Murder of Gonzago chc-7

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘Absolute monsters are rare, but the late Lord Remnant doesn’t seem to have had a single redeeming feature. Not a single one. Is that possible? I find it very hard to believe.’ Payne shook his head.

  ‘Did I like Lord Remnant? No, not particularly. In fact, if you must know,’ Dr Sylvester-Sale said, ‘not at all. No one did.’

  ‘No one? Not even Clarissa?’

  ‘Least of all Clarissa. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘That’s terribly sad,’ said Payne. ‘Can one live without love?’

  ‘Lord Remnant clearly could.’

  ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know … That’s how he emerges from all the stories I’ve heard so far. I must admit this whole case exercises a peculiar fascination over me. The protagonists and their foibles have got me firmly in their grip.’ Payne clenched his hand into a fist. ‘I understand Clarissa’s son has a serious drug problem?’

  ‘That’s been taken care of.’

  ‘What’s the likelihood of Lord Remnant having been involved in the drug trade on the island?’

  ‘If, for argument’s sake, he was involved, it couldn’t have been for the money. At the time of his death he was an extremely rich man, you know.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have done it for the thrill of it? To escape boredom? Isn’t that possible?’

  Sylvester-Sale shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s possible. Anything was possible where Lord Remnant was concerned. He was prey to ennui. He referred to it as “my pathological condition”. He would do anything to escape boredom, yes. He said that danger stimulated him … He did some very silly things. In many ways he was quite mad. I don’t think he had a safety valve … So, yes, it’s perfectly possible.’

  ‘Was Lord Remnant a clever man, doctor?’

  ‘Depends on how one defines “clever”. He certainly thought of himself as clever, which is not quite the same thing. He considered himself a genius … I suppose he was clever — in a highly idiosyncratic kind of way. He seemed to identify with criminal masterminds like Dr No and Goldfinger.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Yes. He loved watching those awful James Bond films.’

  ‘Would you say Lord Remnant was capable of planning and executing a murder?’ Major Payne asked.

  Dr Sylvester-Sale looked at him curiously. ‘I would. Yes. Perfectly capable.’

  It was only after his visitor had taken his leave that Dr Sylvester-Sale remembered that Grenadin had been left to Clarissa and that it was highly unlikely that the Fenwicks should be planning to have holiday villas built on the island. Clarissa would have told him had that indeed been the case. What exactly had Major Payne been after?

  28

  Call on the Dead

  Renee broke down and dissolved into sobs. Gerard Fenwick put a slightly awkward avuncular arm around her shoulders.

  ‘There, there. What is the matter? I knew there was something wrong.’

  ‘Everything’s wrong — everything!’

  ‘That’s not possible, my dear. Not everything. I don’t believe the end of the world has come yet, has it?’

  ‘No. No. I am sorry,’ Renee said indistinctly, her face pressed against the lapel of his tweed jacket. ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ he reassured her.

  ‘I want to die. You can kill me if you like.’

  ‘What a damned silly thing to say. Why should I want to kill you? I don’t need to silence you. You don’t really think I killed my brother, do you?’

  ‘No. I know you didn’t. It’s just come to me. You couldn’t have got hold of the gun. The gun was taken from Lord Remnant’s study.’ She pulled away slightly and sniffed. ‘Unless someone handed it over to you.’

  ‘Yes, I might have had an accomplice.’ Gerard smiled. ‘Only I didn’t.’

  ‘You were there that night — why were you there?’

  He gave her his handkerchief and said gallantly, ‘Won’t you first tell me what’s upset you so much? No, wait.’ He crossed to his desk and produced a bottle of brandy and a tumbler. ‘You must have some of this. It’ll put some colour in your cheeks.’

  She blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes and sat down. She held the glass of brandy, took a dutiful sip. She then blurted out the whole pathetic tale. She knew it was a doomed entanglement, she said; she had known it from the very start, yet she had allowed herself to become obsessed with Dr Sylvester-Sale.

  They had had a secret affair at La Sorciere. Syl had told her he loved her. He had said that she was his only really solid and unseverable lien with the world-

  ‘That’s rather good, actually, do let me make a note of it.’ Gerard reached for his notebook. ‘Unseverable lien with the world. Do chaps talk like that? Outside books, that is?’

  ‘I’ve never heard anyone else say it,’ she admitted.

  ‘No, of course not. He said it to impress you. He never meant any of it. That should have put you on your guard, my dear. “Syl”, did you say? How very interesting. It’s an anagram of “sly”. “Rain” now is an anagram of “Iran”, though I don’t think that’s in any way important. An anachronistic anagram annoyed by anonymity …’

  Dr Sylvester-Sale had made promises, Renee said, which she had believed, even though she had been perfectly aware of his affair with Clarissa. Her waking moments had been filled with thoughts of him. He was terribly good-looking, she hadn’t been able to help herself.

  They had planned their future together, but, after they had been back in England a couple of days, his phone calls had suddenly stopped. She had started stalking him, she was ashamed to admit. She had seen him in the company of a red-haired woman. She had seen them kiss. She had been distraught. She had thought of throwing herself under a passing car. She might have been a lovelorn schoolgirl.

  Gerard leant back and, picking up his smouldering cigar, said, ‘I must admit I am extremely surprised, Renee. I thought you were the epitome of cool and self-possession.’

  ‘Well, I’m not.’

  ‘Shall we have a game of demon patience, the way we used to? It might help you see things in perspective. I have a pack of cards somewhere.’ He glanced vaguely round.

  ‘No, thank you, Gerard. Not now. I’ll be fine.’ She blew her nose.

  ‘Would you allow me to take you out to dinner somewhere later on?’ I’d very much like to marry her, he thought. ‘At about seven?’

  ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘Of course you are. I don’t think you have a prior engagement, have you?’

  ‘I am not sure. I haven’t.’

  ‘There you are! How about the Caprice?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I am going to book a table. If you fancy eggs Benedict and steak tartare, that’s the place to go.’

  Over dinner, he told her his story. It was as pathetic as hers. He too had made a fool of himself. He had acted irrationally, out of character, without much thought as to what exactly he intended to do. He had been in Scotland, in the Highlands, fishing in the river Spey when he had received a call from Roderick. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t had his mobile phone in his pocket. Weren’t mobiles the scourge of the modern age? After his late brother had challenged him, Gerard had got exceedingly angry, he’d seen red, he’d felt like killing Roderick — quite unlike himself, really. He had changed, packed a small case and driven to the nearest airport, hopped on a plane and flown to Grenadin.

  ‘I only had an overnight bag with me. I got a cab from the airport, but when we reached the estate, I decided to walk. I wanted to clear my head. There was a moon. Lovely weather — apart from the blasted mosquitoes.’

  ‘So that was a mosquito bite!’

  ‘Yes. That was most perspicacious of you, my dear. Well, I got to La Sorciere and went in through the gate at the back. I walked up the avenue. I no longer felt cross, only a little stupid. Still, I intended to discuss finance with Roderick. I thought it might make a difference if I confronted him, if I put him “on the spot”, as the phrase goes.’

&n
bsp; ‘You needed money …’

  ‘Well, yes. He had so much money, it was ridiculous, keeping it all to himself. I needed money for my Dilettanti Droug idea. Well, I came up to the terrace — heard voices coming from behind the french windows — heard a splashing sound coming from the garden-’

  ‘Stephan. That was Stephan. He was beside the pool.’

  ‘Then I saw a movement — there was someone by the french windows. Couldn’t tell if it was man or woman. Figure dressed in some light-coloured clothing. Put me in mind of the woman in white, though it might have been a man. My brother always wore white, didn’t he? Sorry, that’s neither here nor there. I saw the figure move away from the window and disappear down the side steps of the terrace.’

  ‘Which way did the figure go?’

  ‘Haven’t the foggiest. I didn’t think anything of it, though I instinctively knew there had been something excessively furtive about the way it had moved-’

  ‘Furtive?’

  ‘Yes … I threw away my cigar. I hadn’t finished it, but I didn’t want to attract attention, you know. I walked up the steps — and on to the terrace. I saw the french windows were ajar, but of course the curtains were drawn over them on the inside, so I couldn’t see anything. I heard voices. A man said something — someone gasped — did he really mean Lord Remnant had been murdered? Something on those lines. I am sure it was a woman who said that.’

  ‘Louise Hunter.’

  ‘For a moment I thought it was all part of some silly charade or parlour game. The Murder Game, you know, or that you were putting on some kind of a play. Roderick was potty about theatricals, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was. Liked nothing better.’

  ‘I didn’t really know what to make of it. Then I remembered the figure I’d seen earlier on and suddenly felt goosebumps down my spine. I stumbled over some bulky object — a monstrous head goggled up at me!’

  ‘Bottom’s head.’

  ‘Made me jump out of my skin. That’s when I must have dropped my cigar cutter, don’t you think?’ Gerard pulled at his lip. ‘The next moment I saw the gun. It lay beside the head. Well, I knew then there was something very rotten indeed in the state of Denmark. I realized I’d made a mistake coming. It had been madness. If Roderick had really been killed, I’d be a prime suspect. After all I had a goodish motive for wanting my brother out of the way.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Well, I swung round and ran down the terrace steps and back on the avenue. I got out and hailed a cab, which took me back to the airport. I hopped on the next plane back to Scotland.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You found yourself standing on the terrace after the murder was committed. I wonder if the figure you saw was the killer,’ Renee Glover said. ‘It couldn’t have been Stephan. Stephan was sitting beside the pool — you heard him — he was dropping pebbles. That’s where we found him later on … So you can’t say if it was a man or a woman you saw outside the windows?’

  ‘I am afraid not, my dear. It happened very fast. One moment the figure in white was there, the next moment it was gone. Was anyone out of the room at the time of the shooting?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Renee answered promptly. ‘Hortense. She said she was going to the loo.’

  ‘It might have been her then. She might have run out and shot Roderick … Was she dressed in white that evening?’

  ‘I believe she was.’ Renee smiled. ‘I don’t think Hortense shot your brother. She is muddle-headed and scatty and not particularly practical. It took her ages to understand how a camera works. Besides, her eyesight’s really bad. She couldn’t even see the stripes on a zebra.’

  ‘She may have been putting it on.’

  ‘I don’t think she was. She disliked Lord Remnant, but I very much doubt it was she who killed him.’

  ‘Well, if Stephan didn’t shoot Roderick and if Hortense didn’t and if I didn’t — who did?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘It was such a strange evening,’ said Renee. ‘Just before dinner I happened to go into the laundry room and what do you think I saw there? You’d never guess. A brand new coffin painted white.’

  ‘A coffin in the laundry room? Odd place to leave a coffin. Couldn’t it have been a prop of some kind? For a play my brother may have been contemplating?’

  ‘When I mentioned the coffin to Clarissa, she said she had no idea where it had come from. She looked annoyed. With me — but I also had an idea she was annoyed with herself.’

  ‘How terribly interesting. Annoyed with herself — for not being more careful? Suggests she was involved — um — in whatever was going on? Perhaps something was brought to La Sorciere in that coffin? Or someone? A coffin suggests transportation … Would you like a cigar, my dear?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t be quite your style. You do look awfully pretty in that dress, Renee. So terribly fresh and innocent. Perhaps we could take a holiday together some time, you and I? What do you think? Felicity smokes my cigars, did I tell you? I wonder if that’s good enough grounds for divorce?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘She says it isn’t her. But it must be her. She keeps pinching my cigars and then denies it. Hate petty deceptions like that.’

  ‘Something else happened later that night,’ Renee said. ‘Clarissa announced she wanted to spend some time alone with her husband’s body. She told everybody to go to bed. As I didn’t feel at all tired, I sneaked out and took a turn in the garden. When I eventually went up, I happened to pass Lord Remnant’s dressing-room door. She was inside. I heard her voice. She was talking in an urgent whisper.’

  ‘She may have been praying. Isn’t that possible? For Roderick’s soul and so on? Asking God to spare Roderick and not despatch him to hell? She may be a Catholic, you know. There was a time when no Remnant would touch a Catholic with a bargepole, but things have changed. We know nothing about Clarissa. Nothing at all.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like a prayer.’ Renee shook her head. ‘It sounded as though — as though she was arguing with someone.’

  ‘She couldn’t have been arguing with my brother because he was dead. Well, people living in the Balkans and suchlike countries tend to talk to their dead as they lie in the coffin. Part of a long-standing tradition, I imagine. I think it’s called “lamentations”, but lamenting is hardly what one would expect of Clarissa, is it?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Clarissa loathed my brother — or so Felicity says. Felicity insists Clarissa had lots of lovers … Did you say you thought Clarissa was arguing with someone? You didn’t hear anyone answer her, did you?’

  ‘No. I didn’t dare go too near the door. I didn’t stop for long. I was terribly nervous.’

  ‘She may have been talking to herself. In my opinion Clarissa’s gone mad. Getting rid of all the servants, staying at Remnant all by herself and so on.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling that there is some unknown factor at work …’

  ‘Perhaps my brother’s death is destined to go down the centuries as one of those unsolved mysteries — unless Payne and his detective-story-writing wife manage to crack it somehow, though that seems most unlikely. It is only in books that the zeal of amateurs is rewarded by success. I do believe, my dear, my next novel will be a whodunnit.’

  ‘I thought you hated whodunnits.’

  ‘Not any longer. I have every intention of experimenting with the form. Genre conventions could be subverted while still being decorously observed.’ Gerard spoke dreamily. ‘A mysterious death in an exotic locale. A murder committed during an amateur theatrical production. A small circle of suspects-’

  ‘You intend to write an autobiographical whodunnit?’

  ‘I don’t see why novels shouldn’t be rooted in experience. Not such a bad idea if a character’s emotional concerns are in fact the author’s emotional concerns, even if I do take exception to the concept of uninhibited autobiography. What I am drawn to i
s the novelist’s freedom to blend, to compress, to conflate, to reframe. There’s a phrase that sums it up awfully well. What was it? Transformative power. Being able to take things that were terribly puzzling and make them lucid, producing an entertainment out of what was horrifying and disturbing. Now that would be a whacking big achievement. Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I would.’ She smiled. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Who eliminated the earl? That will be the question in everybody’s mind. Is it the drug-crazed stepson? The dotty aunt? The flighty chatelaine? The dashing doctor? The cigar-smoking sister-in-law? The actual solution will of course be something completely unexpected … I rather like the idea of there being an unknown factor at work. Readers expect radical reversals, don’t they?’

  29

  Bent Sinister

  No blinding light on the road to Damascus! No, of course not. Cold and sharp as flint. It cut his face as soon as he walked out of the Ritz. His hand went up to check he was not bleeding.

  He put on his gloves. ‘Je reviens,’ he murmured.

  He’d forgotten how perfectly foul the English weather could be.

  He already missed the ambience of hedonistic freedom he had left behind, the glinting harmonies of sea, sky and golden sands. He missed his white pyjamas. And what a bore it was, having to wait for his ‘inheritance’! He was not used to waiting, to not being able to spend as lavishly as he at some point might feel like.

  There was shockingly little money in the account of the man renowned for his one hundred faces and one hundred and one voices, as he had discovered. (Had Quin been a gambler?) His own cards he could no longer use since they had all been cancelled the day after he had ‘died’. Damned frustrating. What was it they said? Reasonable thrift is a virtue when practised by the rich, a dire necessity when practised by the poor. As it happened, he wasn’t used to thrift of any kind, so there.

  Neither by training nor by temperament was he fitted to the rigours of everyday life. Never before had he found himself lashed to the masts of actuality. A good many things, mundane, rather banal things, which mere mortals did all the time, he had never done. He had been shielded by his immense wealth and position. He had never been on a double-decker bus, for example, never travelled by tube, never got up early in the morning because he had to, never had to wait to see a doctor or a dentist, never stood in a queue.