‘I am afraid Lofthouse is not exactly the most reliable of chroniclers. You only need to look at his other books.’
‘I thought his history of Dutton’s Retreat was the only book Lofthouse ever wrote.’
‘There are two others. Lofthouse wrote them under a pseudonym. Not surprising, since they are both on rather controversial—some would say “unsavoury”—subjects.’
‘Really? I would never have thought it of Lofthouse.’ The Master’s fingers absently stroked the ornate lid of the little silver box on the desk before him. ‘Have you written any other books, Major … Payne?’ A note of doubt seemed to have crept into the Master’s voice.
‘Isn’t that Sir Seymour’s snuff-box?’ Payne wasn’t sure it was the box he had seen at Claridge’s, but decided to take a gamble. High time the conversation turned to Sir Seymour.
‘Yes, it is his box. He left it behind last night, after taking his medicine. Must give it back to him. But how did you know? Oh, sorry. You are a friend of Sir Seymour’s, aren’t you? Travis said something about you wanting to see him. I thought at first that was the reason for your visit.’
‘Partly the reason.’ So Sir Seymour had taken the capsule! Payne felt an ice-cold thread run down his spine. ‘I am a friend of Sir Seymour’s son’s, actually,’ he improvised. What was the son’s name now? ‘Um. Tradescant was a bit concerned about his father’s health and asked me to look him up.’
Good thing he belonged to the officer class where calling one’s friend by his surname was still very much the done thing. He wouldn’t have been able to get away with it if he had been an accountant, say, or a state school teacher.
‘The family are all rather worried about Sir Seymour’s health,’ Payne went on. ‘You have met Lady Tradescant, of course?’
‘I have. Lady Tradescant came with Sir Seymour yesterday, which was an exceedingly pleasant surprise. She didn’t stay long. I found her most charming. A most sympathetic kind of person,’ the Master said firmly.
‘What was the capsule for? Tradescant told me but I’ve forgotten. Was it ulcer? Diabetes?’
‘No, no. Sir Seymour has had an infection.’ The Master cleared his throat delicately. ‘His big toe. He has been taking antibiotics.’
‘Antibiotics. Of course. Every eight hours?’
‘Every six hours, I believe. He took the last capsule yesterday evening.’
‘And he is—fine?’
‘I am happy to report that Sir Seymour is no longer in pain.’
‘That’s splendid news. Though isn’t that what they say when someone dies?’
‘Sir Seymour is not dead.’
‘Tradescant will be so pleased. But then why is Sir Seymour being kept behind such an impenetrable cordon sanitaire?’
‘Goodness, Major Payne, whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Sir Seymour seems to be quite inaccessible. His sister was not allowed to see him. Your steward was jolly evasive. He wouldn’t divulge Sir Seymour’s room number. One could be excused for thinking Sir Seymour’s got the plague or cholera or maybe one of those deadly flesh-eating bugs.’
‘No, nothing as serious as that. Flesh-eating bugs! Ha-ha. You seem to be letting your writer’s imagination get the better of you. More coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I think I will treat myself to another cup. I must admit I am fatally drawn to stimulants.’ The Master picked up the coffee pot. He held his little finger elegantly crooked. He hummed a tune under his breath.
Was the old fraud playing for time? Payne was suddenly assailed with sinister thoughts. He is no longer in pain.
‘Have you seen Seymour since last night?’ Payne asked.
‘I have. I saw him at about nine this morning. One of the stewards had reported that Sir Seymour was a bit under the weather. Well, he didn’t look particularly bobbish and he complained of a headache and blurred vision. I called Dr Henley—that’s our resident doctor,’ the Master explained. ‘Dr Henley diagnosed high blood pressure and he gave Sir Seymour an injection. Sir Seymour felt better almost at once, but he asked not to be disturbed. He hadn’t had a good night, it seems, so he needed to rest. He said he proposed to spend the day in bed, reading a detective story. He ordered a full English breakfast, which I thought a very good sign.’
‘He refused to see his sister. Bettina seemed put out.’
‘Sir Seymour did not refuse to see his sister. Sir Seymour doesn’t know his sister was here. It was I who made the decision. Miss Tradescant is a splendid woman, absolutely splendid, but I am afraid sometimes she is—how shall I put it?’
‘A trifle impetuous? Lacking in wisdom?’
‘I honestly feared Miss Tradescant might say something that would send her brother’s blood pressure soaring and bring on a seizure. So I said no. I couldn’t risk it. Miss Tradescant, you are probably aware, is given to entertaining some highly unorthodox ideas.’
‘She is convinced that her brother is dead.’
The Master stroked his beard. ‘So she is. I am aware of the fact. Miss Tradescant was in what could only be described as an “occult mood”. She insisted her brother was dead and I said he wasn’t, and she said she was sure he was. She then accused me of lying and asked me to show her Sir Seymour’s body at once. She said she would call the police and, for some reason, the fire brigade. She had worked herself up into quite a lather. I remained adamant. I couldn’t possibly let her upset Sir Seymour.’
‘I see. Incidentally, is your phone out of order? I tried to ring you several times last night and again today, but there was no signal.’
‘The phone? Oh dear, yes! I am so sorry. We’ve had some major fault. All the lines were down for quite a bit, but, thank God, they’ve been fixed now.’
‘Well, I should very much like to look around, if I may,’ Payne said. ‘I’d like to soak in the atmosphere.’
‘Yes, of course. I will ask one of the stewards to be your guide. Make sure you visit our chapel. It is quite remarkable. Rich in interesting historical associations,’ the Master went on. ‘Baden-Powell prayed there once, back in 1899, two months before the Battle of Mafeking, and then Queen Mary in 1941, on the eve of the Battle of Britain. Profumo also came to pray at the chapel in the spring of 1963.’
‘What did he hope to win? Christine Keeler?’
‘As it happens, Mr Lovell, our librarian, often includes these three in the quiz we do around Christmas. Who is the odd man out and why? Profumo, Queen Mary or Baden-Powell?’
‘I would say Profumo, since he was the only one who, in a manner of speaking, lost his battle?’
‘It isn’t a battle question. Ha-ha. The correct answer is Queen Mary, since she is the only one of the three who is not a man. Mr Lovell can be very naughty. He is extremely popular with the brothers. Exceedingly popular. Mr Lovell’s bons mots are the stuff of legend. I couldn’t recommend the chapel more strongly, Major Payne.’
‘I should love to see the chapel.’ Payne rose. ‘I’d also like to say hello to Sir Seymour from his son, if I may?’
‘I am afraid Sir Seymour made it absolutely clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. Peace is something that is very much taken for granted at Mayholme Manor. Peace and permanency. In fact I can’t think of anything else that’s been taken for granted more—apart from an unwillingness to eat eels, as Mr Lovell put it. Ha-ha.’
‘Ha-ha. Well, Tradescant would be terribly disappointed if I told him I hadn’t been able to talk to his father. You see,’ Payne improvised, ‘he is the kind of chap who would worry and imagine things. You have met him of course?’
‘No, I’ve never had the pleasure.’
‘He might even decide that something dreadful has happened to his father and that you are involved in some kind of suppressio veri. He then will come himself!’
‘You think Nicholas Tradescant may decide to pay his father a visit?’
‘I would say it was most likely. His aunt’s psychic prevision has had him perturbed.’
‘Goodness
me. I don’t think Sir Seymour will like that at all. There appears to be a certain—um—froideur between Sir Seymour and his son.’
‘Would you describe relations between Sir Seymour and his son as “strained”? Or worse?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. We mustn’t gossip. Loose lips sink ships. That, as it happens, is Mr Lovell’s catch-phrase of the moment. Ha-ha. An incorrigible comedian, Mr Lovell. Very well.’ The Master rose to his feet with a resigned air. ‘I will take you to Sir Seymour’s room, but we must be careful not to tire him. Such an oppressive day, isn’t it? Wonder if there’s going to be a storm.’
13
Holy Dread
The ponderous, electric-charged air seemed to grow steadily more weighty as they walked down the corridor. Sir Seymour’s room, it transpired, was on the third floor. They went up in an ancient lift that wheezed and creaked horribly. There was a black, incredibly battered-looking armchair in one corner, which might have served as a prop in a Lucien Freud painting. Payne found himself thinking of the particularly silly denouement of a locked-room mystery he’d read not long ago, in which the killer conceals himself inside an armchair.
They met nobody on the way. The place seemed empty. ‘The brothers like a bit of a rest before dinner, unless they are watching a film in our salle de ciné,’ the Master explained with an air of proprietary complacency. ‘Extreme horror and tasteful erotica are particular favourites. Not so domestic dramas or anything that smacks of the serious-minded. Film noir and sci-fi epics send them to sleep.’
‘In thrall to Eros and Thanatos, eh?’
Solid mahogany doors. Numbers. Name plates. One of the doors—number 35—was open and Payne saw a very old shrunken man in a wheelchair, holding a large magnifying glass and leafing through a book. There was an odd pale greyness about him, as though colour were continually being drained out of him. Payne’s eyes went to the portrait on the wall. Was that—?
‘Are you comfortable in your new room, Dr Fairchild?’ the Master called out.
‘Yes. Infinitely better. A vast improvement.’ The old man gazed across at them through his thick horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I feel reborn. It is a most curious feeling.’
‘Were the croissants to your taste this morning?’
‘Thank you, yes. Exactly as I like them this time. Not hot but with a memory of heat.’
‘Some of the brothers can be a little capricious,’ the Master said sotto voce as they walked down the corridor. ‘I wouldn’t use the word “unreasonable”, but Dr Fairchild’s old room was much larger and it had a better view. It was also on the ground floor, which was much more convenient for his wheelchair, but he kept complaining. He said his old room smelled most disagreeably—of cats, if you please. He insisted on being moved to the third floor.’
‘Are there cats at Mayholme Manor?’
‘Of course not. Keeping pets is against the rules. Dr Fairchild is ninety-one. Our oldest brother at the moment. People start getting fancies at that age, I suppose. Somewhat ghoulish back history. Nuremberg in 1946. Dr Fairchild had the unenviable task of ascertaining whether the necks of the convicted Nazi elite had been properly snapped. Or so I have been given to understand.’
‘I believe Sir Seymour’s father was also in Nuremberg at the same time. He was a member of the British team that was sent to make sure things were done properly. It seems more than likely that they met,’ Payne said thoughtfully.
‘Yes. I wonder if Sir Seymour is aware of the connection …’
They had stopped outside number 33.
‘We shouldn’t be bothering him like this, really,’ the Master murmured as he knocked on the door. Since no answer came, he tried the door handle.
The door opened.
‘Sir Seymour never locks his door. He sometimes has a pre-parricidal nap. I mean, pre-prandial. Ha-ha. I’ve been steeped in Oedipus Rex. Steeped. I belong to a literary circle. Are you familiar with Oedipus Rex, Major Stratton?’
‘Payne … It was my fate to defile my mother’s bed.’
‘I’ve been haunted by the vision of the distraught Sphinx throwing herself off a cliff. I never imagined Sphinxes were female. Conjures up a most disturbing image. Thought they were without a gender.’
But Sir Seymour’s bed was empty. The bed sheets were crumpled, the pillow bore an indentation where his head had lain and there was a book with a lurid cover on the floor beside the bed. Of Sir Seymour there was no sign. An oak-panelled room, rather Spartan. It reminded Major Payne of the rooms at the Military Club.
‘Sir Seymour?’ the Master called out. ‘Maybe he is having a bath.’ He pointed towards the bathroom door indecisively. ‘I would hate to disturb him, really.’
Outside it had started raining and they heard the pattering of desultory raindrops on the window panes.
Pre-parricidal. Another Freudian slip? Payne wondered. Were relations between the Tradescants, père and fils, as bad as that? At some subconscious level the Master seemed to believe that Nicholas Tradescant was capable of killing his father. Too fanciful? Freud was a fraud, according to some. There should be a detective story entitled The Black Box. The black box would represent somebody’s subconscious, which would be central to the plot, but to throw readers off the scent a lacquered black box should be found lying open beside the dead body. Would Antonia think it a good idea?
‘Sir Seymour enjoys taking very hot baths. Dr Henley has warned him against it. Bad for the blood pressure. He’s had problems with his blood pressure.’ The Master knocked on the bathroom door lightly. ‘Sir Seymour? Are you there? He is a bit deaf. Sir Seymour? Dear me. I do hope he hasn’t been taken ill. Shall I …?’
Sir Seymour wasn’t in the bathroom either. The bath was empty and contained nothing but a red rubber duck with a cheerful silly face. They stood staring at the duck. Payne caught sight of their faces in the bathroom mirror and thought they looked rather silly themselves.
‘Well, Sir Seymour is clearly somewhere else, which, you will agree, is most reassuring. It shows that he has made a complete recovery,’ the Master delivered in clipped tones. ‘I expect he has gone for a walk. Sir Seymour loves the gardens. The gardens are absolutely splendid at this time of year.’
‘It isn’t the best time for a walk.’ Payne pointed towards the window where the haphazard raindrops were turning into a steady crashing cascade.
‘Perhaps not. Well, Sir Seymour is clearly somewhere else. Um. In the library—or he may be playing billiards. Goodness, what was that?’
They had heard a crack like that made by a bullet.
‘A lightning bolt seems to have struck one of your ancient walls, Master. Some may say it is an omen.’
Back in the bedroom, Payne stood looking at a silver dish containing cuff-links that bore the initials ST, a pair of pearl studs, a ring and a number of loose one pound coins. Tips for the stewards?
It was as they were about to walk out of the room that Major Payne noticed the radiator under the window sill. The radiator was pillar-box red—which was also the colour of sealing wax. Who was it who mentioned sealing wax earlier on? No, not the Master. Why did he think that important? The next moment he remembered.
He said, ‘Are there any other radiators at Mayholme Manor which are that particular shade of red?’
‘No. That is the only one. We are going to have it repainted.’ The Master gave a little sigh. ‘For some reason Sir Seymour has taken exception to the colour.’
14
The Captive
Nearly seven o’clock. Captain Jesty parked his car and glanced across at Mayholme Manor. It looked grey and menacing in the twilight, under the sheets of falling rain. He hated ancient buildings. He found them singularly lacking in comfort. This one looked like an ogre’s castle. He felt his spirits sinking lower, if that were possible. He should never have come. Of all the pointless journeys! What did it matter if Sir Seymour Tradescant was dead? What did it matter if he was alive? I don’t care a hoot if her incredible tale is true or false, Jesty to
ld himself.
Actually, he did care. He needed to find out if she had lied to him. That was why he had driven to Mayholme Manor, though he couldn’t bring himself to leave his car now. If the old buffer turned out to have died, Jesty would call the police. He would tell them exactly what he had seen at Claridge’s. The capsule-swapping incident. He would get Payne to testify as well. Payne would be a good solid witness. Payne’s word would carry weight.
He would make sure the girlie didn’t get away. He would make the girlie cry. He would make her suffer. He had the power to ruin her life, he realized. To destroy her. A long jail sentence for the cold-blooded murder of her husband was bound to ravage her beautiful face. Those lovely lips would wither. The eyes would lose their brightness. The clear skin would turn sallow. Nothing would ever be the same again.
He remembered her parting words at Quaglino’s. ‘Mayholme Manor is where you will find my husband.’ She had handed him a slip of paper with the address. She had thanked him for the lunch. She had spoken with exaggerated politeness. He had been aware of a contemptuous glint in her eye.
He had made the mistake of baring his soul to her, of telling her he was mad about her, of promising to dismantle the moon for her, to present her with a star on a silver salver. Never before had he said things like that to a woman. Only as a joke. He had told Penelope he couldn’t live without her, that he would do anything for her, anything, that he wanted to be her slave. Jesty squirmed at the memory. She, on the other hand, informed him she was flying to the South of France that same evening, or early the next day. She intended to stay in France for some time. Perhaps indefinitely, she said.
After she left, he remained seated at the table. He looked across at her coffee cup, at the slight smudge of lipstick on the brim. He reached out and stroked the starched napkin Penelope Tradescant had used. The moment his fingers touched it, he felt a burning sensation. He might have passed his hand through fire. When he examined his fingers later on, he saw red marks across them. The marks were still there. That was how much he loved her.
The Curious Incident at Claridge's Page 8
