The Curious Incident at Claridge's

by R. T. Raichev

  The Master observed that it had been pleasing to see Lady Tradescant looking so well.

  ‘Oh, Penelope’s blooming, blooming. Well, she is young. Having a young wife can be a strain, I don’t mind telling you, Master. My mistake. Got a bee in my bonnet—wanted a young and beautiful wife.’ Sir Seymour shook his head. ‘Who was the fellow that kept calling for more of the food of love? Fellow in Shakespeare. Orsino? Nothing but the best would do for me. That was six years ago. I used to set store by that sort of thing. Well, should have known better. Eros is perfidious and ambiguous, a cheat and a sorcerer, a mixer of … Remember that one? How did it go on?’

  The Master stroked his pointed silver beard. ‘The mixer of inflaming potions and hemlock, destroyer of human hearts, sensuous and violent, brother to Thanatos.’

  ‘Hemlock, eh? Oh, it’s been a terrible day. Absolute calamity. My housekeeper died this morning. That shook me up. I was angry with her but I didn’t really want her to chuck herself from the top of my house. That was a bit extreme.’

  ‘From the top of your house? Oh dear!’

  ‘No one can say for sure what exactly happened. No witnesses. Looks like suicide. The police came, of course. Bloody nuisance. Might have been an accident. I’d just sacked her, you see. Mrs Mowbray wasn’t a nice woman. Far from it. Vindictive. Had a son called Victor. I didn’t like him coming to the house one little bit. Told her off about it hundreds of times. Wonder if he was after Penelope? Then I caught Mrs Mowbray cooking the accounts—that’s what did it in the end—the last straw. I’m afraid I lost my temper—shouted—showed her the door—she quibbled over her wages. Didn’t strike me as suicidal at all. Tiresome business—tragic too, ultimately. Not my fault. No question of me being held responsible in any way.’

  ‘I should hope not!’

  ‘You are a good chap, Master. One of the very few who understand me. For once, Penelope took my side. She was most supportive. Usually, when it comes to that sort of thing, she is no more good than a sick headache, but this time she rose to the occasion. She had no illusions about Mrs Mowbray. Penelope can be a sweet girl—but she tends to be demanding and capricious. Always wants something. I try to keep her on a short leash. She’s got a budget she needs to stick to and she resents it. She likes to buy new clothes, you see. Not ordinary clothes, good heavens, no. Haute couture. She’s a pretty girl and looks good in expensive rags, so these are the only kind of rags she buys. Hangover from her modelling days, I suppose. Such a lot of nonsense. She’s a former model, remember.’

  ‘I do remember.’

  ‘Penelope craves luxury. She’d be snacking on ground-diamond toasties and bathing in champagne, if I ever lowered my guard. Oh yes. She likes foreign travel—holidays abroad. We’ve got a house in the South of France, but that’s proving too expensive to maintain. She’s fond of parties, the theatre, something called “gigs”. I am afraid I can’t keep up with her. Well, perhaps I am a little set in my ways, which at my age is not entirely to be marvelled at.’

  ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself!’

  ‘Oh, but I don’t. Not in the least. Such nonsense. I feel at peace here. Each time I find myself under your roof, I have the sensation of—having arrived. This place feels like home. A proper sanctuary. I hate Half Moon Street. I feel wretched in Half Moon Street.’

  ‘I am so sorry.’

  Sir Seymour’s lower lip trembled slightly. His voice quavered. Penelope had been brusque with him lately. She spent too much time talking to her friends on the phone. Most of his opinions either annoyed her or made her laugh. ‘For example, yesterday I said—what did I say now? No, I can’t remember. Never mind. We had a bit of a row this morning. I said I intended to sell the villa in Monte and she said—oh, it was most unpleasant. And to add insult to injury, she then said it was high time I got a hearing aid. Well, that was only an hour before the commotion started—I mean Mrs Mowbray deciding to end it all. Never imagined that class of person ever went in for the final solution, but there you are. A perfectly ghastly day. I do apologize, Master. I have no right to bore you with my jeremiads.’

  ‘Not at all, Sir Seymour. Not at all. You are an old and valued friend.’

  ‘It’s good to be appreciated. Doesn’t happen often these days. Penelope is not the worst, mind. Bettina’s gone mad—quite mad. That’s my sister, yes—the “fabled fashionista”, heaven preserve us. She lives in Rutland Gate, but she keeps coming over, uninvited, looking like something out of the Chamber of Horrors. Each time she looks different, which is jolly disconcerting. Frightens the servants, but does she care? She insists on putting such impossible demands on me—recalling episodes from fifty years ago, things I can’t possibly remember having said or done! She enjoys twisting the past and issuing ultimata. She keeps getting something called the “chill”. No idea what it is. You’ve never met her, have you? Pray you never do. It was she who introduced me to Penelope, you see. Probably did it on purpose, out of sheer spite, as an act of revenge. Then there’s Nicky.’

  ‘Your son Nicholas?’

  ‘Nicky never forgave me for marrying Penelope. Perhaps he did have a point when he told me I’d live to regret it. That was six years ago. He was quite taken with her himself, mind. I have an idea that she led him on. He’s nearly fifty now and hates her—’ Sir Seymour broke off. ‘Do you think Penelope’s got a lover?’

  The Master drew back a little. ‘I—I couldn’t possibly say, Sir Seymour.’

  ‘She is always on the phone, but she stops talking when I happen to enter the room. When I ask her who it was, she says nobody. You can’t talk to “nobody”, can you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, they are all after my money. Nicky can’t wait to see me dead and buried. He already envisages himself as the nineteenth baronet. His wife has grandiose plans about renovating Tradescant Hall. Vast wealth is a curse, Master. The title couldn’t matter less, but Nicky’s set his heart on it. Sir Nicholas Tradescant, Bart. He’s already got some writing paper with that heading. In gold. Frightfully tasteless.’

  ‘That was naughty of Sir Nicholas—’ The Master gave an awkward titter. ‘Sorry! Such a silly mistake!’

  ‘One hundred sheets of thick expensive writing paper, waiting in his top desk drawer. Waiting for me to kick the bucket. Don’t know why I bothered to have any children. It’s not as though I’ve ever set any value on perpetuation through progeny. Olivia’s even worse—that’s Nicky’s wife. Not much of a marriage, that. I used to feel sorry for him. I am not entirely without a heart, you know. Maybe it is all Olivia’s fault. I don’t know. Maybe she is the power behind the throne. She’s got black eyes, you know. Come, you spirits, unsex me here. She’s that kind of woman. I am fed up with it all. But I am afraid I must be boring you frightfully, you poor fellow.’

  ‘Not at all,’ the Master said.

  ‘Wish I were nobody. Then perhaps Penelope would talk to me. Wish I were a pauper. I do mean that, Master. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and find myself in one of those cardboard boxes under Tower Bridge, or on the river bank, looking at the sunrise, feeling free. Being here is the next best thing. Brought tears to my eyes, seeing the old bookstand and the biscuit tin on the bedside table. When will you have the radiator repainted? I hate that sealing-wax kind of red. None of the other radiators at Mayholme Manor are red, are they?’

  ‘No. I do apologize, Sir Seymour. I promise that by the time you pay us your next visit—’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of leaving and then coming back and then leaving again. I’d rather stay here all the time. D’you know what? I’ve got a proposition to put to you. I have made up my mind. I intend to leave everything I have to this splendid old institution of yours. What do you say to that?’

  ‘Everything? I am afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘All my earthly riches, Master. In return for the room I occupy each time I come here. How about that? A fair exchange? The room with the lovely view over the bell tower, the maple tree outside the window
and the sundial in the centre of the quad. Such peace—waking up to feathered débats outside—wondering if it’s nightingales or chaffinches—then the early morning walk down to the pond. I want to move in here permanently. I want to join the brotherhood. I know I have to be either a widower or a bachelor to qualify, but surely you could stretch the rules the tiniest bit?’

  The Master had turned quite pink above his silver beard. ‘Goodness me. You want to join the brotherhood. This is quite unexpected. An unexpected pleasure. I believe we could—yes—I’d need to put the matter to the rest of the board first, but I don’t think there’d be any serious opposition. You are after all one of our chief benefactors—your generous donations have been greatly appreciated.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  The Master gave a little cough. ‘But there’s bound to be opposition of a different kind, Sir Seymour. I mean—your son—your second wife—your sister—they won’t be happy about you joining the brotherhood, will they?’

  ‘Of course they won’t be happy. My sister regards the brotherhood with contempt. They’ll all say I’ve lost my marbles. They’ll try to have me certified and locked away. Nicky will probably call in specialists and employ some gilded legal troupe. But don’t you worry, Master. They may try to contest the new will, but they won’t succeed. Incidentally, I’m thinking of giving up the title too. That’ll be one in the eye for Nicky. Think of all that writing paper going to waste!’ He laughed, a slightly manic laugh, the Master thought uneasily.

  ‘You have had a bad day, Sir Seymour. Perhaps things will seem different in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘What’s the time? Half past nine? Half an hour to go. Oh what difference would it make? I’m going to take that accursed capsule now. Incidentally, who’s the fellow in the wheelchair? He seems to be a new brother.’

  ‘That’s Dr Fairchild. He arrived last week.’

  ‘Fairchild? Never heard of him. Kept staring at me through his goggles, then whispered something to the steward who was pushing him. Didn’t like it, the way they put their heads together.’ Sir Seymour took out the silver box from his pocket. The diamond ring on his little finger flashed in the lamplight.

  ‘Actually, Dr Fairchild asked what your room number was.’ The Master’s eyes were on the ring. Rather an intricate design. It must have cost a pretty penny. An air of exclusivity about it. Exclusivity was something the Master was interested in, nay, aspired to. The Wallis ring, Sir Seymour called it. There seemed to be some strange tale attached to it. Did Sir Seymour mean the Duchess of Windsor? ‘I had the idea Dr Fairchild wanted to make friends with you,’ he added.

  ‘I don’t need any friends. That chap looks older than the Great Wall of China. It’s terribly dispiriting for one to mix with people so much older than oneself. One can almost see—how did it go on? The skull beneath the skin. What was that joke Mr Lovell made at dinner? Down with Methuselah! Ha-ha. Frightfully funny. Made me laugh. May I have some water?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The Master rose. He opened the highly polished door of a rather ornate cupboard in the corner. ‘Would soda water be all right? Sorry, I think it’s my wife,’ he said as a ringing sound was heard from his pocket. He produced a mobile phone. ‘Do excuse me. Yes, it’s her.’ There was a moment’s pause. ‘Oh, it’s only a message. Sorry, Sir Seymour.’ The Master poured soda water into a cut-crystal glass. ‘Thank God for mobile phones. Marvellous inventions. Would have been completely cut off without them.’

  ‘I’ve got one in my case upstairs, but I never answer it. Twenty-five minutes won’t make much difference, I don’t think.’ Sir Seymour held the blue-and-red capsule between his thumb and forefinger. He grimaced childishly. ‘I won’t die, will I?’

  ‘Of course not.’ The Master smiled as he watched Sir Seymour place the capsule in the middle of his tongue. Red healthy tongue, remarkable in one of his age. ‘Twenty-five minutes won’t make the slightest difference,’ he added reassuringly.

  ‘Famous last words!’ Sir Seymour laughed.

  He raised the glass to his lips.

  5

  Night and Silence

  Major Payne waved the printout at Antonia. ‘Here it is. I found it. Mayholme Manor, Dulwich. It’s the only one that fits the bill. A retreat for unmarried gentlemen and widowers of noble birth who pass the autumn and winter days of their lives in dignified and comfortable routine, “according to the tradition of the house”. It’s got a Master all right—one Wilfred Cowley-Cooper. The place was once known as “Dutton’s Retreat”. Quite an interesting history. There’s a picture—want to see it?’

  The picture showed a placidly beautiful house set in what appeared to be a small park. The photograph had been taken at night. All the windows sparkled like jewels. Like one of those enchanted houses in fairy tales, Antonia thought. There was always some lurking menace in houses like that. ‘It looks at once haunted and haunting,’ she said. ‘Or is that the effect of the pale moon? What is it? Elizabethan?’

  ‘Yes. Built 1632 for the Earl of Sussex, on the site of a Carthusian monastery established in 1380. The monks all wore orange habits with hoods. The will of the founder, Digby Dutton, provided for a hospital for—“such as have been servants to the King’s Majesty, who have been misfortunate enough to find themselves in a state of extreme penury or reached a decrepit old age” …’

  ‘An old gents’ home …’

  ‘Of a particularly exclusive kind.’

  ‘Golden bedpans and walking-frames encrusted with diamonds and rubies?’

  ‘All male staff. Stewards. The residents, either widowers or bachelors, are known as the “brotherhood”. When you join, you automatically become a “brother”. There is an oath each new brother has to take, that’s part of the tradition. It seems they make a huge thing of it. At the moment there are twenty-two brothers living at Mayholme Manor.’

  ‘So that’s where your old boy was going.’

  ‘Yes. I can reveal now that his name is Sir Seymour Tradescant, eighteenth baronet. A family of great antiquity and distinction. The Tradescants can be traced back to a thirteenth-century Knight Templar. At one time their family homes included Buckingham House, which changed its name to “Palace” only after it was sold to George III.’

  ‘As grand as that?’

  ‘Sir John Tradescant, Sir Seymour’s father, was in the diplomatic corps. In 1946 he was a member of the British team sent to Nuremberg for the trials. They had to ensure things were done properly. Sir Seymour didn’t follow any particular career. He chose to play the old-fashioned squire. I thought he looked the part—put me in mind of those not terribly subtle caricatures that were so popular in the ’30s.’

  Antonia smiled. ‘Pendulous cheeks, port-wine complexion, knickerbockers, a tortoiseshell-rimmed eyeglass?’

  ‘Pendulous cheeks and port-wine complexion, but no eyeglass. He wore a blazer.’ Payne looked down at the second sheet of printed paper. ‘He was born in 1938, which makes him sixty-nine. Married twice, 1956, Lady Frances Talbot (1939–1991), 2002, Penelope St Loup—no age given.’

  ‘Penelope.’

  ‘Our fair poisoner, yes. There can’t be a mistake. That’s the one. We are on the right track. Addresses: Half Moon Street, Mayfair and Tradescant Hall, Shropshire. Clubs: Brooks’s—’

  ‘If you meant to poison somebody with a single capsule, you would want to make sure it contained something pretty lethal and fast-acting like cyanide. Death would take place in less than a minute,’ Antonia said thoughtfully. ‘But, assuming that that indeed was the case, how could she have hoped to get away with it?’

  ‘Um. Perhaps she felt certain his death would be taken for suicide? Sir Seymour’s mien struck me as a melange of moroseness-cum-melancholy. I would never have described him as a “bouncing baronet”. Did the type ever exist? Perhaps Sir Seymour does suffer from some depressive illness? Maybe he has already displayed suicidal tendencies and has tried to kill himself? That might have given her the idea.’
>
  ‘It’s possible …’

  ‘What would have happened if the substitution hadn’t been observed by Jesty? Sir Seymour suddenly keels over and dies halfway through dinner at Mayholme Manor. Or after dinner, as the stewards are handing round the brandy, the liqueurs, the halva and the Turkish coffee. So they’ll think it’s suicide, or else suspicion will fall on Sir Seymour’s dinner companions and on the stewards.’

  ‘Or on the Master? For some reason I want the Master to suffer,’ said Antonia.

  ‘So do I, isn’t that interesting? I want him to squirm. I do believe we share a strong anti-authoritarian streak. If the police did manage to trace the poison capsule back to Half Moon Street,’ Payne went on, ‘they would probably find a household teeming with suspects—that’s what Penelope might be banking on. Sir Seymour may be one of those highly murderable baronets one used to find in detective stories of the well-bred “English” kind. I am sure you could come up with some highly original title?’

  ‘Death of a Baronet?’

  ‘I came across a Bettina Tradescant, style editor of a small, rather smart magazine called Dazzle. There is a picture of her on the internet, which shows her wearing what looks like a dead pheasant on her head and purple lipstick. I wonder if she is a relative. She looks sinister, in an Edith Sitwell kind of way, with a dash of the late Isabella Blow thrown in.’

  ‘Why did Penelope swap the capsules at Claridge’s? Such a public place. Surely she must have had the opportunity to do it at home? Unless she had absolutely no access to her husband’s room. Or else it was a last-minute decision,’ Antonia mused. ‘Perhaps something happened—some kind of emergency that necessitated Sir Seymour’s death? Can you think of a good reason why she should wish him dead?’

  ‘Well, she is young and beautiful while he is an unattractive old thing. He is terribly rich. When he snuffs it, she bags all the dosh—and she continues calling herself Lady Tradescant. I believe titles still matter to some people.’ Payne glanced at his watch. ‘Do let me try to phone Mayholme Manor and see if I could warn Sir Seymour against swallowing the lethal capsule, if he hasn’t already done so, that is. I don’t mind making a fool of myself. Better safe than sorry.’