What a Carve Up!

by Jonathan Coe

  ‘Well, that just about puts the tin lid on a delightful evening,’ said Hilary. ‘Now we get to spend the night here with Norman Bates for company, do we?’

  ‘There might, even now, be time to leave,’ Mr Sloane murmured, ‘if anyone cares to try it.’

  ‘I may well take you up on that,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘I can’t believe that one of my neighbours would ever do such nasty things,’ said Tabitha, half to herself. ‘They all seem such quiet and pleasant people.’

  Several of her relatives snorted at this point.

  ‘Incidentally, you know, you mightn’t be far wrong,’ Michael remarked, turning towards Hilary. ‘I don’t know about Norman Bates, but of course there are films where this sort of thing happens.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, like The Cat and the Canary, for instance. Did anybody see that?’

  ‘I know it,’ said Thomas. ‘Bob Hope and Paulette Goddard.’

  ‘That’s right. All the members of a family are summoned to an isolated old house for the reading of a will. There’s a terrible storm. And a police officer turns up to warn them that there’s a killer in the area.’

  ‘And what happens to the members of this family?’ asked Phoebe, looking directly at Michael for the first time.

  ‘They’re murdered,’ he said calmly. ‘One by one.’

  The crash of thunder which followed this statement was louder than ever. It was succeeded by a long pause. Michael’s words seemed to have had a powerful effect: only Hilary remained determinedly unimpressed.

  ‘Well, to be honest, I don’t see what we’ve got to be worried about,’ she said. ‘After all, you’re the only one who’s been attacked so far.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Michael. ‘We all know that that was an accident. Surely you’re not suggesting –’

  ‘Do you mind?’ Roddy now broke in abruptly. ‘I’m beginning to find the tenor of this conversation almost as tasteless as this confounded Stilton.’

  He pushed his plate away in disgust.

  ‘And you know all there is to know about taste, of course,’ said Phoebe.

  This remark was accompanied by a very meaningful look, which provoked him to point a finger at her and stammer furiously: ‘You’ve got a damned nerve, you know, being here at all. One weekend, you spent up here, but it was still long enough for you to get your claws into my father. How much money did you squeeze out of him, that’s what I want to know? And more to the point, what’s he supposed to have died of, anyway? Nobody seems to be talking about that.’

  ‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Phoebe, on the defensive. ‘I was away when it happened.’

  ‘Look, we’re wasting time here,’ said Dorothy. ‘Somebody should fetch Henry and let him know what’s going on.’

  This struck everyone as a very sensible idea.

  ‘Where is he, though?’

  ‘Up in Nurse Gannet’s old room, watching television.’

  ‘Well where on earth’s that? Does anyone know their way around this blasted house?’

  ‘I do,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ll go and get him myself.’

  Michael was slow to oppose this course of action, because he had been confused and intrigued by the sudden display of animosity between Roddy and Phoebe, and was beginning to wonder if it had any sort of history behind it. But as soon as he realized that she had departed on what might well be a dangerous errand, he turned to reproach the others.

  ‘She shouldn’t be wandering around by herself,’ he protested. ‘You heard what the sergeant said. There might be a killer in the house.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ scoffed Dorothy. ‘We’re not in a film now, you know.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ said Michael, and ran off in pursuit.

  But once again he had occasion to curse the fiendishly convoluted architecture of the building. Reaching the top of the Great Staircase, he found that he had no idea which direction to take, and wasted several breathless minutes tearing up and down the winding, intersecting corridors until all at once he turned a corner and ran straight into Phoebe herself.

  ‘What are you doing up here?’ she said.

  ‘Looking for you, of course. Did you find him?’

  ‘Henry? No, he’s not there any more. Perhaps he went back downstairs.’

  ‘Probably. Still, let’s have another look, just in case.’

  Phoebe led him around the corner, up a small flight of steps, and then along three or four short, gloomy passages.

  ‘Ssh! Listen!’ said Michael, laying a hand on her arm. ‘I can hear voices.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s only the television.’

  She flung open a door upon an empty room, containing only a sofa, a table, and a portable black and white television which was tuned to Newsnight. Unwatched, Jeremy Paxman was interviewing a harassed-looking junior defence minister.

  ‘See?’ said Phoebe. ‘Nobody here.’

  ‘It would be wrong to regard the UN deadline simply as a trigger point,’ the minister was saying. ‘Saddam knows that we now have the right to take military action. When – and indeed whether – we choose to exercise that right, is another thing altogether.’

  ‘But nearly nineteen hours have elapsed since the deadline expired,’ Paxman insisted. ‘Are you saying that you still have no information as to when –’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Michael had noticed something: a stream of blood was running down the side of the sofa and dripping on to the floor. He peered gingerly over the back and saw that Henry was lying face down on the sofa, a carving knife sticking out from between his shoulder blades. Phoebe followed him and gasped. They stared speechlessly at the corpse for some time; until they became aware that a third person had entered the room and was standing between them, looking down with blank indifference at the dead man.

  ‘Stabbed in the back,’ said Hilary drily. ‘How appropriate. Does this mean that Mrs Thatcher is somewhere in the house?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Carry On Screaming

  MICHAEL, Phoebe, Thomas, Hilary, Roddy, Mark and Dorothy stood in a solemn circle and contemplated the body. They had raised Henry into a sitting position, and he now stared back at them with the same outraged, incredulous expression which had been the hallmark of all his public appearances.

  ‘When do you think it happened?’ asked Roddy.

  Nobody answered.

  ‘We’d better get back downstairs,’ said Hilary. ‘I suggest we find Tabitha and Mr Sloane and all have a good talk about this.’

  ‘Are we just going to leave him like that?’ asked Thomas, as the others started to leave.

  ‘I’ll … clean him up a bit, if you like,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ve got some things in my bag.’

  ‘I’ll stay and help you,’ Dorothy volunteered. ‘I’ve had a bit of experience with carcasses.’

  The rest of the party proceeded downstairs in a silent cortège, and convened in the dining room, where Tabitha was once again placidly employed with her knitting, and Mr Sloane sat beside her, a look of the utmost horror drawn on his face.

  ‘Well,’ said Hilary, when nobody else showed signs of beginning the conversation, ‘Norman seems to have claimed his first victim.’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘But then, appearances can be deceptive,’ said Michael.

  Thomas rounded on him.

  ‘What on earth are you blathering on about, man? We know there’s a lunatic on the loose. Are you telling me you don’t think he’s responsible for this?’

  ‘It’s one of the theories available: that’s all.’

  ‘I see. Well perhaps you’d be so good as to tell us what the others are, in that case.’

  ‘Yes, come on, out with it,’ said Mark. ‘Who else could have killed him?’

  ‘Why, any one of us, of course.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Thomas. ‘How could any of us have done it, when we were all down here having supper?’

  ‘Nobody ha
d seen Henry since the will was read,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Between then and supper, we were all of us alone, at one time or another. I don’t rule anybody out.’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Mark. ‘He can only have been killed a few minutes ago. You forget that I was watching the television with him, for a while, when you were all down here eating.’

  ‘Well, that’s your story,’ said Michael coolly.

  ‘Are you calling me a liar? What else do you suppose I was doing?’

  ‘You could have been doing anything, for all I know. Perhaps you were on the telephone to your friend Saddam, helping him out with a last-minute order.’

  ‘You impudent swine! Take that back.’

  ‘I’m afraid that intriguing hypothesis will have to be discounted,’ said Roddy, who had slipped out into the hall, and now returned carrying a telephone. The cord had been roughly snapped in two. ‘As you can see, the service seems to have been temporarily suspended. I found this out because, unlike the rest of you, I had the sense to think of phoning for the police.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t too late,’ said Hilary. ‘There’s a telephone in my room as well. Come on – if we hurry, we might still get to it before he does.’

  Mark smiled a superior smile after them as they hurried out of the room.

  ‘I’m amazed that people still rely on these primitive methods of communication,’ he said. ‘You brought your cell-phone up here, didn’t you, Thomas?’

  The elderly banker blinked in surprise. ‘That’s right: of course I did. Never without it. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before.’

  ‘Where did you leave it, can you remember?’

  ‘Billiard room, I think. Had a few frames with Roddy before you arrived.’

  ‘I’ll just go and get it. We should have this business wrapped up in no time at all.’

  He sauntered out, leaving Michael and Thomas to glower silently at one another. Meanwhile Mr Sloane began to pace the room, and Tabitha carried on with her knitting as if nothing had happened. Before long she was quietly humming a tune to herself – dimly identifiable, after a few bars, as ‘Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines’.

  ‘Has anyone seen Pyles lately?’ Thomas asked, when he could stand no more of this.

  Mr Sloane shook his head.

  ‘Well, hadn’t someone better find him? He certainly wasn’t with us in the dining room all the time. What do you say, Owen – shall we try to track him down?’

  Michael was lost in thought, and didn’t appear to have heard this question.

  ‘All right then – I’ll go and find the fellow myself.’

  ‘And now we are three,’ said Tabitha happily, once Thomas had gone. ‘I’ve never known so much running about. What a to-do! Have we started to play sardines?’

  Mr Sloane shot her a withering glance.

  ‘What a long face you’re wearing, Michael!’ she exclaimed, after a little more humming. ‘Not entering into the party spirit? Or perhaps you’re beginning to get a few thoughts about how your book might end?’

  ‘There was something strange about those suits of armour at the top of the stairs,’ said Michael, taking no notice, and continuing with his own line of thought. ‘Something about them had changed, when we came past them just now. I can’t put my finger on it.’

  Without another word, he got up and made his way to the hall. He was about to climb the staircase when he saw Pyles coming from the kitchen, a silver tray balanced precariously on his arm.

  ‘Enjoying your visit, Mr Owen?’ he asked.

  ‘Thomas has been looking for you. Did you see him?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Did they tell you what had happened?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s only the start. I’ve known it all along, you see: this whole house is doomed, and everyone in it!’

  Michael patted him on the back. ‘Keep up the good work.’

  When he reached the top of the staircase, he examined both suits of armour in detail. They were still in the same positions, and nothing seemed obviously awry. And yet surely, some subtle alteration had been made … Michael had the sense that he was being very obtuse, that he was missing something important which was staring him in the face. He looked again.

  And then he saw it. At once a dreadful suspicion stole over him.

  There was a loud crash from the direction of the billiard room. Michael ran down the stairs and almost collided with Mr Sloane in the hall. Together they ran towards the noise and burst in to discover Pyles collapsed in a chair, having dropped his tray to the floor.

  ‘I came in to collect the empty glasses,’ he said. ‘And then I saw –’

  Their eyes followed his trembling finger. Mark Winshaw was slumped against the wall. At first Michael thought that his hands had been tied behind his back: then he realized that the body had been horribly mutilated. The missing axe from the suit of armour, its blade red and sticky, had been left on top of the billiard table; and protruding hideously from the two pockets at the baulk end were Mark’s severed limbs. To complete the macabre joke, a message had been scrawled in blood on the wall.

  It said: A FAREWELL TO ARMS!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Lady Mislaid

  ‘Now the important thing,’ said Thomas, ‘is that we all remain calm, and civilized.’

  They were gathered in the dining room again, sitting amidst the debris of their supper. Their faces, for the most part, were chalky and haggard. Tabitha alone was blissfully unmindful of the latest shocking turn of events, while Pyles, who had now joined them at the table, wore a crooked, fatalistic smile, having already delivered himself of the helpful opinion that ‘There’ll be more to come, before the night is out! Many more!’ The only (living) member of the family not in attendance was Dorothy, who for the time being was nowhere to be found. Out of doors, there seemed little promise of an end to the storm.

  ‘I suggest that we proceed on the assumption,’ Thomas continued, ‘that a madman is loose in the house, bent on the random slaughter of anyone with whom he comes into contact.’

  Michael sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

  The others looked to him for explication.

  ‘There’s been nothing random about these killings so far,’ he said.

  ‘Would you care to explain yourself?’

  He turned towards Hilary. ‘All right then: what were your first words when you saw that Henry had been stabbed in the back?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Hilary, shrugging carelessly.

  ‘They were “How appropriate”. They struck me as rather curious, even at the time. What did you mean by them, exactly?’

  ‘Well …’ Hilary gave a guilty laugh. ‘We all know that personal loyalty wasn’t the most obvious distinguishing feature of Henry’s political career. And certainly not towards the end.’

  ‘Quite. He was a turncoat, and, indeed, a backstabber. Can we all agree on that?’

  From the ensuing silence, it appeared that they could.

  ‘And as for Mark, I don’t think we need have any illusions about what he was up to in the Middle East. Hence, I suppose, the message written on the wall above his body.’

  ‘Your theory, insofar as I understand it,’ said Roddy, ‘seems to be that each of us is on the point not only of being killed, but of being killed in a manner … appropriate, as it were, to our professional activities.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Well, it’s a ridiculous theory, if you don’t mind my saying so. It smacks of the scenario to a third-rate horror film.’

  ‘Interesting that you should say that,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps some of you saw a film called Theatre of Blood, made in 1973?’

  Mr Sloane tutted reprovingly. ‘Really, I think we’re getting a long way from the point here.’

  ‘Not at all. Vincent Price plays a veteran actor who decides to revenge himself on his critics, and murders each of them using methods inspired by some of the grisliest scene
s from Shakespearian tragedies.’

  Roddy stood up. ‘Boredom, if nothing else, compels me to suggest that we abandon this wearisome line of inquiry and take some practical course of action. I’m worried about Dorothy. I think we should split up and go looking for her.’

  ‘Just one moment,’ said Thomas. ‘I’d like to play our film expert at his own game, if I may.’ He settled back in his chair and looked at Michael with the light of challenge in his eye. ‘Isn’t there a film where some crackpot – he turns out to be a judge – invites a lot of people to a remote house and does ’em all in: the point being that they all have guilty secrets to hide, and he sees himself as their executioner – a sort of angel of justice?’

  ‘The plot is from Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Niggers. There are three different film versions. Which did you have in mind?’

  ‘The one I saw was set in the Austrian Alps. Wilfrid Hyde-White was in it, and Dennis Price.’

  ‘That’s right. And Shirley Eaton, I seem to remember.’

  Michael glanced at Phoebe as he said this; and noticed, in passing, that Roddy was now looking at her too.

  ‘Well,’ said Thomas, ‘doesn’t that little set-up seem remarkably close to what appears to be going on here tonight?’

  ‘I suppose that it does, yes.’

  ‘Fine. Now listen to this: what was the name of the fellow who did the killing? The one who organized the whole shindig? Can’t remember? Well I’ll tell you.’

  He leaned forward across the table.

  ‘He called himself Owen. Mr U. N. Owen.’ Thomas paused triumphantly. ‘Now: what do you say to that?’

  Michael was taken aback. ‘Are you accusing me?’

  ‘Damn right I am. We’ve all seen parts of that nasty little book of yours. We all know exactly what you think of us. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve lured us all here as part of some insane scheme of your own.’

  ‘Lured you here? How would I have done that? You’re not accusing me of organizing Mortimer’s death as well, surely?’

  Thomas narrowed his eyes and turned towards Phoebe. ‘Well, perhaps that’s where Miss Barton comes in.’

  Phoebe laughed angrily and said: ‘You’ve got to be joking.’