Antonia gave a little shrug and said she knew next to nothing about North Korean formation dancing. ‘Isn’t all fiction artificial? What is fiction but the selection of the writer’s internal compulsions, preoccupations, passions, fears and external experiences distilled in a form which he or she hopes will satisfy the reader’s expectations?’
‘Do you read much modern crime fiction?’
‘No, not much.’
‘Are you familiar with the names of Martina Cole and Dreda Say Mitchell?’
‘I am not … Should I be?’
‘Do your books conform in any way to Henry James’s definition of the purpose of a novel? To help the human heart to know itself. Or do you write exclusively for entertainment purposes?’
‘I write exclusively for entertainment purposes,’ Antonia said in a firm voice.
‘Do you ever try to enlist the reader’s support for views and theories of your own?’
‘No, I don’t. Sometimes my characters express opinions of books or authors which happen to be my own. On the whole, I am careful to keep my views as inconspicuous as possible.’
‘Do you exercise complete control over your characters?’
‘Complete and absolute. I like playing God to the page,’ Antonia said gravely. She tried to keep a straight face. She had started to enjoy herself.
‘Do you regard plotting as the most fascinating aspect of detective story writing?’
‘I suppose I do. But I also like to balance setting, characterization and plot, so that all three are interrelated and contribute to the whole. The kind of story I write,’ Antonia went on, ‘might have been written in the 1930s or early 40s, though I do make some concessions to modernity.’
‘Mobile phones and the internet play an active part in your novels, don’t they?’
‘They do … No, I must admit I know very little about police procedure, forensic medicine or the intricacies of the law. I write extremely old-fashioned detective stories … “Propulsively readable”? Who said that? Really? Are you sure?’ Antonia smiled. Must tell Hugh, she thought. ‘I had no idea … My detectives depend exclusively on their capacity for noticing things. My detectives are obsessively observant.’
‘How important is setting to you?’
‘Important enough. Though I try not to overdo it. Some writers tend to overdo the setting. Settings establish atmosphere and they can also influence the plot and the characters. Settings can enhance the horror of murder, sometimes by creating a contrast between the outward peace of the scene and the turbulence of human emotions.’
‘How would you describe your books?’
‘Do I have to? OK. I’d describe them as unpretentious celebrations of reason and order. Oh, and of logic as well. Logic is very important.’
‘E. M. Forster once wrote something like, The husband died, then the wife died is a story. The husband died and the wife died of grief is a plot. The wife died for no apparent reason is a mystery, a higher form. Can you improve on that? Can you come up with a definition of a murder mystery?’
Antonia scrunched up her face. ‘How about, The wife died and everyone thought it was of grief until – um – until they discovered the bullet hole in the back of her head?’
‘But if he did do it,’ Lady Grylls said, ‘there must have been a cover-up. You are absolutely right, my dear. They must have agreed to keep mum. All six of them, which is not as extraordinary as it may appear. Conspiracies are said to be a part of everyday life. Perhaps they were bribed by Clarissa to form one of those spectacular pacts of silence?’
‘Yes. That’s what I think,’ said Felicity. ‘They all had a conspiratorial air about them at the crematorium. They looked guilty as hell. Gerard pooh-poohed it. He says I imagined it.’
Lady Grylls shook her head resolutely. ‘You aren’t the fanciful sort. So let’s see what happens. The dashing doctor poisons Roderick and of course he is only too eager to sign the death certificate. Clarissa bribes everybody into keeping mum. The official version presented to the authorities will be that Roderick died of a heart attack. That is how it is to appear in The Times.’
‘There have to be two doctors’ signatures on the death certificate,’ Payne pointed out.
Lady Grylls waved her hand. ‘They managed to rope in another doctor. Couldn’t have been difficult, persuading a local chap to sign on the dotted line and so on, given that Clarissa now owns the island.’
‘I doubt somehow that Dr Sylvester-Sale killed Roderick by pouring poison into his ear,’ Felicity said.
‘Why not?’
‘In front of everybody else? Using a highly theatrical black glass decorated with a skull and crossbones? On camera?’
‘Perhaps they were all in on it from the start and the dashing doctor was their appointed executioner,’ said Lady Grylls. ‘Maybe they all hated Roderick so much, they put their heads together and came up with the idea of getting rid of him? Like in Julius Caesar or – or on that stranded Orient Express.’
Felicity Remnant conceded that it was an intriguing theory – but would they have filmed the killing?
‘I don’t see why not. People do the oddest things,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Years ago I used to play bridge with a woman – her husband was in the diplomatic corps – our man in Vaduz, I believe – and she would do anything to avoid bidding diamonds.’
‘That must have been somewhat limiting. Did you ever find out why?’
‘I did, my dear, yes, eventually. She was rather coy about it at first, but in the end it turned out she stuttered very badly on the letter d.’
‘I don’t believe my brother-in-law was meant to die on camera. It was obvious that it just – happened. Clarissa seemed to want the camera switched off at once. She looked extremely agitated. What do you think, Hugh? You are very quiet.’
‘The doctor couldn’t have poured poison into Lord Remnant’s ear since the glass was empty,’ said Payne. ‘There was nothing in it. He only pretended to be pouring.’
‘How can you be sure the glass was empty?’ Lady Grylls said.
‘Well, he was holding it upside down.’
‘Upside down? Are you sure, Hughie? I never noticed!’
‘I didn’t notice either,’ Felicity Remnant admitted.
‘It’s the kind of thing I tend to notice. You see, I am one of those obsessively observant people. I seem to possess what is known as “sensitivity to visual impressions”.’ Payne spoke in apologetic tones. ‘Let’s play that bit again, shall we? I’ll show you. Lady Remnant, would you be so good as to rewind? There it is – stop. Look. Look.’
There was a pause.
‘Goodness, yes. How extraordinary,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘You are perfectly right, Hughie. Yes. It happens very fast. He’s holding the glass upside down and then he realizes it looks silly and turns it over quickly and handles it properly! The glass is empty, that’s as plain as the nose on your face … Does that mean Roderick wasn’t killed after all?’
‘If he was killed, it was done in some other way.’
Felicity said, ‘The anonymously sent videotape showing the precise moment of my brother-in-law’s death suggests that there was something wrong about it, wouldn’t you say?’
Payne nodded. ‘Yes. I believe it does. Though it isn’t immediately clear from watching it how Lord Remnant died. The tape was sent to Lord Remnant’s brother, the present Earl Remnant … The sender is most likely to be one of the people who was there when Lord Remnant died. Some poor soul tormented by a guilty conscience or – or someone intent on stirring up miching mallecho.’
‘I’d be grateful if you spoke plain English, Hughie.’
‘Mischief, darling. Trouble. Miching mallecho is the phrase Hamlet uses … Did the tape sender mean to plant a suspicion or suggest a line of inquiry? Does the recording perhaps contain something which we should have seen but didn’t?’
‘I thought we saw everything there was to be seen,’ said Lady Grylls.
‘The bit where Lord Remnant dies �
�� I’d like to see it again. If Lady Remnant doesn’t mind. It may be my imagination, but—’ He broke off.
‘You saw something? What is it? Out with it!’ Lady Grylls cried.
‘I want to see that bit again … If I am right,’ said Payne, ‘you will see it too.’
** See The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette.
10
Maid in Waiting
The phone rang and Clarissa’s heart jumped inside her. She wanted to answer it because she thought it might be Syl, whom she loved with a love that was passionate, single-minded and overpowering, but she also feared it might be the call she dreaded. When she eventually did pick up the receiver, she discovered it was somebody from the Sunday Telegraph.
A journalist. A man. He said they wanted to do a feature on Remnant Castle – would Lady Remnant be good enough to show them around and give them an interview? The feature would appear in the Telegraph magazine. It was a friendly enough voice.
Clarissa said no, impossible, out of the question; her husband had been dead only ten days, they must know that, surely? Couldn’t they be more sensitive? Her husband’s ashes were still warm in the urn, she was terribly upset, she was ill, she had been sleeping badly, everything was at sixes and sevens, she was receiving no one, couldn’t they leave her alone?
‘Perhaps you could call again when my brother-in-law takes over. You may find him more welcoming. He may even suggest writing the piece himself!’ She slammed down the receiver.
Her brother-in-law had hinted he might sell the place. She was not at all surprised. That was what she had always wanted to do herself. Gerard needed the money for some crackpot idea of his. Another futile writing venture, she imagined.
The day was cold and grey. She felt oppressed by the mists that invariably rose around Remnant. She felt cut off, isolated. The central heating wasn’t working properly and there was no one who could do anything about it. She had got rid of the servants – she had followed the instructions to the letter. No servants and no visitors.
Her eyelids fluttered – closed.
She dozed off.
She had a dream.
They were back at La Sorcière and her husband lay on the chaise longue and he was bleeding profusely from a wound in the back of his head. There was blood everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, even on the ceiling, the whole room glistened with it. Then the french windows burst open and someone dressed in white and wearing the Bottom head sauntered in, calling out breezily, ‘Anyone for tennis?’ A man. Only instead of a tennis racquet, he held a gun – and his voice was very much like her husband’s voice—
She woke up.
She rose to her feet. She felt sick. She couldn’t bear sitting another moment in the barn-like drawing room with its crimson-clad walls, hung in 1895 and now faded to a shade of raspberry fool, huge crystal chandeliers that brought to mind inverted fountains, Ming vases, Remnant portraits painted by the likes of Gainsborough, Reynolds, de Lázló, Sargent and Lucian Freud.
Mr Quin. She was expecting a call from Mr Quin. Mr Quin had her in his power. She needed to obey Mr Quin’s orders. She shut her eyes. I pray and hope I die before I go mad, she thought.
It was only midday, but it was getting darker by the minute. Twilight at noon. How she hated England! She longed to go back to the Caribbean. That morning she had woken up filled with the depressing foreknowledge that it would be another day of unmitigated misery …
She intended to turn on every single chandelier and she was going to light all the candles. Her instructions hadn’t included having to keep Remnant sunk in gloom. Thank God for small mercies. She laughed shrilly and at once felt the ache in her throat that preceded tears.
As she walked across the drawing room and opened the door she tried to divide her thoughts into manageable portions and make sense of the events of the last ten days.
She might have been the abbess of a nunnery heading for a private audience with the Pope. Her face was free of make-up and her short fair hair was entirely concealed by a black chiffon scarf; her black dress was loose and long, though her slender ankles were clad in black silk and she wore vaguely erotic black high-heeled shoes.
She was also wearing enormous round black sunglasses, which was odd of her, she knew, one didn’t wear sunglasses indoors, especially not in England, but they dramatized her lightly bronzed face, which was an effect she rather liked. But her carefully cultivated Grenadin tan had started to fade and she needed to do something about it. The moment I stop caring how I look will be the absolute unconditional end, she thought. She paused to light a cigarette and dropped the match on the floor.
Not so long ago there had been an insolent air of authority about Clarissa, of confidence, of arrogance even, also of carelessness and insouciance; she had managed to display the negligent drop-dead chic with which a mannequin swishes down a catwalk.
No more. She was aware that she was walking rather stiffly, stagily, self-consciously; she might have had a bit part in some amateur production. She almost expected the director to shout and halt her and order her to start again, to walk away and do it again, properly …
Catching sight of her reflection in one of the murky mottled mirrors made her shudder. She took off her dark glasses. The Bride of Frankenstein, she mouthed. She had lost a lot of weight. She looked preternaturally ethereal; thinner than ever before! Beneath the fading tan she was as pale as an ivory opium pipe. Well, she had hardly eaten a thing for heaven knew how long. She had been subsisting on the odd bowl of soup and cups of strong Arabica roast, which, she suspected, accounted for the panic attacks she had been having.
Syl had said once she looked a bit like Marilyn Monroe. She was miming ‘I Wanna Be Loved By You’, in front of the mirror. She put the dark glasses back on.
She had been taking a range of drugs, including lithium and Sarafem, for her anxiety and depression. What she really felt like doing was smoking a reefer, but at the thought of Stephan feeling suicidal at Sans Souci, she decided against it. No. No drugs.
‘I am the twelfth countess of this thousand-year-old place,’ she said aloud. For some reason the sound of her cracked voice made her feel marginally better. She went on speaking to an imaginary audience. ‘Remnant Castle contains fifty-eight rooms and eleven intricately carved staircases. It’s a classic example of opulent and gilded decay.’
The distance between the main dining room and the nearest kitchen was a hundred metres. The roof, on the other hand, covered an acre and not once in living memory had it been completely watertight. She could hear a dripping sound now from somewhere. The corridor walls were covered in satin and gold and hung with faded tapestries of mythical birds. She passed by ornate mirrors and perfectly pointless consoles, little couches and marble tables and a lot of pictures in gilded frames.
Remnant Castle had once been an Augustinian priory, consecrated in 937 and dedicated to some saint or other. It had become the property of her husband’s family at the Dissolution of Monasteries in the 1530s. The earliest part of the building dated from between the third and fifth centuries.
The daughter of minor gentry, she had been brought up in an elegant enough Georgian townhouse in Upton-upon-Severn, but it hadn’t exactly prepared her for the transplant to this monstrosity of a mansion, which spoke eloquently of times more spacious than the present and sported thirty-five chimneys on its roof.
She spoke again. ‘In one of the cellars there is a semicircular protuberance in the wall that cannot be accounted for by any ordinary architectural rule. Here, it is said, many years ago a blaspheming monk was walled up alive, and sometimes, in the depths of the night, his ghost can be heard moaning and tearing at the walls of his prison.’
What was that? Something scurried, slithered and squeaked inside the wainscoting. No, not the monk – rats? Were they trying to gnaw their way out? That would be the final straw – armies of rats rampaging at Remnant! She had seen a dead rat once in the corridor outside her bedroom, lying on its back, its pink paws disconcertingly
bringing to mind the hands of a human child.
Clarissa suddenly recalled the time she had been pregnant with Stephan. How he had moved inside her – kicking – wriggling like a fish. She had felt an incomparable joy unlike anything she had known before – or since. Tears welled up in her eyes. My baby, she whispered. My baby, I miss you so.
She must tell Tradewell to set traps or call the exterminator, before it was too late. No, she couldn’t. She kept forgetting she had dispensed with her butler.
Clarissa had started walking fast – faster and faster – she nearly broke into a run. She forced herself to stop. She wondered if she was in a state of hypomania. Syl had warned her about it.
Passing by a bronze statue representing Actaeon set upon by hounds, she was filled with terrible pity. ‘You poor wretched thing, I know exactly how you feel,’ she murmured. She took out her mobile phone. It was on. Didn’t need recharging either.
He had said he would phone her. It wouldn’t do to miss his call. It would make him cross. She dreaded hearing his voice. Oh, how she dreaded it.
This is all a little bit too much, she thought. The truth is I can’t cope. I am scared. I am edging towards the abyss. I am on the verge of collapse. I have got myself involved in murder and deception of the most bizarre kind.
11
Laughter in the Dark
The weather was damp, the air filled with the reek of rotting leaves. Basil Hunter couldn’t say he was enjoying his desolate ramble, but he had been quite unable to stand the familiar atmosphere of solid, unchanging monotony that reigned in his house. He had found it difficult to breathe.
At one point the sight of Louise reclining in the window seat, looking like a bloated Buddha, or Jabba the Hutt, breathing like a suction pump, gazing at him yearningly, had caused his intense annoyance to mount into furious rage. He had decided to go out, to prevent a conflagration.
Murder of Gonzago Page 6
