Lady Grylls gave a reminiscent laugh. ‘He sang “Chattanooga Choo Choo” in duet with his estate agent, but got excessively cross when the poor fellow deigned to walk ahead of him and he tried to punch him on the nose. How he screamed at him. He clearly considered it lese-majeste. You and he didn’t get on frightfully well, did you, my dear?’
‘Not frightfully well, no. My brother-in-law was an acquired taste and that’s putting it mildly. Well, since he chose to spend most of his time in Grenadin, we hardly ever laid eyes on him.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘About ten years ago. We were invited to Grenadin, but it wasn’t a particularly auspicious occasion. Poor Gerard suffered the most awful mosquito bites. My brother-in-law boasted of having become a crack shot. He was terribly eager to do a William Tell. He asked me to stand in the garden with an apple on my head. He claimed he could fell it with a single shot.’
‘Did you agree to it?’ Payne asked.
‘Of course not.’
‘That’s how Paul Bowles killed his wife … Similar sort of set-up.’
‘You haven’t seen the documentary, Hughie, have you? Oh, but you must,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘For some reason they kept referring to it as a meta-documentary.’
‘Did they?’
‘You look as though you know what that means. I believe Provost recorded it when it was on the box, so I’ll give you the video. Do remind me.’ Lady Grylls turned to their hostess. ‘Let’s see what happens next, my dear, shall we?’
As Felicity pressed Play, the scene changed to a room of a striking art deco design. They saw an arch hung with a shimmering, transparent curtain and double doors made of what Payne imagined was onyx and silver. The enormous torchieres with serpentine curves had been derived, as Payne was to learn later, from Poelzig’s expressionistic columns designed for the foyer of Max Reinhardt’s Grosses Schauspielhaus in 1919.
The room was spacious and accented with circular and semicircular lines and arches placed within arches. The windows were curved like goldfish bowls, there was a rounded fireplace and clustered flowerlike lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling. The camera focused on a chaise longue covered in what looked like camellia blossoms.
‘La Sorciere. Roderick’s house on his island,’ Felicity explained.
A couple of feet behind the chaise longue were french windows with net curtains over them. A middle-aged woman went up to the windows and drew the silk curtains across. She had silver hair, dramatically mascara’d eyes and star-shaped earrings; she was clad in a long dress. At one point she produced a pair of glasses and put them on her nose.
The camera swirled round and several other people came into view. A man and a woman wearing cardboard helmets raised their hands to their foreheads in a military salute. A young woman with long dark hair parted in the middle and a white diaphanous dress curtsied.
Lady Grylls shook her forefinger at the TV screen. ‘I know these people! I’ve seen them. They were at the funeral yesterday! The very same!’
‘Clarissa’s aunt. The Hunters,’ Felicity said.
‘Who is the pretty girl?’ Payne asked.
‘What pretty girl? Do you mean Glover? Her name is Renee Glover.’ Felicity pursed her lips. ‘You think she is pretty?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘What are they supposed to be?’ Lady Grylls asked.
‘Characters out of Shakespeare. That, apparently, was the craze at La Sorciere at the time of Roderick’s death.’
‘Of course. There was something about it in the Mail.’
Major Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger. ‘I imagine Silver Hair is meant to be either Titania or Gertrude, the Helmets Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Miss Glover is Ophelia — or maybe Cordelia.’
A man and a woman were walking at a stately pace towards the chaise longue. They were wearing crowns and richly embroidered robes and were holding hands.
‘The King and the Queen,’ Lady Grylls murmured. ‘Though which king and which queen? Shakespeare is full of kings and queens. I think Roderick is the King … Is Clarissa the Queen?’
Felicity said in a flat voice, ‘That’s my sister-in-law, yes.’
Lord Remnant was heavily bearded and moustachioed; his long hair reached down to his shoulders. His caterpillar eyebrows slanted slightly upwards. Clarissa’s face was white, her lips very dark; she brought to mind some sinister Vampyra — all she needed were fangs, Payne reflected. Her eyes were excessively made up.
The King drew the Queen to himself, brought his heavily bearded face close to hers and kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the cheeks and finally on the lips. The Queen in return stroked the King’s hair.
‘Jolly uncommon for royalty to look so ostentatiously in love, but maybe they did in the old days,’ Lady Grylls observed. ‘Or maybe they are not meant to be British?’
The King yawned and rubbed his eyes. The Queen pointed to the chaise longue.
‘My darling. Do take a nap,’ Lady Grylls said in a funny voice.
The King nodded. He took off his crown and placed it on a little round table. He then reclined on the chaise longue. He lay on his side, folded his arms and shut his eyes. The camera followed the Queen as she tiptoed in an exaggerated manner out of the arched doorway.
Once more the screen went black, then the sleeping figure of the King was seen again, but he was no longer alone. Another man had entered the frame. He was young and handsome and sported a black moustache with waxed-up ends. His head was covered in romantic curls.
In his right hand the man held a tall glass painted black and decorated with what looked like a skull and crossbones. He glanced furtively to the left, and to the right. His eyes then fixed on the crown and he contemplated it for a moment or two.
‘I think I know what this is supposed to be,’ Payne said.
The man stooped over and held the black glass to the King’s ear. For a moment only the man’s back could be seen and the recumbent form was hidden from view.
‘What’s he doing?’ Lady Grylls leant forward.
‘Pouring poison into the King’s ear.’
‘Really? This rings a bell … Hamlet?’
‘Yes. The Murder of Gonzago. The play within the play.’
The King’s body was seen jerking spasmodically upwards. The King’s eyes looked as though they were about to come out of their orbits. His mouth opened in a silent scream. Then he slumped back and lay still.
‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!’ Lady Grylls made the sign of the cross.
The Queen re-entered. She glanced at the King, then at the Poisoner who made a slashing gesture across his throat and smiled. The Queen’s hand went up to her mouth, then she smiled too. She crossed over to the Poisoner and the two embraced. The Poisoner then picked up the crown and placed it on his head. He and the Queen kissed again, then arm in arm they walked up and down the room. They waved royal waves.
‘How terribly interesting. The King is dead, long live the King. Who is the new King?’ Lady Grylls asked.
‘Chap called Sylvester-Sale,’ Felicity Remnant said. ‘Dr Sylvester-Sale.’
‘Look! I have an idea they are no longer acting,’ Lady Grylls said.
Dr Sylvester-Sale and Clarissa Remnant were shown gazing across at Lord Remnant’s body. Lord Remnant’s hand was hanging limply, the fingers touching the floor. Dr Sylvester-Sale went up to the chaise longue and bent over the body. Something in his manner suggested none of this was scripted.
‘No, they are no longer acting,’ said Felicity.
The doctor lifted Lord Remnant’s hand and held it by the wrist, checking the pulse. He then turned round and held up his hand; he was stopping the others from getting close. He said something. Louise Hunter was seen covering her mouth with her hand. Clarissa shook her head as though in disbelief.
‘Is Roderick dead? I mean really dead — is that how he died?’
‘It looks like it,’ Felicity said expressionlessly.
&nb
sp; ‘Heart attack? That’s what it said in The Times.’
Dr Sylvester-Sale was seen bending over the body, once more concealing it from view. He rose and said something which made Clarissa’s mouth open in a show of incredulity. Clarissa turned towards the camera. She looked cross. She waved her hands. The camera lingered on the bracelet on Clarissa’s right wrist.
Clarissa gesticulated peremptorily. The camera swirled round. Hortense Tilling was seen entering the room. She looked flustered. Basil Hunter’s expression was a mixture of dismay and disbelief. Louise Hunter looked outraged. Renee Glover’s face remained blank.
Clarissa was seen speaking to the cameraman again. There was a movement. The cameraman seemed to be walking towards Hortense Tilling, who looked at once frightened and excited. The camera jerked up and down. They saw the ceiling with its ornate plasterwork and crystal chandelier.
There was a momentary blackout and when the image reappeared, it was upside down.
‘What is going on?’ Lady Grylls asked.
‘The camera has changed hands. I think it’s Clarissa’s aunt who’s got hold of it,’ said Payne. ‘Um. I believe she has been asked to turn it off but she doesn’t seem to know how.’
‘Oh, how tiresome! It’s impossible to work out what they are doing now. No chance of turning the box over and watching it upside down, is there, my dear?’
‘Better not,’ Felicity Remnant said.
‘This is making me feel seasick. No, can’t watch it.’ Lady Grylls turned her head and rested her gaze on a picture of a particularly repulsive pug. ‘Can someone tell me what’s happening?’
‘Miss Glover is walking towards the french windows.’ Payne paused. ‘The Hunters have taken off their helmets. Dr Sylvester-Sale is scowling. Now he is putting the black glass with the skull into his pocket. It looks like an automatic gesture. There is a tall black man with them. He has the puzzled expression of a child. The original cameraman, I imagine.’
Lady Grylls spoke. ‘Roderick is not moving? He is not rising?’
‘No.’
‘So he is dead, really dead?’
‘I believe so. His death seems to have been captured on camera. Yes. Mrs Hunter is now walking towards the french window. She looks enormous-’ Payne broke off. ‘Oh. The screen’s gone black. It’s all over. The aunt seems to have managed to switch the camera off at last.’
Felicity tugged at her pearls. ‘What I am interested in ascertaining is the exact cause of my brother-in-law’s death.’
9
Behold, Here’s Poison
Lady Grylls frowned. ‘He had a heart attack, didn’t he? That’s what the Times obituary said. Goodness, my dear, you look as though you doubt the Times obituary! You think there is something fishy about his death?’
‘As a matter of fact I do. I have the unshakable conviction that there is something very wrong indeed.’
‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ Payne quoted.
‘I believe they all know what happened. The Hunters, Clarissa’s aunt, Dr Sylvester-Sale, Glover. I couldn’t help noticing that when the coffin disappeared into the furnace, they seemed incredibly relieved.’
‘You think Roderick might have been murdered like the character he played in the dumbshow staged at Hamlet’s request? What was it all about, Hughie?’ Lady Grylls turned towards her nephew. ‘All that Gonzago business. What was the reason for it?’
‘Well, Hamlet suspects his uncle Claudius of having killed his, Hamlet’s, father, in order to replace him on the throne and marry his, Hamlet’s, mother, after whom Claudius has been lusting.’
‘Oh yes. The evil uncle. It was the ghost who told Hamlet, wasn’t it? The ghost of Hamlet’s father. Remember Olivier’s Hamlet? I had a big crush on him, you know — so tantalizingly indecisive and blond. I had quite a thing about indecisive blond men at one time.’
‘Claudius pours poison into his brother’s ear as the King lies sleeping in the garden. Well, Hamlet needs proof, so he gets a troupe of itinerant actors to stage a play that shows Gonzago being killed in precisely the same manner. Claudius is in the audience and he gets up and leaves abruptly, which Hamlet — who’s been watching his uncle closely — interprets as a guilty reaction.’
‘How awfully ingenious. I don’t suppose such a person as Gonzago ever existed, did he?’
‘He did exist. The murder of Gonzago is believed to have been a reference to a real sixteenth-century murder. A Luigi Gonzaga murdered the Duke of Urbino. It seems to be generally accepted by Shakespearean scholars that Shakespeare’s plot was founded on an Italian original. The dumb players have been identified as a commedia dell’arte troupe. Well, Italians of noble birth did poison each other. They were Machiavels at heart, poisoners like the Borgias, and libertines like the Venetians.’
Lady Grylls nodded. ‘Broadening the intellectual basis of any discussion is something my nephew excels at. How he does it I have no idea, but he makes it look so terribly easy!’
Payne gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘My forehead positively bulges with useless information.’
‘Going back to what you were saying, my dear.’ Lady Grylls addressed their hostess. ‘Do you actually suspect your brother-in-law was poisoned?’
‘I don’t know if he was poisoned,’ Felicity said, ‘but I don’t believe he died of natural causes. Well, since he’s been cremated, we’ll probably never know how exactly he died.’
‘Must be the doctor. The doctor seems implicated, wouldn’t you agree? It was the doctor who bent over the divan and held a glass to Roderick’s ear.’
‘That’s what his part required him to do, darling. He was playing the regicide,’ Payne reminded his aunt.
‘It all fits in perfectly. Doctors know about poisons. Doctors are used to death. They take it in their stride. And this Sylvester-Sale had a good motive for wishing Roderick out of the way. He was having an affair with Clarissa — who is now a terribly rich widow. The doctor is a libertine, as you said.’
‘I never said Sylvester-Sale was a libertine. I said Venetians were.’
‘He is dark and handsome, therefore it is not inconceivable that he should have Venetian blood. He might have had a Venetian grandmother. We saw him bend over Roderick with the glass of poison in his hand. All terribly straightforward and simple. He killed Roderick while pretending to be killing him. That was the cleverness of it. It is only in murder mysteries,’ Lady Grylls concluded, ‘that things are never straightforward and simple.’
‘Why did I choose to write murder mysteries? I don’t really know. It’s so difficult to explain.’ Antonia frowned. ‘I always wanted to be a writer and that seemed to be the only type of story I was drawn to writing. As it happens, detective stories were my favourite form of reading in my adolescence. Most people grow out of detective stories but I didn’t seem to.’
‘Did you only read murder mysteries of the classical kind?
‘Mostly. I liked the idea of suspicion falling on all the characters, even on the most unlikely. It seemed to suit my sceptical and somewhat paranoid imagination.’
The owlish young man cleared his throat. ‘I believe you were involved in a real-life crime — about the time you were writing your first detective novel — is that correct?’
‘I was,’ Antonia admitted. At once she wished she had held her tongue.
How could her interviewer know about it? As far as she was concerned, no one but she and Hugh knew about the murders at Twiston.** That murderer, as it happened, had got away with it. Could the murderer have confessed and been arrested without her knowing about it? No — it would have been in all the papers. Could the murderer have confided in someone? Antonia thought it highly unlikely, but then one never knew.
‘Did your involvement in a real-life murder have any effect on your development as a detective story writer?’
‘I am not sure. It may have done. I believe it served to cure the writer’s block from which I happened to be suffering at the time.’
&n
bsp; ‘Do you agree with the assertion that the whodunnit is an extremely artificial form and that it obeys rules as rigid and ridiculous as those of North Korean formation dancing?’
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.’
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