Going back to the terrace, Major Payne stopped one of the waiters and asked for some black coffee. He turned back to Antonia. ‘The Brahmin might have been instructed to feed us whoppers. All part of the conspiracy and so on. Is that what you think?’
‘I don’t know. Well, yes, that’s what I think.’
‘On the other hand, people do get emergency phone calls in the middle of parties –’
‘Which so unsettle them that they dash off, leaving behind their highly personal diaries? Julian Knight told me no one could possibly know he was at Coconut Grove.’
‘Well, it does look as though the phone call was a ruse to get him inside the house. And then – what? A knock on the head? Did they bundle him into a car and spirit him away to the croc farm?’
‘The thought did occur to me,’ Antonia said with a shudder. ‘I don’t think things like that happen in real life, do they?’
‘I am not sure . . . What an extraordinary business . . . The point is, as things are, we can’t do much about it . . . Where the hell has Charlotte gone? I hope she hasn’t been abducted too.’ Payne stood looking round. ‘How about reading Knight’s diary?’
‘Now we can. Yes. Not here, though.’
‘Most certainly not here. We need privacy and seclusion. Shall we toddle back to the folly – or to our room? Our room would be better. I need to take a couple of aspirins. I’m afraid my head feels like somebody else’s – Ah, that must be my coffee! Thank you so much, Faustino.’ Payne took a sip and stared down at the cup. ‘Gosh. Authentic Rose Pompadour. No stains or chipping. How ludicrously pretentious. Suggests an artificial nature, a love of the flowery and the unreal. I don’t think I’ll ever come to share Charlotte’s affection for our host.’ His hand went up to his forehead. ‘I have a bad headache, old thing, did I say?’
‘Oh, really?’
‘It ill becomes you to be so woundingly sarcastic . . . Bloody cocktails . . . I won’t touch another cocktail as long as I live. Do let’s go.’
‘Won’t they think it antisocial of us if we were just to sneak off? The party’s not over yet.’
‘Nobody knows us here.’ Payne took another sip of coffee. ‘I can’t see our host anywhere. The local sahibs are a bit shy. Earlier on one chap talked to me about cricket and his mem told me they always had tea at Fortnum’s when in London. Another mem asked me if I had met Songhera’s girlfriend and looked relieved when I said I hadn’t yet had the pleasure. I wonder why. That has been the extent of my “social interaction”, as modern jargon would have it.’
‘From something Julian Knight said, I gathered Roman Songhera’s girlfriend might have been a lady of easy virtue.’
‘You don’t say. And I imagined Charlotte was the only one around. Where has Charlotte disappeared to? I’m worried that she might be engaged in doing something not particularly dignified.’
‘There she is,’ Antonia said as she saw that lady walking towards them.
‘You’d never believe this, but I heard the most extraordinary story. Exactly your cup of tea, my dear,’ Mrs Depleche told Antonia. ‘It’s simply crying out to be made into a detective novel. Evil Under the Sun. That’s a clever title, don’t you think?’
‘It’s already been used.’
‘I’ve been talking to that poor boy, Camillo. He’s actually of the noblesse, would you believe it? Conquistador blood, if that indeed is what they are called, but fallen on bad times, that’s the reason why he is “in service”. But definitely one of us. There was instant understanding and sympathy between us, a mental force and communication that could be felt as palpably as – what was it the sage said? – as the body gives out heat?’
Payne’s eyebrows went up. ‘Oh yes? Is that what the sage said?’
‘He said I reminded him of his Portuguese grandmother – Donna Alba di Salvadoris, some such name, which is not exactly complimentary, but it explains why he made me his confidante. The poor boy is terribly unhappy – as well as horribly frightened. He thinks he is going mad.’ Mrs Depleche paused dramatically. ‘You see, he has had the misfortune to fall in love with a gal whose boyfriend is one of the most dangerous men in Goa. Watch out, Hugh – you’re spilling coffee!’
‘Did he tell you the man’s name?’
‘No, no names, my dear. It’s all very mysterious, awfully romantic and unutterably sad. You must promise to tell no one. Camillo had been with this gal only once – an English gal, incidentally – and then she told him it was all a mistake and that it had to stop. That devastated him for he is head over heels in love with her. He said he couldn’t imagine his life without her. Said he’d kill himself, silly young fool. They talked on the phone this morning, as a matter of fact –’
‘What time, did he say?’
‘I think he said it was “early”. She told him she didn’t want to see him but it’s Valentine’s Day and he felt he’d die if he didn’t see her, he had a present for her, petits fours, something of the sort, one of those circular gold boxes with ribbons, no doubt, so he decided to go to her place, even though he knew perfectly well it might land both of them in trouble. The gal has a little house not far from here, apparently. The usual bijou residence, I imagine. I’ve always had sympathy with kept women. I’ve never been one, mind – quite the reverse in fact.’ Mrs Depleche frowned. ‘What would the masculine equivalent be, I wonder. Where would kept men live? Any ideas, Hugh?’
‘Albany? Or do you want me to coin a phrase?’
‘Camillo went to see his lady love at midday. He heard the Catholic church bell chime twelve as he rang her front door bell. Nobody answered. He rang again – he thought he heard a noise inside – he turned the door handle. The door opened and he walked in. And now comes the spooky part – you promise you won’t breathe a word to anyone? Ah, there comes Roman! Handsome as ever. Looks a bit pale, but I think it suits him. I’m sure he’d be extremely interested to hear the story. Would you mind terribly if I started again?’
‘Sorry, Charlotte – I need to go to our room. I’m afraid I don’t feel very well,’ Antonia said. She tugged at her husband’s sleeve. ‘Hugh, would you come with me?’
‘You should wear a hat.’ Mrs Depleche wagged her forefinger at her ‘The sun here can kill you. Do wait a minute. It’s the spookiest tale you’ve ever heard. Roman used to love mystery stories when he was a boy. He liked English mysteries best. I wonder whether he’s read any of yours, Antonia. You aren’t terribly famous, I know, but you never know. Roman, my boy, d’you remember the mysteries you used to read as a boy?’
Their host was now standing beside them.
‘Yes. I thought Nancy Drew was jolly clever. I was potty about Nancy Drew.’ Roman spoke in a distracted manner. He was extremely pale and heavy-eyed. ‘The Famous Five were jolly clever too. Have you been talking about mysteries?’ He didn’t sound particularly interested. His mobile phone was in his hand and he kept glancing down at it.
‘We have. Well, one particular mystery. You’d never believe this but one of your young Turks –’ The next moment Mrs Depleche cried, ‘Hugh, watch out – Antonia!’
Antonia had swooned. There was a mighty crash as she clutched at a passing waiter and caused him to drop his tray laden with cocktail glasses on the alabaster terrace floor. Payne managed to catch her before she fell.
‘I did say she had to be careful with the sun,’ Mrs Depleche observed in triumphant tones. ‘She’s not used to it and she’s not wearing a hat. Clever women are frequently impractical. Bluestockings and so on. A hat’s an absolute must in this part of the world. Back in ’45 I used to wear a spine-pad at my back as well.’
16
The Knight’s Tale
‘That wasn’t a bad stunt. The very best in diversionary tactics. You should be on stage,’ Major Payne said, ‘You possess all the guile Eve passed on from the Serpent.’
‘Stop talking like a book,’ Antonia said.
‘Isn’t life rendered meaningful or sensible only within a literary culture? All rig
ht. Let me put it another way. What you did was, in the memorable words of Roman Songhera, jolly clever.’
‘I couldn’t think of anything else. Apart from throttling Mrs Depleche! Poor lovelorn Camillo would have been in mortal danger if Roman had learnt he and Ria had had an affair. Roman wouldn’t hesitate to have him killed too!’
‘We haven’t got any evidence yet that he’s killed anyone . . . We do seem to get ourselves let in for rather peculiar situations, don’t we?’ Payne went on ruefully.
It was some twenty minutes later and they were in their room. Antonia was sitting in her bed and, in case someone were suddenly to enter, she was holding an icepack to her forehead in the time-honoured manner of people affected by sunstroke. On her bedside table, in a broad silver dish, lay a much bigger cube of ice, which a servant had brought in. Payne was lounging in an armchair close by. He was in his shirtsleeves and was sipping his second cup of black coffee. His headache had gone and he was feeling a new man, he had declared.
‘You don’t think Mrs Depleche will start telling him the story again when she gets a second chance?’ Antonia asked anxiously.
‘Highly unlikely. She’s jolly scatty. She’s probably forgotten all about it.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘She was on the terrace, talking to the Gilmours.’ Payne had gone back to retrieve his pipe. ‘She was telling them how much she had fancied Jinnah, the founding father of Pakistan. Apparently she met him in 1943, in Hampstead of all places. He was quite Anglicized and sported Savile Row suits, heavily starched shirts and two-tone suede shoes. He had a Bentley and a chauffeur called Bradley and, as though that were not enough, he kept a West Highland terrier called Mop. He was embarrassingly unfamiliar with Islamic methods of prayer, or so Charlotte claimed.’ ‘I suppose I am being paranoid, but do you think Roman will ask her to finish her story?’
‘Highly unlikely. I don’t think he was paying any attention. He looked as though he had a lot on his mind.’
‘I noticed. Well, so he would – if he really did kill his girlfriend! Beneath all that veneer Roman is nothing more than a common or garden thug.’
‘Interestingly enough, the cult of the Thugees actually arose, came to fruition and flourished somewhere round here. It was a nineteenth-century cult of assassins who saw it as their holy mission to harvest bodies for the bloodthirsty goddess Kali . . . What’s the matter now?’
Antonia’s eyes were fixed on the lowboy with its lion-paw feet and brass handles shaped like snarling lions. She then looked across at the copy of Galland’s Les Mille et Une Nuits, Contes Arabes – up at the rotating fan in the middle of the ceiling – down at the bowl of fruit on her highly polished bedside table.
‘Is there perhaps anything you see, but I don’t?’ Payne asked.
Stretching out her hand, Antonia ran her fingers over the plump purple figs resting in their green leaves, the pomegranate and the pineapple. ‘You don’t think the room’s bugged, do you?’
‘Beware of the mike in the pineapple . . . Shall I run the bath?’ Payne said languidly. ‘That’s what people do when they suspect somebody’s eavesdropping on them.’ He recrossed his legs and took another sip of coffee. ‘The room isn’t bugged.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I checked. That was one of the first things I did yesterday. You were having a bath. I know exactly where to look.’ Payne had at one time worked for the Intelligence Service.
‘Mrs Depleche said she was coming to the spooky part of the story. What was it Camillo found in Ria’s bungalow? I don’t think he found Ria’s body,’ Antonia mused. ‘Mrs Depleche wouldn’t have put it quite that way if he had.’
‘No. You are right. Camillo thought he was going mad. If I have to venture a guess, I’d say that he found . . .’
Antonia lowered the icepack. ‘Yes?’
‘He found . . . nothing. The room was empty. What struck him at once was that it did not look like Ria’s room at all. It was absolutely bare but for a desk beside the window, a filing cabinet in the corner and a calendar on the wall showing the now extinct New York Trade Center at night. On the desk there was a laptop and a calculator.’
‘Had Camillo entered the wrong bungalow?’
‘No. He had been to Ria’s bungalow before. That was where they had made love. Camillo stood and gaped. Suddenly a tall, middle-aged man appeared. He was clean-shaven, his grey hair in a boyish crewcut, and he looked benevolent as only an American preacher can. He wore an off-white suit and a bow tie. He was holding a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He smiled and asked Camillo whether he had come for his tickets. He spoke with a pronounced American accent –’
‘What tickets?’
‘Plane tickets. The American gentleman said that Las Vegas was most certainly the kind of place for a fine young man like Camillo to have a dandy time in. Camillo had made the right choice. When Camillo, in something of a daze, asked where Ria was, or Miss Marigold Leighton, the man appeared greatly puzzled. He shook his head and said that he was sorry, but he knew no person of that name. No, sir. But this is her bungalow, Camillo cried. No, sir, the American said. This was his office – had been for the past six months – he was the head representative of Tramsfeld Travels. With a little courtly bow, he introduced himself as Tom Tramsfeld the Third. In actual fact he was one of Songhera’s agents.’
‘You are making this up, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I’m making it up. How could I possibly have known what Camillo saw? I haven’t spoken to the fellow yet.’
Antonia sighed. ‘We are wasting time, Hugh.’
‘It was Charlotte who put the idea into my head. She thought I too wrote. She was impressed by my turn of phrase. It made me wonder whether I could be as good with plot as well.’ Payne frowned. ‘My intention was to create a bizarre situation in a convincing enough manner. And I think I succeeded, wouldn’t you say? You were riveted.’
‘I was not riveted.’
‘You were riveted. You are annoyed now because you fell for it, admit it.’
‘We are wasting time.’
‘You do seriously believe that Knight saw a murder and, as a consequence, was removed and eliminated?’
‘As a matter of fact I do. He was extremely upset and I don’t think it was because he’d consumed a vast quantity of alcohol. I don’t think he was that drunk.’
‘You can never tell with alcoholics. They are adept at maintaining a semblance of sobriety when they are in fact solidly sloshed. Perhaps he played a practical joke on you?’
‘It wasn’t a practical joke!’
‘Very well. Let’s read Knight’s account, shall we?’
Antonia silently drew out the reddish-brown notebook from under her pillow.
‘Are you angry with me?’ Payne asked.
‘No. Only annoyed.’
He put down his coffee cup. ‘Would you like me to join you? Shall I slip into bed with you and put my arm around you? We could read the Knight’s Tale together. I could put on my pyjamas. Get cosy –’
‘I don’t want us to get cosy. I will read and you will listen and comment.’
‘Well, the Honourable Charlotte warned me. She said clever women were the devil. Perhaps she did have a point.’
‘I am sure the Honourable Charlotte knows all about clever women. I never particularly liked Chaucer. Do you remember The Knight’s Tale well?’
‘I do.’ Payne leant back and lit his pipe. ‘A tale of courtly love and chivalric rivalries.’
‘How sordid all this is. Julian Knight seems to have been working on several cases. A Mr Stanley of Stanley &Lommax – some kind of an Anglo-Indian import-export company – suspects his junior partner of appropriating funds and frequenting a gambling house. Mrs Agrawal – the wife of a local factory owner – believes her husband is the habitué of an all she-male bordello. Madame Scarpetta is convinced her husband is having an affair with a Mrs Gilmour.’ Antonia looked up. ‘I wonder if these are the same Gilmours who came
to the party?’
‘Bound to be. I suppose there’s very little else to do in a place like this.’ Payne yawned. ‘Especially in the monsoon season. She-males. Good lord. Some people do live.’
The windows were open. A perfectly breathless evening had started descending outside, scented and warm. There were no stars, only a pink glow suggesting the sky had been permanently overheated. Antonia had expected an invasion of moths and the kind of horrid little things with hard bodies that dash themselves furiously at the lights – but, so far at least, none had appeared.
‘In each case Knight is paid to trail someone and report back.’ Antonia turned another page. ‘Squalid amours. More squalid amours. I mean really squalid. The mind boggles. How could people do things like that?’
4.Little Victim Page 10