The Killing of Olga Klimt Page 2

  He shouldn’t have laughed – it was wrong to laugh when he felt like weeping – his head felt bad – everything had started whirling around him – turning black – bright spots dancing before his eyes – all the hues of the rainbow – Olga loved dancing –

  What was that? The sound of rushing water? Or was it footsteps? Someone – running?

  I manage to catch Mr Eresby as he falls.

  He feels as light as the proverbial feather. Despite my best efforts, he hasn’t been eating properly.

  I hold Mr Eresby in my arms and for a moment time stands still. I imagine we look like that famous picture, Death of Nelson. The heroic admiral, mortally wounded, uttering his last words, ‘Kiss me Hardy.’ Or did he really say, ‘Kismet, Hardy’ – as some claimed?

  (Would I kiss Mr Eresby if he asked me to?)

  ‘Ah, Bedaux. Good man. You caught me, didn’t you? I knew you would. Always there for me, the way you promised Mummy … I think there was someone dancing, wasn’t there? Rushing water. I am thirsty, actually …’ Mr Eresby’s hand creeps up to his forehead. His eyelids flutter. ‘The sound of rushing water – yes – there it is again – can you hear it?’

  I look round – I might need help – I might have to call an ambulance – I seem to have left my mobile behind and it doesn’t look as if Mr Eresby’s got his either – what’s that building – a nursery?

  ‘Look here, Bedaux, I did you an injustice. I thought of you as an anachronism. I apologise. I thought I’d sack you but of course I won’t. I am not myself today. Would you do something for me?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘On your honour?’

  ‘On my honour.’

  ‘You sound as though you are humouring me. Do let’s be serious, shall we? I want you to contact the Home Office.’

  ‘The Home Office, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I said. The Home Office … ’

  It is clear to me the strain on Mr Eresby’s mind and the emotions have taken their toll. Mr Eresby appears to be losing his grip on reality. I believe he is delirious.

  Who would have thought he would take Olga’s rejection so badly?

  For a split second I feel a stab of what I imagine is guilt. A glimmer of remorse daintily running along the steel of my conspiratorial dagger. It is a most unaccustomed sensation and I am surprised at myself. I wonder whether to tell him the truth, which of course, will be only part of the truth – namely, that his misery will soon be at an end …

  No, I can’t. I mustn’t. Not the truth.

  It would mean revealing the plot. Or rather, the Plot.

  ‘I want you to call the Home Office and tell them she is an illegal alien – that she must be punished – no, deported – tell them that she’s got a false passport. That’s a criminal offence. Actually, no. I’ve changed my mind. Don’t tell them anything. I would probably want to go after her. I am weak, you see. I am emotionally immature. That’s what old Collingwood says. I may be a little crazy too. I am in love with her. I’ll go after her. Then – then the misery will continue –’ Mr Eresby breaks off. ‘I have changed my mind, you see.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I might decide to follow her all the way to the Baltic, Bedaux … That’s where she comes from … The Baltic … She said she would take me there … She promised to introduce me to her mother … It hurts so much, Bedaux – here.’ Mr Eresby points to his chest. ‘You can’t imagine how much it hurts. I feel ill. I can’t stand it any longer – the misery.’

  ‘Shall I call an ambulance, sir?’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got a better idea. I want her dead, Bedaux. Dead, yes. I mean it. I am not delirious or anything of the sort. I want Olga dead. Stop looking round and listen. I am not afraid of killing her, only if I did kill her, I would be the first to be suspected. Do you see? But if I were to have an alibi …’ Mr Eresby licks his lips. ‘If I were to go away … To Baden-Baden, as you suggested – or to good old anachronistic Carlsbad – but I’ll go on my own – without you.’

  ‘Without me, sir?’

  ‘Yes. You will stay in London. I will give you money – a lot of money – any sum you wish to name –’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Eresby grips my hand. ‘You like money, don’t you? I want you to kill her, Bedaux. That’s the only way to stop the pain – stop the misery. Would you do it? Would you kill Olga for me?’

  2

  THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

  ‘Are you Sylvie?’ Eddy asked.

  ‘I am afraid I am not.’

  ‘Why are you afraid you are not?’

  ‘Because ‘Sylvie’ is a lovely name and I wish it were mine but it isn’t.’

  ‘Are you Miss Bruno then?’

  ‘No –’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Stop asking questions, Eddy,’ Antonia said.

  ‘No, that’s all right, Miss Darcy. We tend to encourage inquisitive minds here. I must say I find his lack of bashfulness refreshing. Most of the children I meet for the first time are too shy and too tongue-tied for my liking. Besides, Eddy does need to know my name since I am going to be his headmistress.’

  ‘But you know Miss Frayle’s name, Eddy. We told you. We told him.’ Antonia gave an apologetic smile.

  ‘He must have forgotten,’ Miss Frayle said easily.

  Eddy was Antonia’s second grandchild. He was nearly five and it was going to be his first day ‘at school’. A lot had been made of it at home, by both Eddy’s mother and father – Antonia’s son by her first husband. They had reassured Eddy he had nothing to worry about, certainly nothing to fear, that he would enjoy it, that it would be a truly memorable experience. They had frowned and shaken their heads when Hugh had said he had absolutely detested his first day at school. It had been hellish. Hugh had of course meant his prep school – or was it his public school?

  ‘Miss Frayle,’ Eddy said slowly and for some reason he sighed.

  Must tell him it’s ill-mannered to sigh, Antonia thought.

  ‘Makes me want to sigh too!’ Miss Frayle said with a loud laugh.

  She doesn’t look like a Miss Frayle at all, Antonia thought. Nothing frail about her, quite the reverse. Actually, she looks like a Miss Bruno. There was something reassuringly solid and dependable about the name of Bruno. Associations with ‘brawny’ and ‘brunt’ – as in the phrase ‘to bear the brunt’. She must be a very patient woman too, Antonia decided.

  Fenella Frayle might have read Antonia’s thoughts for she gave her a nod and a conspiratorial smile then pulled a droll face while at the same time slightly hunching up her shoulders. She exuded a blend of reliability, competence and good humour. Antonia decided she rather liked her.

  How old was she? Mid-thirties? Her hair was a glossy brown (brun?) and she had apple cheeks. She appeared to be in glowing health. She had a compact capable body and was clad in a smart dark blue suit, with a little gold-and-diamond brooch on the lapel. Her eyes were aquamarine blue, very bright, slightly exophthalmic, her chin well shaped and determined-looking. Her expression was unflaggingly cheerful.

  Eddy will be in safe hands, Antonia thought.

  ‘Is this your nursery school?’ Eddy asked.

  ‘It is mine, yes.’ Something like a shadow crossed her face. Antonia saw her frown down at a sheet of paper.

  ‘The house is called “Jevanny Lodge”. It looks very old,’ Eddy said. ‘The name’s written above the door – “Jevanny Lodge”. I can read, you see. It looks spooky.’

  ‘The house is very old, you are absolutely right, eighteenth century, a listed building, but it’s completely renovated inside. It cost me a pretty penny to have it done up!’ She laughed – a little ruefully, Antonia thought.

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘I do. My snuggery is upstairs.’

  ‘What is “snuggery”?’

  ‘My quarters.’

  ‘Why do you call it “s
nuggery”?’

  ‘Because it’s terribly snug. I can put up my feet and have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Do you like putting up your feet?’

  ‘Eddy,’ Antonia said. Really, the boy should be working for the Spanish Inquisition.

  ‘Oh very much. I like it awfully. I am often tired, you know.’

  ‘Can I see your snuggery?’

  ‘I am afraid children are not allowed there. My quarters are out of bounds. As head mistresses go, I am fairly liberal but I do draw the line somewhere.’ Miss Frayle laughed again. ‘Anyhow. I am sure you will have a jolly good time with us.’

  ‘Would I “adore” my time with you?’

  ‘Goodness. You are clever, aren’t you?’

  ‘We read him your advertisement. That’s how he learnt “adore”,’ Antonia explained.

  ‘So that’s my word, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s your word. Adore. Adore.’ Eddy yawned.

  ‘How funny! I’d completely forgotten!’

  Must tell him it’s rude to yawn, Antonia thought.

  ‘I must say I am terribly impressed by you, Eddy.’ Miss Frayle leant forward slightly. ‘You said you could read and write, correct? Did your mummy and daddy teach you?’

  ‘Granny taught me,’ Eddy said. ‘Granny is a writer.’

  ‘I know.’ Fenella Frayle gave a solemn nod. She smiled at Antonia. ‘You must be very proud of your granny.’

  ‘Her books are in all the bookshops,’ Eddy said. ‘In all the bookshops in the world.’

  ‘No, not in all the bookshops,’ Antonia said. ‘Really, Eddy, I don’t think you –’

  ‘My granny writes about murders. She is very clever. She notices things no one else notices. In Granny’s books people get killed.’

  ‘I know. As a matter of fact I have read two of your granny’s books. I enjoyed them very much indeed. I suppose you have read all her books?’ Fenella Frayle said with a twinkle.

  ‘I haven’t. Granny writes about murders. I am not allowed to read about murders.’

  ‘When you are a little older, you will,’ Fenella Frayle said comfortably. ‘Well, I must say I don’t get to meet many grannies who write books.’

  ‘Granny doesn’t look like a granny, does she?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘That’s what my grandfather says – he is not really my grandfather – he is my step-grandfather – he allows me to call him “Hugh” – he says he loves Granny in any and every state she happens to be in – especially when she is annoyed with him – he is very funny – he calls me a “fearful Jesuit”– because mummy is a Catholic, you see – Granny was married twice – Hugh married Granny after –’

  ‘That’s enough, Eddy.’ Antonia’s manner was brisk.

  ‘You wrote little boys and girls would adore their time with you,’ Eddy told Miss Frayle. ‘You wrote that they’d love the “home corner”. What is a home corner?’

  As Fenella Frayle started explaining, Antonia’s thoughts went back to the Sylvie & Bruno website. The Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School was renowned for its warm and friendly environment. Children were nurtured by well-qualified and caring teachers and enthusiastic assistants. They were taught how to develop coordination, concentration and independence. They were carefully instructed on how to interact positively with a wide range of other children and adults before they were ready to move on to the wider environment of pre-prep.

  Jolly impressive, Hugh had conceded – though he was not sure he cared for the sound of ‘pre-prep’.

  At our nursery school your child is introduced to the fundamentals of early years education. To create a strong base for future learning, great importance is placed on literacy and numeracy. Children also begin French, music and PE. Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School is exceptionally well resourced. Sand and water play, the art and craft table, a computer corner and a construction area, all have an important part in the structure of our school …

  ‘So you see, the home corner constantly changes from being a shop to a doctor’s surgery, an estate agent’s, a royal palace, even a jungle,’ Miss Frayle was saying. ‘Something tells me you will like our jungle.’

  Eddy frowned. ‘It’s not with real animals, is it?’

  ‘I am afraid not. Our children love dressing up as bears and zebras and wolves and foxes. We have the most wonderful dressing-up box –’

  ‘No one dresses up as a zebra.’ Eddy countered. ‘That would be silly.’

  ‘Eddy,’ Antonia said admonishingly. Fenella Frayle’s face had turned a little red.

  He slid down his chair. ‘Can I look out of the window?’ Without waiting for permission, he strode up to the picture window and stood looking out.

  ‘Eddy –’

  ‘No, that’s all right, Miss Darcy. Let him. Bored, poor thing. I don’t blame him,’ Fenella Frayle said. ‘My fault, really. I do tend to go on, don’t I?’

  ‘No, no,’ Antonia protested. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Oh, look, Granny! A man fell – another man catched him!’ Eddy pointed excitedly. ‘I think he is dead!’

  ‘Caught him,’ Antonia said automatically.

  ‘The man is dead!’

  ‘I don’t think that’s terribly likely … I’ll be very annoyed if –! Where? You’re making things up, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am not, Granny – look!’ Eddy pointed again. ‘The man is dead!’

  Fenella Frayle joined Eddy and Antonia by the picture window. ‘He’s right. I do believe someone’s fainted in the street. I think they may need our help.’

  3

  THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

  Jevanny Lodge was a tall, square, red-brick house, built in the reign of Queen Anne. A stone-pillared porch had been added in the purer classical style of 1790; the windows of the house were many, tall and narrow, with small panes and thick white woodwork. A pediment, pierced with a round window, crowned the front. There were wings to right and left, connected by curious glazed galleries, supported by colonnades.

  ‘It looks like a fit. We’ll take him upstairs, Miss Thornton,’ Fenella Frayle told the teacher she had called, a freckled young woman whose physique suggested a gym mistress.

  ‘He is not epileptic, is he?’ Miss Thornton asked.

  ‘I have no idea. I hope not.’

  ‘Can I go with them?’ Eddy asked.

  ‘Certainly not.’ Antonia kept a restraining arm across her grandson’s chest.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It would be inappropriate.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Eddy looked up at her.

  ‘It means you would be in the way.’

  ‘Will the man die?’

  ‘He may, if you go on asking questions.’

  She needed to keep an eye on Eddy. He was bored. A minute earlier he had taken advantage of the disturbance; as soon as Miss Frayle had left the room, he had walked up to her desk and started examining the papers that lay on it. Antonia had had to call him back.

  Miss Frayle’s office door had been left wide open. Antonia and Eddy stood beside it, looking at the little group in the hall, ranged round the base of the stairs.

  ‘Are the children OK?’ Fenella Frayle asked.

  ‘Overexcited,’ Patricia Thornton said. ‘They know something’s happened and they all want to be part of it. I left them in Frostbite’s care. I mean Lilian Frobisher.’

  ‘Good. Excellent. Poor fellow – can he walk or will we have to give him a piggyback?’

  ‘I am fine, really.’ Charles Eresby staggered between his manservant and Patricia Thornton. ‘I can walk. I feel a little better. It’s so hot.’

  ‘You are not epileptic, are you?’ Patricia Thornton asked.

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘You may be without knowing it.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘You haven’t got a dicky heart, have you?’ Fenella Frayle said.

  ‘No. My heart is fine. It’s broken but otherwise it’s fine.’

  ‘I’d hate it if you w
ere to keel over and snuff it on the premises,’ Fenella said cheerfully. ‘We’d have to send the children home and the parents wouldn’t like it. You gave poor Eddy a great fright, you know – that clever little boy over there –’ She pointed towards the top of the stairs.

  ‘He didn’t give me a fright.’ Eddy’s eyes flashed indignantly.

  ‘He thought you were dead!’

  Eddy glanced up at Antonia and mouthed, ‘I don’t like her.’

  The dark man in the alpaca coat cleared his throat. ‘I am afraid Mr Eresby is not used to high temperatures.’

  ‘Oh, you know each other? What a relief. Jolly good. Makes all the difference. I took you for a Good Samaritan. I thought you were a casual passer-by.’

  ‘I am Mr Eresby’s manservant. My name is Bedaux.’

  Antonia gazed at them curiously. Master and servant promenading en plein air? A rare phenomenon these days, surely, even in this part of London? Antonia had imagined that only people like Prince Charles had valets. The master, as far as she could see, was a delicately built young man dressed in a somewhat crumpled white linen suit. His hair was very fair and floppy. He was probably quite good-looking in a young-Anthony-Andrews-as-Lord-Sebastian-Flyte kind of way, but was at the moment deathly pale, and somewhat slack-mouthed … What was it he said? It was something curious … It’s broken … He’d meant his heart, which suggested his fainting fit might not be exclusively due to the heat …

  Antonia’s attention shifted to the servant who was a tall dark man with an impassive face, immaculately dressed. A gentleman’s gentleman, eh? Clearly, they did exist … This one seemed to run to type … Was he really one of those chaps whose entire life, like that of the late Queen Mother, was based upon duty, obligation, discretion and restraint? Something monkish about him but the eyes were watchful and – what was it? – calculating? The eyes of a man who enjoys dice games for dangerous stakes … The eyes of a Machiavelli … I mustn’t let my imagination run away with me, Antonia reminded herself.

  Beside her Eddy chanted under his breath, something that sounded like, ‘Aunt Clo-Clo must die, Aunt Clo-Clo must die’, but she paid no attention.