The Curious Incident at Claridge's

by R. T. Raichev

  Antonia looked at him. ‘Was that how you met Penelope?’

  ‘Yes … She was at the house that day … That was the best thing that ever happened to me … She was so sweet.’ Suddenly his features hardened. ‘She let those two men in. I saw them go in. She’s been seeing other men. I saw her talk to a black man. And there was the one she let in. I know I am right to be jealous. I don’t know what’s happening. I really don’t. I thought we were good together, but then it all changed so suddenly. Overnight, literally … I wonder if it’s my fault … It happened on the day her husband died … I’m not making much sense, am I? She suddenly said she didn’t want to see me any more!’

  ‘Did she give you any reason?’

  ‘She said it wasn’t safe. She said we mustn’t be seen together. She said we mustn’t see each other. She said I might get into trouble with the police—because of what happened to her husband. That was nonsense of course—I was nowhere near her husband when he died. She then said she needed time to think. She came up with all sorts of excuses! She said we’d better not see each other till after the funeral at least—I am sure you know her husband died?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Those two men—you saw them, didn’t you? You must have seen them! You were still with her when they went in, weren’t you?’

  ‘I was, yes. I saw them.’

  ‘Oh—there they are!’ Vic pointed. ‘Coming out of the house.’

  They watched the two men walk up to a car that had been parked at the other end of the street.

  ‘Both are dark … She likes dark men. She told me.’

  ‘Those are policemen, Mr Levant.’

  ‘Policemen?’ He stared at her. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘What did they want from her? They don’t think she—that she had anything to do with her husband’s death? She couldn’t have. She was nowhere near Mayholme Manor that day. She was at Heathrow when she got the call.’

  ‘You were with her?’

  ‘Yes! Somebody phoned her from Mayholme Manor and told her Sir Seymour had died. The Master. She’d asked me to see her off. She was on her way to the South of France.’

  ‘Well, that eliminates both of you from the suspects’ list then,’ Antonia said lightly.

  ‘Did the police think it was me who killed Sir Seymour? Was it me they wanted to talk to Penelope about?’

  ‘No. It’s nothing like that. You are being paranoid now. I don’t think they know you exist. Besides, no one’s suggested yet that Sir Seymour’s been killed. You have nothing to fear. Did you say you went to Heathrow only to see her off? You weren’t going to the South of France with her then?’

  ‘No. I wanted to go, but she said no. She said she didn’t want people to start gossiping. Anyway, she never went to the South of France. She had to come back. She had to go to Mayholme Manor. Are you sure the police don’t suspect Penelope of having something to do with her husband’s death?’

  ‘Positive, Mr Levant. They never mentioned Sir Seymour’s death.’

  ‘What did they want then?’ Vic persisted.

  Antonia hesitated. ‘Well, they seem to think she had something to do with your mother’s death.’

  26

  The Bad Sister (1)

  ‘Such occasions are invariably wearing and troublesome. This must be terribly unsettling for you personally, Master. Being put on the spot can’t be much fun.’

  ‘Fun is the very last word I would use to describe my sentiments at the moment.’

  ‘You’d be perfectly justified if you refused to answer my questions and showed me the door this very instant. You are under no obligation to talk to me. Private detectives after all are not the police.’

  ‘I’d rather deal with you than with the police,’ the Master said after a pause.

  ‘Would it put your mind at rest if I told you that I have managed to establish a strong presumption as to the culprit’s identity?’

  ‘That would very much depend on who you believe the culprit is.’ The Master picked up a silver paper knife, tried its point with his forefinger and put it down again.

  ‘It is not you—nor is it anyone else directly associated with Mayholme Manor.’

  ‘This sounds reassuring,’ the Master said cautiously.

  ‘I have reason to believe that it was Sir Seymour’s sister Bettina, who stole her brother’s ring on the afternoon of June the 22nd,’ said Payne. ‘That was the day I paid my first visit to Mayholme Manor.’

  He hoped it wouldn’t occur to the Master to ask him why he had come at a time when no crime was yet known to have been committed. ‘Miss Tradescant managed to sneak up to her brother’s room without anyone noticing her,’ he went on quickly. ‘Sir Seymour, as we established, was in the salle de ciné at the time. The reason for her visit is not yet clear. She saw his ring inside the porcelain dish on his bedside table and took it. It is known, I believe, as the Wallis ring. Bettina left her ring in its place. Her ring was an exact replica of the original, only it was smaller. And, one can assume, much cheaper. She was hoping that her brother wouldn’t notice the difference.’

  ‘Sir Seymour should never have left such a valuable ring lying about.’

  ‘I agree. There should have been a barbed wire entanglement round it.’

  ‘So that’s why the ring didn’t fit his finger! He was worried silly. He was convinced there was something wrong with him. He believed his fingers were swollen.’

  ‘What I want to ascertain now, Master, is whether Miss Tradescant was here on the morning her brother died as well. That was when the second theft took place. That was when the replica disappeared.’

  ‘She was here,’ the Master said promptly. He clearly felt no misgivings about implicating Bettina. ‘She’d been here since dawn, she said, sitting in her car outside, waiting for a “confirmation”. She was convinced her brother was dead.’

  ‘So she could have slipped in, gone to her brother’s room and pinched the replica.’

  ‘What would she want the replica for?’

  ‘The replica constituted evidence that pointed to her,’ Payne explained. ‘It must have dawned on her that if her brother’s ring was too loose for her finger, the replica would prove too tight for his finger and that he might work out what had happened soon enough. So she decided that the replica had to disappear.’

  ‘Miss Tradescant made a complete nuisance of herself that morning. She was dressed in black from head to toe.’ The Master winced at the memory. ‘She managed to get herself locked inside one of the downstairs lavatories. For half an hour, or so she claimed.’

  ‘Really? How did that happen?’

  ‘Oh, something had gone wrong with the lavatory door lock, or the door knob remained in her hand, some such rigmarole. She banged on the door and screamed to be let out, she said, but no one came. Well, all the stewards are upstairs at that hour, that’s our busiest time, you see, so I am not surprised that no one heard her. When she was eventually released, she came to see me. It was the same cranky old story as before. She was convinced her brother was dead, the chill had made that perfectly clear, and so on and so forth. As it happens, this time she’d got it right. Sir Seymour was dead.’

  ‘It’s odd that she’d got it right … That could have been a coincidence of course …’

  ‘She stole one of my stewards’ habits,’ the Master said.

  ‘She stole one of the stewards’ habits?’ Payne’s eyebrows went up. ‘Those orange things?’

  ‘Yes. It was in her bag. She said she thought it might provide her with inspiration for a dress—some such nonsense. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she turned out to be a kleptomaniac as well.’

  ‘Who found Sir Seymour’s body?’ Major Payne asked after a pause.

  ‘Travis, one of the stewards. He’d gone up with Sir Seymour’s breakfast.’

  ‘And who was the last person to see Sir Seymour alive? Travis again?’

  ‘No. That must be the other chap. Um.
Madden.’ Once more the Master picked up the paper knife. ‘He is newish. I took him on at Dr Fairchild’s recommendation. We don’t really need any more stewards, but sometimes one does do things to oblige the brothers. Old men are noted for their whims and caprices. Dr Fairchild has been most generous to Mayholme Manor. Madden had worked for Dr Fairchild, it seems—his personal valet, something like that.’

  ‘Dr Fairchild’s valet? And now he is a steward here? How terribly interesting. Dr Fairchild is the gentleman in the wheelchair, correct? Pebble glasses—looks bleached? He insisted on being moved from the ground floor to the third floor, giving some silly reason for it? He had a portrait of the Duchess of Windsor on his wall, I noticed. The Duchess is depicted wearing a dress strikingly embroidered with wreaths of black pineapples.’

  ‘Your powers of observation, Major Stratton, are quite remarkable.’

  ‘Payne. I couldn’t help noticing that Dr Fairchild’s new room was only two doors away from Sir Seymour’s … Did they know each other well?’

  ‘Not at all well. They’d never spoken to each other, to my knowledge.’ The Master frowned. ‘Some time ago Sir Seymour imagined Dr Fairchild was staring at him. He said he didn’t like it.’

  ‘So Dr Fairchild’s former valet was the last person to see Sir Seymour alive …’

  ‘I am sure it is not as sinister as you make it sound, but, yes, it was Madden who brought Sir Seymour his early morning tea and drew his curtains.’

  ‘I would very much like to have a word with Madden.’ Major Payne rose to his feet. ‘And with Dr Fairchild, if possible.’

  ‘Well, Madden is most likely to be in Dr Fairchild’s room.’

  As he strolled out of the study, Major Payne paused once more by the little table with the newspapers. The paper on the top was still crumpled, the ink a little smudged where he had put his hand.

  Memorial Service—friends and relatives of Petunia Luscombe-Lunt—

  The next moment he remembered. Got to be the same woman. Couldn’t be two women with a name like that. The Law of Probability was against it. It was her. Jesty’s Pill. Jesty’s oldest squeeze.

  Petunia Luscombe-Lunt appeared to have perished in an accident while hiking in the Alps. Poor old Jesty. Unlucky, oh so unlucky, in love! RIP Pill, Payne murmured. He made to go, but suddenly he stopped again, turned round and picked up the paper once more.

  Something had caught his attention …

  But—but that didn’t make sense. An utter impossibility, in fact. The date was wrong. There must be some mistake, surely?

  27

  Mystery Monk

  Vic Levant went on staring at Antonia. An unworldly, unhappy, deep-thinking boy, she thought.

  ‘The girl apparently suggested that Lady Tradescant killed your mother by pushing her from the top floor.’ Antonia halted. ‘You look shocked. I am sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘That’s OK. It’s all rubbish,’ he said dismissively. ‘What did Penelope say?’

  ‘Her reaction was very much like yours. She actually laughed. She said the whole story was a fabrication, from start to finish.’

  ‘How seriously are the police taking the story?’

  ‘My impression was that they were just making a routine inquiry as they invariably do whenever a member of the public reports a suspicious death.’

  ‘There was nothing suspicious about my mother’s death. That was an accident.’

  ‘So you said. Did you know this girl?’

  ‘I did. Not very well. She was one of the Tradescants’ two maids.’

  ‘The policeman said her name was Daisy. Daisy Warren? Or was it McLaren?’ Antonia felt she couldn’t very well admit she had been listening at the keyhole.

  ‘Daisy, yes. Don’t know her surname. I only knew her as Daisy. She was a troublemaker. That’s exactly the kind of thing she would do. I mean lying—gossiping—spreading stories. I am not really surprised.’

  ‘Did she have any reason to hate Penelope?’

  ‘Well, Penelope intended to sack her and Daisy was well aware of the fact.’

  ‘I wonder … I wonder if that had anything to do with you?’

  ‘All right. Daisy had a crush on me. She kept following me about whenever I was there. She started telling everybody I was in love with her and that we were going out together. She then started spreading rumours about Penelope. She said Penelope had lots of lovers and had been unfaithful to Sir Seymour from the very start of their marriage, which was all nonsense. I mean Daisy couldn’t possibly have known anything about it. She had been in Half Moon Street only a couple of months.’

  ‘I see,’ Antonia said.

  There was a pause. He sighed. ‘Maybe Daisy did tell the truth after all …’

  ‘About Penelope pushing your mother to her death?’

  ‘No, no—about Penelope having lovers. OK. Those two men might have been policemen, but what about the man with the short brown hair and the dark glasses? She let him in. I never saw him come out. He was nothing to look at, which is odd because Penelope is always so particular about looks. He had this determined air about him. He licked his lips as he went up the steps. He had a shining upper lip. I watched him. He is crazy about her. I could tell. It was obvious!’

  ‘That’s jealousy talking. You shouldn’t really be spying on people, or stalking them. You may get yourself into serious trouble.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly know that man was crazy about her merely by looking at him through your car window.’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘Now, do be reasonable—’

  ‘There is a door at the back of the house. It leads to the garden,’ Vic Levant said thoughtfully. ‘There is a small gate in the garden wall. He probably went out that way.’

  Out in the corridor Payne bumped into the steward called Travis, whom he remembered from his first visit to Mayholme Manor. Travis appeared to be engaged in dusting. At least he wore rubber gloves and brandished a feather duster. The sound of a Hoover at full throttle came from somewhere above.

  ‘Ah, Travis. Just the man I wanted to see.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I understand you were the person who found Sir Seymour’s body?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Travis’s expression did not change.

  Payne explained that he was a private investigator. ‘The Master said I could go round and ask people some questions.’

  ‘Is it about Sir Seymour’s death, sir?’

  ‘Actually, I am investigating the disappearance of Sir Seymour’s ring. What time did you go into Sir Seymour’s room on the morning he died?’

  ‘It was twenty-five past eight. Sir Seymour always had his breakfast at half-past eight.’

  ‘What did you do exactly?’

  ‘As Sir Seymour wasn’t in his room, I placed the breakfast tray on his bedside table. I assumed he was still having his bath. He had a bath every morning. I usually called out, Your breakfast, Sir Seymour. He would say something like, Jolly good show. But this time there was no reply. I didn’t think anything of it at first. Sir Seymour was a bit deaf, you see. So I made to leave the room, but then thought I’d better check if he was all right.’

  ‘You went to the bathroom?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sir Seymour was lying in the bath. Floating, like. Face upwards. His eyes were open. It looked as though he was staring at the ceiling. I could tell at once that he was dead, though I did check his pulse. Then I raised the alarm.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you noticed whether Sir Seymour’s ring was in the little porcelain dish on his bedside table?’

  ‘It wasn’t, sir,’ Travis answered promptly. ‘The ring wasn’t there.’

  ‘You sure? You strike me as sturdily confident.’

  ‘I am sure, sir. When I put down the breakfast tray, I happened to look inside the dish. I saw Sir Seymour’s cufflinks and a tie-pin, his silver pencil, also a pair of matching pearl studs, but there was no ring.’

  �
��Did you notice anything else that might be termed “out of the ordinary”—either in Sir Seymour’s room or in the bathroom?’

  ‘No, sir. Everything was as usual … Sir Seymour died of a heart attack, didn’t he, sir?’

  ‘This, at the moment, is the official version. Did you, by any chance, see any strangers around the building that morning?’

  ‘Well, I saw someone I took to be one of the fellows go across the hall downstairs. The person was wearing one of our orange habits, but had his hood up. I failed to see the person’s face. Wearing the hood inside the building is against the regulations, that’s why I took note. The person was wearing gloves, which, again, is against the regulations.’

  ‘You are wearing gloves now.’ Payne pointed to the bright yellow gloves on the steward’s hands.

  ‘No, not gloves for cleaning, sir. Proper gloves. Leather. Black.’

  ‘When exactly did you see this person?’

  ‘About quarter past eight. I said hello, but got no answer.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘The person walked out of the front door. I glanced out of the window. There was a sort of a mist outside. We often get a mist in the morning these days. I can’t say which way the person went … A couple of minutes later I heard Miss Tradescant screaming to be let out of the toilet …’ Travis’s eyes narrowed. ‘The front of the person’s habit looked darker … As though—’ Travis broke off.

  ‘As though it had been splashed with water?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I asked the other fellows later on, whether it had been one of them, but they all said no.’

  ‘You kept saying “person”, Travis. Could it have been a woman?’

  Travis seemed to come to a decision. ‘Actually, sir, I am convinced that it was Madden I saw.’

  Payne’s left eyebrow went up. ‘Madden? Why do you think it was Madden?’

  ‘He was Madden’s height. Madden often walks about the building with his hood up. And he likes to wear gloves, sir. He seems to imagine it is funny, and he doesn’t say hello or acknowledge you in any way. Madden frequently acts in a superior manner. Well, Madden doesn’t really belong to Mayholme Manor. That’s why I still think of him as a stranger.’