The Killing of Olga Klimt

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘Where should it have been?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let me try again. I seem to feel it was impossible for something to have taken place – because of Joan Selwyn’s mobile. That doesn’t make much sense either, does it? Well, I also seem to believe that someone – one of the people involved in the case – told a particular lie that in some way is of the greatest significance …’

  ‘What about Lord Collingwood’s mysterious friend?’ Antonia asked suddenly. ‘Where does he come in?’

  Payne shook his head. ‘I have absolutely no idea. Collingwood said he would explain but I am not sure I want to hear it as it will only add to the chaos. You don’t think the mysterious friend will turn out to be the killer, do you? It makes no sense … What’s the matter?’

  Antonia had opened her eyes wide. ‘I believe it does make sense. Yes, it does. Oh, my God – Hugh, it does!’

  ‘What does? Don’t tell me you’ve worked it out. You couldn’t have.’

  ‘Yes, I have. It’s all there. The mobile – the particular lie – the lie is of paramount importance, exactly as you said. But – but if so – if so – it turns the whole case on its head!’

  ‘Who is the mysterious friend then?’

  ‘There is no mysterious friend,’ Antonia said. ‘The mysterious friend does not exist. Oh my God, Hugh, it’s so simple. You will want to kick yourself when I tell you –’

  ‘No, don’t tell me!’ Payne raised his hand. ‘I believe in making the old cerebellum work. All right. I know with absolute certainty that there is an event that couldn’t have happened. It’s something to do with those deleted messages, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, not really. It’s to do with Joan’s mobile phone all right, but not with the messages.’

  ‘It can’t be Billy, can it? No, too stupid. Must be Billy’s evil avatar then. Mortimer is the kind of chap who luxuriates in his own transgressive badness. He hated Joan. He and Billy look uncannily alike. D’you remember Bros, the singing twins that were such a hit with teenage girls in the eighties? Mortimer and Selkirk reminded me of them, though I very much doubt they have much time for girls. Perhaps they did it together? I mean the murder.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Sieg Mortimer or with Billy Selkirk. Sorry to disappoint you. You are running out of time now.’ Antonia glanced at her watch. ‘Shall I tell you?’

  ‘No, wait. I think it’s coming … You said there was no mysterious friend? That means Collingwood told a lie.’

  ‘Yes –’

  Suddenly Payne leant forward. ‘What was it you said earlier on? You couldn’t let me know you were going out to meet Deirdre because you’d left your mobile phone behind.’ He slapped his forehead with his hand. ‘Good lord, I’ve got it! That’s what happened with Joan Selwyn, isn’t it? She had left her mobile phone behind!’

  ‘Yes,’ Antonia said quietly.

  ‘Joan Selwyn couldn’t have been phoned and told to go to Philomel Cottage for the simple reason that she didn’t have her mobile with her. She couldn’t have received that call at Richoux’s. Her mobile was at Sieg Mortimer’s flat. She didn’t have a second mobile. That phone call never took place. Therefore, the question is, why did Collingwood need to invent a phone call and an anonymous caller?’

  ‘There is only one obvious answer.’

  ‘Yes. The obvious answer is that Collingwood wanted to distract attention from himself since it was he – he – who asked Joan Selwyn to go to Philomel Cottage. Collingwood invented a mysterious friend who’d left something behind and urgently needed to retrieve it. Collingwood wasn’t aware of the fact that Joan didn’t have her mobile with her –’

  Antonia said, ‘Some killers try to be too clever and that in the end proves to be their undoing.’

  Sieg Mortimer was giving Billy Selkirk a short lecture on the art of writing a certain type of detective story.

  ‘Imagine one counter, the killer, advancing slowly, capriciously, moving here, halting there, along a zigzag path traced upon a multi-coloured board, while another counter, the detective, follows, also moving at intervals, until, suddenly, and should chance and logical deduction will it so, the second counter overtakes the first, and then the two, the pursued and the pursuer, meet on the final square –’

  34

  TERROR BY NIGHT

  I get a perturbing message from the manager of the Holyrood Hotel and I am compelled to leave Lady Collingwood with undignified haste. She is disappointed that we can’t go through with the plan after all. Some other time, I tell her, or perhaps she could do it without me? Is she capable of acting solo? She is sure she is, so long as I remain with her ‘in spirit’. She reminds me of the telepathic communication that exists between us. As we part she clutches my hand and begs me to remain with her ‘in spirit’.

  I arrive back at the Holyrood Hotel and the manager tells me there has been a visit from the police. They have been making enquiries about me. There were three of them and they clearly meant business. They showed him a photo of me. They also showed him a search warrant, then went up to my room and ransacked it. They left a message for me – would I get in touch with them as soon as I returned?

  Well, I do not intend to get in touch with the police.

  I have known the manager of the Holyrood Hotel for some time now. As a matter of fact Mr Ibrahim is one of my most ardent clients. He is also a man who sets great store by discretion. He has two wives and a considerable number of children but seems to find family life uninspiring. He has always been pleased with the girls I send him, which is why he is sympathetic to my predicament, though, naturally, he resents the notion of him or his hotel being embroiled in a scandal.

  Well, there will be no scandal. The situation is serious but not desperate. At the moment I have no plan for action ready, but I am seriously considering the idea of a false passport.

  I will need to change my appearance. I intend to dye my hair blonde. I seem to be one of the very people involved in this peculiar affair that is not blonde. Blonde men tend to be less noticeable than dark ones. And I shall wear a pair of blue contact lenses. A complete change of identity may be a little difficult these days of hysterically heightened security, but not, I imagine, impossible.

  It is a great shame that I should be in danger of being apprehended just as I have been so busy putting the final touches to the disposal of Lord Collingwood. I am not convinced that Lady Collingwood will be able to manage without me but I may be underestimating her. She needs to stop taking dope.

  It is a pity that I shall not be able to enter Lady Collingwood’s employment in the capacity of her butler. Or maybe I can still do it, at some later point in time – as someone else?

  ‘We must go to Park Lane,’ Payne said briskly. ‘Before something happens. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘It’s nearly midnight, Hugh.’

  ‘The witching hour, eh? So what?’ He shrugged. He then stood up and checked if his car keys were in his pocket. ‘Let’s go. The game’s afoot.’

  ‘Aren’t we getting a bit too old for such nocturnal adventures?’

  ‘We are not. Think of the boxer who loses speed but learns new tactics? That’s us.’

  ‘What about calling the police?’

  ‘Later. We’ll call the police later. When we are absolutely sure.’

  ‘But what in heaven’s name was his motive?’ Antonia asked as they got into the car. ‘Why kill his own daughter?’

  ‘I believe I can guess,’ Payne said grimly. He told her his theory.

  ‘That’s one of the craziest things I have ever heard!’

  ‘Well, since madness does come into it, “craziest” strikes me as the mot juste.’

  Lady Collingwood stared at them in a puzzled manner. ‘It’s the maid’s night out and I am afraid we haven’t got a butler – yet,’ she said, as though either Hugh or Antonia had challenged her about her opening the front door herself.

  ‘Can we come in?’ Payne said.

  ‘This is most unexpected. I
believe it is nearly quarter-to-one in the morning, some such unearthly hour. Oh. Hugh?’ Her eyes didn’t quite focus. She was wearing high heels. ‘It is Hugh, isn’t it? Hugh Payne? I am so sorry. And is that … Antonia?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘Do forgive me. The light here is awful. Of course you must come in. I happen to be in an unaccountably wakeful state tonight.’

  ‘Is Collingwood in?’ Payne asked as they stood in the sumptuous hall.

  ‘Rupert was in his study half an hour ago, but he may have gone to bed. It’s late, you know. I am not sure. I am rarely sure about anything these days.’ She sighed. ‘Did you want to see him?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘I had a visitor earlier on but, sadly, he left. It’s been a very disappointing evening.’ Deirdre started leading the way up a grand staircase. ‘I don’t suppose your unexpected visit has anything to do with that terrible murder?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it has.’

  ‘If I have to be perfectly honest, Rupert has been acting rather peculiarly for quite some time. He hasn’t been himself, though it would be impossible for me to say what he is like when he is himself.’

  Lord Collingwood was not in his study.

  Major Payne’s eyes rested on the desk and took in the porcelain cup with some dark liquid in it, the silver scissors, the strips of paper and the framed photograph that showed a middle-aged gentleman wearing a tailcoat, pale spats just visible at the end of black-and-white striped trousers and a moustache trimmed to a nicety.

  ‘My late father-in-law,’ Deirdre Collingwood said. ‘The fifteenth earl.’

  ‘What’s in the cup?’ Payne asked.

  ‘The miracle drink everybody’s talking about. The Chancellor of the Exchequer swears by it. The new elixir of life. I see Rupert hasn’t touched it,’ Lady Collingwood said with an air of regret.

  ‘What’s happened to your father-in-law’s head?’ Antonia asked. She stood peering down at the photograph.

  ‘The top of his head is missing. It wasn’t always like that, I assure you.’

  ‘It’s been cut off.’ Payne said.

  ‘Rupert’s performed a trepanation, I think. He’s been having trepanation dreams.’

  Payne’s eyes went back to the scissors and strips of paper. He picked up one strip at random. ‘What’s this? “William Collingwood m. Mariah Carr 1567 …”’

  ‘Rupert’s family tree. He’s mutilated his family tree. When we first got married Rupert was incredibly proud of his ancestors, but some time ago he discovered that one of his great-great uncles had supported Cromwell. That perhaps has something to do with the current state of affairs, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘What’s the current state of affairs exactly?’

  ‘Rupert has convinced himself his blood is tainted. It’s been bothering him. He has very strong views on the subject. Some time ago he started giving family portraits away, his father’s relatives, mainly, to charity shops, to jumble sales, awful things like that. When I suggested Christie’s or Bonhams, he said he didn’t want to profit from what he wanted to forget. His mother let him do it; they are that sort of family. But what a terribly peculiar conversation to have at one in the morning!’

  ‘Where is he?’ Payne asked.

  ‘Perhaps in his bedroom? He wouldn’t thank us for waking him, I warn you. He values his beauty sleep.’

  But Lord Collingwood was not in his bedroom. His bed showed no signs of having been slept in.

  ‘How perfectly extraordinary,’ Lady Collingwood said. ‘I have no idea where he could possibly be. We lead practically separate lives these days.’

  ‘What was that noise? Was that the front door?’

  ‘It sounded like the back door – to the garden – there appears to be a draught. Nights are getting chillier, have you noticed? Summer’s definitely over.’

  Major Payne turned back and walked out of the room. They followed him down the stairs.

  Once more they stood in the hall. ‘Which way?’

  Lady Collingwood pointed to the left. They passed by a great ormolu console, its marble slab supported on the outstretched wings of a gilded eagle.

  The back door was open and swinging on its hinges in the wind.

  ‘What’s that light?’ Payne asked.

  ‘The conservatory. Rupert takes great pride in his orchids. He sometimes feeds them with lobster thermidor and he claims he can hear them sigh with pleasure. He must be in the conservatory.’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘Wasn’t there a poem about moonlight and orchids being as pale as the flesh of a dead girl? What was it orchids stood for in the Lexicon of Flowers? I await your favours?’

  ‘Treachery and misrepresentation, more likely.’ Major Payne gave Deirdre a sideways glance.

  ‘Oh, I thought that was dahlias!’

  They had started crossing the garden. Lady Collingwood’s progress was somewhat hampered by her high heels.

  The conservatory door was closed but not locked.

  Inside it was warm and humid and the smell of fresh earth pervaded the air.

  The neatness of the plants and the flowers was almost oppressive, Antonia thought. Some of the plants looked as if they had been not only washed but ironed as well, while others gave the impression of being made of wax. Perhaps they were made of wax?

  Half hidden among the palms and the rhododendrons stood a black marble sculpture: a tall angel, with stark staring glass eyes, which were as bright as the bleached blue of an ancient mariner’s eyes. The angel’s gaze was turned heavenwards. A flock of brilliantly coloured butterflies fluttered above the angel’s head, purple and turquoise, vermilion and fuchsia pink …

  ‘Are they real?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Rupert cultivates them. Rupert prides himself on his aesthetic sense. He has them specially ordered – he raises them from cocoons, you know.’

  The next moment Lady Collingwood gave a little cry and pointed.

  It was a gruesome sight that met their eyes.

  ‘I always knew something like this would happen,’ she said.

  Lord Collingwood was hanging from a palm tree. His face was blue. He appeared to have used his red silk braces to form a hangman’s noose. A garden chair lay on the ground where he had kicked it away.

  A line of poetry floated into Antonia’s head.

  His hanging face, like a devil’s,

  sick of sin –

  Payne proceeded to cut the body down with shears he found on a garden table. He attempted artificial respiration, but it was too late.

  There was a letter sticking out of the breast pocket of Lord Collingwood’s smoking jacket.

  It was addressed to Major Payne.

  35

  THE FINAL SOLUTION

  I am arrested as I leave the Holyrood Hotel. It appears my movements have been monitored. Rather imprudently I resist. I struggle and my nose gets bloodied in the process. For a moment mist and darkness come over me. My arms get twisted behind my back and I am handcuffed, then the brutes caution me.

  The whole distressing episode takes place only moments after Lady Collingwood has rung me to say that she has managed to bump off her husband and that she has been so clever about it that no one will ever think of suspecting her. I believe she is only showing off, trying to impress me. She said she had felt my presence beside her all along.

  I wonder if Lady Collingwood can provide me with a good solicitor …

  Antonia stood looking over Hugh’s shoulder.

  The letter rustled between his fingers.

  How unsatisfactory this would be as a murder motive in a book, she thought. One could explain anything and everything with madness. Which, in her opinion, wasn’t exactly fair play.

  Well, life sometimes was stranger than fiction.

  My dear Payne,

  You may have been able to work things out for yourself, I don’t know. But, in case you haven’t, here in short is the ‘Final Solution’. (Pun intended.)

  Joan was pla
nning to have children with her new man, which would have meant extending the Collingwood line into the next generation. I couldn’t possibly allow that. I am sure you are the only person in the world who will understand.

  There is madness in our family. An inexorable rust gnawing at the gilded structure. Bad blood, if you prefer simple English. I have had little peace, thinking about it. I have been aware of the problem for quite some time now and I have been through hell.

  I am also afflicted. There have been all sorts of signs and manifestations. I am given to bouts of irrational introspection, to melancholy meanderings followed either by great anger or by the deepest stupefaction. I hear voices. I see visions. I have time lapses. I experience states of confusion, what I believe are called ‘fugues’? A woman who is Deirdre’s spitting image keeps appearing to me in a dream.

  Joan displayed some of the signs of my family’s madness. I could see it in her eyes, in the way she frowned, in the way she held her head, in her smile – not that she smiled often. Even if Joan had become conscious of the fact, there would have been absolutely nothing she could have done about it. Like me, she was doomed. She had my blood running through her veins. She was after all my daughter.

  I have no doubt in my mind that what I did was the right thing. I released Joan from the burden she would inevitably have had to bear.

  Most of my people were mad, I realise now. All sorts of small things, seemingly insignificant details come back to me, like the way my father sometimes wore his kilt – back to front. Nobody seemed to mind, it was deemed little more than an endearing eccentricity. I didn’t think anything of it myself when I was a boy. It is only recently that my eyes have been ‘opened’.

  You see, don’t you, Payne? The Collingwood line simply has to disappear. The police would have got me sooner or later – my movements must have been ‘captured’ on all those blasted CCTV cameras you see everywhere in London these days. I would have been arrested, then ‘assessed’ and then shut away. That’s the fate of mental defectives. I can’t possibly allow that. I am a proud man. When I die, there will be no more Collingwoods. I have quite an idée fixe about the whole thing, which is perhaps further evidence of my deteriorating mind? I am mad and yet I also seem able to stand outside of myself and view my actions with a degree of detachment, which only adds to my torment.