‘How very interesting.’
Mrs Depleche gave him a sideways glance and said she had the feeling Hugh didn’t care much for Roman.
‘No, not much,’ Payne admitted.
Well, she might live to regret it, but it had been her misfortune to fall for flamboyant men – Mrs Depleche transferred her gaze from Major Payne to some distant object on the horizon – for men that went too far. It had brought her nothing but tears. She was not a happy woman. What was it they said? Your company determines your conduct, your conduct determines your character, and – what was it?’
‘Your character determines your destiny?’
How true! Her last great passion had been a man called Glazebrook. Did Hugh know Glazebrook by any chance? Glazebrook had been an extremely distinguished military man. Glazebrook had had a number of endearing foibles, some of them far from innocent. He’d had a moustache. No? How very odd. She understood Hugh had met Antonia at the Military Club? Well, people did meet at the most peculiar places. A great friend of hers had met her future husband in Belgrave Square. Perhaps Antonia had been in the army herself? Some women had most distinguished military careers, or so she had always been given to understand . . . Where was Roman? A fine host he was, failing to appear like this!
Mrs Depleche sipped her cocktail, then pointed with her opera glasses. ‘That boy, by the potted palm . . . So terribly subdued, but such a pretty face.’
‘He has the kind of outrageously innocent look that appeals to elderly women.’
‘Looks sad. Why is he so sad? Can’t bear to see pretty boys looking so sad.’
‘Perhaps his lady love has left him? Always the saddest when it happens on St Valentine’s Day.’
‘Let’s drink to St Valentine, shall we?’ Mrs Depleche snapped her fingers and called out raffishly to a passing waiter: ‘Another Mumbai Mule, Marcello, and go easy on the crushed ice, there’s a good chap.’ There were twenty different cocktails on offer. Mumbai Mule, she had declared, was the one that gave you a definite ‘kick’. ‘To think I could have gone through life without ever tasting a Mumbai Mule.’ She pointed to Payne’s glass. ‘What’s yours called?’
‘Scorpino.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘I’d say – I’d say it contains lemon sorbet, cream, Cointreau and Kalashnikov vodka.’
‘Sounds heaven. Isn’t Kalashnikov a Russian machine gun? Years ago I used to do target practice. I do intend to try every single cocktail on the list, you know. So far I’ve had – let me see – three.’
‘Five.’
‘Widow’s Wink. Black Russian. Shirley Temple. Bahama Mama. Mumbai Mule . . . Yes, five. You are quite right. What an observant boy you are.’ She patted his arm.
‘This Mumbai Mule is your sixth cocktail.’
‘This is such fun. I am enjoying myself enormously. To think that only last month I convinced myself that I’d finally reached the age of disenchantment. It was pelting with rain in Wiltshire, I was feeling utterly unstrung, so I sat down and added a note to my will, what I believe is called a “codicil”, saying I didn’t want a Christian funeral, rather, when I snuff it, throw my body to the dogs at a meet. I’d had all sorts of worries. The house in Eaton Square, Stanbury, death duties, my teeth. Well, I’ve had several marriage proposals since then, so everything hasn’t been doom and gloom.’
‘You’ve had marriage proposals?’ Major Payne cocked an eyebrow. She was seventy-five, if a day.
‘Several, yes. One or two extremely promising ones. Ah, look at the sea!’ Mrs Depleche pointed. ‘Just look at it. Too perfect for words. The sky is so cloudless and such an intense blue. It’s like a – a – Can you think of something? Your aunt said you were terribly clever.’
‘I am sometimes described as “astutely analytical” . . . The sky is like a paladin’s mantle. The sun stands absolute in its heaven.’
Of all the desultory conversations, Payne thought. We could go on like this for ever. Time seemed to have stood still. He almost wished something could happen. ‘Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,’ he cried, wagging his forefinger at Mrs Depleche’s sola topi. Now why did I do that, he wondered.
She frowned. ‘D’you write too? I thought your wife was the writer.’
‘That’s Cymbeline, actually.’ By jingo, I am tipsy, he thought.
Mrs Depleche informed him that her sola topi was one of great antiquity – she had first worn it in India sixty years before. She had been a prim miss who had wandered from the sedate salons of Sense and Sensibility straight into the louche alcoves of Les Liaisons Dangereuses. She wasn’t in the least literary, Mrs Depleche pointed out, but she did get the odd inspiration, after a drink or two.
Payne tried to see her as fresh-faced, pink-and-white and parasol-twirling, and failed. Soft and demure and uncorrupted? Quite impossible to imagine.
‘What’s this wonderful game you’ve been playing? Your aunt told me about it. I remember, I remember? Let me see. I remember my first Mumbai Mule.’
‘Too recent,’ Payne said.
‘I remember the solar eclipse this morning.’
‘Too recent.’
‘Don’t they say that a solar eclipse is a bad omen? I remember my first footman mainly because I did not have an affair with him. I remember the owl – that’s when one of the novice guns shot an owl.’
‘There’s no need to explain.’
‘I remember being much married.’
‘You can’t remember being much married, Charlotte. You are much married.’
This is the kind of brittle whimsy that passes for wit among members of jet-sets, Major Payne thought as Mrs Depleche cackled. Five minutes of their relentlessly droll conversation was bound to drive any sane person to distraction. He suddenly felt depressed. He wondered how long it would be before things started to really pall. It was only their second day. The sun showed no signs of weakening . . .
‘I remember when my life was a frenzied dance and feast of pleasure. I remember attending a Second Childhood party. Would you like me to go on?’
‘No,’ Major Payne said.
Mrs Depleche gave a delighted croak. ‘Your aunt was right. No one could live up to your smart repartees. You are the best company I’ve ever had. I think I will leave all my money to you.’
‘Nonsense, Charlotte. You can’t possibly do any such thing.’ Payne looked worried. ‘What about your grandson?’
‘Ha. You don’t think Stanbury deserves a penny, do you? Where did your clever wife disappear? You haven’t had a tiff, have you?’
‘Pas du tout.’
‘Clever women can be the devil, but then you too are clever, so it doesn’t really matter, I suppose.’
‘Antonia is not used to the heat – wanted to sit near the fountain for a bit.’ Major Payne shaded his eyes. ‘I think – I think she’s sitting inside the folly.’ He strained to catch a glimpse of his wife. The folly was shrouded by brilliant scarlet and maroon bougainvillea.
‘That floral georgette she’s wearing . . .’ Mrs Depleche’s diamond-encrusted opera glasses glinted like a dragonfly in the sun as she adjusted them to her eyes. ‘I am sure it’s an original Vionnet. Goodness. She’s writing.’ Antonia might have been playing the harp or standing on her head, she sounded so surprised. ‘Plotting her next book, no doubt?’
‘Well, ideas come to Antonia in the most unusual circumstances.’
‘I love reading other people’s jottings, but only if they are indiscreet. She doesn’t think there’s going to be a murder here, does she? Now then, if there were a murder, who d’you suppose would be the victim?’
‘You,’ Payne said promptly. ‘The killer would turn out to be your grandson.’
‘Stanbury? But he isn’t here!’
‘He is. He’ll have arrived secretly. He’ll appear in a minute dressed up as a waiter or a visiting maharaja and he’ll manage to hand you a poisoned cocktail.’
‘Look at that lunatic – just look at him!’ Mrs Depleche cried, poin
ting. ‘Nearly fell into the fountain. What an idiot! He’s holding a glass!’
‘Not his first, that much is clear.’
‘Blind drunk!’ Mrs Depleche cackled.
‘Could be lethal in this heat.’
The man was tall and stooped a little. He wore a sun-bleached jacket, a panama hat and dark glasses. A reddish-brown book protruded from his jacket pocket . . .
They watched him stagger shambolically across the sleek green lawn. He held his left shoulder higher than his right and he had a curious gliding walk – a bit like the actor Alastair Sim, Payne reflected. He gave the impression of being disorientated . . . Something desperate about him . . . Was the fellow a lunatic or merely sozzled? He displayed the dipso’s unnerving indifference to what others might think of him. He was heading in the direction of the folly. Hope he won’t bother Antonia, Payne thought.
‘The fountain’s a mini replica of the one at Castle Howard,’ Mrs Depleche said. ‘Did you see the teddy bear on Roman’s desk?’
Payne said he had. ‘It’s got a Harrods label.’
‘What an observant boy you are. Roman gets all his stuff from England. He’s mad about England, you may have noticed? He would give anything to be able to call himself Lord Brideshead or something. He is a romantic, I suppose.’
He is an egregious ass, Payne thought, though he didn’t say so.
‘He’s got an English girlfriend, apparently. He promised to introduce her to us. I hope her Englishness is not her only virtue’ The next moment Mrs Depleche flourished her opera glasses by way of a greeting. ‘Ah Roman, my boy. Where have you been hiding? We were just admiring your fountain. However do you manage to get everything so right?’
11
Murder is Easy
The first death was yet to be discovered, but the second couldn’t have been more public.
It had taken place some six hours before the garden party at Coconut Grove, at the time of the partial solar eclipse.
The body lay on the main street of Kilhar for at least five minutes before somebody thought of dragging it on to the pavement. The hawkers stopped shouting their wares and people gathered around, some of them holding pieces of smoked glass, through which they had been gazing at the sky, and pointed to the blood, which was seeping from a wound in the head. Flies and hornets buzzed above. A dog came over, sniffed at the blood and dipped its tongue in it. Another dog joined it – then a third. No one made any real effort to shoo the dogs away. A shop assistant eventually threw a foul-smelling piece of tarpaulin over the body, but so casually that an arm and part of the head remained exposed. Some people started walking away, others lingered. An one-legged man on crutches bent over, ostensibly to pull the tarpaulin over the head and the arm, but when he straightened up, he was holding a wristwatch. He quickly pushed the watch into his trouser pocket. No one appeared to notice the theft.
Twenty-five minutes later a police car arrived. There were three uniformed policemen in it. One of them unveiled the corpse and frowned down at it’s face. He put questions to the men in the crowd but got only shrugs and shaking of heads. No one admitted to knowing the victim. One man then came forward and said that he had actually seen the accident.
The death had been caused by a speeding car. The car hadn’t stopped. It had been grey in colour – or maybe white, in need of a wash. No, the man hadn’t taken note of the registration number. Had there been anyone with the victim? Yes – a woman. A local woman in a sari, her face concealed by a red scarf. They had been walking side by side, she and the victim. Now the witness couldn’t swear to this but he imagined the woman gave the man a shove just as the car approached, causing him to stagger and fall in front of the car. The woman had then run off. She had vanished in the crowd. It all had happened very quickly.
Could the witness describe the woman? Tall – big hands – pale gold sari – red scarf – the face was veiled. The witness couldn’t swear that the woman had actually pushed the man, no. It all happened very quickly, he repeated. She’d moved in a funny way, not really like any of the local women. In what way funny? The witness couldn’t say. Was it possible that ‘she’ had actually been a ‘he’? A man? The witness shrugged. He had no way of knowing. It was possible, yes. The police officers shook their heads. One of them lit a cigarette. The other spat on the ground, then he too lit a cigarette. Eventually they let the witness go.
An ambulance arrived and two paramedics carrying a stretcher went up to the body. After exchanging a couple of words with the policemen, they placed the body on the stretcher, which they carried back to the ambulance.
One of the policemen observed that Kilhar was a terrible place for accidents and his colleague agreed. The first policeman then said that his mother-in-law was becoming too big for her boots and having her in the house was driving him mad, the mornings were particularly bad and he had problems sleeping; one of these days he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions, he said. The second policeman said that the new brothel was not what it was cracked up to be, he didn’t think he’d go again. Eventually the two policemen departed and the crowd dispersed. The dogs stayed a while longer, licking at the blood on the pavement.
In a couple of minutes there was no sign that anything untoward had ever taken place in the street.
12
The Public Enemy
Remember you are just an extra in everyone else’s play. That saying of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s popped into Major Payne’s head as he watched their host swagger towards them across the terrace. The throng of local dignitaries and their wives and the couple of English expatriates who had been invited to greet Mrs Depleche parted at his advent. Payne was put in mind of the bizarrely curdled appearance of the Red Sea when divided by Moses in the film of The Ten Commandments.
Roman Songhera was a well-set-up, olive-skinned young man with a florid face and sensuous lips. He had drooping eyelids, thick lashes, and somewhat restless light-brown eyes. His appearance was less colourful than that of his waiters, but nearly as theatrical. He was dressed, monochromatically, in white: a double-breasted suit with broad lapels, one of which was adorned by a black gardenia, a gleaming white shirt with a buttoned-down collar, and a white turban that was crossed from each side of his head very symmetrically in such a way that it came to a peak at the top of the forehead where there shone a large ruby. His pointed patent-leather shoes were also white.
‘He only wears the turban for my sake. I have a thing about men in turbans,’ Mrs Depleche whispered. ‘He hates what they call “ethnic” dress, poor darling, but would do anything to get me to buy the house.’
Their host looked as anachronistically quaint as the unicorns and damsels sporting on a medieval tapestry. He brought to mind a stage conjurer from the heyday of the English music hall, Payne decided. However, the ruby gave every impression of being the real thing. Roman Songhera’s platinum tie pin, gold cufflinks, and Rolex watch seemed genuine too.
But it was the sight of Roman’s striped tie that caused Major Payne’s eyebrows to go up. It was an Old Harrovian tie. How silly of the fellow to put on an OH tie for the visit of the one person who, better than anybody else in the world, knew that his background wasn’t exactly exalted – that he was the grandson of an Indian orderly and the son of a grocer from Kashmir – and that the big money had come from his – now estranged – wife Sarla. Mrs Depleche had told them the story on the plane.
Sarla Songhera, it appeared, had won a fortune on the lottery. The Sublime Subcontinent Lottery – the Incomparable Mother India Pools – some such name. Several billion billion billion rupees. Or was it trillion? Some such mad figure. It amounted to less than one and a half million pounds, if that, according to Major Payne’s vague estimate, but by Goan standards that was fabulous wealth – what sultans and maharajas, if not exactly the Queen of England, had in their coffers.
‘High time!’ Mrs Depleche croaked.
Roman’s eyes were bloodshot and he seemed to find it hard to concentrate. Something appea
red to be weighing on his mind. Still, he managed to play the gracious host. He put on what Mrs Depleche had affectionately referred to as ‘Roman’s society nonsense’. Bowing his head slightly, his right hand fiddling with his cufflink in a manner reminiscent of Prince Charles’s famous nervous tic, he said, ‘I do apologize, Charlotte. Major Payne. Not the done thing, I know. Something cropped up. Untoward as well as unavoidable, alas. Terrible bore. Too dreary for words to start explaining.’
‘Where’s your mysterious English girlfriend?’ Mrs Depleche asked. ‘You promised to introduce her to us.’
4.Little Victim Page 7