Murder of Gonzago

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘You strike me as a bit tense, Renée. What is it? A drink, perhaps? I’ve got some first-class malt. You were never averse to malt. Or would you like some brandy?’

  ‘No, thank you, Gerard.’

  ‘You keep saying, No, thank you, Gerard. Don’t think I like it … Hope you won’t mind me biting off the end? Most uncouth, I know, but I happen to have lost— Good lord, that looks like my lost cigar cutter!’ Gerard stared at the metal object that lay across the palm of Renée’s outstretched hand. She had risen to her feet. ‘I could swear that is my cigar cutter!’

  ‘It is your cigar cutter.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. It’s got your initials on it. GF.’

  ‘How peculiar. Yes, you are perfectly correct. Thank you so much, my dear. I’m awfully glad to be reunited with it. I must confess I was absurdly attached to my cigar cutter.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘It’s emotionally starved people who get obsessed with trinkets and objets, isn’t it?’ He inserted the tip of his cigar inside the cutter. ‘Wherever did you find the damned thing?’

  She looked at him. ‘Can’t you remember where you lost it?’

  ‘I can’t. I’d been racking my brain, to no avail. Haven’t the foggiest. Where was it?’

  ‘I found it at La Sorcière. On the terrace outside the french windows.’

  ‘At La Sorcière? That’s my late brother’s place on Grenadin. On the terrace, did you say?’ He struck a match and put it to his cigar.

  ‘Yes. I found it on the night your brother was killed. The cigar cutter was lying not far from the gun.’ She paused. ‘The gun your brother was shot with.’

  ‘Shouldn’t one say, the gun with which your brother was shot? Or am I being pedantic?’

  ‘You came to Grenadin that night, didn’t you?’ Renée said quietly.

  ‘You think I did?’

  ‘I know you did. I smelt cigar smoke. Funnily enough I thought of you at once.’

  ‘Is that so? What was that famous scene – it’s in a book – now, what was it?’ Gerard tapped his fingers across his forehead. ‘No, don’t tell me! Jane Eyre? Yes! Jane catches the whiff of Rochester’s cigar and she says, I know it well. She is clearly thrilled. Well, Victorians knew how to convey eroticism.’

  ‘Gerard—’

  ‘Both Rochester and Jane are in the garden at Thornfield. The cigar smoke mingles with sweet-briar and southern-wood, jasmine, pink, and rose. With the heroine giddy on these scents, only one outcome is possible, Charlotte Brontë makes that abundantly clear. So you believe I was at La Sorcière on the fatal night, do you?’

  ‘I do. At the crematorium I saw you scratch your hand. I remembered you saying once you’d never live somewhere like Grenadin because of the blood-sucking mosquitoes.’

  He glanced down at his hand. ‘Gone now. You think that was a mosquito bite? What if I told you I suffer from an allergy related to eggs? What if I told you that my wife filches my cigars and actually smokes them? Perhaps it was Felicity who was in Grenadin on the fatal night?’

  ‘Where were you on the fatal night?’

  ‘In Scotland. Fishing. Felicity was in London. Or so she said. We haven’t got much in common, I fear. I used to be fond of her, but we’ve drifted apart. Happens often in marriages, or so I am told. Well, either of us could have gone to Grenadin, I suppose, without the other one knowing. It isn’t as inconceivable as if, say, that stuffed mongoose over there’ – he pointed with his cigar – ‘should suddenly wag its tail and say hello, is it?’

  ‘Why should Felicity want to kill your brother?’

  ‘Same reason as me, my dear. Money. Felicity’s awfully keen on expanding her antiques business. Besides, she’s always found Roderick a trial, ever since he insisted on shooting an apple off her head … You don’t really think it was me who plugged Roderick in the head, do you?’

  ‘How do you know he was shot in the head?’

  ‘I watched that videotape … One can actually see the gun protruding from between the window curtains!’

  ‘What tape are you talking about?’

  ‘Someone sent us a tape. A recording of the dumbshow you put on at La Sorcière … I knew what it was at once. The Murder of Gonzago. Fratricide is a jolly interesting subject. Old Hamlet was, by all accounts, a pussycat and he didn’t really deserve the earful of poison he got.’

  ‘Your brother phoned you the day before he died. Basil Hunter mentioned it to me. Your brother was quite horrible to you – he told you to go and kill him – he told you that was the only way to get hold of his money … You aren’t going to deny that such a conversation took place, are you?’

  ‘No, I am not. Perfectly true.’ Gerard nodded. ‘Roderick was frightfully rude to me. I’d been badgering him for money, but then Papa did say on his deathbed we must help each other. Roderick had an awful lot of money and yet he refused to finance the Dilettanti Droug Press, or rather he kept saying he would think about it. He was frightfully rude to me on the phone.’

  ‘Were you upset?’

  ‘Of course I was upset. I must admit I got angry too. Furious. I felt – well, I felt like killing him.’ Gerard regarded the burning end of his cigar. There was a pause. ‘They can’t prove if someone’s been to a foreign country, can they?’

  ‘They can.’

  ‘They’d have one’s details at the airport, I suppose … It’s all computers now, isn’t it? Then there are the stamps in one’s passport and so on. Unless one has used a false passport? Apparently an awful lot of people travel on false passports, I read somewhere.’

  ‘You would have been caught on CCTV cameras,’ Renée said a trifle wearily. ‘They are everywhere.’

  ‘Are they? Damn. No privacy these days. What if I’d changed my appearance?’

  ‘Gerard, this could be serious—’

  ‘I could have worn a false moustache … It’s the kind of thing that happens in detective stories … As a matter of fact, detective stories could be vehicles for all kinds of ideas, so perhaps I shouldn’t sneer at them,’ he went on in a meditative voice. ‘And nobody could stop me if I decided to write sentences like “His sleuthorial instincts were stimulated.” I mean I could experiment in all kinds of ways … Incidentally, did you tell anyone where and when you came across my cigar cutter?’

  ‘No. No one knows about it.’

  ‘I am glad.’ Suddenly he laughed. ‘So if I were to kill you now, the secret, as they say, would die with you!’

  ‘I feel so awful, I wouldn’t mind dying,’ Renée Glover whispered.

  25

  The Mysterious Mr Quin

  ‘My memory’s getting worse. What is a meta-documentary once again, not that it matters the tiniest bit, but do remind me?’ Lady Grylls cupped her ear with her hand. ‘I see. You are so terribly clever, Hughie, they must have hated you in the army, or did you contrive to keep a low profile?’

  ‘I was clever enough not to let anyone suspect me of being clever at all. I believe I managed to blend in. Actually I was quite popular with my brother officers.’

  ‘Were you? You mean you drank to excess, gambled for high stakes and talked about women and horses in a knowledgeable if highly irresponsible fashion? I am so proud of you.’ Lady Grylls tapped the tape of the documentary. ‘It’s a real hoot, terribly funny. I am sure you will be amused. Is there any particular reason you are so keen on watching it?’

  ‘We are curious to see what Lord Remnant was like,’ Major Payne said. ‘In any murder case the character of the victim is of paramount importance. Murder is frequently – though by no means invariably – a direct consequence of something the victim has done.’

  ‘Roderick certainly managed to upset a great number of people and, from what I hear, he never quite knew when to stop. He called it “teasing”. He seemed to have lacked the wisdom to be afraid. Well, the Grenadin locals had been threatening to carve him up and set La Sorcière aflame, so perhaps it was one of the locals who killed him after all? A case of raw revenge, w
hat do you think?’

  ‘You may be right, darling. Perhaps it was a case of raw revenge.’

  Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘You don’t sound too convinced. You think it’s too simple. I imagine it’s an addictive pursuit, the hunting down and ultimate unmasking of lethally inclined characters?’

  ‘It is addictive, yes.’

  ‘Who’s your favourite suspect, Hughie?’

  ‘I have no favourite suspect.’

  ‘Not the stepson, surely?’

  ‘The stepson seems to be the most obvious choice, but in a vague kind of way we are suspicious of Clarissa’s aunt. As it happens, she is also Clarissa’s mother. Well, Hortense Tilling is the only member of the house party, with the exception of Stephan, that is, who was not in the room at the time of the murder—’ Payne broke off. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Mr Quin! I’ve been meaning to tell you about Mr Quin! The mysterious Mr Quin! Goodness, my memory’s really bad these days. The Case of the Curious Codicil, that’s how I think of it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘That would make a pretty decent title for a detective yarn. The Conundrum of the Curious Codicil. It’s got a ring to it. Antonia might like it, what do you think?’

  ‘It sounds like a short story title and you know Antonia doesn’t write short stories, only novels.’

  ‘How about The Mysterious Mr Quin?’

  ‘I believe that’s already been used.’

  ‘Can’t it be used again?’

  ‘Not really, darling. What codicil and who or what is Mr Quin?’

  ‘There’s something peculiar about the whole business. I mean, leaving a fortune to a fella no one’s ever heard of. I knew there was something I needed to tell you, Hughie. You told me to keep my eyes and ears open for developments, didn’t you?’

  ‘I believe I did, darling, but perhaps you could try to present your facts in a slightly more linear fashion?’

  ‘The other curious fact is that Clarissa has dismissed all the servants and is at Remnant on her own. Bobo believes she’s gone bonkers. One of the Remnant maids is the sister of Bobo’s gardener, you see. That’s how he heard about it, from his gardener. The sister was terribly upset. They were given no notice. Clarissa just told them to go.’

  ‘Clarissa is at Remnant on her own?’

  ‘She is indeed. The mind boggles. Remnant is the size of a hippodrome, with high vaults, eccentrically hazardous staircases and endless corridors. A former abbey or something equally gruesome. For some reason Clarissa brings to mind the woman in the story who sits and waits for her demon lover.’

  ‘Who is Mr Quin?’ Something had started stirring in Major Payne’s deep well of unconscious cerebration. He believed he was already in possession of a certain significant fact. What was it? Then it came to him. The Damascus chest in the Fenwicks’ drawing room – the secret drawer – the letter from Marrakech signed ‘Q’ – Q for Quin?

  ‘Quin is the enigmatic legatee. The fellow to whom Roderick left a fortune in his will. No one knows who he is. I was on the blower, talking to Felicity, just before you came and she told me all about it. She is puzzled and angry. Gerard had never heard Quin’s name mentioned before, or so he says. Well, everybody seems to be puzzled. Only Clarissa, it appears, is not.’

  Payne cocked an eyebrow. ‘Clarissa is not puzzled?’

  ‘No. At least, Gerard thought not. He was watching Clarissa while the will was being read, you see. She didn’t seem to turn a hair. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t look round in dismay. Asked no questions. She seemed terrified – but that’s a different thing altogether, isn’t it?’

  ‘Clarissa seemed terrified?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what Gerard said. He fancies himself as something of a writer, you know. He believes he has special insights into people’s emotional states and all that sort of rot. Writers do like to put on a lot of airs, don’t they?’

  ‘Antonia doesn’t.’

  ‘The chap’s full name is Peter Quin and he has been left a fortune in Lord Remnant’s will. Five million pounds sterling, Felicity says, which does seem an exorbitant amount to leave to a stranger, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does,’ Payne agreed.

  ‘Though of course it’s nothing really, a trifling canapé amuse-gueule affair, considering Roderick was worth thirty million pounds, some such sum. Apparently Roderick used to boast about his wealth, so terribly vulgar, he behaved more like a baron than an earl. He said once that, if he felt like it, he could pay a great number of people to do nothing but paint his portrait for the rest of his life, even though he knew the value of the finished product would be negligible.’

  ‘Was any reason given for the Quin legacy?’

  ‘For services rendered. It appears Quin had done Roderick some great favour.’

  ‘What kind of favour?’

  ‘That was never specified. It’s a mystery, I keep telling you. Felicity is annoyed with Gerard because Gerard doesn’t seem to think it’s such a big deal … She is also unhappy that he spends most of his time at his club. She said they had drifted apart … Perhaps this Quin saved Roderick’s life?’

  ‘Perhaps he did.’ Payne spoke absently. ‘Clarissa was not particularly surprised and she has dismissed all her servants, eh? Now I find that extremely curious.’

  ‘It may turn out that it was Quin who killed Roderick after all. Five million is an awful lot of money. For some people, that is. Quin might have saved Roderick’s life for that purpose alone. Quin might have engineered the life-threatening situation in the first place, so that he could save Lord Remnant from it. Do you see? Once he knows the legacy has been made in his name, as a token of Lord Remnant’s gratitude, he kills Lord Remnant.’

  ‘He saves his life, so that he can kill him later on?’

  ‘Yes! I love paradoxes like that, don’t you?’

  ‘Terribly ingenious, darling. A beautiful example of what I believe they call “convoluted cerebration”. Positively Chestertonian. Who was it you said Clarissa might be expecting at Remnant?’

  ‘Her demon lover. But I never meant it seriously. Demon lovers don’t exist. What is it, Hughie? Why are you looking like that?’

  ‘I think you’ve just given me a very interesting idea,’ Major Payne said.

  ‘Lord Remnant was putting the silencer on his gun?’ Antonia said slowly. ‘You are sure it was a silencer?’

  ‘Well, yes. The gun, when we found it, had a silencer screwed on it all right. A tubular thing. I thought, how odd, but then Lord Remnant was a very odd kind of person. He’d do anything to keep boredom at bay.’

  ‘Was he a good shot?’

  ‘I believe he was. The week before he was killed I saw him shoot a rabbit … May I have your pirog, if you’re not going to eat it? It helps me to concentrate if I eat.’

  ‘You are welcome to it. I haven’t touched it. By all means.’ Antonia pushed the plate towards her.

  ‘I’d eat anything that’s got jam in it … When I am tense, I tend to eat more than usual,’ Louise confided. ‘I love pirog. I’d sell my soul for a well-made pirog.’

  ‘Did you say Lord Remnant shot a rabbit?’

  ‘Yes. It happened the week before he died. I was in the garden next to La Sorcière – enormous botanical gardens, as large as a cricket pitch, stretching down to the sea. I saw Lord Remnant first, then I saw the rabbit. The silly thing was sitting on its haunches, still as a statue. It seemed to think that if it didn’t move, it would remain unnoticed! Lord Remnant was wearing old corduroy trousers, a shabby tweed jacket and he had a pith helmet on his head. He looked terribly eccentric, quite ridiculous, really.’

  ‘He had a gun with him?’

  ‘Yes. He lifted the gun and took aim, but he didn’t fire at once. I must have gasped – he glanced in my direction and smiled – as though to say, watch. Then he fired. The bullet hit the rabbit’s hindquarters. The poor creature screamed – how it screamed! It started crawling towards the undergrowth—’


  ‘Oh no.’ Antonia couldn’t help herself.

  Louise stabbed her fork into the pirog. ‘Lord Remnant fired again. This time the bullet hit the rabbit’s head. But still it wasn’t dead! It started twitching horribly. I thought he was going to grasp its hind legs and strike hard with his gun at the base of its neck, put it out of its misery. But he didn’t. He stood gazing at the quivering, bleeding, mangled creature. He gave a little bow in my direction. It was only then that he bludgeoned it to death with the butt of his gun.’

  ‘That wasn’t the same gun he was killed with, was it?’

  ‘Oh no, the gun he was killed with was much smaller. This was a four-ten gun. I am actually convinced he did it so very brutally because he knew I was watching. He then came up to me and said that shooting men and animals was the occupation of a gentleman, that it was the kind of thing that should be lauded and encouraged since it put a curb on effeminate impulses. Would you say that was funny? Or clever?’

  ‘No, not particularly.’

  ‘Lord Remnant took great pleasure in shocking and upsetting people. He had a real knack for it. He liked playing mind games – experimenting – goading people into doing things against their will – into compromising themselves. He liked setting people up. In my opinion, he displayed all the traits of a sociopath.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Tell me about the lead-up to the murder,’ Antonia said.

  ‘Dinner that evening was superb. Cocktails, iced consommé, roast duckling with apple sauce, peas and new potatoes.’ Louise sighed reminiscently. ‘Pudding was a very special kind of ice-cream called Alaska Bombe. There were scented candles on the table. Augustine and his wives went round with silver bowls full of fragrant rosewater for the ladies to dip their fingers in. It was quite marvellous.’

  ‘Was dinner on time or earlier than usual – because of the performance?’

  ‘Much earlier. Well, Lord Remnant was in a highly excited state. He was wearing his snow-white robes and he kept making appalling jokes. He asked Basil how the pigs on the farm were shaping up and, as he did so, he looked at me fixedly. He pointed to the jewellery Clarissa was wearing – to her necklace, bracelet, rings, earrings – and informed us that it was he who had given it all to her. He reached out and raised Clarissa’s hand to his lips. He then declared he hadn’t actually paid a penny for any of Clarissa’s jewels. He said he had pinched them.’