‘Yes, it’s already Saturday,’ Antonia said.
‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,’ Payne said. ‘Shakespeare meant this line to convey the relentless beat of time.’
‘You poor things! So much for your wedding anniversary!’
‘The murder of Sybil de Coverley has nothing to do with the Murder Game,’ said Payne in a thoughtful voice. ‘We don’t think the killer was inspired by it or anything of that sort, do we, my love?’
‘No. He would probably have done it anyway,’ Antonia said grimly.
Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘He? Do you mean you know who killed Sybil?’
‘We believe we do.’ Payne produced his pipe. ‘All of Sybil’s guests seem to have alibis. Feversham was in the dining room looking for a cufflink and he was joined by Oswald Ramskritt who confirmed it. Mrs Garrison-Gore looked in on Doctor Klein – we managed to have a brief word with him – then she went to the dining room and found Feversham and Ramskritt there, so that’s alibis for all three – Ella and Maisie confirmed they were in the kitchen till they heard Mrs G-G scream. Unless they are all in it, everybody seems to have an alibi for the time during which we believe Sybil was killed.’
‘People walked up and down the corridor past the library door, so the killer couldn’t have got to Sybil that way without being observed,’ said Antonia.
‘But how did he get to her? Who is the killer?’
There was a pause.
‘Sybil was clutching a monocle on a torn ribbon,’ Payne said. ‘She appeared to have ripped it off, which suggests a struggle. Sybil seemed to have tried to fight her killer back. Monocles are usually attached to the lapel or are worn round the neck –’
‘Feversham!’ Lady Grylls cried. ‘It was Feversham, wasn’t it?’
‘Feversham’s monocle is intact.’
‘He may have had a spare.’
‘That’s certainly possible, but, as it happens, we have a somewhat different theory,’ Antonia said. She wished she didn’t keep thinking it was all too easy. ‘Apart from Feversham, there is one other person in this house who wears a monocle. John de Coverley.’
‘The real John de Coverley,’ Payne said. ‘Earlier on I paid him a visit, you see. I went up to his room. His hands are bandaged. I may be wrong, but I think the bandages are suggestive –’
‘Oh but it can’t be John. A virtual impossibility. He’s been kept under lock and key.’ Lady Grylls spoke dismissively. ‘John is under house arrest. He couldn’t have got out of his room and gone to the library.’
‘As a matter of fact he could have. There is a concealed door in the library wall which leads to John de Coverley’s room.’
It was all too easy. Too easy, too soon. But then wasn’t that how things happened in real life? Antonia knew she was being irrational but she couldn’t help an acute sense of an anti-climax. She kept thinking something was not right. She blamed her mindset, which was that of a crime writer first and a normal human being second. How tedious that made her sound.
She found it hard to accept it was all over. Her sense of structure and pacing, if she had to be perfectly honest, were offended. Denouements, she reflected, do not happen as early as that. Not so soon after the finding of the body. If she ended a story at this point, it would be sent back to her with a request to make it longer. It wouldn’t have been the right length.
She was dismayed to find she felt close to tears. I am as bad as Mrs Garrison-Gore, Antonia thought. I write the same kind of rubbish. They say I give it a post-modern twist, they say it’s a ‘clever take’, they say that I tease both the detective story genre and its audiences, but it’s the same kind of rubbish. The normal recreation of noble minds indeed. Guedalla didn’t know what he was talking about. It’s nothing of the sort.
I keep thinking it can’t be John. We are meant to think it’s John. But it isn’t him. Too simple, too obvious. So easy to frame someone like John, to create a trail of clues that lead to him …
‘A secret door?’ Lady Grylls said.
‘Yes. A door camouflaged as bookshelves. Sybil pointed it out to us while she was showing us round the library. All you have to do is push in Proust’s Sodom and Gomorrah,’ Payne explained. ‘The door opens onto a staircase – a jolly narrow one, the precipitous, corkscrew variety – which winds up to John de Coverley’s room, or rather his dressing room. I checked. About twenty minutes ago I went up. On his side the door opens into his wardrobe, Narnia-fashion. The wardrobe is in his dressing room. I found John de Coverley in his room. He was sitting at his desk chewing blotting paper.’
‘He didn’t try to shoot you, did he?’
‘I don’t think he cared for the sight of me emerging from his dressing room, but he remained quite calm. He said he had no idea there was a door at the back of his wardrobe; his bloody sister had never told him about it. I was struck by the fact that his hands were bandaged. When I asked him what had happened, he said he’d been pecked by a seagull. A seagull had perched on his window sill and he tried to catch it. He managed to get hold of one of its legs and the gull pecked him … As he wasn’t wearing his special gloves, it was really bad. It drew blood … He let the seagull go …’
‘You don’t believe his story? What do you think happened?’
‘I don’t know.’ Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger. ‘Sybil seemed to have struggled as he was strangling her. She might have scratched him. I couldn’t possibly make him show me his hands. I have no right. That’s for the police to do … He said he had no idea what had happened with his blasted eyeglass. His blasted eyeglass had vanished.’
‘Did he look guilty?’
‘He looked put out. If John is as potty as everybody believes him to be,’ Payne explained, ‘he wouldn’t feel any guilt. In his mind he’s done nothing wrong. He killed his sister because he wanted the island to himself. She had left the island to him in her will … Exactly the way it happens in the Murder Game.’
22
METAMORPHOSIS
Ten minutes later they announced the results of their ‘investigation’ to the rest of the house party.
Everyone was there with the exception of Doctor Klein. Doctor Klein, Ella informed them, had gone to bed.
‘It is of course for the police to conduct a proper investigation. This,’ Payne said in conclusion, ‘is what we believe happened.’
Feversham rose solemnly to his feet, put up his eyeglass and shook Major Payne and Antonia by the hand. He thanked them for their efforts. Nothing could ever bring Sybil back, but the fact that her killer had been apprehended provided him with some comfort.
‘This is only what we believe happened,’ Payne repeated.
Feversham did his ambassadorial trick; he bent his body from the waist ceremoniously and held his well-tended hand at an angle. All he needed was a plumed hat, Antonia thought. He might have been greeting the President of the French Republic or the King of Siam. Feversham seemed to have slipped unconsciously into his John de Coverley persona.
Once more Payne had the uneasy feeling they were still playing the Murder Game – but Mrs Garrison-Gore’s distress struck him as genuine.
‘It was all my fault,’ he heard her whisper. She was holding her handkerchief pressed against her lips.
They had already made sure John de Coverley – the real John de Coverley – was under proper house arrest. No more loopholes. They had removed from his room anything remotely rope-like, including his dressing gown cord and shoelaces. The secret door was carefully locked.
They didn’t go to bed till two in the morning.
Antonia lay on her back and stared at the curtained window. The wind was howling. Rain had started pummelling the house. The sea made a sound like the apocalyptic thundering of hooves.
Though she felt extremely tired, sleep refused to come. She was surprised and a little annoyed that Hugh should have fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
Tomorrow we’ll get up and if the wind has subsided,
we’ll go and fetch the police, Antonia thought. Or rather Oswald will, in Cutwater. Hugh will go with him …
John de Coverley had told Hugh he had not been aware of the secret door in the library wall. Nothing John de Coverley said could be regarded as reliable, but what if he was telling the truth about the secret door? The secret door was the only access he had had to the library. What if it hadn’t been him after all? What if someone else killed Sybil – that person could easily have cut off John de Coverley’s monocle without him realising it –
Saintly self-composed Ella could have given John an injection and sent him to sleep. She had done it before. Or Doctor Klein could have given him an injection …
Ella … or Doctor Klein? Sybil had used the word ‘cabal’ in connection with those two …
Antonia’s eyes closed. She had started feeling sleepy.
There was something about Doctor Klein. Some indefiniteness or ambiguity which was hard to place … An incident had taken place earlier in the day, at tea. No, not an incident exactly. Why did she think it important?
They had been talking about cloning, about scientists playing God. Hugh had mentioned an interesting article he had read that morning, something about the possibility of cloning babies in the near future. Doctor Klein had taken part in the conversation and had propounded some very curious ideas. Then he suddenly seemed to lose interest in the discussion. He asked for The Times. Doctor Klein had been sitting in an armchair beside the window. Ella had folded the paper and tossed it at him. The paper had fallen on the floor. Doctor Klein didn’t seem to mind. Ella’s relaxed, rather informal attitude suggested she and Klein might indeed be rather close.
Doctor Klein had done something which had struck Antonia as odd. Now, what was it?
No, she couldn’t think. She was tired – oh so tired …
The sea seemed to be getting closer …
Suddenly she remembered something else.
She had seen Oswald Ramskritt trying to catch someone’s eye – it had happened in the drawing room, in the course of their last gathering – as Hugh had stood explaining why they believed it was John de Coverley who’d done it …
Oswald had winked at someone. As though to say – what? Well done, we pulled it off? Oswald’s lips had twitched into a smile. That, Antonia reflected, was what people did after pulling a successful prank or a hoax – only Sybil de Coverley had been killed for real.
Antonia had seen Feversham and Ramskritt looking conspiratorial together – they had been walking round the terrace before dinner – talking in low voices – she had the feeling Feversham was reporting to Ramskritt … They seemed engaged in arranging some carefully thought out scheme … She could not rid herself of the impression … But perhaps it was her imagination?
No. There was something. She was sure of it.
Were they accomplices? Not a terribly likely combination. Feversham was absurdly English, Ramskritt so very American. And why would they want to kill Sybil? Not for the fun of it, surely?
Antonia stirred restlessly. She turned to the left, then to the right.
Feversham and Ramskritt … Ella and Doctor Klein …
Ella had been aiming at Doctor Klein’s lap – but the newspaper had fallen on the floor. That was it. That was the odd thing. Doctor Klein had had to bend over and pick up the newspaper. Which he had done with some difficulty, puffing, due to his girth. His face had became mottled with the effort. But why did she believe that was important?
Eventually Antonia fell into an uneasy sleep.
He was an outcast on a cold star, enclosed in a wall of glass. He was unable to feel anything but an awful helpless numbness. He was looking down on the warm earth, into the nest of lovers’ beds, baby cribs, meal tables, all the solid commerce of life, of which he knew he would never be a part …
Doctor Klein decided to think of something funny, to relieve the gloom. He had been such a happy creature once, but these days he didn’t laugh often, not at all in fact …
Something funny. That socialist chess set? Yes. Why not? The socialist chess set had been funny. Very funny. It had not been meant to be funny, which only made it funnier.
The socialist chess set contained no king. The king’s place had been taken by a worker holding the economic plan in his hands. The rooks had become figures in the uniform of East German factory defence squads and the bishops were athletes. The pawns were workers of different trades, one carrying a hammer, the other a sickle. All that had been left of the original chess figures were the two knights, called ‘horses’ in German. The queen remained a woman, but she was intended to depict ‘the progressive intelligentsia’.
Doctor Klein laughed.
Major Payne was dreaming.
He had got out of bed and gone down to the library, unlocked the door and found the room empty. There was nothing on the hearthrug in front of the fireplace. Where was the body? It would be so easy to get rid of a body on a small island, he thought. One had simply to drag it to the rocks and drop it into the sea …
Smoke and mirrors, he heard Mrs Garrison-Gore’s voice whisper in his ear. Smoke and mirrors.
A girl had entered Ella’s room and was standing by her bed. She was thin, with a pale face and large feverish eyes. She was attractive in a haggard kind of way. She held out her hand towards Ella, in an imploring gesture.
‘Who are you?’ Ella asked.
‘Now you see me, now you don’t,’ the girl whispered. ‘Watch.’
She then started changing shape – expanding – she became bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, till she was transformed into a grotesque blob. The only thing that stayed the same throughout the transformation was the mark above the left eyebrow –
Ella cried out and woke up.
23
DAWN OF THE DEAD
It was quarter past nine in the morning. The house was very quiet. There seemed to be a lull in the storm. They couldn’t hear the sea. No squawking gulls either.
Thanks to the Teasmade, a 1950s model, which stood on Antonia’s part of the bed, they sat drinking their second cup of Darjeeling.
‘I am ravenous,’ Payne said. ‘Despite everything that has happened, I am ravenous. Do you think the good Ella has managed to rustle something up? Bacon and eggs would be just the ticket. What about you?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Antonia said. ‘I didn’t sleep too well. I’d rather sit here for a bit.’
Their room was pleasantly spacious, furnished in cherry wood, with narrow windows.
They were fully dressed now.
‘Today we have been married for ten years,’ Antonia said. She raised her cup of tea to her lips. She was sitting in the window seat.
‘Good lord. I completely forgot. What with the murder and everything. Awfully sorry. Happy anniversary, darling.’ He put down his cup and saucer. He went up to her and kissed her. ‘Ten wonderful years. Do you remember my wooing you at the old Military club?’
‘I most certainly do. I can’t believe it’s been ten years. It feels like yesterday. And here we are ten years and I don’t know how many murders later.’ She sighed. ‘Not counting this one.’
‘I suppose it’s hard not to feel morbid when there is a dead body lying in the library,’ Payne said.
‘I can’t believe it. Our hostess is dead and her brother is locked in his room, suspected of her murder.’
‘This is for you.’ He dropped a little onyx box in her lap. ‘Happy anniversary, darling.’ He kissed her again.
Antonia opened the box. ‘Oh Hugh – it’s lovely. Thank you! I’ve also got something for you – it’s in the suitcase.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘Let me guess – as you know, I am terribly good at guessing … A silver hip flask with Per Aspera engraved on it?’
‘It isn’t a flask.’
‘A folding Malacca cane with a silver handle?’
‘No.’
‘A frock coat and knee breeches whi
ch are an exact replica of the ones worn by George III?’
‘No.’
‘A Masonic tie-pin – topped by a topaz as large as a gull’s egg?’
‘No! You will never guess –’ She broke off. ‘Oh.’
She had suddenly remembered what it was about Doctor Klein that had been bothering her.
She sat very still.
‘What lent thee, child, this meditative guise?’ Payne said. ‘What on earth is the matter? Why the owlish expression all of a sudden? I’d rather you didn’t make yourself look like my aunt, you know.’
‘I thought you adored your aunt,’ Antonia said absently.
‘Yes, but not quite in the same way. It would have been terribly peculiar if I did adore my aunt in the same way.’
‘Hugh, I have had an idea. It concerns Doctor Klein … You’ll probably think me mad …’
He waved his hand. ‘Everything is permissible today. Fire away.’
‘Doctor Klein did something yesterday, which led me to think –’ She went on to explain exactly what she meant.
There was a pause. He stared back at her. ‘Golly … You may be right … Could it have anything to do with Sybil’s murder?’
‘If there is a connection, I don’t see it.’
Payne glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we go downstairs or would you rather have breakfast here? Shall I ask Ella to have a tray sent to you?’
Antonia had a faraway look on her face. ‘It was all too easy. What if John did tell you the truth? What if he had no idea the secret door existed? What if those scratches on his hands were made by a seagull and not by a struggling Sybil? Sorry. Did you say a tray? No, no. We’ll go downstairs together.’ Antonia rose. ‘I am damned if I am staying here all by myself.’
‘It’s so quiet, Hugh … Too quiet … Don’t you think? Where is everybody?’ Antonia whispered, unnerved.
‘And then there were none. Sorry, shouldn’t be saying things like that. Maybe they have all chosen to stay in their rooms? To catch up on their sleep?’
The Riddle of Sphinx Island Page 13