He raised the whisky glass to his lips. ‘That was an embarrassing little scene, wasn’t it? Never imagined Tradewell was an emotional chap. Falling to his knees — praying in that booming voice, with his hands clasped above his head. Sobbing.’
‘I am sure Tradewell was crying for himself. His fate is a bit uncertain now.’
‘Tradewell’s an oxymoron. An emotional butler. But you may be right. Don’t suppose Clarissa cares much for Tradewell. I know he “goes” with the house, but we may not need him either.’
‘We don’t have to live at Remnant, do we?’
‘We’ll be expected to put in an appearance every now and then. Noblesse oblige and all that sort of rot.’
Gerard Fenwick stood beside the window, nursing his drink, gazing at the sky, which was a gash of crimson and orange. His thoughts turned to Renee Glover. The way she had smiled at him — such a sweet smile. Renee was genuinely interested in his writing …
Felicity said, ‘No second thoughts about starting the — what is it you wanted to call it? Dilettanti Drag?’
‘Dilettanti Droug. Was that meant to be funny? It will be a small but rather exclusive press,’ he said stiffly. She doesn’t understand me, he thought. She doesn’t understand me at all.
‘Oh yes. Droug is Russian for “fiend”, I keep forgetting.’
‘It’s Russian for “friend”. There is a difference, you know.’ Felicity was doing it on purpose, he was convinced of it. She was trying to get at him. ‘No, no second thoughts, my dear. No reason why I should have changed my mind, is there?’
‘Clarissa says she’ll move to La Sorciere permanently. Grenadin clearly agrees with her.’
‘Clearly. It doesn’t agree with me. Thank God we only got invited once. So hot — and all those mosquitoes! I don’t suppose we were their sort of people. We don’t seem to scintillate.’
‘I wouldn’t have said the Hunters scintillated exactly. Louise Hunter is so fat. The Hunters lack — what is it they lack? A significant something.’
‘Charm? Unity? An edge?’
‘That’s it. No edge.’ Felicity nodded. ‘I have known beach balls with more edge to them than the Hunters.’
‘I believe they are frightfully mismatched. Louise is dire, I agree, but I don’t think there’s anything really wrong with Hunter.’
‘I don’t suppose I could ever like Louise Hunter, not even if she were to save me from drowning or death by fire.’
‘I feel sorry for Hunter. He is a first-class farmer. I wouldn’t be able to do half the jobs he does. He understands cattle … When was it we saw my brother on the box? Was it last year or the year before?’
‘Last year — you mean that ghastly documentary, don’t you?’
‘Yes. It was ghastly, wasn’t it? Roderick’s teeth didn’t seem to fit and he never for a moment took off that ludicrous hat. He seemed peculiarly rejuvenated, didn’t you think?’
‘People always look different on the box,’ Felicity said dismissively. ‘Would you get me a Scotch, Gerard? With plenty of soda.’ Kicking off her shoes, she sat on the sofa. ‘I am chilled to the bone. Hate funerals. The trawl from Remnant Regis to the crematorium was unbearable. It’s a miracle I survived.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. I feel as stiff as a varnished eel myself.’
‘And that vicar, how he droned on! I didn’t feel a flicker of spiritual devotion, not a flicker, only a vague kind of annoyance. I can’t imagine your brother being in heaven now playing the harp — can you?’
‘I don’t think the vicar said anything about a harp, did he? It would have been unscriptural.’
‘I hate the idea of an afterlife. The shocking insecurity of it all — the spectacular lack of privacy — bumping into people you’d hoped never to see again or wondering why so-and-so was not there! It would be my idea of hell.’
‘Plenty of soda, did you say? Wise girl. Here you are, my dear.’ He handed her a glass. I am not sure I like having drinks with my wife, he thought. I used to, but I no longer do. And she is wrong if she expects me to start discussing my religious beliefs with her. ‘Chin-chin, my dear.’
‘Chin-chin … The moment the coffin disappeared into the furnace, the Sorciere Six all looked immensely relieved. Why did they look so relieved?’
‘Scotch and soda is my favourite drink,’ he said. ‘No question about it. Next to frozen Daiquiris.’
‘Clarissa was wearing all her pearls and all her diamonds, which was certainly de trop, and such a theatrical little hat. To start with, her face was a studied Madonna Dolorosa, but then it began to crumple-’
‘You don’t think Clarissa loved Roderick?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Clarissa is the voguish vamp type. In profile she brings to mind Madame Sarkozy.’
‘Clarissa is so overloaded with sex, it sparkles. She reminds me of one of those golden striped things that roam the jungle … It’s perfectly obvious she’s had an affair with the doctor, which he has now ended.’ Felicity put down her glass. ‘What do we know about your brother’s death, Gerard? How exactly did he die?’
‘You know perfectly well how he died. They told us how he died. He had a heart attack. They were having a fancy-dress party or something, it was terribly hot and it all proved too much for him.’
‘I believe there’s more to it. Much more.’
‘One good thing about funerals,’ Gerard said, ‘is that they bring people together and rekindle old friendships. It was good to see Nellie, wasn’t it? She’s getting on, but seems completely compos. Doesn’t drool or dribble or lurch about. Got rid of Chalfont and bought a house in St John’s Wood. The very best of decisions. That’s what all of us should do.’
‘I’d hate living in St John’s Wood … Nellie’s nephew is a detective.’
‘Don’t think Peverel is a detective.’
‘No, not Peverel. Hugh.’
‘Hugh Payne? I thought Hugh Payne was in the army.’
‘He isn’t a real detective, but one of those amateur ones. I’ve heard some incredible stories. He may be interested in buying the Damascus chest, Nellie says. He’s seen it in my catalogue. She is bringing him over to look at it tomorrow.’
‘That’s splendid, absolutely splendid. I’m afraid I’ll be off at some unearthly hour, so I’m bound to miss them. Good lord, it’s starting to rain again … Rain falling limply in intermittent showers.’ He whistled what sounded vaguely like ‘The Rain in Spain’ between his teeth.
She gazed across at him in an exasperated fashion. ‘Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious about the sinister secret of La Sorciere, Gerard?’
‘I do believe, my dear, that if you ever went to Plato’s cave and were asked about a Form or an Ideal, you wouldn’t talk about Love or Truth or Beauty, but about the sinister secret of La Sorciere. Why, you make it sound as though they all killed my brother and hushed it up!’
‘Perhaps they did. In fact I am sure they did. They looked conspiratorial.’
‘Renee Glover seemed as self-possessed as ever. Her manner was perfectly amicable. She said hello and I am so sorry about your brother and she actually smiled at me.’
‘It is me Glover hates, not you. It was I who dismissed her. Glover adores you. She worships the ground you walk on.’ Until a year ago Renee Glover had worked as Felicity’s secretary. ‘What she did was inexcusable. Outrageous. Poking her nose into my private affairs. Reading my letters.’
‘I am sure you were mistaken, my dear.’
‘I was not mistaken. Oh, I know perfectly well you have a soft spot for her, Gerard. All those cosy little chats in your study. You don’t think I am blind, do you?’
‘No, not at all, my dear. One couldn’t imagine anyone more eagle-eyed than you. Sometimes you even …’
‘Sometimes I even what, Gerard? See things that are not there? Is that what you were going to say?’
Gerard put on his oblique expression. ‘No, no, not at all.’ Felicity’s getting difficult, he
thought, fed up with having to change the topic. ‘Such a blessing, never to have been fond of one’s brother. Thank God he arrived in a hermetically sealed coffin and now of course he is in an urn. We are terribly lucky, you know. In Greece and countries like that relatives are expected to kiss the loved one’s corpse as it lies in the coffin, by way of a final adieu.’
‘You should have given that poached egg a wide berth at breakfast,’ Felicity said sullenly. ‘You’re coming out in spots.’
‘This is not an allergy. It’s a nervous thing.’
She said she didn’t believe he had any nerves. ‘Did you hear about Stephan? Apparently he’s been taken back in.’
‘He should never have been allowed out.’ Gerard Fenwick stole a glance at his watch and said he needed to go to his study. ‘Sorry, my dear, but I am, as they say, being possessed by the Muse, which is also known as the divine furor. It would be unwise to ignore the call. The Muse is capricious and wilful and notoriously unpredictable. I may never get another visit.’
‘What are you going to do in your study?’
‘I am going to write.’
‘You are going to write?’
‘Well, yes. You know perfectly well that’s something I do. Do you have to sound so amazed?’ He paused with his hand on the door handle. ‘I am divided between writing an essay on the subject of funeral corteges and a bitter-sweet story of a chap who realizes he is in love with his wife’s former secretary.’
‘Oh, that’s been done so many times. I think you should write a murder mystery about a suspicious death that takes place on a tropical island.’
‘Murder is something I know nothing about,’ he said. He frowned down at his right hand, at the red blotch, which he knew perfectly well was a mosquito bite. ‘I suppose I could write a one-act comedy about a distinguished middle-aged couple having a desultory and somewhat pointless kind of conversation. One of those fictions that are rooted in reality. L’art egale la vie. It would be fun, I think.’
3
Why Not Say What Happened?
The moment her eyes fell on the Revd Duckworth’s clerical collar, a miasma of oppressive gloom descended on Hortense Tilling, not unlike the onslaught of sudden fever. She felt a shudder run through her. This is absurd, she thought. I have seen his collar hundreds of times.
‘Dear lady, there is an odd look about your eyes, which I cannot read,’ he said playfully.
‘I’ve only just come back, Ducky.’
‘Back? My dear Hortense, you are the most travelled person I have ever known! Back from what distant shores this time, pray?’
‘Back from Hertfordshire. Remnant Regis.’
‘Ah — Lord Remnant’s final journey. A melancholy occasion. Coronary thrombosis, I believe you said? Suddenly at his residence — they still write that, I’ve noticed. Cherished husband. I never cease to be amazed at the resilience of certain cliches. We all feel blessed to have known him … There is safety in cliches, I suppose … You will give me some tea, Hortense, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will, Ducky … The cup that cheereth,’ she murmured ruefully as she left the room.
They had known each other a number of years. He was a widower, she had never married. Both were in their mid-sixties. He invariably addressed her as ‘dear lady’. She called him ‘Ducky’. At one time Hortense had imagined the Revd Duckworth was steeling himself to propose to her.
In the kitchen, as she occupied herself with the tea, she suddenly felt on the verge of tears. I cannot live with so much doubt and fear and with so much intensity, she thought. I must talk — otherwise I will burst.
It took her a couple of moments to compose herself.
She re-entered the drawing room and put the tea-tray on the table.
The Revd Duckworth beamed at her. ‘Towards a clergyman, common benevolence expresses itself largely through the medium of a cup of tea. I have no idea if this is a quotation or whether I just made it up.’
‘Sounds like something out of Trollope,’ she said. ‘Trollope teems with clergymen, doesn’t he? All those bishops and archdeacons and prelates swimming in satins and port.’
It would help her if she talked. It would blow away the clinging cobwebs of her low and anxious mood. I don’t have to tell him the whole truth, she thought, I cannot possibly tell him what happened exactly, but I will certainly tell him about the bribe.
‘Who’s that?’ He was peering at one of the photographs on the wall. He was an old fool but she was fond of him. ‘Such an innocent face. Something of the lost angel about it. Brings to mind one of our most accomplished choirboys.’
‘That’s Stephan. Clarissa’s son.’
‘Your great-nephew. Of course. Was he at the funeral?’
‘No. He is not at all well.’
‘A most impressionable young person, I believe you said? Easily led astray? Short attention span? Undesirable friends?’
‘It’s much worse than that, Ducky. I’ve told you.’ She spoke a little impatiently.
‘Was it-? Not-?’
‘Yes. He started quite young, at thirteen, I believe. I am afraid they can do very little about it. Poor Clarissa is out of her mind with worry … A mother’s heart-’ Hortense broke off. She took a deep breath. ‘I find myself blaming God.’
‘One mustn’t blame God.’
‘I do blame God. I am afraid in my very personal hierarchy God does not occupy a front seat. What I actually most believe in is the imponderable perception of God. It is my idea that God is aware of everything but is holding back, doing very little.’
‘Dear lady!’
‘I am convinced that God leaves us to get on with whatever cards we have been dealt, then sits back and watches us make a spectacle of ourselves … I don’t suppose you encounter such heretical thoughts often, do you? Now, tell me honestly, do you?’
‘As a matter of fact I do. More often than you imagine. I myself am not exempt. You’d never believe this, Hortense, but sometimes I question my suitability for the cloth. I catch myself wishing I were a chat-show host, a wedding singer or a champion snooker player.’
‘Vouchsafe, O Lord, to keep us this day from being found out. That’s not in the Bible, Ducky, is it?’
‘No.’ He looked at her. ‘I have always regarded you as a woman of strong nerve and sanguine temperament, but today you seem far from your usual self. I imagine you found the funeral unsettling?’
‘I did, yes. Very much so. Extremely unsettling. Not a single tear was shed for Lord Remnant. I couldn’t describe anyone among Lord Remnant’s nearest and dearest as an “inconsolable wreck” … I don’t think he was “cherished” by anyone … Heretics roast in hell, don’t they?’
‘That is the accepted theory. Ultimately, that is. Not if they undergo a change of heart while they still have the chance and ask God’s forgiveness.’ The Revd Duckworth took a sip of tea.
‘Should one fall on one’s knees when one asks forgiveness?’
‘Kneeling focuses the mind wonderfully well, though I find getting up increasingly difficult. I hope that didn’t sound too flippant? I must say the Battenberg cake looks terribly tempting … Earthly appetites are so difficult to suppress … May I? I shall restrict myself to a single slice … This is scrumptious, absolutely scrumptious,’ he said, munching.
A haunted and troubled look had settled upon her features. She clasped her hands before her. ‘Tell me, Ducky, honestly and truly, do you believe I am capable of committing a crime? No, I am serious — do you?’
‘Honestly and truly? No, I don’t. You are the last person I would associate with crime, though of course it very much depends on what you define as “crime”.’
‘I’d be extremely grateful if you tried to picture the following scenario. Something terrible is perpetrated, an act of the utmost wickedness. There are witnesses but they have been forced to keep their mouths shut. In fact the witnesses have accepted hush money. The witnesses have been too weak to refuse the bribe. Or too greedy.’
<
br /> ‘Are you by any chance talking about people you know?’
‘No, of course not. The whole situation is entirely hypothetical. I sometimes like to imagine that I am faced with a moral dilemma and I try to provide a solution for it. People often need money rather badly, don’t they? I don’t mean only for bills, debts and overdrafts. People have extravagant tastes. Most of mankind craves opulence and splendour. The majority of people are self-indulgent.’
‘That indeed is so,’ he agreed. ‘I must confess to a peculiar taste for sudden and isolated luxuries. I am particularly susceptible to a certain rather exclusive type of macaroon one can get only at Fortnum’s.’
‘This is a matter of life and death, Ducky. So they — these people — accept the hush money, they allow themselves to be bribed, but as a result some of them lose their peace of mind. They are unable to sleep. They feel as though they might explode. They feel alienated from their surroundings. Nothing seems to make sense any more. They start popping pills-’ Hortense broke off. ‘I am sure I am putting things rather badly, but I hope you get the picture? The point, Ducky, is that the victim deserved to die.’
The Revd Duckworth blinked. ‘Is there — was there — a victim?’
Hortense Tilling’s gently wrinkled face was quite flushed now. ‘The victim didn’t possess a single redeeming feature. The Don Giovanni aria got it all wrong!’
‘What aria?’
‘La nobilta ha dipinta negli occhi l’onesta.’
‘The nobility — um — has honour painted in their eyes?’
‘Honesty. The nobility has honesty painted in their eyes. Well, Ducky, this particular nobleman was far from honest. He was devious. He led a life of decadence and depravity. He was arrogant, egocentric and cruel. He talked of selling his soul to the Devil!’
‘I can’t help the feeling,’ the Revd Duckworth said slowly, ‘that you are talking of someone you know.’
‘He enjoyed upsetting people. He liked to say hurtful things, awful things. He had an extremely nasty sense of humour. He was an unregenerate bully. He was a mental sadist.’ She had started talking very fast. ‘He got kicks out of seeing people in tears — especially women. He had a thing about women. Not a nice thing. He treated women very badly indeed. Both wittingly and unwittingly.’
Murder of Gonzago chc-7 Page 2
