‘I am sure she has. You only have to take one look at her. This is actually quite exciting. The hunter becomes the hunted … Make sure she doesn’t eat you,’ Payne whispered in Antonia’s ear. ‘Don’t forget to report back to base.’
‘I won’t.’
He kissed her. She watched him hold up his umbrella and hail a taxi.
Matroni clearly translated as ‘matrons’ and Antonia wondered if the Russian word held the same disparaging connotation as the English. What were matrons exactly? Motherly ladies? Respectable middle-aged women? Matrons were usually staid and stout. Was she a matron? She hoped not – not yet. Was Louise Hunter a matron? Most decidedly.
I will introduce myself as Antonia Rushton, she decided. She had been married to a Richard Rushton once.
A smiling young waiter with high Slav cheekbones, pale blue eyes and fair hair bowed disconcertingly low and asked where she would like to sit.
‘Over there, perhaps?’ Antonia waved towards an empty table alongside Louise Hunter’s.
She bravely ordered a pot of Tibetan tea and a piece of gooseberry pirog. She was aware of Louise Hunter stealing a glance at her. The clothes Louise Hunter wore had presumably been constructed by a dressmaker of the better class, but it was hard to believe that she could have been adequately fitted out by anyone less spacious in his methods than Omar the Tent Maker.
As their eyes met, Antonia smiled at her. ‘Excuse me – Mrs Hunter? It’s Mrs Louise Hunter, isn’t it?’
‘Yes?’ The fat woman in the red turban looked startled. ‘Yes? I am sorry but I don’t – have we met?’
‘We haven’t. My name is Antonia Rushton. I believe we have friends in common. The Fenwicks. Felicity and Gerard,’ Antonia improvised. ‘He is now the Earl Remnant.’
‘Oh.’ Louise Hunter suddenly looked frightened.
‘Felicity and I were at school together. Gerard is awfully nice. Both of them are awfully nice,’ Antonia prattled on. ‘As it happens, I was at their place about an hour ago.’
‘Actually, I don’t know them awfully well … What – what did they say about me?’
‘They pointed you out—’
‘Pointed me out?’
‘I am so sorry! That sounded awful. Do forgive me, Mrs Hunter. It’s just that we were watching—’ Antonia broke off. ‘Sorry! I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all.’
‘What were you watching?’
‘I was asked not to talk about it. It is an extremely delicate matter.’
‘What delicate matter? What were you watching?’ Louise’s hand was at her heaving bosom.
‘Well …’
‘Please, tell me.’
‘I am far from convinced I should.’
‘You must tell me!’
Antonia pretended to hesitate. ‘Felicity showed me something. She wanted my opinion, you see. She was a bit unsettled – out of her depth.’
‘She showed you the tape. This is all about the tape, isn’t it? I know it is.’ Louise leant forward. ‘She let you watch the tape.’
‘All right. Yes. She let us watch the tape. I am sorry, Mrs Hunter. I shouldn’t have referred to any of it at all. None of my business. It’s just that Felicity wanted my advice. No, I don’t work for the police. We – my husband and I – have what you might call a consultancy … Ah, here is my tea at last!’
‘You are private detectives? You and your husband?’
‘For fear of inviting ridicule we never call ourselves that … I have never had a pirog before, but I like trying new things.’
Louise Hunter seemed to reach a decision. ‘Would you like to come over and sit at my table? I must talk to you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive!’
Antonia rose.
‘It is true what they say, that in this life we never know what may be waiting for us around the next corner … So what did you make of it? You saw what happened, didn’t you?’ Louise asked in a low voice. Her lips were the colour of ripe German plums, Antonia noticed; her eyebrows perfect geometric arches. She really was a large lady.
‘It is quite extraordinary, to have captured a murder live on camera,’ said Antonia. ‘Without intending to!’
‘You saw the gun?’
‘Yes. A murder that takes place within full view of everybody! Quite incredible … Why exactly did you send the tape?’
‘What makes you think it was me?’ There was a crafty glint in Louise Hunter’s eye. I would have put it on YouTube if only I knew how, she was thinking. For the whole world to see.
‘We worked it out. A process of elimination,’ Antonia said slowly. She hoped Louise wouldn’t urge her to explain. ‘It was the boy who shot him, wasn’t it? Lord Remnant’s stepson. What was his name? Sacheverell?’
‘Stephan.’
‘We were told that he’d already made an attempt to kill Lord Remnant with that very same gun. It was hushed up, correct?’ Antonia took a cautious sip of Tibetan tea.
‘It was hushed up, yes. Clarissa orchestrated the whole thing … It’s a very complicated story. We were bribed. I don’t know where to begin … There are things which I don’t understand at all,’ Louise went on. ‘Things that don’t make any sense. It may be irrational of me, but I know that something somewhere is very, very wrong indeed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Stephan told me it couldn’t have been him. He phoned me, you see. He’s at some clinic. He’d been trying to call his mother, he said, but couldn’t get through to her. I know Stephan is far from trustworthy; I am aware he has serious problems with drugs, but I found myself wondering.’
‘What did Stephan say?’
‘He said he couldn’t have shot his stepfather because he had been sitting beside the swimming pool at the time of the murder. He had been with his girlfriend, some local girl.’ Louise Hunter ran her tongue across her lips. ‘I believe something diabolical took place at La Sorcière that night, Mrs Rushton. Lord Remnant’s bathroom adjoins his dressing room. Basil – my husband – believes there was someone in the bathroom. He heard someone laugh. They had just laid Lord Remnant’s body on the bed. That’s when Basil heard the laugh.’
‘They?’
‘Basil and SS – Dr Sylvester-Sale. Basil described the laugh as a “high-pitched giggle”. He said it made him jump. SS on the other hand said he didn’t hear a thing, so Basil persuaded himself he’d imagined it.’
‘He is sure the sound came from the bathroom?’
‘He believes so, yes. Everybody else was downstairs. He was startled – shocked – I mean, no one should laugh in the presence of the dead, should they?’
‘No … How very curious,’ said Antonia.
‘And there’s something else. It’s been at the back of my mind all this time. It concerns Lord Remnant’s hands. In fact I should have started with Lord Remnant’s hands.’
Antonia urged her to continue.
‘It was moments after Dr Sylvester-Sale discovered that Lord Remnant had been shot through the back of the head. I happened to look at Lord Remnant’s hands—’ Louise broke off. ‘They shouldn’t have moved him. That’s a criminal offence! You don’t cart around people who have died a violent death, do you?’
‘No.’
‘There should have been a proper investigation, but Clarissa wouldn’t hear of it. She told me to shut up. She was appallingly rude to me. Clarissa managed to pass her husband’s murder off as a natural death. She got the two doctors to sign the death certificate!’
‘What exactly was wrong with Lord Remnant’s hands?’
‘Well, they were smooth, without a blemish, but they shouldn’t have been. The wound should have been there, but it wasn’t.’
‘What wound?’
‘The stabbing wound. Stephan stabbed him with a pen. In his right hand. Here—’ Louise tapped the back of her hand, the space between her thumb and forefinger. ‘It happened a couple of days earlier. Lord Remnant had it bandaged, but then he removed the bandage. He said it was nothing, th
ough the red weal was there all right. A flaming kind of red.’
‘But it wasn’t there when you looked at his hands after he died?’
‘No. It had disappeared! There was no wound. Not the slightest mark. The red scar was there all right at dinner! I was sitting next to Lord Remnant, you see.’ Louise scowled. ‘I don’t know how the two things fit together, but I have an idea they do. I mean, the giggle and the wound that was not there – and in some mad way, it all ties up with the Grimaud.’
‘Who or what is the Grimaud?’ Antonia asked gravely.
Louise told her. ‘Do you see? It doesn’t exist, it’s nothing but a superstition, yet Stephan insisted on having seen it arrive in a coffin! The Grimaud is believed to presage somebody’s death, or rather to bring it about … Well, Lord Remnant did die that night,’ she added thoughtfully.
‘When did the coffin arrive at the house?’
‘Some time in the afternoon, Stephan said. The coffin was brought by a hearse and was placed inside the laundry. Stephan went and looked through the window. He swears he saw the Grimaud crawl out of the coffin. Now, as a witness, Stephan is far from reliable, but he described the Grimaud in such vivid detail, it sent shivers down my spine!’
‘What does the Grimaud look like?’ This, Antonia decided, promises to become our most exotic case.
‘Shiny papier-mâché head, like a ventriloquist’s doll, nose so upturned as to resemble a pig’s snout, and it has three rows of teeth. Quite nightmarish. It was dressed in white tails and Stephan believes he caught a glimpse of a white topper sticking out of the coffin as well.’
‘Where were you at the time?’
‘All of us – with the exception of Stephan and Clarissa – were inside the house. Lord Remnant insisted on showing us some of their home movies. Recordings of various amateur theatricals. So tedious. Everybody dressed up as dentists or minor émigré royalty or organic vegetables or Christmas tree decorations— Was that funny, Mrs Rushton?’
‘No. Well, yes. Sorry.’
‘The Remnants led a life of indolent futility – of effortless nullity – and seemed to expect to be admired for it!’
‘Who do you think shot Lord Remnant? Do you have any ideas?’
‘I am absolutely sure Clarissa is in some way involved. Perhaps it was one of her lovers, at her instigation? Clarissa was reputed to be running the most spectacular galaxy of lovers. That black doctor, for example, who later came and signed the death certificate?’
‘You believe they were lovers?’
‘Of course they were lovers. Oh, how she looked at him, how she smiled at him! A smile that would have melted Iceland. The slow rotten smile of a slut. She is that sort of woman, Mrs Rushton. You should have heard the sounds she made when there were men around! Soft and syrupy—’
‘Am I right in thinking the gun came from Lord Remnant’s study?’
‘Yes. He kept it in the top drawer of his desk. The drawer was never locked. Everybody knew it was there … I saw him sitting at his desk, holding the gun, but that was in the morning, at about half past eleven. Hortense and I happened to be passing by the study – the door was open—’
Antonia frowned. ‘You saw—?’
‘He was smiling – he looked terribly pleased with himself. He was putting the silencer on the gun. At least I think it was a silencer. Hortense thought he was cleaning the gun, but I am sure she was wrong.’
Antonia couldn’t believe her ears. She pushed the plate with the pirog to one side. ‘Sorry – who was it you saw putting a silencer on the gun?’
‘Oh, didn’t I say? It was Lord Remnant.’
24
The Lost Symbol
The novel I propose to write falls into a genre often described by the cognoscenti as ‘experimental’ and by more conventional readers as ‘puzzling’, Gerard Fenwick, thirteenth Earl Remnant, wrote in his diary. Its status as a novel will owe absolutely nothing to the traditional definition of the form. There will be no hero or heroine, but there will certainly be an anti-hero and an anti-heroine.
At first sight my novel will seem more like a random collection of episodes, though the perceptive reader will soon become aware of interconnections at both a material and a thematic level: characters met in one story will pop up in another; a version of an event we heard of from one angle is later renarrated from another.
A tiny silver guillotine will make an intermittent symbolic appearance, a persistent reminder of the aristocracy’s ultimate fate, until it eventually vanishes into thin air, only to reappear most amazingly in the hands of someone well versed in the gentle art of blackmail.
It will be a murder mystery of sorts.
The novel will start with the obituary in The Times of an utterly impossible peer of the realm, the most peerless of asses, say, an earl. The obituary will give ‘heart attack’ as the cause of death, but in point of fact the unsavoury nobleman would have died as a result of a gun wound in the occiput.
It has just occurred to me that modern-day murder holds as exact a state as a medieval monarch. The exits and entrances are all laid down according to the most formal of protocols. Investigating officer, surgeon, photographer, fingerprint experts, DNA experts and so on make their bow and play their appointed part. (Do readers like police procedurals? Terribly boring, surely?)
It’s the dead man’s brother who tells the story and one of the central themes of the book will be the difficulty, nay the impossibility, of telling of an honest story. The narrator, as the dear reader will discover soon enough, turns out to be dramatically unreliable.
It is the narrator who will be exposed as the killer at the end. Or has that been done before? The narrator is of a largely lunatic cast of mind, something of which he is only partially aware, but he contrives to write in a frighteningly lucid, pedantic sort of way, which imparts to his story the black comic feel of Nabokov’s Pale Fire—
Gerard looked up. There had been a knock on the door.
It was the club steward. ‘The young lady, sir. She said you were expecting her.’
The fellow had spoken in portentously hushed tones; it somehow suggested that his message might have a more sinister meaning than his words conveyed.
Gerard gave an amused smile. ‘Am I expecting a young lady?’
‘Yes, sir. A Miss Glover.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Do let her in … Dear Renée!’ Gerard took off his half-moon glasses and rose to his feet to greet the composed-looking young woman, whose dark hair was parted neatly in the middle and drawn back in two shining waves to form a knot.
‘Hello, Gerard. Hope this is not frightfully inconvenient?’
‘No, not at all, my dear.’ He kissed her cheek. He stood beaming at her. ‘How lovely to see you, Renée. A damsel with a dulcimer!’
‘Is that how you see me, as an Abyssinian maid?’
‘Only figuratively, my dear. I feel strangely inspired each time I see you. Inspiration is so terribly important to me. I am, after all, an artist, a writer. I do miss our tête-à-têtes, you know. You wouldn’t believe this, but I am at the planning stages of a novel.’
‘A new novel?’
‘One of those postmodern thingummybobs. Shall I ring and ask them to bring us some tea? The grub here is awfully good. Better than anything I get at home. Infinitely better. Hope this doesn’t sound too disloyal.’
‘No, thank you. I don’t want any tea.’
‘Won’t you sit down? That’s a very comfortable chair by the fireplace.’ He touched her elbow and pointed towards a high-backed chair, studded and covered in dark red leather. ‘Like a papal throne, isn’t it? Are you sure you don’t want any tea? You look a little pale, my dear. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes … I am fine, thank you, Gerard.’
‘There are tiny dark smudges, like thumbprints, beneath your eyes, if you don’t mind my saying so … Oddly becoming …’
‘I didn’t sleep very well last night, that’s all.’
‘I am so sorry. I
don’t want to appear curious or interfering, my dear, but it seems to me there’s something you are keeping back – or is that my writer’s imagination? How did you know I would be at the club?’
‘Your maid told me. I rang your house first.’
‘How clever of you! You were always an enterprising girl. Felicity made the biggest mistake in her life when she gave you the sack, don’t you think?’
‘It isn’t for me to say. No doubt she thought she was doing the right thing.’
‘Felicity can be a bore. I do hope you are profitably employed, my dear. You continue to do jobs for Clarissa, don’t you?’
‘No, not any longer. Not since Grenadin.’
‘Really? That’s some time ago now, isn’t it? Shame. Any particular reason? You haven’t fallen out with Clarissa, have you? I know she can be difficult. How are things at Remnant, I wonder? Are the servants happy?’
‘I don’t think they are. Clarissa doesn’t want anyone at Remnant at the moment. She has dismissed all the servants. I bumped into Tradewell the other day. He was very upset about it. Practically in tears.’
‘Dismissed all the servants?’ Gerard stared at her. ‘What an extraordinary thing to do. Did he say why?’
‘She didn’t give them any explanation.’
‘You don’t think it would help if I had a word with her? About reinstating you and so on?’
‘No, thank you, Gerard.’
‘Is there anything at all I can do for you, my dear? I could give you money, you know, as much as you want. That wouldn’t be a problem.’
‘You are extremely kind, but no, I am sure I can manage.’
‘It’s awfully sweet of you to come and see me, my dear. I was terribly fond of you, you know. Still am. I feared our paths might never cross again. I thought you were furious with us.’
‘I am not. Not with you.’
‘You won’t mind my smoking one of my cigars, will you? It will bring back the good old times when we had our regular pow-wows.’ He reached for his cigar case. ‘A cigar can be as potently Proustian as the madeleine of memory. That sounds quite good, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. You do say clever things, Gerard.’
Murder of Gonzago Page 13
