shown was charming with a lightness and delicacy which she hadn’t expected. The two windows, high and curved, had curtains of a lily-patterned chintz which was used also for the bed cover and the fitted cushion of the mahogany cane-backed bedside chair. The simple stone fireplace had a panelled frieze of six-inch tiles, their patterns of flowers and foliage echoed in the larger tiles which surrounded the grate. Above the bed was a row of delicate watercolours, iris, wild strawberry, tulip and lily. This, she thought, must be the De Morgan room of which Miss Maudsley had spoken. She glanced round with pleasure and Mrs. Munter, noting her interest, assumed the role of guide. But she recited the information without enthusiasm, as if she had learned the facts by rote.

  “The furniture here is not as old as the castle, Miss. The bed and chair were designed by A. H. Mackmurdo in 1882. The tiles here and in the bathroom are by William De Morgan. Most of the tiles in the castle are by him. The original Mr. Herbert Gorringe, who rebuilt the castle in the eighteen-sixties, saw a house that he’d done in Kensington and had all the original tiles here ripped out and replaced by De Morgan. That mahogany and pine cabinet was painted by William Morris and the paintings are by John Ruskin. What time would you like your early tea, Miss?”

  “At half-past seven, please.”

  After she had left, Cordelia went through to the bathroom. Both rooms faced west and any broad view of the island was blocked by the tower which rose immediately to her right, a phallic symbol in patterned brick, soaring to pierce the blue of the sky. Gazing up at its smooth roundness she felt her head swim and the tower itself reeled dizzily in the sun. To her left she could just glimpse the end of the southern terrace and, beyond it, a wide sweep of sea. Beneath the bathroom window a wrought-iron fire escape led down to the rocks, from which, presumably, it was possible to reach the terrace. Even so, the escape route seemed to her precarious. In a high storm one would surely feel trapped between fire and sea.

  Cordelia had started to unpack when the communicating door between her room and the adjoining one opened and Clarissa Lisle appeared.

  “Oh, here you are. Come next door, will you? Tolly will see to your unpacking for you.”

  “Thank you, but I’d rather do my own.”

  Apart from the fact that the few clothes she had brought could be hung up in minutes and she preferred to do these things for herself, Cordelia had no intention of letting other eyes see the scene-of-crime kit. She had already noticed with relief that the bottom drawer of the cabinet had a key.

  She followed Clarissa into her bedroom. It was twice as large as her own and very different in style; here opulence and extravagance replaced lightness and simplicity. The room was dominated by the bed, a mahogany half-tester with canopy, cover and side curtains of crimson damask. The head and footboard were elaborately carved with cherubs and swags of flowers, the whole surmounted by a countess’s coronet. Cordelia wondered whether the original owner, thrusting his way upwards through the Victorian social hierarchy, had commissioned it to honour a particularly important guest. On either side of the bed was a small, bow-fronted chest and across its foot a carved and buttoned chaise longue. The dressing table was set between the two tall windows from which, between the looped curtains, Cordelia saw only an expanse of blue, untroubled sea. Two ponderous wardrobes covered the opposite wall. There were low chairs and a screen of Berlin woolwork before the marble fireplace in which a small pile of sticks had already been laid. Ambrose Gorringe’s chief guest was to have the luxury of a real fire. She wondered whether some housemaid would creep in in the early hours to light it, as had her Victorian counterpart when the long-dead countess stirred in her magnificent bed.

  The room was very untidy. Clothes, wraps, tissue paper and plastic bags were flung across the chaise longue and the bed, and the top of the dressing table was a jumble of bottles and jars. A woman was walking about, calmly and uncensoriously gathering up the clothes over her arm. Clarissa Lisle said: “This is my dresser, Miss Tolgarth. Tolly, meet Miss Cordelia Gray. She’s come to help with my correspondence. Just an experiment. She won’t be in anyone’s way. If she wants anything done, look after her, will you?”

  It wasn’t, thought Cordelia, an auspicious introduction. The woman neither
smiled nor spoke, but Cordelia didn’t feel that the steady gaze which met her own held any resentment. It didn’t even hold curiosity. She was a heavily busted, rather sturdy woman with a face that looked older than her body, and with remarkably elegant legs. Their shape was enhanced by very fine stockings and high-heeled court shoes, an incongruous touch of vanity which emphasized the plainness of the high-necked black dress, its only ornament a gold cross on a chain. Her dark hair, parted in the middle and drawn back into a bun at the nape of the neck, was already streaked with grey and there were lines deep as clefts across the forehead and at the ends of the wide mouth. It was a strong, secretive face, not, Cordelia thought, the face of a woman willingly subservient.

  When she had disappeared into the bathroom, Clarissa said: “I suppose we’ll have to talk, but it can’t be now. Munter has set lunch in the dining room. It’s ridiculous on a day like this. We ought to be in the sun. I’ve told him that we shall eat on the terrace, but that means he’ll see that we don’t get it until one-thirty so we may as well make a quick tour of the castle. Is your room comfortable?”

  “Very, thank you.”

  “I suppose I’d better give you some letters to type just to allay suspicion. There are one or two that need answering. You may as well do some work while you’re here. You can type, I suppose?”

  “Yes, I can type. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “I know why you’re here. I was the one who wanted you. And I still want you. But we’ll talk about that tonight. There won’t be a chance until then. Charles Cottringham and the other principals are coming across after lunch for a run-through of one or two scenes and they won’t be gone until after tea. You’ve met my stepson haven’t you, Simon Lessing?”