His left hand continued to be clenched in a fist. Was he holding something in it?
‘In case something happens to me. If – if I don’t come back. If I were to – disappear. I’m not mad. You don’t understand. Get someone from the High Commission. Tell them –’
‘Mr Julian Knight?’ The waiter was standing outside the folly, looking up at Antonia’s companion.
The man ducked his head and stared like an animal that couldn’t make up its mind whether to bolt or not. ‘Yes? What is it?’
(Couldn’t he have said he was not Julian Knight? Couldn’t he have refused to go – made a scene – shouted that he was being kidnapped – that there had been a murder? All these ideas were to occur to Antonia later, after he had gone. Why did good ideas always come when it was too late?)
‘A phone call for you, sir. They said it was urgent. The telephone in the vestibule.’
‘Who is it? Did the caller give a name?’
‘No, sir. No name.’
‘Man or woman?’ He was sweating really badly now. His hands were shaking. His face had turned the colour of a dead fish.
‘A lady, sir, I think. I am not sure.’ The name tag on the waiter’s chest gave his name as Patricio. ‘I was only told to say it was urgent.’
‘Urgent . . .’ The man rose to his feet. He didn’t look at Antonia. He held his left hand clenched in a fist across his chest, in the manner of one taking some kind of a formal oath, which seemed strangely appropriate. Knight by name, knight by nature?
Antonia watched him shamble wearily across the lawn. She expected him to turn his head and cast one last imploring glance at her over his shoulder, but he didn’t. He looked oddly resigned. He walked with his head and shoulders slightly bowed. Like a lamb to the slaughter, she thought, telling herself at once not to be absurd. What could possibly happen to him?
She glanced at her watch. Sixteen minutes past six. She discovered she was clutching at the reddish-brown notebook with both her hands. After a moment’s thought she placed it inside her own diary. She cast a furtive glance round. No, no one was watching her.
Well, Julian Knight’s paranoia seemed to be infectious.
14
Never Come Back
Antonia sat very still and waited for him to come back, which she told herself he would do before long. She smoothed out her dress and looked down at the subdued splash of peonies, the full-blown roses and ivy – a sort of a William Morris print swooning after a pink gin, as Hugh had put it. She then watched two wasps buzz over the empty glass Julian Knight had left on the bench. They were so large, she could see their black and yellow stripes quite clearly. She tried to remain calm. She told herself she needed to keep an open mind, to neither believe nor disbelieve the incredible story she had heard. Don’t jump to any conclusions, she ordered herself.
Stay cool.
Easier to say than to do – especially in this heat.
She tried to arrange her thoughts in a rational manner. Julian Knight was probably an alcoholic. She had smelled alcohol the moment he had staggered into the folly. His hands had been shaking. His left hand must be worse than his right, hence the fist. He had been a funny colour. Alcoholics were often delusional. They saw things, which weren’t there – giant lizards, armies of spiders, talking bears or, for that matter, English girls having their necks snapped.
He hadn’t actually lisped or slurred. He had spoken quite clearly. And he had given specific names, which added verisimilitude to his incredible tale: Marigold Leighton, Lord Justice Leighton. These names could be checked easily. What if his muddled account of the murder was, after all, the truth? Julian Knight had called Roman a ‘psychopath’. That Antonia could well believe. She glanced down at what she had written about Roman in her diary. Yes. Roman could have killed his English girlfriend all right . . .
Julian Knight had been frightened but also extremely upset. Antonia had had the distinct impression he had been grieving for the girl. Curious, that. Had he known Marigold Leighton better than he made out? Could he have been in love with her? These things did happen. What was it he had been holding in his clenched hand? Was it something he had picked up at the scene of the crime? Something that proved Roman Songhera’s guilt beyond any reasonable doubt? Some small object, it had to be. Why hadn’t he given it to her? Too preoccupied, so he had forgotten all about it? Julian Knight must have entered the bedroom moments after Roman left. So he didn’t tell her the whole story –
Antonia bit her lip. There I go again, she thought.
On the plane Mrs Depleche had told Antonia, ‘I haven’t read any of your detective stories, but I bet you are the kind of woman who lets her imagination run riot.’ Mrs Depleche had had three neat scotches and had been holding forth in a voice more suited to chiding clumsy beaters on the grouse moor. ‘If I ever decided to commit a crime, my dear, I’d use you in some way. I’d take advantage of your imagination.’
There had been a hush in their part of the plane. Everybody seemed to have been listening – including the two air hostesses! Antonia had seen a man take his earphones out and crane his neck in their direction, so that he could hear better! Earlier on Mrs Depleche had talked about Coconut Grove and what a jolly good time they had in store of them . . .
Well, Mrs Depleche was right – Antonia’s imagination was as much a curse as it was a blessing. On at least one memorable occasion it had caused her to make a complete ass of herself . . .
The song being played on the loudspeakers was ‘Out of Nowhere’. Appropriate, in a funny kind of way. In the song it was love – all the songs today were about love – but it was murder she had on her mind. Murder had come out of nowhere and hit her on the nose. In this garden that looked like a miracle out of the Arabian Nights, with its hedges of flowering cacti and dazzling banks of azaleas – a stone’s throw from the emerald-green sea – under the golden globe of the sun . . . On the very first day of their holiday she was getting involved in murder . . . yet again!
No conclusions, she reminded herself.
The air round her shimmered. She felt drowsy and a little confused. Well, they had exchanged a world that was recognizable and rational for one that seemed surreal and unknowable. At the moment England seemed as distant as the moon. They were at Roman Songhera’s mercy. Julian Knight wanted to speak to somebody at the British High Commission. Would the British High Commission be able to help him? Antonia had no idea how these things worked. Well, the British could bring the affair to the attention of the Indian government, she supposed – if that indeed was what happened in such cases – but first they would have to accept Julian Knight’s story as bona fide. Which they probably wouldn’t. Julian Knight wouldn’t be considered a trustworthy witness.
Antonia looked at her watch. Ten minutes. She watched the hand move. Eleven minutes. Eleven minutes and ten seconds . . . So slow . . . Julian Knight’s watch wouldn’t be much good to him since it was five hours behind. How hot it was. Antonia yawned. Her eyes shut, then opened again. She didn’t feel like thinking about anything important. She felt rather odd, actually, in a muzzy state . . . She wasn’t used to the heat . . . Once more she glanced across at the empty cocktail glass Julian Knight had left behind, then at the crumpled tissue on the floor, as though to convince herself that Julian Knight hadn’t been a figment of her over-heated imagination. How grubby the tissue was – brown with dust and sweat. Urgh. Julian Knight’s notebook wasn’t a mirage either – it was inside her diary.
He had been real enough. He had been witness to murder. Or so he claimed.
Where was he? Still on the phone? Or had he gone to get himself a drink? Had he perhaps forgotten that he had entrusted his notebook to her? She looked across at the terrace –
There he was, at long last, coming down the steps! Antonia jumped to her feet. What a relief. He seemed all right. Thank God!
No, it wasn’t him. Another man in a panama hat was walking across the lawn towards her. Her husband. Hugh was holding a small tray wit
h a tall glass of what looked like orange juice on it. He had wrapped a crisp white napkin around it.
She was glad to see him. Hugh would probably know what should be done.
Coming up the steps, Major Payne entered the folly and kissed his wife. ‘This is the longest and laziest afternoon I have ever been through in my entire life. Everything seems to be standing still. That is what eternity must be like. And of course one can’t help thoughts of love. We would sit down and think which way to walk and pass our long love’s day.’
‘I am neither your mistress, nor am I coy,’ Antonia said. ‘For some reason I’ve never liked Marvell.’
‘Ah, to have a wife worthy of being a mistress! ’
‘Is that Marvell again?’
‘Casanova, actually. You do look ravishing in your Vionnet dress. Charlotte was green with envy. She said she felt like coming over and ripping it off your body.’
‘You are drunk.’
‘Pas du tout. Do have a sip of mango juice – it’s freshly squeezed.’
Antonia drank thirstily. Ice cubes tinkled inside the glass.
‘Love is in the air,’ Payne said. That, as it happened, was the song they had started playing. ‘Are you all right? You strike me as a bit subdued. We were getting worried about you. Charlotte feared you might have had sunstroke.’
‘She doesn’t really like me, does she?’
‘She said you were clever. Did you know Songhera had a croc farm?’
‘Crocodiles? How awful.’ They wouldn’t feed Julian Knight to the crocs, would they? Once dropped in the lake, the body would disappear in seconds. Antonia pulled herself together. ‘Hugh, did you see the man who was here? He went back to the house about fifteen minutes ago. Did you see which way he went?’
‘Tall chap in a panama? Old Zebra Face? Yes. I saw him. As a matter of fact, he bumped into me – don’t think he apologized – staggered blindly out into the hall. Earlier on he nearly fell into the fountain. Too much to drink. Did he bother you? He didn’t make a pass at you, did he?’
‘Did you see anyone follow him into the hall? Roman – or any of Roman’s bodyguards?’
‘Should they have done? I don’t think I saw anyone follow him. Songhera wasn’t there. He’s had to go somewhere urgently. He seems to have a lot on his mind –’
‘He never returned to the terrace, did he?’
‘Songhera?’
‘No,’ Antonia said impatiently. ‘Julian Knight. That’s the man’s name.’
‘I don’t think so. He never came back.’
‘He never came back,’ she echoed. ‘I don’t suppose you heard anything – commotion of some kind – someone crying for help?’
‘Should I have done? You do say the oddest things. Incidentally, you’ve caught the sun a bit and it’s made you look particularly lovely. May I kiss you?’
‘Oh, I should have gone with him!’ Antonia cried. ‘Why didn’t I think of it? They wouldn’t have dared touch him with me there.’
‘What are you talking about? ’
‘That man – Julian Knight – told me a most extraordinary story. He said he’d witnessed Roman Songhera kill his English girlfriend. A girl called Marigold Leighton.’
15
Evil Under the Sun
‘Dear old thing,’ Payne said. ‘The fellow was blotto.’
‘He did strike me as genuinely distressed and frightened.’
‘Well, a brain that’s been pickled in a variety of spirits can conjure up fearful monsters that are as good as real ones. Is that his glass? Jolly treacherous things, cocktails. One can get quite drunk without becoming aware of it.’
Antonia pursed her lips. ‘I can see that.’
‘I’m not drunk, only, as the poet put it, a trifle exalted. You don’t want me to prove it to you, do you? Flamboyant feminist polemicists flummox male fiends. You thought that was easy? Swedish psychotherapists summering in Sardinia.’ She sighed. ‘How unfortunate that my husband should be drunk at a time when I need him most. How many cocktails did you have?’
‘One or two. All right, three. Can’t remember. Not as many as the Honourable Charlotte anyhow. She’s sleeping it off in one of the hammocks at the back.’
‘Is she really? You mean she left the party?’
‘No. Joking. Actually she’s in her element. She’s chatting up one of the serviteurs. Chap called Camillo. A waiter très triste.’
‘Will you be serious?’
‘You started telling me something about that chap, Julian Knight. It seems he came up with the most extraordinary allegation about our host, correct? Now then, I’d like you to tell me all about it,’ Payne said slowly, ‘omitting no detail, however slight.’
With a sigh, Antonia did. There was a pause.
‘Remarkable. You did say something odd, though.’ He drew a thoughtful forefinger across his jaw. ‘How can Songhera be the law – and at the same time be above it?’ ‘Hugh, don’t be exasperating. You should get some strong black coffee into you.’
‘That’s a dangerous-looking sword.’ He pointed to the picture on the reddish-brown notebook, which Antonia had taken out of her diary. ‘Knight. One must assume that Knight’s distant ancestors were knights. Second names are frequently indicators of occupation or of some personal characteristic.’
‘Actually, you are being a major pain.’
‘I don’t suppose you realize what a sublimely funny thing you just said? Is that an example of what is known as “spontaneous wit” – or was it completely unintentional? Odd things, names,’ Major Payne went on. ‘If Julian Knight had been a Swede his name would have been something like “Gyllensvard” – vaard being Swedish for “sword”. And he is engaged on a quest – a perilous quest. That’s so apt.’
‘Oh God, we are wasting time. You are drunk. You are gibbering inconsequentially and your eyes look funny. You must have some coffee.’
‘I’m not gibbering inconsequentially. That was a horrible thing to say. I am deeply hurt. It’s too hot for coffee anyhow. I’m sure I’d be sick if I had the tiniest sip. Did you say Knight wrote an account of the murder in that notebook?’
‘I won’t discuss anything with you till you’ve had some coffee!’
‘You are being hysterical now. A cup of proper coffee in a copper coffee pot. If I’d been drunk,’ Payne pointed out, ‘I wouldn’t have been able to say this either. Oh, very well, I’ll ask one of Songhera’s Turks to bring me a cup of coffee.’
‘Let’s go and see if we can find him,’ Antonia said. ‘I’m getting really worried. I hope I’m not making a fool of myself.’
‘You couldn’t make a fool of yourself if you tried,’ Payne said gallantly.
They left the folly and started walking across the lawn.
‘He’s probably at the house,’ Antonia said. But he wasn’t.
The English gentleman, they learnt from the imposing bearded and turbaned servant who seemed to be in charge of the hall, had been there, yes. The English gentleman had spoken on the telephone some twenty minutes before, but he left the premises immediately after. Left, yes. He had walked out of Coconut Grove. The Indian pointed towards the front door. No, he had never seen the English gentleman before. The English gentleman – a Mr Knight – had been in a state of some considerable agitation. He had put down the telephone and waved his arms in a wild manner. The Indian demonstrated with such zeal, he nearly knocked the telephone off the desk. Antonia was annoyed – she was not in the mood for histrionics – she was sure the servant was exaggerating.
Mr Knight had asked for Miss Antonia Darcy most specifically, that had been earlier on, that was when he arrived. Antonia stared at him incredulously. How could Knight have known about her? The Indian shrugged and said that he had directed Mr Knight to the folly where he had seen madam sitting. Who was it who had wanted Mr Knight on the phone? No name had been given. It had sounded like an Indian voice. Man or woman? Antonia insisted. A woman with a deep voice, the servant thought; it might have been a gentlem
an, yes – he couldn’t say for certain.
The Paynes lingered for a couple of moments, wondering what to do. The hall was a busy place. A van stopped in the sand-covered drive outside and men in blue overalls brought in baskets of flowers – they were directed towards the terrace. The flowers were followed by cases of champagne (Château Latour 1980), arriving at the same time as shining metal containers with ice cream and caviar. Two long rolled-up carpets were brought in, one of a Persian design, the other white and deep-piled. ‘Storeroom!’ The turbaned concierge waved them majestically towards the swinging doors on the left, where, Antonia imagined, the storerooms were. More cases, this time of Rémy Martin cognac. The next two deliveries consisted of some multicoloured cushions and a dozen red, yellow and black oblong boxes with FIREWORKS written on them.
4.Little Victim Page 9