Murder of Gonzago Page 11

  ‘The mother love motive.’ Antonia nodded. ‘And what a powerful motive that can be … It’s possible, I suppose. She kept saying how much she loved her daughter …’

  ‘If this were a whodunnit, Miss Tilling would be the least likely suspect. The Addled Aunt. Bespectacled, garrulous, inconsequential and disarmingly scatty. Strictly for comic relief purposes.’

  ‘Actually, Hugh, she is not such a typical aunt figure. She is the Aunt with a Past.’

  ‘Yes. I keep wondering about her past … She looked damned attractive in that photo, with her come-hither smile and Keppel Clasp. Didn’t look like an aunt at all. She was a bad girl. Giving birth out of wedlock and so on. Comes from a line of bad girls, if the Keppel link is anything to go by. Mrs Keppel, Violet Trefusis, the former Mrs Parker Bowles. All of them bad girls.’

  Antonia said, ‘I really doubt whether drug-riddled Stephan would have been able to focus well enough to plug his stepfather’s nape.’

  ‘The same objection could be raised about Hortense. If Hortense’s eyesight is so bad that she apologizes to armchairs, could she have got Lord Remnant so accurately in the head? It would have been like the man in the fairy tale who manages to shoot a fly in one eye.’

  ‘Unless she exaggerated her bad eyesight …’

  There was a pause. ‘Lord Remnant had been receiving death threats,’ said Payne. ‘It may have been one or more of the locals who killed him, though would they have been able to get hold of his gun?’

  ‘The black major-domo might have given it to them.’

  ‘Indeed he might … Still, the murder was committed with Lord Remnant’s gun, which suggests it was an inside job.’

  ‘Louise Hunter may be afraid of taking any direct action. Do you think she would talk to us?’

  ‘She might. Let’s try to beard her as she has tea at the Matroni tearooms in Kensington, shall we?’ Payne suggested. ‘Or you could do it by yourself – less threatening, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know what she looks like. I never saw that videotape,’ Antonia reminded him.

  ‘She wore a helmet. She looked preposterous. Far from prepossessing.’

  ‘She is not very likely to be wearing a helmet when she has tea at Matroni, is she? I doubt a helmet is a permanent feature of her toilette.’

  ‘You will recognize her, I am sure. A large lady with vague hair and big feet.’

  ‘London is full of large ladies with big feet.’

  ‘True. Gosh, how depressing.’ Payne rubbed his chin. ‘Well, I could come with you, point her out discreetly, then withdraw. How about that? She has tea at Matroni every Thursday afternoon … What day is it tomorrow?’

  ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Is it really? Now, isn’t that lucky? We’ll do it tomorrow,’ said Payne. ‘I don’t think we should waste any time. We shall hunt down the Hunter! She is probably expecting someone to approach her anyhow.’

  ‘There is something else that struck me as curious,’ Antonia said thoughtfully. ‘Why was Clarissa so frightened when she imagined it was a man who was phoning her? Is Clarissa expecting a call from someone? Is that in any way important?’

  After Stephan rang off, Louise Hunter remained sitting very still. She told herself it was all nonsense. It was one of Stephan’s drug-fuelled fantasies. He had been imagining things. Seeing things. He had been under the influence of heaven knew what lethal cocktail. The Grimaud was nothing but a preposterous superstition, a myth. The Grimaud didn’t exist …

  Despite herself, Louise felt disturbed. She felt – chilled. She had heard about the Grimaud. She believed she had seen a crude drawing of the Grimaud somewhere. A terrifying-looking creature … Of course it didn’t exist. But Stephan had sounded so positive.

  Should she have some ice-cream? She always had ice-cream when she was perplexed about something …

  Three minutes later she resumed her seat, a tub of Häagen-Dazs in front of her. American ice-cream was the best. Yummy. Better than Italian ice-cream. Better than Belgian ice-cream. Louise was something of an expert on ice-cream. Midnight cookies was her favourite flavour.

  Stephan claimed to have seen the Grimaud with his own eyes. And there was something else. Two things, in fact. Lord Remnant’s hands. The laugh Basil had heard in Lord Remnant’s dressing room. She couldn’t say why, but she believed all three were connected somehow … Though how exactly were they connected?

  No, Basil wouldn’t listen to her. Basil found her annoying. Basil detested her. Through the binoculars she had seen him walk in the direction of Remnant Castle. She had caught a glimpse of his face. There had been a closed, cagey look about him – an air of – of suppressed yearning.

  Basil was mad about Clarissa. That much was clear to her. Perhaps he was trying to engineer a meeting with Clarissa? How she hated Clarissa! Clarissa – with her sidling seductive walk – with that indescribably rampant look in her eyes—

  Whore, Louise mouthed. Slut.

  The tape. Had Gerard Fenwick received it? Had he watched it and, if he had, had he seen the gun showing through the window curtains? Most importantly, what was he going to do about it? Well, he would get in touch with Clarissa and ask her what it all meant. That would be the logical course of action, wouldn’t it?

  Louise rather liked the idea of Clarissa being pushed into a tight corner and asked awkward questions.

  My brother was killed, wasn’t he? You know who shot him, Clarissa, don’t you? You must know. I am sure you are behind it. However did you manage to get a death certificate signed by two doctors?

  The tape was not the only thing Louise had sent. There was also the anonymous letter to Clarissa. She had cut the letters out of Country Life and the Field. Well, the more harassed and harried Clarissa felt, the better. People, women in particular, aged prematurely when they were kept in a state of anxiety. Women lost their allure fast. What was it Lady Wishfort said? Why, I am arrantly flayed; I look like an old peeled wall!

  Arrantly flayed. She would love to see Clarissa arrantly flayed!

  Things between her and Basil hadn’t always been as bad as they had become. Only a couple of months back they had talked. They had agreed there was nothing like the last days of summer – those beautiful hot days that had within them the seeds of their own fragility. She told him how much she enjoyed waking up to a mild pinkish dawn and watching the mist lifting from the garden. He said there was nothing like an autumn sun shining out of a cloudless blue sky, without glare and without brilliance—

  Louise Hunter fumbled for her handkerchief. Odd thing, memories – rising at such unexpected moments, quite unsolicited – exploding on the surface like bubbles.

  And then, without rhyme or reason, she remembered something else that had happened at La Sorcière.

  It had been about an hour and a half after lunch. She and Hortense had happened to walk past the open door of Lord Remnant’s study. Louise had been talking about the farm. Friends of Hortense’s had apparently just bought a farm in South Africa.

  They had caught sight of Lord Remnant sitting at his desk, a startlingly gleeful expression on his face. In his hands Lord Remnant had been holding—

  20

  The Conundrum of the Curious Codicil

  Unlocking the front door, Gerard Fenwick let himself into the house. His nose twitched. How terribly peculiar, someone had been smoking a cigar – one of his cigars. His thoughts turned once more to his vanished cigar cutter.

  ‘Felicity?’ he called out. He went into the drawing room.

  He looked at the TV. What was that rigmarole about a videotape showing his brother’s death? His brother hadn’t died naturally, Felicity had said. Well, he was perfectly aware of the fact—

  He rang the bell. Their maid appeared.

  ‘Ah, Goda. I would like a cup of tea.’ He spoke slowly, making it sound like a sentence out of an English grammar book. ‘And something to eat. A plate of sandwiches, perhaps? Have we got smoked salmon?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘P
eople eat a lot of fish in Lithuania, don’t they?’ He tapped his forehead with a forefinger. ‘Must be terribly brainy, Lithuanians.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Awfully good for the brain, fish. Is my wife in?’

  ‘My wife?’

  ‘My wife.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Lady Remnant.’

  ‘Lady Remnant is upstairs.’

  ‘Upstairs? It’s starting to rain again, now isn’t that a bore? Does it rain a lot in Lithuania? I know it snows a lot, doesn’t it? I understand parts of the Baltic freeze in winter, is that correct? I suppose skating parties are terribly popular in Lithuania? Skating’s jolly graceful, if one does it properly. Do you miss Lithuania?’

  ‘Everybody know Miss Lithuania, sir.’ Goda beamed. ‘Miss Lithuania is very beautiful girl. Her name Ugne Tautvydas. I see Miss Lithuania on television. My sister say to me, you look like Miss Lithuania!’ Goda laughed. She shook her head vigorously. ‘My sister joke.’

  ‘Ah. Miss Lithuania. Beauty contests. Of course. Ha-ha. Most amusing. Jokes are so important. Life would be hellish without jokes. Ha-ha. Would you be kind enough to tell my wife I am back?’

  Ten minutes later Gerard and Felicity sat in the drawing room drinking tea. I used to enjoy this, he thought. Perhaps we should get a divorce. She wanted to know about the will, so he told her.

  ‘No real surprises, my dear, all as I expected, all terribly predictable, barring one curious codicil added not so long ago.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Something of a mystery, though Clarissa didn’t seem particularly surprised.’

  ‘What curious codicil?’ Felicity sounded impatient.

  ‘Roderick left a largish sum of money to someone no one seems to have heard of. No, not a woman, my dear. Someone called Peter Quin.’

  ‘Peter Quin? Who the devil is he?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘How large is the sum?’

  He told her.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ She put her teacup down. ‘That’s a fortune.’

  ‘Not really, my dear. What is five million pounds when my brother left – um – I forget the exact figure, but you know perfectly well it’s an awful lot. I mean – an awful lot. Indecent, almost.’

  ‘Who is this Peter Quin?’

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest, I keep telling you. The fellow wasn’t there. Saunders didn’t know either, or maybe he’s had instructions not to divulge anything. Didn’t think it polite to press the point.’

  ‘Didn’t think it polite to press the point! Really, Gerard!’

  ‘It’s all being done through Quin’s solicitors. Saunders had the details of Quin’s bank account and so on. Oh, he also said that Quin was perfectly aware of the legacy. Apparently, Quin had done my brother some great favour or something.’

  ‘Is there a chance of your being less vague, Gerard? What great favour? Peter Quin. I have a feeling I’ve seen the name somewhere. I may be imagining it.’

  ‘The Turn of the Screw. If that’s what you are thinking of. No, the name of the evil valet was Peter Quint. With a t, see? It’s considered to be the greatest ghost story ever written, but, entre nous, the pacing is somewhat sluggish. And what exactly happens at the end, I would like to know?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve read it.’

  ‘Did it all take place in the governess’s mind? But then who or what killed Miles? I may try my hand at a ghost story, actually. I would set it at a place like Remnant, which I remember one of my uncles describing as “magnificently macabre”. Remnant would make the perfect setting for some bizarre melodrama that culminates in a crime passionnel.’

  ‘What did Clarissa have to say about the codicil?’

  ‘Not much. She’s got awfully thin, you know. She wore black. Kept smoking. Egyptian cigarettes, I think. Had a haunted air about her. She didn’t seem at all surprised about the Quin codicil, no.’ He reached out for the teapot. ‘She looked terrified, for some reason. More tea, my dear?’

  ‘Terrified?’

  ‘Yes. She clasped her hands, to prevent them from shaking. She didn’t say much. She seemed oddly preoccupied. On a different planet altogether … Have you been smoking my cigars, Felicity?’

  ‘Your cigars? What an extraordinary question. Of course I haven’t been smoking your cigars.’

  ‘Any idea where my cigar cutter might be?’

  ‘No. You’ve already asked me. You probably dropped it somewhere. At your club, as likely as not. You are terribly absent-minded … I wonder if this Peter Quin had something to do with your brother’s death,’ she said in a thoughtful voice.

  ‘An interesting if somewhat far-fetched notion.’ Gerard raised the teacup to his lips. ‘Liquidated by Quin. I must admit it’s got quite a ring to it.’

  ‘Your brother was killed, Gerard. It’s all there, on the tape. I must show you the tape. I really must. After all, it was addressed to you.’ Felicity rose. ‘Hope you don’t mind my opening the package?’

  ‘No, of course not, my dear.’ He found himself wondering what little Renée Glover was doing. ‘I have no secrets from you, as I am sure you haven’t any secrets from me.’

  21

  Les Amants

  Should she tell him? No. Not yet.

  Maybe never.

  What difference would it make if he knew the truth? He wouldn’t tell anyone, would he? Still, things were far from well between them, she was no longer sure of his loyalty.

  She didn’t think he loved her any more. Had he ever loved her? He seemed to have stopped finding her attractive. Earlier on his lips had only brushed her cheek. He seemed to be thinking of something else.

  Clarissa and Dr Sylvester-Sale were having dinner at the Café Regal. It was he who had booked the table, but why had his phone been engaged for so long? Who had he been talking to? He said there was something wrong with his mobile. He sounded contrite, though she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t all an act. In her experience, good-looking men were invariably accomplished actors.

  ‘You’re not eating. Aren’t you hungry?’ Sylvester-Sale asked.

  ‘No, not really.’ She tried to smile.

  As she raised her aperitif to her lips, her satin dress rustled. She wore pearls, round her neck and in her earlobes, offsetting the gold of her dress. She also had a tiny brooch, of diamonds and gold, on her left shoulder. When she had asked Syl how she looked, he said she reminded him of the famous usherettes at the Clermont Club. It was universally known that it was only the prettiest girls in London who became usherettes at the Clermont Club, but Clarissa didn’t care much for the idea.

  She was overdressed. She looked like a Christmas tree. She should have put on something more restrained – her Liberty smock in pale lavender would have been perfect.

  ‘You seem thinner. You must eat,’ he said. ‘You will make yourself ill if you don’t.’

  ‘How nice of you to care about my health.’

  ‘I am a doctor.’

  ‘Of course you are, darling. I keep forgetting. Yours is the most humanitarian profession in the world.’

  She had ordered sole Waleska. Sylvester-Sale had plumped for chargrilled quail breast and celeriac remoulade, with lots of French fries. Nothing wrong with his appetite, as far as she could see. He was being so annoyingly aloof. No one would have thought they were lovers, looking at them. White wine for her, red for him.

  ‘Apparently,’ he said, ‘one should never refer to red wine as “red wine” but as “wine”. Rosé, on the other hand, should be called “pink wine”.’

  ‘Is that so? What about white wine?’

  ‘White wine can be called “white wine”.’

  ‘How fascinating.’

  ‘The place is practically empty,’ he said.

  It was the kind of polite conversation a stranger would make.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dining out is on the decline. The credit crunch has gnawed its way to the giddiest summits of high society.’

  ‘My brother-in-law intends to write a book ent
itled The Romance of Restaurants. We met at Mr Saunders’s office earlier on,’ Clarissa explained. ‘I told him I was having dinner at the Café Regal.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him you were having dinner with me, did you?’

  ‘No. Don’t worry, darling. Your secret is safe with me. Gerard said the Café Regal was going to feature prominently in his book. He is going to devote a whole chapter to it.’ Clarissa glanced round. ‘I wonder how many of the diners tonight are Freemasons. It seems the Café Regal is a haunt of Freemasons.’

  ‘Really? They say Freemasons rule the world.’ He didn’t look particularly interested.

  ‘Apparently there is a gilded room on the second floor. Gerard claims to have seen it. That’s where they hold their hush-hush meetings and cook up various conspiracies. They masquerade as a culinary club of cheerful gourmets. They call themselves Les Bons Frères.’

  ‘How many books has old Fenwick written?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s never been able to get anything published, I don’t think. Well, now he’s got Roderick’s money, things may change. He seemed terribly excited about it.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s contemplating vanity publishing?’

  ‘I believe he is.’

  ‘Waste of money.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes. Utter waste of money.’

  What an uninspiring conversation we are having, Clarissa thought. For the last five minutes she had been trying to will her lover to reach out and lay his hand over hers …

  ‘Gerard is very keen on founding what he calls a small but exclusive press,’ she said. ‘He did try to get Roderick interested. He kept asking Roderick for funds. Roderick never said no; he strung Gerard along. He enjoyed teasing his brother. Poor Gerard kept writing to him – phoning him – kept leaving messages. I don’t think Roderick ever answered his calls.’

  Sylvester-Sale raised the wine glass to his lips. ‘Actually he rang him the day before he died.’