Murder of Gonzago

Whore, Louise mouthed. Slut.

The tape. Had Gerard Fenwick received it? Had he watched it and, if he had, had he seen the gun showing through the window curtains? Most importantly, what was he going to do about it? Well, he would get in touch with Clarissa and ask her what it all meant. That would be the logical course of action, wouldn’t it?

Louise rather liked the idea of Clarissa being pushed into a tight corner and asked awkward questions.

My brother was killed, wasn’t he? You know who shot him, Clarissa, don’t you? You must know. I am sure you are behind it. However did you manage to get a death certificate signed by two doctors?

The tape was not the only thing Louise had sent. There was also the anonymous letter to Clarissa. She had cut the letters out of Country Life and the Field. Well, the more harassed and harried Clarissa felt, the better. People, women in particular, aged prematurely when they were kept in a state of anxiety. Women lost their allure fast. What was it Lady Wishfort said? Why, I am arrantly flayed; I look like an old peeled wall!

Arrantly flayed. She would love to see Clarissa arrantly flayed!

Things between her and Basil hadn’t always been as bad as they had become. Only a couple of months back they had talked. They had agreed there was nothing like the last days of summer — those beautiful hot days that had within them the seeds of their own fragility. She told him how much she enjoyed waking up to a mild pinkish dawn and watching the mist lifting from the garden. He said there was nothing like an autumn sun shining out of a cloudless blue sky, without glare and without brilliance-

Louise Hunter fumbled for her handkerchief. Odd thing, memories — rising at such unexpected moments, quite unsolicited — exploding on the surface like bubbles.

And then, without rhyme or reason, she remembered something else that had happened at La Sorciere.

It had been about an hour and a half after lunch. She and Hortense had happened to walk past the open door of Lord Remnant’s study. Louise had been talking about the farm. Friends of Hortense’s had apparently just bought a farm in South Africa.

They had caught sight of Lord Remnant sitting at his desk, a startlingly gleeful expression on his face. In his hands Lord Remnant had been holding-

20 The Conundrum of the Curious Codicil

Unlocking the front door, Gerard Fenwick let himself into the house. His nose twitched. How terribly peculiar, someone had been smoking a cigar — one of his cigars. His thoughts turned once more to his vanished cigar cutter.

‘Felicity?’ he called out. He went into the drawing room.

He looked at the TV. What was that rigmarole about a videotape showing his brother’s death? His brother hadn’t died naturally, Felicity had said. Well, he was perfectly aware of the fact-

He rang the bell. Their maid appeared.

‘Ah, Goda. I would like a cup of tea.’ He spoke slowly, making it sound like a sentence out of an English grammar book. ‘And something to eat. A plate of sandwiches, perhaps? Have we got smoked salmon?’

‘Sir?’

‘People eat a lot of fish in Lithuania, don’t they?’ He tapped his forehead with a forefinger. ‘Must be terribly brainy, Lithuanians.’

‘Sir?’

‘Awfully good for the brain, fish. Is my wife in?’

‘My wife?’

‘My wife.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Lady Remnant.’

‘Lady Remnant is upstairs.’

‘Upstairs? It’s starting to rain again, now isn’t that a bore? Does it rain a lot in Lithuania? I know it snows a lot, doesn’t it? I understand parts of the Baltic freeze in winter, is that correct? I suppose skating parties are terribly popular in Lithuania? Skating’s jolly graceful, if one does it properly. Do you miss Lithuania?’

‘Everybody know Miss Lithuania, sir.’ Goda beamed. ‘Miss Lithuania is very beautiful girl. Her name Ugne Tautvydas. I see Miss Lithuania on television. My sister say to me, you look like Miss Lithuania!’ Goda laughed. She shook her head vigorously. ‘My sister joke.’

‘Ah. Miss Lithuania. Beauty contests. Of course. Ha-ha. Most amusing. Jokes are so important. Life would be hellish without jokes. Ha-ha. Would you be kind enough to tell my wife I am back?’

Ten minutes later Gerard and Felicity sat in the drawing room drinking tea. I used to enjoy this, he thought. Perhaps we should get a divorce. She wanted to know about the will, so he told her.

‘No real surprises, my dear, all as I expected, all terribly predictable, barring one curious codicil added not so long ago.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Something of a mystery, though Clarissa didn’t seem particularly surprised.’

‘What curious codicil?’ Felicity sounded impatient.

‘Roderick left a largish sum of money to someone no one seems to have heard of. No, not a woman, my dear. Someone called Peter Quin.’

‘Peter Quin? Who the devil is he?’

‘No idea.’

‘How large is the sum?’

He told her.

‘You can’t be serious.’ She put her teacup down. ‘That’s a fortune.’

‘Not really, my dear. What is five million pounds when my brother left — um — I forget the exact figure, but you know perfectly well it’s an awful lot. I mean — an awful lot. Indecent, almost.’

‘Who is this Peter Quin?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest, I keep telling you. The fellow wasn’t there. Saunders didn’t know either, or maybe he’s had instructions not to divulge anything. Didn’t think it polite to press the point.’

‘Didn’t think it polite to press the point! Really, Gerard!’

‘It’s all being done through Quin’s solicitors. Saunders had the details of Quin’s bank account and so on. Oh, he also said that Quin was perfectly aware of the legacy. Apparently, Quin had done my brother some great favour or something.’

‘Is there a chance of your being less vague, Gerard? What great favour? Peter Quin. I have a feeling I’ve seen the name somewhere. I may be imagining it.’

‘The Turn of the Screw. If that’s what you are thinking of. No, the name of the evil valet was Peter Quint. With a t, see? It’s considered to be the greatest ghost story ever written, but, entre nous, the pacing is somewhat sluggish. And what exactly happens at the end, I would like to know?’

‘I don’t think I’ve read it.’

‘Did it all take place in the governess’s mind? But then who or what killed Miles? I may try my hand at a ghost story, actually. I would set it at a place like Remnant, which I remember one of my uncles describing as “magnificently macabre”. Remnant would make the perfect setting for some bizarre melodrama that culminates in a crime passionnel.’

‘What did Clarissa have to say about the codicil?’

‘Not much. She’s got awfully thin, you know. She wore black. Kept smoking. Egyptian cigarettes, I think. Had a haunted air about her. She didn’t seem at all surprised about the Quin codicil, no.’ He reached out for the teapot. ‘She looked terrified, for some reason. More tea, my dear?’

‘Terrified?’

‘Yes. She clasped her hands, to prevent them from shaking. She didn’t say much. She seemed oddly preoccupied. On a different planet altogether … Have you been smoking my cigars, Felicity?’

‘Your cigars? What an extraordinary question. Of course I haven’t been smoking your cigars.’