‘You said it was only the draft of a new will. Who is the main beneficiary according to your current will?’
‘Deirdre of course, blast her, though I am not sure she deserves to be, do you?’ Lord Collingwood put on his black homburg. ‘Good grief, Payne, why are you staring at me like that? You don’t think it was Deirdre who –?’
29
CABAL (2)
I clear my throat and say that the knowledge her ladyship has chosen to impart has given me an idea for a different and much more serious motive for murder that could be attributed to Lord Collingwood.
‘Are you implying you’ve got another stellar plot up your sleeve, Bedaux?’
‘More of a nouveau scenario, m’lady. I wonder what you will make of it. A gentleman of noble birth, the scion of a family of great distinction and antiquity, has an affair with his young secretary. He then learns that the girl is actually his daughter by a former mistress. He realises he has had an affair with his own daughter.’
‘Ah, the incest motive. You mean it could be made to look as though Rupert’s feelings of shame were so intense and devastating that he killed his daughter?’
‘That’s what I mean, yes. His mind suffered a lethal aberration which resulted in Lord Collingwood killing his daughter – before taking the honourable way out. A remorseful death. A kind of an Oedipus Rex in reverse. What does your ladyship think?’
‘The honourable way out … Yes … I like that … It’s terribly clever … I don’t see why not.’ She suddenly becomes brisk and business-like, ‘It must be done before he gets the idea of changing his will once more. The draft I found in his desk remains just that, a draft. I phoned his solicitor who’s an old flame of mine and asked some probing questions and he assures me the old will still stands, the one in which I am named as Rupert’s principal legatee. But he and I are not on good terms and now that Joan’s dead, he may decide to leave his fortune to – to some gardening society or heaven knows who else! So we must hurry. I can’t bear the thought of being cheated out of what is rightfully mine, Bedaux.’
‘An understandable sentiment, m’lady.’
‘But I do so hate the idea of blood or any kind of mess!’
‘There doesn’t have to be a mess, m’lady.’
‘Nothing too lurid or too sensational please. Can Rupert suffer a broken neck?’
‘Indeed he can, m’lady.’
‘Or take an overdose? He takes some absurd tablets for his Black Dog. He’s a manic depressive.’
‘Indeed he can, m’lady.’
‘I feel rather inspired talking to you, Bedaux. I think that we should meet and work out the details as a matter of some urgency? It would be imprudent to try to do it over the phone. Any objection to a tête-à-tête?’
‘No objection at all.’
She asks if I can come over at once.
I tell her I could be with her in less than an hour.
‘There is a delightful little place just round the corner. A patisserie of a rather exclusive kind. Chez Charlus. It is authentic French. It boasts the best pastry-cook in Europe. It may sound a bit louche, to the cognoscenti, though it is a perfectly respectable place. I think it would be much safer for us to meet on neutral ground.’
It is forty minutes later and we are sitting in Chez Charlus, partaking of a selection of sugary concoctions, which I find I enjoy.
‘Oh who would have thought it would come to this?’ Lady Collingwood sighs wistfully over her cup of jasmine tea. ‘When I married Rupert I didn’t see how anything could possibly go wrong. Rupert was every young widow’s dream. He had all the Bs, you know.’
‘All the bees, m’lady?’
‘Background, breeding, blue blood, bank balance … But he turned out to be a beast … And as they say, the beast must die … There is a novel of that name, isn’t there?’
‘We must prepare the ground for his suicide. Set the wheels in motion, if you’d permit the cliché, m’lady. I believe you said Lord Collingwood talked in his sleep?’
‘He does. He shouts and screams. He is not a well man. He is prey to nightmares. I often hear him through the wall.’
‘That would be perfect. You will say that you heard Lord Collingwood make a confession in his sleep: “Joan, my little girl, what have I done? I had no idea.” Something on those lines.’ Even though all the neighbouring tables are empty and no waiter is within earshot, I continue to speak sotto voce. ‘He will also say that he can’t possibly go on living with himself.’
She twists her face and moans in the manner of a soul tormented by toothache. ‘Joan, Joan! My little girl! What have I done?’
‘You don’t have to mimic Lord Collingwood’s voice, m’lady. It is not as though you will ever be expected to impersonate him.’
‘Who will be my “audience”, Bedaux? Not Scotland Yard, I hope?’
‘No, m’lady. There is no question of Scotland Yard being involved at this point. I have been giving the matter some serious consideration and I think you should approach Antonia Darcy, m’lady. In my opinion, Antonia Darcy will make the perfect witness. She is a detective-story writer and, according to one critic, she displays a fondness for “outlandish premises”. I came across the phrase on the Internet. There is a great deal about her on the Internet. I am sure she’d want to listen to you. You said you knew her?’
‘I only know her husband. How I wish I could have been married to someone like Hugh Payne! Rupert went on about how happily married Hugh and Antonia were. Their marriage seems to have been made in heaven, with angels as witnesses and St Peter as best man.’
‘Do you think you could engineer a meeting with Antonia Darcy, m’lady?’
Lady Collingwood takes a delicate bite of a millefeuille, which is also known as the Napoleon of pastries and says, ‘I’ll do my best. I consider myself a good actress, you know. I excel at charades. Writers as a rule tend to be impractical and fanciful, don’t they? They’d believe things ordinary mortals wouldn’t. Six impossible things before breakfast and so on. Detective-story writers, someone said, are the worst. Their cleverness is of a particularly synthetic kind.’
‘That strikes me as a fair assessment, m’lady. It of course applies exclusively to the purveyors of the more old-fashioned type of whodunit.’
‘Of which Antonia Darcy is one!’
I glance around, at the purple peacock-patterned wallpaper, lotus-shaped tables and gilded chandeliers of Chez Charlus, then I watch Lady Collingwood swallow a tablet, which she informs me is one of her ‘little Aconites’. She says it has no taste and is perfectly harmless. She never suffers any side effects. She might have been taking an aspirin, really. Then she swallows a second Aconite.
Suddenly I am filled with misgivings. My ‘stellar plot’ is a bit on the overcomplicated side. I have also remembered the way Antonia Darcy stood at the top of the stairs at the Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School looking down at me …
I clear my throat. ‘May I suggest that you exercise caution, m’lady? Please, do not underestimate Antonia Darcy.’
30
SOMETHING HAPPENED
It was some time after two in the afternoon that Antonia received a phone call from Lady Collingwood.
‘I don’t think we have ever been properly introduced, Antonia, but I’ve been dying to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. I don’t think you were at the Peruvian embassy bash, were you? No, I thought not. I would have remembered. Hugh, of course, I remember vividly. I tend to think of Hugh as of one of the most remarkable men of his generation.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I most certainly do! Yes! But I need to thank you first. I’m so terribly grateful to both of you for what you did for Charlie the other night. That meant a lot to me. Do you think we could meet for coffee – or a drink? Would that be at all possible? It would give me tremendous pleasure.’
‘Yes, of course. When?’ Antonia was curious about Lady Collingwood.
‘In the next hour or so? Or is that
too soon? You’ll probably think me an awful bore but the fact is – all right, I’ll put my cards on the table. The fact is I am at my wits’ end, Antonia. I am absolutely frantic. I’ve been feeling terribly apprehensive. I need to consult you about something – badly. It’s extremely important. It concerns poor Joan – Charlie’s former inamorata. You see, something happened – there’s been a development, at least I think of it as a development.’
‘What sort of development?’
‘I can’t talk about it over the phone. It’s a very delicate matter – rather distasteful too – I may be completely wrong of course, in fact I hope I am wrong, but, you see, something happened – it concerns Joan and Rupert, my husband –’ At this point Lady Collingwood became quite breathless and she started speaking very fast. ‘A second opinion from someone like you would be most welcome. You have more than proved your credentials. I hold you in the highest regard, Antonia. I think you may be able to advise me. I haven’t talked about it to anybody else –’
They arranged to meet at the cafe in Liberty’s, of which Lady Collingwood said she had fond memories.
‘I am sure I will recognise you,’ Lady Collingwood said. ‘I’ve managed to get hold of one of your books. Your photo is on the back flap.’
‘I am afraid that looks nothing like me,’ Antonia said.
‘I never look right in photos either,’ Lady Collingwood said. ‘I am always taken for someone else. That’s what people tell me. Sometimes I wonder if I lack reliable personal identity … I am sure I will recognise you.’
Lady Collingwood held out her left hand in a jet-black glove. She sported an indigo-coloured hat of the pillbox variety and a little tailored black jacket that managed to be at once sombre and severe, an effect somewhat spoilt by a provocatively plunging neckline and her preternaturally high heels. Lady Collingwood’s hair was a curious silver-brown shade that reminded Antonia of the underwings of a moth. Her face was carefully made-up and she was wearing a very pale mauve lipstick. Her age was impossible to guess. Her mascara-ed eyes, Antonia noticed, did not quite focus.
‘So good of you to agree to meet me. I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d said no. It’s an impossibly difficult situation, so I shall rely on your wisdom and discretion. But you must tell me something first.’ Lady Collingwood lowered her voice. ‘In reference to poor Joan – what’s the latest news?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything,’ Antonia said apologetically. ‘We are not in touch with the police.’
‘You aren’t?’
‘No.’
Antonia noticed that there were little whitish crystals sticking to one of Lady Collingwood’s lapels. Sugar? Had Lady Collingwood been eating cake?
‘How perfectly extraordinary. I always imagined that you and Hugh had some very special contacts at Scotland Yard. I’d very much like to think the police are not as stupid and backward as most of us assume. We mustn’t think poorly of the police, must we? I can’t help thinking the killer is some maniac – and it’s got to be a man. What do you think, Antonia? It’s almost invariably a man, isn’t it? Especially when the victim is a young woman.’
‘That’s what statistics tell us – but not invariably.’ Antonia couldn’t bring herself to address Lady Collingwood as ‘Deirdre’, though she had been urged to do so.
‘There were no signs of – interference – of bruising? How terribly peculiar. You mean the killer could be a woman? How very interesting. Sorry – the little waitress has been trying to catch my eye. I hate making people wait, don’t you? What will you have?’
‘An espresso.’
‘I will have a cup of China tea. I can’t face anything else. Plain gunpowder, please.’ Lady Collingwood leant back. ‘You don’t suppose the foreign girl who lives at the house may have done it after all? It occurs to me that she was probably brought up with a completely different set of values. I believe the slaughter of seals is a common practice in her part of Europe, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘I admit I know next to nothing about her, nothing at all, only that her name is Olga and that she is “breathtakingly beautiful”. That’s what Charlie says. He’s quite taken with her, poor darling. Is Olga “breathtakingly beautiful”?’
‘She is beautiful, yes.’
‘Not one of those primped-and-preened-Park-Avenue-princess types, is she? That look is so irredeemably tacky.’
‘No, not at all. Olga is a natural beauty. She is sweet and charming as well.’
‘Did Hugh think so too? I am so pleased. I wasn’t at all sure. All love-struck young men tend to idealise the object of their affection. Charlie is terribly young and impressionable.’ Lady Collingwood gave a wistful smile.
‘Joan Selwyn was engaged to be married to him, wasn’t she?’
‘Only for a very short while. Charlie broke off the engagement. I never managed to make up my mind about Joan. She was awfully reserved. She was amiable enough, but there was never any question of our becoming “bosom friends”. She was fearsomely efficient. I must admit I found her a little intimidating – even after she dyed her hair blonde. She was Rupert’s secretary for a while. I had no idea then that – that –’ Lady Collingwood broke off. She bit her lip.
‘Yes?’
‘As I told you on the phone, Antonia, I am anxious to talk to you about something that happened, but I can’t. I’m finding it terribly difficult to come to the point. I am a coward.’ Lady Collingwood shook her head. She produced a slim silver cigarette case. ‘I don’t think I will be allowed to smoke here, will I? Actually, I don’t feel like smoking.’ She put the cigarette case back into her bag. ‘What I really feel like doing is bursting into tears.’
‘Is it so awful?’ Antonia believed she could guess where this was heading – though would Lady Collingwood have made such a song and dance about a mere affair between her husband and his secretary? There was clearly more to it.
‘Is it so awful?’ Lady Collingwood echoed. ‘It is, yes. It’s perfectly hideous. No question about it. Unless I am entirely wrong. Well, you see – it is like this – No, I can’t! Sorry but I can’t.’ Her voice shook. ‘I need to calm down first … Oh dear, do people still read Wodehouse? So passé, wouldn’t you say?’ Lady Collingwood had pointed to the book someone was reading at a neighbouring table. ‘I’ve never been able to see the appeal of Wodehouse. Master of language he may be, but all that repetitive silliness! He never varied his plots, did he? Are you familiar with the Restoration dramatist Thomas Otway?’
‘Otway? No, not very. Didn’t he write The Orphan?’
‘Yes. It is also known as The Unhappy Marriage. It was Charlie’s valet who introduced me to him. Such a clever man. Thomas Otway wrote what became known as “she-tragedies” – plays about virtuous and afflicted heroines. And why am I telling you this? It’s because at this very moment I see myself as one of those virtuous and afflicted women.’ Lady Collingwood gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Do you consider yourself virtuous, Antonia?’
‘No, not particularly. Only moderately so.’
The waitress reappeared bearing a tray and placed it on their table.
Lady Collingwood closed her eyes and laid the tips of her fingers on the lids. ‘Thank you, Antonia. Thank you for not losing patience with me. I’d have lost patience by now if I’d been confronted with me. I brought you here with the promise of a confession, didn’t I? Well, there is a confession coming. I don’t know why I keep putting it off. It’s not fair on you.’
‘Is it so awful?’ Antonia said again.
‘I do wish I had more courage,’ Lady Collingwood whispered. She opened her eyes. ‘You see, I want to believe Joan was killed by a maniac or even by Olga because the alternative is too horrible for words. I hope you will tell me I am imagining things. I can see that you are a sensible person. You’ve got your head screwed on. That’s how I imagined you to be. That’s why I wanted to see you. It’s such a personal thing. It’s about Rupert. I am extremely worried about
Rupert. About his state of mind. You see, something happened and I don’t know what to make of it and, honestly, I am terrified.’
‘What happened?’
Lady Collingwood picked up her cup of tea and immediately put it down. Her hands, Antonia noticed, were shaking.
‘It happened last night. I woke up suddenly. I could hear Rupert talking in a very loud voice in his bedroom, which is next door to mine. At first I thought he was on the phone but then I realised he was talking in his sleep. He has done it before. He has problems sleeping. I don’t normally listen but this time I did listen. It was Joan’s name that caught my attention –’
31
A TALENT TO ANNOY
‘You are a policeman, aren’t you? A plain-clothes detective?’
‘I told you I wasn’t.’
‘A secret policeman would never admit to being a policeman,’ Billy said.
‘I used to work for the Secret Service, but that was quite a while ago. Light years ago. I am here in a private capacity. I am a friend of the Collingwoods. It was Lord Collingwood who asked me to look into the matter,’ Payne improvised.
‘Lord Collingwood actually asked you to investigate Joan’s murder?’
‘No, not investigate. Good lord, no. I wouldn’t know where to begin!’ Payne laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘The police are already doing that. What Lord Collingwood wants me to do is – um – help clarify some points.’
‘What sort of points?’
‘You don’t have to answer any of my questions if you don’t feel like it.’
‘Oh very well.’ Billy sighed. ‘Ask away.’
‘When was the last time you saw Joan Selwyn?’
‘Three days ago, the day before she died. She popped in to say hallo. She didn’t stay long.’
The fair-haired young man sounded neutral but his eyes continued to be wary. How curious that all the young people in this affair should be blonde, Payne reflected idly. Even the victim – though she had owed her fairness to art rather than to nature.
The Killing of Olga Klimt Page 17
