Murder of Gonzago Read online

  I am at my club at the moment. If I have to be honest, I prefer my club to my house. My rooms overlook St James’s Park and they are rather splendid. I feel exceedingly comfortable and at peace here.

  I am at my happiest when I am writing. Writing has the effect of a heavenly balm. Writing brings with it a sense of release, of assuagement, of profound contentment.

  For some peculiar reason my penchant for a good cigar riles Felicity. Maybe because she associates it with my tête-à-têtes with Renée? Only the other day Felicity told me that I was the worst liar she had ever known, which, apart from being damned unfair, somehow manages to suggest she moves exclusively in the society of liars.

  It is all rather tiresome, but, fortunately, I am of an equable temperament. I will not deny that sometimes Felicity taxes my patience, but I accept her acrimonious outbursts as an act of God and no more think of rebelling against them than I would against bad weather or a cold in the head …

  Leaning back in his chair, he reached for his cigar case. Shouldn’t bother too much about Felicity, really. It would be wrong to get fixated on Felicity. The broader picture was not too bad at all. His shockingly unpopular elder brother was dead and he, Gerard Fenwick, was rich. Rich at last. Well, not yet, not technically speaking, but he would be soon enough.

  As it happened, the opening and reading of the will was taking place later in the afternoon. He looked at his watch. He must try not to be late. He expected no surprises. How splendid it would be to be rich. He wouldn’t dream of actually articulating the sentiment, frightfully bad form, but a multi-million-pound fortune was, well, a multi-million-pound fortune. He would be so rich, he could buy the club and make it his writing pad, if he felt like it. He smiled at the idea.

  Holding his cigar between his thumb and forefinger, he glanced round. He liked what he saw. The room had been recently repapered and hung with pleasing Piranesi prints – there was a good fire – a revolving mahogany bookcase, which he had filled with old favourites (Lord Berners’s A Distant Prospect, Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, Saki’s Beasts and Super-Beasts, Donna Tartt’s The Secret History) – a photo of him winning a shooting competition – his humidor. The ambience couldn’t have been cosier or more bachelor-ish.

  Where had his cigar cutter disappeared to? For some reason he felt the stirrings of unease. Oh well, never mind, he’d use the point of his paper knife – it should do the trick – voilà. He clicked his lighter. Bliss. A woman is only a woman but a good cigar is a smoke. He wished it was he and not old Kipling who’d said that!

  He regarded his lighter with some amusement. It was made of silver and shaped like a gun. It had been a present from his wife, dating back to their shooting – and happier – days.

  Gerard could handle any kind of gun. Big or small. He was a first-class shot. He was better than his late brother had been. Roderick had always been awfully jealous of him on that count. Awfully jealous. Odd chap, Roderick. Dangerous. What was it he told him once when they were children? I’ll smash your big head like a pumpkin. More than once, actually. Fancied himself as a ladies’ man too. Mad, most probably. Like Papa and Uncle William before him. Like Aunt Margot and Cousin Lionel. Living in a hot climate couldn’t have made things any better.

  Oh well, Roderick was dead now. Dead and gone. He might never have existed. All that was left of him was little more than a handful of dust. I no longer have a brother, Gerard thought.

  He had spent the previous night at his club. Felicity had phoned to ask where he was. I am at my club, my dear, didn’t I say? No, you didn’t, Gerard. I am sure I did, my dear. No, you didn’t. All too tiresome for words. Felicity appeared to think his writing was a cover for something else. It was fascinating to speculate what she might be suspecting. Gerard puffed at his cigar.

  Brothels? The criminal underworld? Strolling up and down Piccadilly in drag? While all he did was sit at his club overlooking St James’s, in his shabbiest tweeds, leaning over a desk, scribbling away! Well, he was a sphinx without a secret, like the woman in the Oscar Wilde story. She was suspected of harbouring some extraordinary secret, of doing things no respectable woman should, whereas all she did was sit in a rented room and drink tea.

  He found the idea of men in drag a jolly curious one. What was it that caused phenomena like that? Some chemical anomaly in the brain? Perhaps he could write a short story about it? There used to be a chap back in the nineteenth century, a politician or a philosopher, who was said to have dressed much better as a woman than as a man and was an inspiration to a whole generation of Englishmen …

  He could write a story about a man who disguises himself as his wife, makes himself look exactly like her, then starts following her about and makes sure she sees him. She is persuaded she has a twin sister of whose existence she hadn’t been aware – no – that she has a double – and she remembers the old wives’ tale that if you have seen your double, you are about to die. The husband’s intention is to drive her mad. Something on those lines.

  Felicity had informed him that a videotape had arrived, which he needed to see. She said it was important. Apparently it showed Roderick’s death. She had been dashed mysterious about it.

  He thought about Roderick’s phone call – the awful things Roderick had said – how it had made him feel – he’d seen red – his subsequent decision and the action he had taken—

  He still couldn’t quite believe what he had done! It felt like a dream now. Quite unlike him.

  Once more he glanced at his watch. Time to go. Old Saunders wouldn’t start without him, though it would be terribly bad form to make him wait. Noblesse oblige and all that kind of rot. The reading of Roderick’s will was going to take place in exactly three-quarters of an hour. Saunders’s office was in New Bond Street. He could walk. The weather seemed fine at the moment, though, to be on the safe side, he would take his faithful brolly with him.

  People who didn’t know him well thought him mild-mannered, slightly eccentric, not terribly practical, completely unremarkable. Nothing like his exhibitionistic late brother – or the elusive Lucan – or Wodehouse’s master of misrule, the havoc-wreaking Ickenham – all of them unreliable earls! Not a controversialist like Spencer (that speech) or the late Longford (Myra Hindley!) either.

  As he rose and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, Gerard thought about his cigar cutter once more. Such a pity if he’d lost it. He’d allowed himself to become attached to it. He believed he was emotionally starved. The cigar cutter was made of silver, fashioned like a guillotine, with his monogram engraved on one side and the Remnant coat of arms on the other, and it could fit into his waistcoat pocket.

  When was the last time he’d used it?

  15

  Fear Eats the Soul

  They walked along an interminable avenue of tall houses with elegant if faded façades, none of which seemed to show any sign of life. If one could imagine a terrace of tombs, Payne murmured. Several moments later, having arrived at their destination, he observed that the steps to Hortense Tilling’s front door were as steep as the side of a pyramid; one would hesitate to knock on the door for fear of a mummy emerging, didn’t Antonia think?

  ‘No, I don’t. Sometimes, Hugh, I do wonder if you say these silly things with the sole purpose of finding out if I’m listening.’ Antonia grasped the door knocker resolutely.

  ‘Well, murder will out! Old deceits claim their dues! They always say that, don’t they? Thy sin will find thee. I have been dreading this moment. Absolutely dreading it.’ Hortense Tilling shut her eyes. ‘Someone turning up out of the blue. The moment of truth. Having to explain.’ She was holding her hand at her throat. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you in, but it’s too late for that now.’

  ‘If you show us the door, we shall march back to it with complete submission,’ Payne said gravely.

  ‘Will you really?’ She hesitated. ‘No – I hate making scenes. I haven’t got the strength. I am afraid I don’t feel awfully well. I have this persistent,
rather sickening sense of down-rushing ruin, as if I’ve been flung off a precipice … It’s loneliness that’s said to beget loquaciousness, though in my case it is nerves. I talk too much, don’t I?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Antonia said. They wanted her to talk.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Payne said. ‘Most kind.’

  They had decided to call on Hortense Tilling without giving her any notice. Always more effective than trying to make arrangements over the phone. Didn’t give her the chance to say no and put down the receiver.

  ‘I might as well offer you tea,’ Hortense said.

  ‘Tea would be lovely,’ Antonia said.

  ‘I must give you scones too. With Devonshire cream and seedless raspberry jam? Though let me calm down first. My nerves are in a bad state, you see.’

  ‘Perhaps you should sit down for a bit?’

  ‘No, no, my dear. I’d rather stand. It induces in me the feeling of being in control. It’s completely illusory. Could we pretend we have known each other for years and this is a social call?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Payne said.

  ‘Perhaps we could talk about the weather first? It will make things easier, I think. I find talking about the weather relaxing, don’t you?’

  She was a thin, birdlike woman in her sixties, wearing a silk dress in what Antonia thought were strong dead colours: dark red and old gold and purple. Her face was pale pink and gently wrinkled, her silver hair parted in the middle, and she wore round horn-rimmed spectacles which seemed to accentuate her oddly pious expression and made her look rather like a nun.

  ‘Isn’t it cold today?’ Antonia said.

  ‘There was a chill drizzle from the north-east as we set out.’ Payne glanced towards the window.

  ‘It feels more like autumn than spring,’ said Hortense.

  ‘Spring is late this year,’ Antonia said.

  ‘It is, isn’t it, my dear? Terribly late. I keep shivering, even with the central heating on. Well, that’s England for you. One shouldn’t wear silk. There! It’s done the trick. I already feel better.’ Hortense nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I imagine you are feeling the cold more acutely than us,’ Major Payne said. ‘Having returned from the Caribbean not so long ago? Did the Caribbean agree with you?’

  ‘It did, to start with.’ She clasped her hands before her. ‘Have you been to the Caribbean? No? Cobalt blue skies – cicadas – dragonflies with diamond wings. Fizzing hot days, as my father used to say. The endless susurrus of the sea. An easy life. La dolce vita. Used to be my idea of paradise. But then – then it all changed.’

  ‘Because of Lord Remnant’s death?’

  ‘Well, yes. The morning after he died, I took a walk round the island and I was struck by the amazing absence of meaningful ambulation. The idea depressed me. Oh how it depressed me. I’d never thought in those terms before, you see. Suddenly I felt faint—’

  ‘Was it very hot?’

  ‘Well, yes, but up till then I hadn’t minded the heat. It was the kind of heat that’s been described as “swooning” … Everybody on the beach was in a horizontal position, limp and languorous, fanning themselves. I had the odd sense people were horizontal in their very souls. What a silly thing to say! Do forgive me. Why am I standing here? I was going to do something, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You were going to make us tea,’ Antonia said brightly.

  ‘Tea, yes! Let’s have tea! The cup that cheereth!’

  She disappeared into the kitchen.

  The sofa was large and the colour of whipped cream. They sat among a proliferation of ancient tasselled cushions of petit-point. The wall above the sofa was covered with framed photographs, some of which had faded to so pale a brown that it was simply the pattern of the black rectangles of their frames on the pale cream walls that seemed to serve the purpose of decoration. But there were some good, clear ones …

  It was the photograph of a stunningly beautiful dark-haired girl that drew their attention. The girl’s hair was done in the style of the early sixties, her shoulders bare, one hand held clasped under her chin. Round her wrist she wore a striking bracelet in the shape of a coiled snake, most probably a cobra, made from what looked like black pearls.

  Payne raised a quizzical eyebrow at Antonia. ‘That our hostess? Can’t be.’

  ‘I think it’s her … many summers ago. She’s still got the same smile.’

  ‘Golly, yes.’

  ‘Isn’t time cruel?’

  ‘Merciless.’ Payne’s eyes had strayed towards the bookcase. ‘Books on adoption … Cuckoo in the Nest. I can’t help noticing people’s books, can you?’

  ‘I find myself instinctively disapproving of people who have no books in their houses. In a funny kind of way it puts me on guard,’ Antonia said. ‘I don’t think I can be friends with people who don’t read.’

  ‘I can’t be friends with people who read the wrong kind of books … Dan Brown, J. K. Rowling, Martina Cole, old McCall Smith, Jeffery Deaver – or is that unfair?’

  ‘Do you think she’s been considering adoption? A bit old for that,’ Antonia whispered.

  ‘The books are also old, which suggests she may have considered it when she was younger.’

  ‘I am worried about her. She is in a febrile state … She seems scared out of her wits.’

  Payne’s eyes were back on the photograph. ‘What a magnificent bracelet that is … Now where—?’

  There was a tinkling sound as Hortense Tilling reentered the room, a tea-tray in her hands. ‘In case you are wondering, that’s me, yes. You wouldn’t think it, would you? Vogue offered me a modelling contract, but my mother made me turn it down. My mother disapproved of models. She feared for my virtue. It all seems like a dream now. I was an altogether different person then.’ She hummed the tune of ‘Where Is The Life That Late I Led?’ She set the tea-tray on the coffee table.

  ‘I have been admiring your bracelet,’ Payne said.

  ‘Ah, the Keppel Clasp.’

  ‘The Keppel Clasp? Is that what it’s called? Exquisite craftsmanship. Is it Fabergé?’

  ‘It is. You are a connoisseur, I see. As it happens, Mrs Keppel was a distant relation on my mother’s side. The clasp was a present to her from you-know-who.’ She picked up the silver pot and started pouring out tea.

  ‘Edward VII?’

  ‘Indeed. From Kingy. I believe that’s what she called him. The stout sceptred satyr … Sugar? No?’

  ‘It’s in the form of a snake,’ said Antonia.

  ‘Yes. Are you squeamish about snakes? I don’t blame you. Most people are. But snakes can be so beautiful … The snake’s head and the tail form a knot, did you notice?’

  ‘Yes. Most unusual. Exquisite craftsmanship,’ Payne said again.

  ‘The Keppel Clasp was quite unique.’ Hortense sighed.

  ‘Why the past tense? Haven’t you still got it?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘I am afraid not. I’d love to be able to show it to you, my dear, but it is no longer in my possession. The Keppel Clasp was stolen from me. A long time ago. I hadn’t even had it insured. Well, I believe I was punished for being a bad girl.’ A shadow passed across her face.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Delicious scones,’ Antonia said. ‘I love raspberry jam.’

  ‘It’s home-made. I love making jam. Something comforting about jam-making.’ Hortense perched on the arm of an armchair. ‘How curious that you should have turned up. I was right. I mean I knew that sooner or later someone would ring my front door bell! I knew it was only a question of time, though of course I had no idea who it would be. The police? Private detectives? The intelligence service? Men in black? Anyhow, now that I have met you, the worst is over.’

  ‘Fear of the unknown is the worst kind of fear,’ Payne said amiably.

  ‘Well, the heavens didn’t fall and there wasn’t a great bolt of lightning! You are not related to the Remnant family, are you?’


  ‘Only in an exceedingly distant sort of way. My aunt tried to explain exactly how, but it all sounded too convoluted and far-fetched for words. I met Felicity Fenwick yesterday, for the first time. You are Clarissa’s aunt, correct?’

  ‘Correct. I am Clarissa’s mother’s sister. Clarissa’s late mother. I am Clarissa’s only living relation. Poor child. I care deeply about my daughter – I mean niece – Clarissa is like a daughter to me … I must admit I always had misgivings about Clarissa’s marriage to Lord Remnant. I’d heard stories. I knew something would go wrong at some point. I felt it in my bones.’

  ‘Was he really as awful as that?’ Antonia asked.

  For a moment or two, Hortense gazed at them, saying nothing. Then she leant forward slightly. ‘I believe he was truly evil. That marriage should never have taken place, never. I tried to warn Clarissa but she wouldn’t listen to me. Marriage is a serious affair, to be entered into only after long deliberation and forethought, and suitability of tastes and inclinations should be considered very carefully indeed. I don’t think Clarissa had much in common with Remnant, apart from a penchant for theatricals.’

  ‘He was older than her, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Much older. I suspect she was dazzled by his ancient title and – and by that island. How I hate that island!’ Hortense cried. ‘Almost as much as I hate St George’s Church. At one time I felt like burning St George’s Church to the ground. I really did.’

  ‘St George’s Church in Hanover Square?’

  ‘Yes. That was where the wedding took place. That’s where the accursed Remnant married her. Irrational of me, I know, but that’s how I felt. Poor Clarissa. No daughter of mine should have had to endure—’ Hortense broke off. ‘I keep saying things I shouldn’t be saying. Somehow you have succeeded in goading me into unguarded speech. I keep forgetting you are perfect strangers.’