The Murder Of Gonzago

Behold, Here’s Poison

Lady Grylls frowned. ‘He had a heart attack, didn’t he? That’s what the Times obituary said. Goodness, my dear, you look as though you doubt the Times obituary! You think there is something fishy about his death?’

‘As a matter of fact I do. I have the unshakable conviction that there is something very wrong indeed.’

‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’ Payne quoted.

‘I believe they all know what happened. The Hunters, Clarissa’s aunt, Dr Sylvester-Sale, Glover. I couldn’t help noticing that when the coffin disappeared into the furnace, they seemed incredibly relieved.’

‘You think Roderick might have been murdered like the character he played in the dumbshow staged at Hamlet’s request? What was it all about, Hughie?’ Lady Grylls turned towards her nephew. ‘All that Gonzago business. What was the reason for it?’

‘Well, Hamlet suspects his uncle Claudius of having killed his, Hamlet’s, father, in order to replace him on the throne and marry his, Hamlet’s, mother, after whom Claudius has been lusting.’

‘Oh yes. The evil uncle. It was the ghost who told Hamlet, wasn’t it? The ghost of Hamlet’s father. Remember Olivier’s Hamlet? I had a big crush on him, you know – so tantalizingly indecisive and blond. I had quite a thing about indecisive blond men at one time.’

‘Claudius pours poison into his brother’s ear as the King lies sleeping in the garden. Well, Hamlet needs proof, so he gets a troupe of itinerant actors to stage a play that shows Gonzago being killed in precisely the same manner. Claudius is in the audience and he gets up and leaves abruptly, which Hamlet – who’s been watching his uncle closely – interprets as a guilty reaction.’

‘How awfully ingenious. I don’t suppose such a person as Gonzago ever existed, did he?’

‘He did exist. The murder of Gonzago is believed to have been a reference to a real sixteenth-century murder. A Luigi Gonzaga murdered the Duke of Urbino. It seems to be generally accepted by Shakespearean scholars that Shakespeare’s plot was founded on an Italian original. The dumb players have been identified as a commedia dell’arte troupe. Well, Italians of noble birth did poison each other. They were Machiavels at heart, poisoners like the Borgias, and libertines like the Venetians.’

Lady Grylls nodded. ‘Broadening the intellectual basis of any discussion is something my nephew excels at. How he does it I have no idea, but he makes it look so terribly easy!’

Payne gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘My forehead positively bulges with useless information.’

‘Going back to what you were saying, my dear.’ Lady Grylls addressed their hostess. ‘Do you actually suspect your brother-in-law was poisoned?’

‘I don’t know if he was poisoned,’ Felicity said, ‘but I don’t believe he died of natural causes. Well, since he’s been cremated, we’ll probably never know how exactly he died.’

‘Must be the doctor. The doctor seems implicated, wouldn’t you agree? It was the doctor who bent over the divan and held a glass to Roderick’s ear.’

‘That’s what his part required him to do, darling. He was playing the regicide,’ Payne reminded his aunt.

‘It all fits in perfectly. Doctors know about poisons. Doctors are used to death. They take it in their stride. And this Sylvester-Sale had a good motive for wishing Roderick out of the way. He was having an affair with Clarissa – who is now a terribly rich widow. The doctor is a libertine, as you said.’

‘I never said Sylvester-Sale was a libertine. I said Venetians were.’

‘He is dark and handsome, therefore it is not inconceivable that he should have Venetian blood. He might have had a Venetian grandmother. We saw him bend over Roderick with the glass of poison in his hand. All terribly straightforward and simple. He killed Roderick while pretending to be killing him. That was the cleverness of it. It is only in murder mysteries,’ Lady Grylls concluded, ‘that things are never straightforward and simple.’

‘Why did I choose to write murder mysteries? I don’t really know. It’s so difficult to explain.’ Antonia frowned. ‘I always wanted to be a writer and that seemed to be the only type of story I was drawn to writing. As it happens, detective stories were my favourite form of reading in my adolescence. Most people grow out of detective stories but I didn’t seem to.’

‘Did you only read murder mysteries of the classical kind?

‘Mostly. I liked the idea of suspicion falling on all the characters, even on the most unlikely. It seemed to suit my sceptical and somewhat paranoid imagination.’

The owlish young man cleared his throat. ‘I believe you were involved in a real-life crime – about the time you were writing your first detective novel – is that correct?’

‘I was,’ Antonia admitted. At once she wished she had held her tongue.

How could her interviewer know about it? As far as she was concerned, no one but she and Hugh knew about the murders at Twiston. [2] That murderer, as it happened, had got away with it. Could the murderer have confessed and been arrested without her knowing about it? No – it would have been in all the papers. Could the murderer have confided in someone? Antonia thought it highly unlikely, but then one never knew.

‘Did your involvement in a real-life murder have any effect on your development as a detective story writer?’

‘I am not sure. It may have done. I believe it served to cure the writer’s block from which I happened to be suffering at the time.’

‘Do you agree with the assertion that the whodunnit is an extremely artificial form and that it obeys rules as rigid and ridiculous as those of North Korean formation dancing?’

Antonia gave a little shrug and said she knew next to nothing about North Korean formation dancing. ‘Isn’t all fiction artificial? What is fiction but the selection of the writer’s internal compulsions, preoccupations, passions, fears and external experiences distilled in a form which he or she hopes will satisfy the reader’s expectations?’

‘Do you read much modern crime fiction?’

‘No, not much.’

‘Are you familiar with the names of Martina Cole and Dreda Say Mitchell?’

‘I am not… Should I be?’

‘Do your books conform in any way to Henry James’s definition of the purpose of a novel? To help the human heart to know itself. Or do you write exclusively for entertainment purposes?’

‘I write exclusively for entertainment purposes,’ Antonia said in a firm voice.

‘Do you ever try to enlist the reader’s support for views and theories of your own?’

‘No, I don’t. Sometimes my characters express opinions of books or authors which happen to be my own. On the whole, I am careful to keep my views as inconspicuous as possible.’

‘Do you exercise complete control over your characters?’

‘Complete and absolute. I like playing God to the page,’ Antonia said gravely. She tried to keep a straight face. She had started to enjoy herself.

‘Do you regard plotting as the most fascinating aspect of detective story writing?’

‘I suppose I do. But I also like to balance setting, characterization and plot, so that all three are interrelated and contribute to the whole. The kind of story I write,’ Antonia went on, ‘might have been written in the 1930s or early 40s, though I do make some concessions to modernity.’

‘Mobile phones and the internet play an active part in your novels, don’t they?’

‘They do… No, I must admit I know very little about police procedure, forensic medicine or the intricacies of the law. I write extremely old-fashioned detective stories… “Propulsively readable”? Who said that? Really? Are you sure?’ Antonia smiled. Must tell Hugh, she thought. ‘I had no idea… My detectives depend exclusively on their capacity for noticing things. My detectives are obsessively observant.’

‘How important is setting to you?’

‘Important enough. Though I try not to overdo it. Some writers tend to overdo the setting. Settings establish atmosphere and they can also influence the plot and the characters. Settings can enhance the horror of murder, sometimes by creating a contrast between the outward peace of the scene and the turbulence of human emotions.’

‘How would you describe your books?’

‘Do I have to? OK. I’d describe them as unpretentious celebrations of reason and order. Oh, and of logic as well. Logic is very important.’