A Final Reckoning

by Susan Moody

  And I can tell you now that if (IF) Malc and I ever have kids, I shall love them to little bits and spend every day thinking how wonderful they are. And telling them, too. It’s what Mom always does and I think it’s a good thing. But I’ll also be hoping their aunt Chantal will be popping over from California all the time, to take the pressure off. (I’m only almost joking!)

  According to Jill, poor Clio is of a nervous disposition – (well, even I, a total newcomer, can see that!) – and has actually spent time in the psychiatric wing of the local hospital. She’s apparently always been sort of screwed up, ever since she was a child. She usually eats alone in her study, unless Harry is around, and the boys, when they’re here, usually eat with me and Jill in the kitchen. It’s not exactly ideal family life, is it?

  Especially when these boys, George and Edward, are the most adorable lads you could ever hope to meet. Thick blond hair, deep blue eyes, a lovely open manner … very very charming and well-brought up, as you’d expect. A bit naughty, by all accounts (actually, very naughty, according to Jill!), but they’re healthy boys, after all. And the third boy – Gavin – is cut from exactly the same cloth: I guess maybe there’s something to be said for private education after all.

  I managed to slip out for a walk late this afternoon. Went round the fields and through the woods. It gets dark here quite early, so lights come popping on in the houses around the valley. I came back along a little path which led to a marvellous little chapel sort of hidden behind yew trees and holly bushes. I peeked in and there was a stained glass window above the altar table and a couple of candles lit. It was really magical. Dusk falling and there were a few bursts of snowflakes, just in time for Christmas (did someone organize this specially??!!), and inside the chapel someone was playing the little organ – I think it was Bach. Totally lovely. You know the way we used to nominate special moments that we’d remember for the rest of our lives? Well, that was definitely one for my list.

  No idea who was playing but he or she is very talented.

  Bed calls. Looking after the boys is quite tiring, actually. Plus there’s all my other duties. Plus I’m trying to keep up with my reading for when I go back to uni. NOT that I’m complaining ’cause I really love it here.

  All love, your sister,

  Sabine

  I had come here in the hope of sharing in my sister’s final days. Instead I was learning far more about her killer. I went downstairs and ran into Maggie Fields on her way into the dining room and asked if I might join her. We sat down together at a table for two and ordered. Soup and salad for me, duck paté for her, followed by salmon.

  ‘You might not think it,’ she said, seeing my glance, ‘but archiving is hard work. I need to stoke up.’

  ‘It must be a fascinating job.’

  ‘Oh, it is. It involves so much more than merely making lists of objects in a room, or itemizing the contents of a cupboard. Reading long-ago diaries, going through old bills of sale, or dipping into letters describing long trips abroad and the purchases made along the way. Learning the life and times of people long dead, who still live on through their papers and possessions.’

  ‘Did you train as an historian?

  ‘Yes.’ She beamed. ‘God, I can still taste the delight when I got the letter saying that I’d won a scholarship, that I’d get to spend three whole years in Oxford. Almost no one from my inner-city school in Salford had even gone to university, let alone Oxford.’

  ‘It must have been amazing.’

  ‘It was the culmination of all my dreams, all the hard work I had to put in.’ Her smile was huge, as though she’d just heard the news that very morning. ‘Oxford, home of learning and all that, all those dreaming spires. I imagined everybody wandering round in mortar-boards and gowns, attending lectures in ancient buildings bursting with academic achievement and intellectualism. Not to mention punting and college balls and summer picnics beside the Cherwell, all that Alice-in-Wonderland pastoral jazz which probably bore as little relation to reality then as it does now.’ She spread paté on a piece of wholemeal toast and happily chewed it.

  ‘And did Oxford live up to your expectations?’ I asked.

  ‘It fulfilled them all, and more.’ Reminiscently, she shook her head. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  I coughed. Sipped some water. ‘Uh … I overheard you talking last night to …’ I discreetly pointed my chin to where Fingal sat, three or four tables away, eyeing Maggie in a manner which seemed to me to verge on the possessive. He caught my eye and scowled.

  ‘Fingal Adair? Did you?’

  ‘You were right beneath my window.’

  ‘I was up at the same time as his … uh … girlfriend. She and I were studying the same subject and became good friends, which is how I came to meet him.’

  ‘She?’ I knew the answer but wanted to hear her tell me.

  ‘Um …’ For a moment Maggie seemed disconcerted. It was obvious that she had been enjoined by David Charteris not to mention Clio or anything else that had taken place here. ‘Someone called – um – Clio Palliser. Who used to own this house, incidentally.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Fin was a little older than us two, a junior lecturer, but we hung out together. Until Clio left.’ Frowning slightly, she pressed her table napkin to her mouth, as though to prevent further injudicious words from tumbling out.

  And then she laughed suddenly, her pale eyes bright. ‘Oh, why am I being so coy? Goodness, that Clio. She was a real live wire, zipping about Oxford on her bike or rushing into lectures, out of lectures, in and out of parties, up and down the stairs in college, wearing the most amazing brilliant colours, trailing scarves and shawls and ribbons. She was like a … like a dragonfly on speed.’

  ‘She sounds like fun.’ Talking in that familiar way about my sister’s killer felt as though I was chewing barbed wire.

  ‘Oh, she was. “Calm down, girl,” I used to say. “Relax. Take it easy.” And she’d look so distressed … She’d say, “But I can’t. Don’t you see? I can’t afford to stop. I haven’t got time.”’

  ‘I wonder what she meant.’

  Maggie spread her last piece of toast and crunched it down. ‘Who knows? But I could tell even back then that something had to be very wrong. It was fairly obvious that all that whooshing energy was being powered by something kind of dark and corrosive. Maybe even dangerous.’

  Energy that turned into the darkest of rages, I thought. Danger that had culminated in mutilation and murder. Maggie was making allowances, even excuses. But then she had been the woman’s friend. I had not.

  She pursed her mouth. Dabbed at her lips with her napkin. ‘Oh, hell,’ she said. ‘I’ve already been so indiscreet …’ She glanced towards the door of the room as though worried that David Charteris was standing there, lip-reading our conversation. ‘I might as well come clean and tell you – in confidence – that my poor friend was … uh … involved in some fairly nasty goings on here, some years ago. For obvious reasons, David doesn’t want people to be aware of what happened, but it’s difficult to keep it all under wraps. It was such a cause célèbre at the time.’

  ‘Too late for discretion,’ I said. ‘There are several people here who were involved in some way or another.’

  ‘What?’ She seemed alarmed. ‘Does David know?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Who, for instance?’

  I gave her a quick run-down: Stonor, Fingal Adair, Malcolm MacDonald (if my suspicions about his identity were correct), Brian Stonor, Gavin Vaughn.

  ‘Gavin Vaughn,’ she repeated. ‘As in Metcalfe-Vaughn?’

  I nodded.

  ‘My God. He’s here? The third boy? The one that got away?’

  ‘If you can ever be said to get away from something like that.’

  ‘And the policeman who was involved in the original investigation. That’s rather bizarre, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s because of Mr Charteris’s advertisements for this special weekend. We all saw them, and
that’s the reason each of us came.’

  ‘But why, after so long?’

  ‘I don’t know about the others.’ I avoided her inquisitive grey eyes. ‘But I came for my sister’s sake.’

  There was a small hiatus in the conversation as we glanced at each other and away. On the terrace, the plants in their pots were swaying, caught in a gust of the wind which was wiping out the fine day. Cobweb-grey clouds drifted across the sky, casting irregular shadows over the fields. A small pale bird landed on the flat stone balustrade and began to sing, its little body throbbing with the strength of its music.

  Then she said carefully, ‘Your sister?’

  I fiddled with my water glass and took a deep breath. Eventually, I said, ‘Look, I know all about Clio Palliser and what happened here.’

  She drew in a sharp breath. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. It was my sister who Clio killed, along with her own sons.’

  Slowly, she nodded. ‘I see. At least …’ She smiled fleetingly. ‘I don’t know exactly what I see. But something. And I’m so very very sorry. About your sister, I mean. That’s not an easy thing to live with.’

  ‘Tell me …’ I could feel my throat thickening. ‘Since you knew the … uh … assailant, tell me how she could possibly do such a thing.’

  ‘I’ve asked myself that a hundred times. When it first hit the headlines, I just … I didn’t know what …’ Maggie shrugged her shoulders, lifted her hands. ‘I mean, it was so unlike her. Her own children …’

  ‘But just now you used the word corrosive about her. And dangerous.’

  ‘I know. And when I knew her at Oxford, I can’t pretend that she didn’t sometimes fly into terrible rages, usually about something completely trivial, like her bike having a puncture, or an ink-blot on an essay – we didn’t use computers back then.’

  ‘Was she ever violent?’

  ‘No. Not at all. Well, not really. Oh, she might have aimed a kick at her bike or thrown a book across the room, but nothing more than that. Broken a cup or a mirror or something. I can see that there was a lot of stored-up anger there. But murder …’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t get my head round it. Still can’t. OK, she was always a little strange, a little different. But God! Her own kids. How could she?’

  ‘Did you know Mr Adair would be here?’

  ‘Fingal? Not in the least. What a pleasant surprise it was to see him again after all these years.’ When she smiled, dimples showed in her cheeks. She pushed her plate away. ‘Excuse me, won’t you? I have to get back to work.’

  ‘Just before you go … what was her second husband like? Harry Redmayne.’

  ‘I never met him. I went to New York after I graduated, and Clio and I lost touch. It wasn’t until I saw something about the murders in the New York Times that I even realized it was her.’ She stood up. ‘You could try talking to Fin, but I don’t think you’ll find him any more enlightening about it all than I’ve been.’

  ‘One last question: what happened to all the stuff here after … after she was found guilty?’

  ‘I believe most of the valuable pictures went into storage, along with some of the furniture. And a company specializing in maintenance of places like this came in every three or four weeks and gave the entire house a good clean, got rid of spiders and moths and rats and so on, made sure the soft furnishings weren’t succumbing to the ravages of damp and mice and all the other nasties which try to invade a neglected house. Which is very nice for me, compared to some of the places I’ve had to work in.’

  ‘So basically the house was left more or less as it had been that night?’

  ‘As far as I know. At least, until David and Omar began doing the place up.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I watched her walk away across the room, stopping at Adair’s table to speak with him briefly. Shoulders straight, figure melding into late middle age, good legs. A nice woman.

  I debated getting up and joining Adair, but before I could do so, he got up himself, following Maggie out of the door.

  Another time, then.

  Meanwhile, there was Gavin Vaughn. I desperately wanted to speak to him. He might have seen Sabine just before she died. But I didn’t want to open wounds that I suspected were nowhere near healed. Not his, not mine. I’d worked out why he’d been so upset when I quoted A.A. Milne at breakfast. It was a line Sabine and I often repeated, if Dad started making a fuss about something; she must have done the same here.

  Despite the rising wind, coffee was being served outside on the terrace. I took my cup over to one of the slatted wooden tables and looked out across the parkland. About three minutes later, Gavin Vaughn joined me. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He sat down, and we both sipped coffee in silence, until he said, ‘I’m going into the town shortly. Anything I can get you?’

  ‘No, thanks. But might I come with you?’

  For a moment, he hesitated.

  ‘It’s supposed to be rather picturesque,’ I said.

  ‘All right.’ It wasn’t exactly the warmest of responses, but I wasn’t about to quibble.

  Seven

  When we got there, the steep little High Street was strung with red, white and blue bunting, and the old-fashioned wrought-iron lamp-posts trailed tricoloured beards.

  Gavin edged his car into a space I wouldn’t even have contemplated and we got out. He stood on the pavement and stared up and down. ‘It’s hardly changed,’ he said softly.

  I followed him as the street opened out into a pretty square with a fountain in the middle. Stalls were set up all round, selling the usual things: cheap clothes, local honey, hand-thrown pottery, cheeses, flowering bulbs, second-hand books. There was a flower stall and a trestle table laden with earth-crammed leeks and weird-looking potatoes.

  Gavin found a little café behind a pots-and-pans seller who stood guarding his wares with folded arms and a thin cigar in his mouth. We sat down, ordered a pot of tea and a cheese scone each. We were silent until the waitress appeared with a homely brown pot and a couple of bright yellow scones with tiny brown bits on top.

  ‘OK,’ he said, when cups had been filled and scones spread with butter. ‘Who exactly are you? Are you the police?’

  ‘The police?’ What a bizarre idea to come up with.

  He scrutinized my face, his brow puckered, not quite a frown but very far from amiable. He blinked a couple of times, looked at me again, said, ‘All right. I think I can guess. You’re Sabine’s sister, aren’t you?’

  I nodded agreement. Before I could say anything else, he went on: ‘Ever since we met, I’ve had this feeling I knew you. She used to talk about you all the time, how pretty you were, how clever. She showed us photos of her family.’ He pressed fingers against his forehead. ‘You live in California, don’t you? Your mother’s French. Your father’s a professor of something.’

  ‘Did. Was. Was,’ I said. ‘A potted biography: my mother never got over losing Sabine and died a couple of years later. After that, my father gave up teaching and moved to Rome with me, where he took up antiquarian book-selling. I attended a small liberal arts college in California for my first degree and then went on to Edinburgh, just like my sister.’

  ‘So why did you come for this weekend?’

  ‘There were a number of reasons, most of them fairly vague, mostly to do with Sabine. Why did you come?’

  He looked across the bustle of the crowded market square. ‘Like you, I’m not entirely clear about my motivation. But I …’ He stared down at the earthenware tiles beneath our feet. ‘The thing is, I’ve been haunted for years by – by what happened. As you have too, I’m sure. It’s not simply the blood and … the other things. I’ve just … ever since it happened, I’ve had this terrible feeling that I’m responsible for … well, for ruining someone’s life.’

  I could see his hands trembling on his knees, until he folded them together. ‘Ruining whose life?’

  He ignored my question. ‘And what did I think I’d achie
ve by coming here? Did I think I could wipe the slate clean? God only knows.’ He wiped his hand over his face. ‘When I saw the advertisement in the in-flight magazine coming back from Singapore, it seemed like serendipity. You know, not only a relaxing way to recoup after eight years at the cutting edge of the financial markets, but also a possible means of coming to terms with it all.’

  I smiled. ‘My sentiments precisely.’

  ‘I’d love to know what my therapist would say if she could see me here. Something like, “Smart move, Gavin. Face your demons. Way to go, boy!” That’s the irritating way she talked. I’m sure I came across as a complete nutter, but really, I’m not.’ With a sort of laugh, he added, ‘But then I would say that, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘You seem perfectly sane to me.’

  ‘It was my parents’ idea that I should go to therapy. They thought it would make me feel more optimistic about life. In actual fact, the wretched woman never said anything even remotely positive in all the time I went to her.’

  ‘Mine was the same. She had a way of shaking her head in a pitying manner which always made me feel I’d slipped up in some indefinable way.’

  He laughed, his nice face relaxing for the first time since we’d met the day before. ‘Mine used to say, “And how do you feel about that?” and hand me a box of tissues when I started blubbing on her sofa. As if the answer wasn’t always going to be, “Bloody terrible, since you ask, which is why I’m sitting here bawling my guts out and droning on about my worst nightmares, while you doodle on a pad of recycled paper and surreptitiously look at your watch.”’