The Murder Of Gonzago

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 facades, 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?’