The Curious Incident at Claridge's

by R. T. Raichev

  ‘They have king prawns al forno,’ he heard her murmur over the menu.

  Later Jesty was to tell Payne that he had absolutely no recollection of what they had had to eat or drink. He had chosen something with lots of vodka in it for himself, to give himself courage, that much he remembered. He’d hardly eaten anything, in fact. It had never happened to him before, that sort of thing. He believed he was in love with her, yes. Head over heels.

  Absurd, he thought defiantly. Tommy rot. Absolute rubbish. He’d never been in love, never. Not even in his adolescence. He had been tormented by desire, lust he was jolly well familiar with, but what he felt now was—well, it was something completely different, dammit. A fluttering in his stomach—a great tension in his chest—the ridiculous urge to prostrate himself at her feet—tendresse. Was that what tendresse felt like? So far he’d only heard such sensations described; he’d never experienced them at first hand. He’d always despised chaps who went on about being head over heels in love with some girlie.

  All I want is to get her between the sheets, Jesty reminded himself.

  No—not true—he wanted more than that. Much more. I want to spend the rest of my life with her, he thought, appalled.

  Jesty was experiencing an odd sense of dislocation. It felt as though there were two people inside him. Him—and, well, bloody not-him. If such a thing were possible. She’s bewitched me, he thought in a sudden panic. I am under Penelope’s spell. I am her slave for life. He made a desperate effort to pull himself together.

  ‘Such a warm day,’ Penelope Tradescant said. ‘Much warmer than yesterday, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes. You are absolutely right.’

  ‘Have you come a long way, Captain Jesty?’

  ‘Albany.’

  ‘That’s not too far.’

  ‘Not too far, no.’

  ‘Albany or the Albany?’

  ‘Both are permissible. I prefer Albany. The Albany sounds too much like a public house.’

  ‘It does. How funny. You’ll never believe this, but I have taken quite a fancy to the waiters. Look at them! Sombre, attentive and perfectly charming.’ She smiled. ‘Like—like those Florentines Dante meets in Purgatory.’

  Her expression, he imagined, was ironic but not unfriendly. Once more he glanced down at her hand. He wanted to reach out and take hold of it in his but didn’t dare. She was looking at him in a quizzical manner now.

  He had the idea she was assessing him—appraising him. He was put in mind of those princesses in fairy tales who set their suitor some impossible task. I’d do anything for her, he thought. Anything.

  ‘Have you been to Italy, Captain Jesty?’

  ‘I have. To Rome and to Venice. Also to Tuscany. A bloody marvellous place, Tuscany.’

  ‘We have a villa in the South of France but I try to go to Italy whenever I can.’

  ‘Do you? Italy is jolly amazing.’

  ‘I agree.’ She nodded.

  ‘All those cathedrals. All those wines. And of course the weather. All bloody marvellous.’

  Small talk, he thought incredulously. We are making small talk. Albany, the Albany, cathedrals, the weather—

  It was all wrong. He’d allowed her to get the upper hand. He’d forgotten that it was he who held the trump card. He needed to take decisive action, dammit. He had always prided himself on being a man of action. Would be madness to waste any more time. He was a soldier, dammit.

  He cleared his throat.

  9

  The Turn of the Screw

  ‘You …’

  ‘Yes, Captain Jesty?’

  ‘You mustn’t be afraid of me,’ he said in a low voice.

  That was not what he intended to say, but the idea that she might be afraid of him was unbearable. He was anxious to reassure her.

  ‘I am not afraid of you. Whatever gave you the idea?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what.’

  ‘I believe there has been a misunderstanding—’

  ‘I want you to know that your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘What secret?’

  ‘The capsule, dammit. The little box. At Claridge’s. You poisoned your husband,’ he blurted out.

  There was a pause. Her expression did not change.

  ‘You believe I poisoned my husband.’ Her voice was oddly uninflected. She had leant slightly forward and at the same time put her hands on her lap. Out of my reach, he thought with a pang, also out of my sight. This saddened him—it saddened him so much, he felt the sudden urge to blub. Then he felt annoyed, with himself, as well as with her. He felt blood rushing into his face. He pursed his lips.

  ‘I am convinced of it,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you are very much mistaken. I am afraid you’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether,’ she said briskly. ‘My husband is alive. He is fine. You could go and check, if you like. I could give you the address.’

  ‘You mean he didn’t take the capsule?’ Damn, he thought.

  ‘As a matter of fact he did take the capsule. Last night, after dinner. I specifically asked him about it.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Seymour can be a bit absent-minded, it’s his age, I suppose, but it was important that he complete the course. That was what the doctor said.’

  ‘What course?’

  ‘Antibiotics. The capsules contained an antibiotic. There are no more capsules now. He took them for his big toe.’ She was speaking slowly now, as though to a child. ‘Seymour’s had a bad infection, but he has managed to recover. He is no longer in pain. He is enjoying his stay at Mayholme Manor immensely. He said so.’

  ‘Mayholme Manor,’ Jesty echoed.

  ‘Yes. Also known as Dutton’s Retreat. Place in Dulwich. I personally think it is the spookiest of places, but that’s neither here nor there.’ She smiled again. ‘I spoke to Seymour on the phone just before I came here. He’s had a good English breakfast and been for a walk. He still uses his stick, but he said he could have done without it. He was looking forward to a game of chess with the Master. He believes the antibiotics have done the trick, that was how he put it. You don’t seem to believe me?’

  ‘You swapped the capsules,’ he said stubbornly. ‘I saw you do it. You did it the moment your husband’s back was turned. You glanced round first. You did it fast. You opened the silver box which your husband had left on the table, then you took a capsule from your bag. You looked furtive as hell.’

  ‘Why were you spying on me?’

  ‘When you realized I had seen you,’ he went on, ‘you panicked. You looked terrified. Your face was a picture of guilt.’

  ‘You don’t think you might have imagined things?’

  He felt anger surge through him. Good! That was a damned sight healthier than moping over her. ‘Payne saw you too,’ he said.

  ‘Payne? Oh yes. Your fellow soldier. He also saw me exchange the capsules?’

  ‘No. No. He turned up a couple of minutes later. After you had done the substitution. I told him about it. But he saw the guilty expression on your face all right.’

  ‘Both of you had been to a regimental reunion,’ she said. ‘It was a regimental reunion, wasn’t it? That was what one of the waiters told us. You were making such a dreadful noise that I asked what was going on. You all seemed to have had a little bit too much to drink, correct?’

  ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘You were a little the worse for wear. The evidence of your eyes was perhaps not particularly reliable? It’s a well-known fact that—’

  ‘What absolute rot! Neither of us was drunk. Are you suggesting we had some kind of hallucination? The two of us? At the same time?’

  ‘Mass hallucinations happen more often than people imagine.’

  This infuriated him. By now they should have been on first-name terms, he thought bitterly—he should have been holding her hand and making arrangements for later on!

  ‘I could get you into trouble if I chose and you know it perfectly well.’ Jesty spoke through gritted tee
th. He tried hard not to raise his voice. ‘I could destroy you. All right. Say, your husband didn’t take the poison, for whatever reason. I could still tell him exactly what I saw.’

  ‘Seymour wouldn’t believe you.’

  ‘If you’d been innocent, you wouldn’t have agreed to meet me. It makes no sense. Why did you agree to meet me?’

  ‘I believe in clearing up misunderstandings.’

  ‘There’s been no misunderstanding.’

  She bowed her head. Several moments passed. He wondered what she would come up with now. Would she get up and leave without another word? Had he blown his chances with her? What should he do next, if that did happen? Great heaviness descended upon him. He couldn’t really see himself making his way to the police station and reporting the capsule-swapping incident at Claridge’s. They would make him write it all down, which would be a bore. They would ask him all sorts of questions. And what exactly were you doing behind the potted palm, Captain Jesty? He knew he didn’t invite immediate trust—

  He started up. Penelope Tradescant was speaking.

  ‘Very well. I see you are a determined man, Captain Jesty, so I will tell you the truth. I’ll tell you the whole truth. I don’t think I have any other option. I am afraid you misread the situation completely. No, listen, please. I don’t blame you. It is rather a complicated story. I hope you understand. Some of it is quite distressing. There are other people involved.’ She gave a weary sigh. ‘I was rather hoping I wouldn’t have to tell anyone about it.’

  ‘You admit that you swapped the capsules?’ He picked up his glass. The tide had turned! He resisted stroking his moustache.

  ‘I swapped the capsules, yes. There were two of them. One capsule contained the antibiotic Seymour had been prescribed for his infected toe. The other capsule contained deadly poison. Yes. You were right. I did exchange them. But—it was the other way round.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘The other way round?’ Jesty stared at her. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘The poison capsule was already in the box. The capsule with the antibiotic was in my bag. Outwardly the two capsules were identical.’ Her eyes, he noticed, were very bright now. ‘I managed to replace the poison capsule with the antibiotic. I had been waiting for an opportunity to do so. I had been worried silly about it. I had started panicking. I knew Seymour was going to take the poison capsule later on, you see. After dinner that night. I knew my husband would die moments after he swallowed it.’

  Jesty frowned. ‘You aren’t suggesting he intended to commit suicide?’

  ‘No. Seymour had no idea the capsule contained poison. He didn’t know that someone was trying to kill him.’

  ‘Are you saying it wasn’t you who filled the capsule with poison, if that was the way the damned thing was done?’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t me!’ Penelope Tradescant spoke with great vehemence. It crossed his mind she might be telling the truth after all.

  ‘Did you know what the poison was?’

  ‘It was nicotine.’

  ‘You didn’t want your husband to swallow it?’

  ‘I didn’t. I didn’t want Seymour to die.’

  ‘You wanted him to live?’

  ‘I wanted him to live,’ she said patiently. ‘That’s why I exchanged the capsules.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier if you’d told him about it? Warned him against swallowing the capsule?’

  ‘That seems the logical thing to have done, doesn’t it? Well, I didn’t tell Seymour because I didn’t want him to know that someone was trying to kill him. I didn’t want to have to explain. I was afraid of complications. There were certain factors—’ She broke off. ‘I am a coward. Seymour is an extremely difficult man. There would have been all kinds of complications, believe me. I thought I’d do the exchange quietly and then—then all would be well. That’s God’s truth.’ Penelope Tradescant’s eyes met his steadily. ‘It was most unfortunate that you saw me.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Do you know who the person is? I mean the person who tried to poison your husband?’

  He went on watching her carefully. Damned odd, the whole bloody thing. She sounded as though she were telling the truth, but of course he couldn’t be certain. It might be just acting. She might be a bloody good actress. Beautiful women usually were. It occurred to him that she might have started playing some game with him.

  ‘I know who it is. Yes. I saw her switch round the capsules. She had no idea I’d seen her.’

  ‘She? It was a woman?’

  ‘I see I’ll have to tell you the whole story …’

  10

  From the Life of the Detectives

  It was later that afternoon.

  Major Payne turned off the TV set. ‘Nothing on the news. We are still facing what could be best described as the menace of the unknown. Oh well, I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you try phoning Mayholme Manor again?’ Antonia asked absently. She sat on the sofa with a sheaf of papers on her lap, a pen in her hand.

  ‘Yes. I’ve tried four times now. No signal. Dead silence with a hollow ring to it. There seems to be some major fault. I may be imagining the hollow ring, actually. Unless it is all part of the conspiracy. I could go to Mayholme Manor and check in person, I suppose. Or would that be overdoing things a bit? You don’t fancy a drive to Dulwich?’ Payne glanced at the open window. ‘It’s a jolly lovely day. The longest day in the year.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Summer solstice. The twenty-second of June.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry, Hugh, but I can’t go anywhere. I must finish these proofs.’

  ‘Are they teeming with silly mistakes and annoying misprints?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s me. I keep changing my mind about things I have written. I hate a great deal of what I have written and want to make changes. I know my copy editor will detest me.’

  ‘Nobody can detest you.’

  ‘She will.’

  ‘You are being neurotic.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I have read your latest book twice, at your request. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. Not a thing. Quite the reverse.’

  ‘You are too kind. You are always too kind when it comes to my writing.’

  ‘I am not too kind. As you know perfectly well, I am exceedingly critical of the detective stories I read.’

  ‘Of other people’s detective stories, yes. You have a blind spot when it comes to mine.’

  ‘Not true. Literary taste is literary taste. Not the kind of thing one compromises with. Anyhow, your copy editor didn’t think there was anything wrong with your novel either, so that proves it’s all in your head.’

  ‘She is just being professional. I suspect she despises it secretly.’

  ‘Rubbish. Or, as Major-General Knatchbull likes to say, fearful piffle.’

  ‘She is quite formidable. She has very high literary standards. You’d like her.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘You like clever women. We really should have her over to dinner sometime. The only chink in her armour seems to be a contained passion for horoscopes.’

  ‘Perhaps she tells fortunes as a sideline. To supplement her income.’ Payne picked up the pot. ‘Would you like some more coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Is it true what they say, that if you put enough effort into making sure the story’s beginning and ending are right, the characters can be relied on to take care of the middle?’

  ‘It doesn’t quite work that way for me.’ Antonia ran her fingers through her hair. ‘The middle of the kind of detective story I write is always the trickiest part.’

  ‘How to continue causing the reader to turn the pages, eh?’

  ‘That indeed is the question. I begin to panic at around Chapter 10. As you know, I try to delay the murder for as long as I possibly can. My principle is, if one gets the suspense right, then the middle of the story will be right too.’

>   ‘There are readers, apparently, who read Chapter 1 and then they read the denouement, then they go back to Chapter 2 and carry on from there. This is the result of a survey,’ Payne explained. He put down his coffee cup. ‘I’ve never been able to understand it. Strikes me as rather an idiotic thing to do.’

  ‘They want to see how everything fits in. They want to catch the author out.’ Antonia spoke angrily. ‘That is their sole intention.’

  ‘Then they write tedious letters and complain?’

  ‘Gloat, rather.’

  ‘My poor darling.’ Payne gave her a kiss, then glanced at the clock and back at the window. Their garden was bathed in brilliant sunshine. He liked the look of the lilies and fuchsias in the new pots. Their gardener had done a first-class job. Shame the chap hated Antonia’s cat. Payne had observed him mouth an unprintable word at Dupin once. Why did there always have to be a fly in the ointment? Where was Dupin? Payne hadn’t seen the beast since last night.

  He rose. It would take him less than an hour to get to Dulwich, forty-five minutes perhaps, depending on the traffic. ‘I suppose I could go by myself. What do you say?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. You don’t really need me. You are a big boy now. You will tell me all about it when you come back. Actually, we might have been looking at the case the wrong way up.’

  ‘You think we are doing Lady Tradescant an injustice?’

  ‘Penelope Tradescant may not really be evil wickedness personified,’ said Antonia. ‘Rather, she might have acted as her husband’s guardian angel.’

  ‘She might have lived up to her name, eh? Penelope—the epitome of conjugal loyalty? Odysseus, don’t you know. What exactly do you mean by the “wrong way up”? No—don’t tell me.’ Payne stroked his jaw with his fore-finger. ‘Penelope knows the capsule in the snuff-box contains poison, so she takes it out and replaces it with a harmless one. Say, one of those vitamin supplements my aunt raves about. Is that it? Why did she look guilty then?’

  ‘Did she really look guilty?’

  ‘I thought so. That was when she realized we had been watching her … It might have been mere dismay, I suppose. She might have been worried about us misinterpreting her action?’