The Murder Of Gonzago

‘Ah – Lord Remnant’s final journey. A melancholy occasion. Coronary thrombosis, I believe you said? Suddenly at his residence – they still write that, I’ve noticed. Cherished husband. I never cease to be amazed at the resilience of certain cliches. We all feel blessed to have known him… There is safety in cliches, I suppose… You will give me some tea, Hortense, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will, Ducky… The cup that cheereth,’ she murmured ruefully as she left the room.

They had known each other a number of years. He was a widower, she had never married. Both were in their mid-sixties. He invariably addressed her as ‘dear lady’. She called him ‘Ducky’. At one time Hortense had imagined the Revd Duckworth was steeling himself to propose to her.

In the kitchen, as she occupied herself with the tea, she suddenly felt on the verge of tears. I cannot live with so much doubt and fear and with so much intensity, she thought. I must talk – otherwise I will burst.

It took her a couple of moments to compose herself.

She re-entered the drawing room and put the tea-tray on the table.

The Revd Duckworth beamed at her. ‘Towards a clergyman, common benevolence expresses itself largely through the medium of a cup of tea. I have no idea if this is a quotation or whether I just made it up.’

‘Sounds like something out of Trollope,’ she said. ‘Trollope teems with clergymen, doesn’t he? All those bishops and archdeacons and prelates swimming in satins and port.’

It would help her if she talked. It would blow away the clinging cobwebs of her low and anxious mood. I don’t have to tell him the whole truth, she thought, I cannot possibly tell him what happened exactly, but I will certainly tell him about the bribe.

‘Who’s that?’ He was peering at one of the photographs on the wall. He was an old fool but she was fond of him. ‘Such an innocent face. Something of the lost angel about it. Brings to mind one of our most accomplished choirboys.’

‘That’s Stephan. Clarissa’s son.’

‘Your great-nephew. Of course. Was he at the funeral?’

‘No. He is not at all well.’

‘A most impressionable young person, I believe you said? Easily led astray? Short attention span? Undesirable friends?’

‘It’s much worse than that, Ducky. I’ve told you.’ She spoke a little impatiently.

‘Was it-? Not-?’

‘Yes. He started quite young, at thirteen, I believe. I am afraid they can do very little about it. Poor Clarissa is out of her mind with worry… A mother’s heart-’ Hortense broke off. She took a deep breath. ‘I find myself blaming God.’

‘One mustn’t blame God.’

‘I do blame God. I am afraid in my very personal hierarchy God does not occupy a front seat. What I actually most believe in is the imponderable perception of God. It is my idea that God is aware of everything but is holding back, doing very little.’

‘Dear lady!’

‘I am convinced that God leaves us to get on with whatever cards we have been dealt, then sits back and watches us make a spectacle of ourselves… I don’t suppose you encounter such heretical thoughts often, do you? Now, tell me honestly, do you?’

‘As a matter of fact I do. More often than you imagine. I myself am not exempt. You’d never believe this, Hortense, but sometimes I question my suitability for the cloth. I catch myself wishing I were a chat-show host, a wedding singer or a champion snooker player.’

‘Vouchsafe, O Lord, to keep us this day from being found out. That’s not in the Bible, Ducky, is it?’

‘No.’ He looked at her. ‘I have always regarded you as a woman of strong nerve and sanguine temperament, but today you seem far from your usual self. I imagine you found the funeral unsettling?’

‘I did, yes. Very much so. Extremely unsettling. Not a single tear was shed for Lord Remnant. I couldn’t describe anyone among Lord Remnant’s nearest and dearest as an “inconsolable wreck”… I don’t think he was “cherished” by anyone… Heretics roast in hell, don’t they?’

‘That is the accepted theory. Ultimately, that is. Not if they undergo a change of heart while they still have the chance and ask God’s forgiveness.’ The Revd Duckworth took a sip of tea.

‘Should one fall on one’s knees when one asks forgiveness?’

‘Kneeling focuses the mind wonderfully well, though I find getting up increasingly difficult. I hope that didn’t sound too flippant? I must say the Battenberg cake looks terribly tempting… Earthly appetites are so difficult to suppress… May I? I shall restrict myself to a single slice… This is scrumptious, absolutely scrumptious,’ he said, munching.

A haunted and troubled look had settled upon her features. She clasped her hands before her. ‘Tell me, Ducky, honestly and truly, do you believe I am capable of committing a crime? No, I am serious – do you?’

‘Honestly and truly? No, I don’t. You are the last person I would associate with crime, though of course it very much depends on what you define as “crime”.’

‘I’d be extremely grateful if you tried to picture the following scenario. Something terrible is perpetrated, an act of the utmost wickedness. There are witnesses but they have been forced to keep their mouths shut. In fact the witnesses have accepted hush money. The witnesses have been too weak to refuse the bribe. Or too greedy.’

‘Are you by any chance talking about people you know?’

‘No, of course not. The whole situation is entirely hypothetical. I sometimes like to imagine that I am faced with a moral dilemma and I try to provide a solution for it. People often need money rather badly, don’t they? I don’t mean only for bills, debts and overdrafts. People have extravagant tastes. Most of mankind craves opulence and splendour. The majority of people are self-indulgent.’

‘That indeed is so,’ he agreed. ‘I must confess to a peculiar taste for sudden and isolated luxuries. I am particularly susceptible to a certain rather exclusive type of macaroon one can get only at Fortnum’s.’

‘This is a matter of life and death, Ducky. So they – these people – accept the hush money, they allow themselves to be bribed, but as a result some of them lose their peace of mind. They are unable to sleep. They feel as though they might explode. They feel alienated from their surroundings. Nothing seems to make sense any more. They start popping pills-’ Hortense broke off. ‘I am sure I am putting things rather badly, but I hope you get the picture? The point, Ducky, is that the victim deserved to die.’

The Revd Duckworth blinked. ‘Is there – was there – a victim?’

Hortense Tilling’s gently wrinkled face was quite flushed now. ‘The victim didn’t possess a single redeeming feature. The Don Giovanni aria got it all wrong!’

‘What aria?’

‘La nobilta ha dipinta negli occhi l’onesta.’

‘The nobility – um – has honour painted in their eyes?’

‘Honesty. The nobility has honesty painted in their eyes. Well, Ducky, this particular nobleman was far from honest. He was devious. He led a life of decadence and depravity. He was arrogant, egocentric and cruel. He talked of selling his soul to the Devil!’

‘I can’t help the feeling,’ the Revd Duckworth said slowly, ‘that you are talking of someone you know.’

‘He enjoyed upsetting people. He liked to say hurtful things, awful things. He had an extremely nasty sense of humour. He was an unregenerate bully. He was a mental sadist.’ She had started talking very fast. ‘He got kicks out of seeing people in tears – especially women. He had a thing about women. Not a nice thing. He treated women very badly indeed. Both wittingly and unwittingly.’

‘Dear me!’

‘One particularly outrageous act he committed unwittingly. However, it is my conviction that even if he had realized the enormity of what he was about to do, he would still have done it. He was that kind of man, yes. Therefore he deserved to die.’