The Murder Of Gonzago

parties. He had admitted to blowing ten thousand on a special kind of tent which had been hand-made in Ceylon and delivered to Grenadin by helicopter.

‘Back in the seventies those parties were considered the epitome of glitz and glamour, Provost. Or what in the seventies passed for glitz and glamour. Roderick became known as the Jet Set Monarch. He was always photographed wearing a crown… I believe he was interested in witchcraft as well?’

‘Lord Remnant dabbled in voodoo or hoodoo, m’lady. Apparently he attempted to resurrect the dead.’

‘His idea of a party trick, I suppose. Well, it seems to be the right part of the world for that sort of thing.’

Provost cleared his throat. ‘Lord Remnant and his family were said to be under a curse, m’lady. It has been claimed that he built La Sorciere on top of a piece of West Indian holy ground, which he should never have done.’

‘The curse, yes. It all comes back to me now. Well, I don’t know. It’s true that Remnants have had all sorts of problems. Roderick never had any children. Poor wretched Deirdre became a kleptomaniac following her menopause, then she hanged herself most inexplicably. They say Clarissa has had as many lovers as there are Chinamen in China. I am sure you know all about Clarissa’s lovers, Provost?’

‘I am afraid not, m’lady,’ Provost said after a little pause.

‘The stepson is a drug fiend and he’s got a screw loose. Roderick has now died at the comparatively young age of sixty-eight and the title has passed to his younger brother who is a compulsive scribbler, though he can’t get anything published.’

‘Most distinguished families are said to have a curse. The Sassoons, the Tennants, the Kennedys, the Grimaldis-’

‘Sometimes, Provost, I wonder if a curse is not just a handy way of excusing generations of self-indulgence and general bad behaviour.’

‘Certain members of the Royal Family used to be regular visitors at La Sorciere, but then they suddenly and for no apparent reason stopped going.’

‘Is that to be blamed on the curse as well?’ Lady Grylls appeared amused. ‘You don’t have to speak of the Royal Family in such hushed tones, Provost. Ridiculous. I don’t suppose you still pray for the Royal Family, do you? You do? Goodness. Remnant parties were the stuff of legend. One had to be terribly amusing or good-looking or fascinating or outrageous to get an invitation to a Remnant party. Not any longer, it seems. Still, they appear to have been getting up to all sorts of silly things. The latest craze – there was something about it in the Mail. What was it? Miltonesque litanies?’

‘Shakespearean capers, my lady.’

‘Sounds like the kind of thing that would drive me mad. Who was the ugly character in Shakespeare who lived on an island?’

‘Caliban, m’lady.’

‘Are you sure, Provost? I thought the Caliban was a somewhat extreme Afghan nationalist movement.’

‘That’s the Taliban, m’lady.’

‘I wonder if the stepson will be at the funeral. The stepson is subject to sudden and intense disorientation, or so they say. His head, apparently, poses great problems for the medical brains of Harley Street. They keep sending him to some terribly expensive place, but then he comes back and the whole thing starts all over again. He hates his stepfather. Hated, one should say. I understand he threatened to kill him on a great number of occasions.’

2

Conversation Piece

‘Do correct me if I am wrong, my dear, but you seem to be enhaloing the name La Sorciere with a whole new morbid aura,’ said the former Gerard Fenwick, now the thirteenth Earl Remnant.

‘I am certain they are all involved in some way, the whole Sorciere set. Clarissa and Glover and Miss Tilling and Dr Sylvester-Sale,’ Felicity Fenwick said. ‘And the Hunters. The Sorciere Six, as the press may well dub them one day. On the analogy of the Tapas Seven.’

‘Can’t imagine the Hunters being involved in anything.’

‘They all had a guilty air about them. They looked conspiratorial. They kept exchanging furtive glances. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’ The new Lord Remnant crossed over to the drinks trolley and poured himself a whisky. ‘No one is at their best at funerals. I thought they looked subdued and terribly pale and pinched, but then didn’t we all?’

‘You couldn’t look pale even if you tried.’

It was the kind of cutting remark that made Gerard Fenwick wonder about the state of their marriage. Better pretend he hadn’t heard.

He raised the whisky glass to his lips. ‘That was an embarrassing little scene, wasn’t it? Never imagined Tradewell was an emotional chap. Falling to his knees – praying in that booming voice, with his hands clasped above his head. Sobbing.’

‘I am sure Tradewell was crying for himself. His fate is a bit uncertain now.’

‘Tradewell’s an oxymoron. An emotional butler. But you may be right. Don’t suppose Clarissa cares much for Tradewell. I know he “goes” with the house, but we may not need him either.’

‘We don’t have to live at Remnant, do we?’

‘We’ll be expected to put in an appearance every now and then. Noblesse oblige and all that sort of rot.’

Gerard Fenwick stood beside the window, nursing his drink, gazing at the sky, which was a gash of crimson and orange. His thoughts turned to Renee Glover. The way she had smiled at him – such a sweet smile. Renee was genuinely interested in his writing…

Felicity said, ‘No second thoughts about starting the – what is it you wanted to call it? Dilettanti Drag?’

‘Dilettanti Droug. Was that meant to be funny? It will be a small but rather exclusive press,’ he said stiffly. She doesn’t understand me, he thought. She doesn’t understand me at all.

‘Oh yes. Droug is Russian for “fiend”, I keep forgetting.’

‘It’s Russian for “friend”. There is a difference, you know.’ Felicity was doing it on purpose, he was convinced of it. She was trying to get at him. ‘No, no second thoughts, my dear. No reason why I should have changed my mind, is there?’

‘Clarissa says she’ll move to La Sorciere permanently. Grenadin clearly agrees with her.’

‘Clearly. It doesn’t agree with me. Thank God we only got invited once. So hot – and all those mosquitoes! I don’t suppose we were their sort of people. We don’t seem to scintillate.’

‘I wouldn’t have said the Hunters scintillated exactly. Louise Hunter is so fat. The Hunters lack – what is it they lack? A significant something.’

‘Charm? Unity? An edge?’

‘That’s it. No edge.’ Felicity nodded. ‘I have known beach balls with more edge to them than the Hunters.’

‘I believe they are frightfully mismatched. Louise is dire, I agree, but I don’t think there’s anything really wrong with Hunter.’

‘I don’t suppose I could ever like Louise Hunter, not even if she were to save me from drowning or death by fire.’

‘I feel sorry for Hunter. He is a first-class farmer. I wouldn’t be able to do half the jobs he does. He understands cattle… When was it we saw my brother on the box? Was it last year or the year before?’

‘Last year – you mean that ghastly documentary, don’t you?’

‘Yes. It was ghastly, wasn’t it? Roderick’s teeth didn’t seem to fit and he never for a moment took off that ludicrous hat. He seemed peculiarly rejuvenated, didn’t you think?’

‘People always look different on the box,’ Felicity said dismissively. ‘Would you get me a Scotch, Gerard? With