‘I think it’s time you went to bed, dear boy.’
‘Where is the American girl? I need to talk to the American girl. I intend to ask her a very specific kind of question. It’s frightfully important,’ John de Coverley said. ‘Would you be kind enough to take time off your dalliance and tell her I want to see her? It’s terribly urgent.’
All the candles had now been distributed, two to three for each room.
While admitting that it was a filthy habit, Major Payne claimed that smoking helped him to concentrate. Indeed a pipe could prove a source of the subtlest inspiration. But his pipe needed cleaning. He produced the spear-shaped metal implement he used for scraping out dead ashes from the bowl.
The ‘spear’ caught the flickering light of his candle and flashed it back. Payne blinked.
‘What was that?’ Antonia sat up. ‘A metal object catching the light. Perhaps that was the light Maisie saw a moment before the window was broken. That’s possible, isn’t it?’
‘It is perfectly possible, yes. She saw it in the middle of the library, though … What was it doing in the middle of the library?’
There was a pause.
‘Somebody must have thrown a metal object across the room,’ Antonia said slowly.
‘Why would anyone want to do that? What metal object?’
‘I am not sure, but I think I can guess…’
‘No, don’t tell me.’ Payne held up his hand. ‘Let me think … Good lord,’ he said quietly. ‘I believe I know … Not the –?’
‘Yes.’
‘But then that means –’
‘Yes.’
‘She lent it to Feversham but he never gave it back to her,’ said Antonia.
Enlightenment had come when least expected. The time was now half past seven.
31
COLD HAND IN MINE
There was a knock, the door opened and Ella Gales entered. In her hand she held a candlestick. Although they couldn’t see her face properly, they knew at once something had happened.
‘What’s the matter?’ Payne asked sharply.
‘It’s Doctor Klein. I don’t seem able to wake him up. He is a bad colour. He doesn’t seem to be breathing.’
The Paynes were quick and efficient. They asked no more questions. They got up and followed Ella. Each one of them held a burning candle.
The staircase creaked.
Back in the 1930s, when it was first built, Mauldeley, had been considered the very essence of modernity. It had been new and bright and shining. There had been no ‘atmosphere’ about it. But things had changed. More than eighty years on, the house had become old and eerie, at the moment, quite terrifying. It seemed to be pervaded by a faint smell which suggested seaweed that had been left drying in the sun.
No one said a word. As Ella led the way into Doctor Klein’s room and they filed in after her, there was a sudden draught and their candles flickered.
Doctor Klein – it was difficult to think of him as a ‘Freddie’ – was lying on his right side. His bulging body threw grotesque shadows on the walls.
Payne put his candle down on the bedside table. He then bent over the bed. Antonia and Ella stood close by and held up their candles, so that he could see better.
Payne lifted the cold hand, noticing how small and soft it was, dainty, even. He raised the eyelid, then placed his forefinger at Doctor Klein’s neck. Rigor Mortis not set in yet. Doctor Klein’s eyes were open, frozen in what Payne imagined was a ferocious expression. The lips were parted. The teeth were clenched in what looked like a snarling grimace. Or was he imagining it? The light was very poor.
The lips appeared slightly bruised. A minuscule crystal sparked on the corner of the mouth. And there was another one on the lower lip. With extreme care Payne detached the crystals and placed them on his handkerchief. Then he noticed a tiny cloth fibre sticking to Doctor Klein’s teeth. He held it up and gazed at it thoughtfully. Green … and yellow?
Should have been wearing gloves, he thought. Damn. Too late.
He frowned. Something stirring at the back of his mind … No, gone.
He closed Klein’s eyes, then straightened up. His expression was difficult to read.
Ella said, ‘He is dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s gone.’
They heard the patter of raindrops against the window-panes …
Payne’s eyes travelled to the bedside. No glass. No Bible. No, of course not. Doctor Klein had clearly cocked a snook at God’s divine right of determining who should be male and who female. There was a book sticking out of the drawer. Thus Spake Zarathustra. How very interesting. Payne picked it up. The central irony of the book was the fact that Nietsche had consciously mimicked the style of the Bible to present his defiantly anti-Christian ideas. Had Doctor Klein been fascinated by Nietsche’s super-mensch? That would be another irony.
Payne leafed through the book. His German was a little rusty …
Despisers of life, decaying and poisoned themselves, of whom the earth is weary, so let them go!
Putting down the book, Payne raised the handkerchief to his nose and sniffed at it delicately.
‘What’s that?’ Antonia asked.
‘Cyanide crystals. He seemed to have swallowed a lump of cyanide.’ Payne lifted Klein’s right hand and examined it carefully by the light of the candles. There were several crystals stuck to it. What kind of despair compels a man to pop a lump of cyanide into his mouth as though it were some luxurious bon-bon?
‘There doesn’t seem to be a suicide note,’ Antonia said. ‘He’s still wearing the dress.’
‘He killed himself. Perhaps it’s for the best. In fact, I am sure it’s for the best,’ Ella said quietly. Her voice was expressionless, as though coming from far away. ‘I will miss him,’ she added.
Payne picked up the reticule from where it lay beside the body – from inside it he extracted a phial, which he held against the candlelight, squinting at it. He unscrewed it. His nose twitched.
‘Bitter almonds,’ he murmured.
The next moment Payne remembered. Gloves. Where had he seen a pair of green and yellow tartan gloves?
The door burst open and Mrs Garrison-Gore appeared. She was wearing a flowered dressing gown, a blanket around her shoulders, her pork-pie hat and gloves. Payne’s eyes fixed on the gloves. No – these were black.
Mrs Garrison-Gore was holding a candle. She had a wild air about her. She brought to mind Grace Pool in Jane Eyre, Antonia thought.
‘So sorry, didn’t mean to barge in, but I heard voices.’ Her teeth chattered.
‘I am freezing. It’s impossible to do anything. What’s happened?’ Her eyes fixed on the body on the bed.
‘Doctor Klein is dead,’ Payne said.
‘What? When?’ She clutched at her bosom. ‘How did he die?’
‘He was poisoned. Cyanide.’
‘My God! Not – not by his own hand?’
‘It would appear so, though of course it is for the police to have the final say.’
Mrs Garrison-Gore emitted an inarticulate sound at the back of her throat.
Her hand shook and wax from the candle dripped on the floor.
Her eyes went to the balcony door, then travelled to the chest of drawers.
‘Do you think you’ll be all right sleeping next door? We could ask Sybil to get you another room.’ Payne was watching her carefully.
‘No, thank you. I’ll be perfectly all right.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore lingered. She seemed to come to a decision. ‘I’ve got a confession to make. No, I am not the killer!’ She guffawed. ‘It’s about Doctor Klein. I knew he was a transsexual before most of you did. You see, I sneaked into his room and ransacked his drawers. I found papers and photographs.’
‘While he slept?’
‘No, no. I am not that brave! He was with Ella at the time. Happened the other night. I was curious. I’d been wondering about him. Terrible thing to do, but there you are. I am a snooper. A Nosey Parker. I know I will
be in trouble. When the police come, they will find my fingerprints all over that chest of drawers. It didn’t occur to me to wear gloves. I only wear gloves when I am cold. I had no idea he would kill himself or be killed or whatever.’
‘You think he was killed?’
‘It would be idiotic not to consider the possibility.’
‘Any idea as to who might have done it?’ Antonia asked.
‘No. Rather, I wouldn’t like to say. Not till I have sorted out my thoughts.’
‘So you have an idea?’
‘I am not sure. Perhaps.’
‘You didn’t by any chance tell Oswald Ramskritt about your discovery? I mean about Doctor Klein being Freddie?’
‘No, of course not. I told no one. I had no idea he was Freddie, only that he was a transsexual.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore’s voice was gruff. Her bosom rose and fell. She kept rubbing her right hand with her left. She seemed to be in pain. ‘I am going now. I am sure I will survive the night. In fact I am not sure at all but another death on the island would definitely be de trop, so I promise to do my best not to add to the count of dead bodies!’
The door slammed shut behind her.
Back in her room, Mrs Garrison-Gore lit the spirit lamp Sybil de Coverely had given her and made herself a cup of tea. She put in two spoonfuls of sugar and took a sip. She told herself she was one of those rare fortunate people who actually know the difference between good and evil.
She spoke her thoughts aloud. ‘He was entirely evil. An unregenerate bully, if there was one. He’d elevated the act of malicious teasing to an art form. But why did you have to draw attention to yourself, Romany? Was that wise? You seem to positively enjoy courting disaster, my girl. And why do you persist in splitting your infinitives? Well,’ she went on in a slightly modified voice, ‘snooping is not such a heinous crime. Not as bad as murder anyway.’
It occurred to her that ‘snooper’ just missed being an anagram of ‘poisoner’. It would be dreadful if Major Payne and Antonia Darcy started suspected her of murder. Of double murder.
Once more she started crying. She couldn’t help herself. She was a self-deluding fool. Her nerves were in a poor state. She felt like opening the window and jumping into the sea. She was in the grip of a cold, lifeless despair. Her thoughts were running with the frenzied violence of a rat caught in one of those old-fashioned traps. It was as though some noxious substance had been syringed into her mind, curdling and destroying her peace.
She should never have allowed herself to be led into this quagmire. She cursed the day she said yes to Sybil de Coverley, who, of course, had been acting on behalf of Lady Grylls. She should have said no.
Pampered aristocracy, never done an honest day’s work in their entire lives, expecting everybody to be at their beck and call. Romany had bourgeois blood running in her veins and she was proud of it. Well, she had made a wrong decision. She had thought a small island would be rather fun to stage a murder mystery on. She had also felt flattered to have been asked to do the staging. She was a vain fool.
‘Bring back the guillotine!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore waved an imaginary banner. ‘Off with their heads!’
Murder by request. Perhaps she could write a book with a title like that one day?
She had always been aware of the ambiguity within the human condition; the double-sidedness that allows us to exist within ourselves, yet be different …
‘Pull yourself together, Romany. You never killed anyone.’
She still felt a little queasy. Deep breathing should do the trick. Inhale, exhale.
Mrs Garrison-Gore spoke out loud again. ‘You are completely innocent, my girl. You have nothing to fear. Your reputation remains unblemished. You are a good person. Your feet are not clawed, nor do you sport a tail, don’t you ever forget that. You need to be strong because it is up to you to nail down the killer.’
‘Well, that’s that,’ Feversham said. He swung his monocle on its black ribbon. ‘It’s perfectly clear what happened. Doctor Klein killed Ramskritt and then employed the same technique, only this time for purposes of self-extinction. Poetic justice, some may ay. Nothing poetic about it, really. Ghastly business. Poor fellow. Though perhaps “fellow” isn’t quite le mot juste. Chaps like that are never happy. They lead their lives in limbo. Neither fish nor fowl. Problems with passports, heading for the wrong lavatory and so on. I have heard some very strange stories. Neither fish nor fowl.’
‘Is that a hunting metaphor, Fever? Papa loved hunting metaphors,’ Sybil said. ‘Does your encyclopaedic knowledge extend to any hunting metaphors, Major Payne?’
‘To hunt with the hounds and run with the hares? That’s the only one I can think of.’
‘I know a good one. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.’
‘That’s not a metaphor, Miss de Coverley, it’s a pangram.’
‘I don’t think there is such a word. It would be absolute hell playing Scrabble with you.’
‘A pangram contains all twenty-six letters of the English alphabet,’ Payne explained. ‘It was particularly popular in the benighted pre-computer days when it was used to test typewriters.’
‘Quite a Mr Know-all, aren’t you? I bet you were frightfully unpopular at school.’
‘Au contraire.’
‘Tragic collisions between the two identities can become a daily occurrence. A fragile sense of self and a general feeling of futility and pointlessness. Chaps like that never feel they are in charge of their own destiny,’ Feversham went on in a meditative voice. ‘Self-pity and self-disgust are constant companions, not to mention the dreadful loneliness that comes with an inability to enjoy real intimacy. I am not talking entirely through my hat, you know. I nearly played a transvestite once.’
‘That’s not the same thing, Fever,’ Sybil said. ‘Different psychology altogether. Transvestites are quite happy, I think. They adore dressing up and putting on wigs and false eye-lashes and sequins and dancing and making risqué jokes and seducing boxers and cage fighters.’
‘I considered wearing a girlishly tiered ra-ra skirt of crushed velour,’ Feversham said in a reminiscent voice.
‘What a coincidence, my first teddy bear was made of crushed velour!’
‘I have locked Doctor Klein’s room. I will keep the key, if you don’t mind. I will hand it over to the police, whenever that may be.’ Payne spoke stiffly.
Sybil and Feversham had started getting on his nerves.
‘It’s a comfort in a way,’ Sybil de Coverley said. ‘Absolutely ghastly of course, but at least we know the nightmare is over. Poor Doctor Klein. A merciful release, I can’t help feeling. I don’t think he had any future, really.’
‘It’s got a lot quieter, hasn’t it?’ Feversham said. ‘Some wind, but no gibbering gulls. They have all been swept to the very bottom of the sea and eaten by giant turtles.’
‘In my opinion, it was Doctor Klein who killed Oswald and then took his own life. An open-and-shut case, if there was one. Wouldn’t you say?’ asked Sybil.
‘I wish I had your certainties, Miss de Coverley,’ Payne said.
His eyes were on Feversham.
32
THE CLUE OF THE SILVER BULLET
The following morning the rain stopped and the sun showed, pale and watery, from between the clouds.
In the room known as ‘Charlotte Russe’ Feversham woke up with a start. He hadn’t slept at all well. He was cold. No early morning tea. Why wasn’t the Teasmade working? No electricity! Of course. He’d forgotten. They would need to go down to the cellar and get the generator going. He and Payne. He didn’t relish the prospect at all …
Seven o’clock. Was that a spirit lamp on the side table? So he would be able to make himself some tea after all. There was a tin of powdered milk as well. The situation wasn’t as cataclysmic as it had seemed.
The moment he sat up in bed, he realised what it was that troubled him.
He hadn’t told Sybil.
Sooner or later he’d be found o
ut. Payne already suspected there was a connection between him and Oswald, despite Feversham’s denials. Feversham had tried to avoid a display of anything that suggested a guilty conscience, but he was far from convinced he had been successful … Damn Romany. Why couldn’t the bloody woman keep her trap shut?
He’d got himself into a flap. He’d acted in a guilty fashion.
Once the story of Oswald’s death hit the papers, it would only be a question of time before the connection was made public property. The news would be everywhere, not only in the papers but on TV and the bloody Internet. Oswald was a big fish, a multi-millionaire, an oligarch. He’d had his finger on all manner of pies.
So odd that they should have shared a mother …
Feversham got up and put on his rather sumptuous dressing gown.
His eyes fell on the gloves that lay on his bedside table. He must get rid of them. He didn’t care much for them, if he had to be perfectly honest. He’d tell Sybil he’d lost them or something.
The window curtains were an attractive shade of dark green – like the patination of an ancient bronze. He pulled them apart.
He needed to think.
The sea appeared calmer. But how black and swollen it looked!
That silly conversation at tea, the day the Paynes had arrived. He had given himself away. It had made Payne wonder. Payne was clearly the noticing kind. He should have steered the conversation into a different direction, Feversham reflected; he could have talked about something else – grouse shooting, the absolute disgrace of wind turbines or the addictive absurdity of Downton Abbey. No – he shouldn’t blame himself. It had been Oswald’s fault. Oswald had led him on. Oswald thought he was being clever and funny.
Feversham wondered what his next line of action should be. Sybil. He should tell Sybil. Yes. That would certainly be the decent thing to do. That was what a gentleman would do. These things did matter. He must tell her before his mask – his second mask, so to speak – was ripped off …
The Riddle of Sphinx Island Page 19