The Murder Of Gonzago

‘Out of the question.’

‘You sound like Highgrove. I hate her and I hate you. I will kill myself, see if I don’t. Then you’ll be sorry,’ Stephan said.

‘I want you to go to bed, darling,’ she said. Why weren’t they monitoring him? Why wasn’t anyone with him? She was paying them a bloody fortune!

‘If you don’t bring me some Maria-Juana, I will tell the police what I know,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell them what I saw. I saw you talking to the coachman.’

‘What coachman, darling?’

‘The black coachman who brought the coffin. The coffin with the Grimaud!’

‘Now listen to me, Stephan, I want you to go to bed-’

‘I am in bed. I saw you. You kept looking at your watch. You were expecting the coffin. Which means you know about the Grimaud. You know what I think? I think you arranged for the Grimaud to come to La Sorciere, so that it could kill Daddy R. Everybody thinks I killed Daddy R., but I didn’t. I’ve been remembering things, you see.’

She listened.

He had been in the garden. He had hidden in the bushes and watched from there. He told her what he had seen. He had seen the resplendent white hearse with the plumed horses carrying the white coffin with a surface as smooth as a mirror. The coffin had been lifted down by the coachman. A black giant, who handled the coffin single- handedly, with extreme care-

‘I saw you speak to the coachman, Mummy. You looked nervous. You kept looking round. Everybody else was in the house. They were with Daddy R., watching those boring home movies. It was obvious you were expecting the coach. But you forgot about me! I was in the garden.’

‘You seem to have got muddled up, darling,’ she said. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. ‘I believe you dreamt it.’

But he was right. She had been expecting the coach. She would have preferred something unobtrusive, less conspicuous. The plumed horses and other theatrical flourishes had all been Roderick’s idea.

She had instructed the coachman to leave the coffin inside the laundry room. The man had taken off his white topper. My condolences, madam. Quite absurd. She had given him a large tip. Perhaps the largest tip he had ever received in his entire life. She wasn’t worried the coachman would ever question why the coffin had been brought to La Sorciere or wonder about the reason it was placed inside the laundry. Lord Remnant’s eccentricities had been legendary.

No one else had witnessed the arrival of the coach but Stephan…

She had omitted to make sure Stephan was safely inside. One always tended to forget Stephan. Stephan so often moved in a zombified haze that one generally ignored him.

‘You must have dreamt it, darling,’ she said firmly. ‘It was one of your nightmares.’

‘I was curious, so I crept up to the laundry room and looked in through that tiny round window. I was curious about the coffin, you see. I wanted to take a proper look at it. The coach had left and you’d gone upstairs. I saw the coffin open and the Grimaud came out of it,’ Stephan said.

As a rule Louise Hunter felt quite happy on Thursdays, more animated than on any other day of the week, because of London, but her broken night had left her listless, with an aching head and an instinctive shrinking from light. Familiar noises seemed amplified; the chirruping of birds outside the window, the ticking of the grandfather clock and the distant bleating of sheep all sounded distressingly piercing to her ears. She felt heavy and unwieldy; she might have been her own wax effigy – now wasn’t that a curious concept?

‘You are going to London, aren’t you? Your usual haunts?’ Basil had spoken from behind his Telegraph.

‘I don’t know. I am not sure,’ she said hesitantly in the hope that he would try to persuade her not to go, that he might suggest they did something together, something simple like going for a walk or doing the crossword, but he didn’t.

Recklessly, she started buttering her fourth piece of toast. So much for her intention to go on a diet!

‘I am not sure,’ she repeated.

‘You love London,’ he said firmly. ‘Your week would be incomplete without your visit to London.’

He wants to be rid of me, she thought. ‘Don’t you like the marmalade?’ She had seen him grimace.

‘It tastes a little odd-’

‘There is a sealed jar in the pantry.’ She started to rise. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘No, don’t bother. Please. Don’t fuss. I’ll survive.’ He gave a rueful smile. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

She saw him glance towards the window. A longing kind of gaze. A gaze of glazed devotion. On a bright day one could see the spires of Remnant Castle from here. That woman! She would tear her apart if she could!

‘The coffee, on the other hand, is first class,’ he said.

‘I am so glad. I will order more of the same. It is a rather special kind of blend.’

‘Not Harrods, is it?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘That fellow mustn’t be encouraged.’

‘He mustn’t. Though I believe he sold Harrods to someone else.’

‘It’s a matter of principle.’

‘Of course it is. I completely agree,’ she said. ‘Shall I make you some more buttered soldiers?’

‘No, thank you. Don’t believe in gorging myself. Have you ever considered spending a day without eating?’

‘Do you think I should go on a diet?’ It was clear he found her fat. The thought plunged her into the depths of renewed depression and self-contempt.

‘Do you good, I should think.’ He rustled his paper. ‘Wouldn’t call it a diet. Not exactly.’

‘What is it then?’

‘One whole day without eating. Perhaps two. Or three. Why not four?’ Basil Hunter went on, warming to his theme. ‘Thinking of giving it a try myself. Apparently one wakes up the next day bright as a button. Mental faculties a great deal sharper. Starving encourages the flow of extra blood to the brain.’

‘That’s what happens when you stand on your head,’ she said.

He shook his teaspoon at her. ‘You will feel as though you are beginning to float away. And you find yourself laughing for no apparent reason.’

‘Sounds marvellous,’ Louise said. ‘Absolutely enthralling.’

Two red spots had appeared on her cheeks and now she felt a surge of excitement. Why, this seemed like old times! They were having a conversation.

Her joy, however, was short-lived. Basil failed to answer her question about the new heifer he had bought. He didn’t address her again and then she saw him gazing towards the window once more.

There was a silence.

Louise helped herself to a Danish pastry. She sighed. How she wished she had a narrower gullet, if not a supermodel’s inhibited appetite. Her thoughts returned to her conversation with Stephan. Stephan claimed to have seen the Grimaud, the immaculately dressed homunculus that was said to turn up at the house of the doomed in a coffin.

The Grimaud was a malevolent spirit, some Caribbeans said the Devil himself. The Grimaud had sleek black hair, three rows of teeth and burning red eyes. The Grimaud was conjured up by a man’s enemies and sent to his house to ‘claim’ him.

Nonsense. All nonsense, she told herself. Stephan had been under the influence of heaven knew what cocktail of drugs. Stephan had been hallucinating. Stephan had been seeing things that hadn’t been there.

Still, the fact remained that strange things had happened at La Sorciere on the day Lord Remnant died…

How did one explain the hands? And how exactly did one account for the laughter?

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