Murder of Gonzago (14 page)

‘He chose nations he liked?’

‘He chose nations he particularly
dis
liked. That was part of the joke. He’d pretended to be a sheikh and a maharaja several times, but maharajas, apparently, took ages to get right.’

‘He was never recognized?’

‘He said he wasn’t. Afterwards no one would associate him with the character he had played. Some of his hosts and hostesses cooperated with him, though he was a notorious gatecrasher as well. He also admitted that on a number of occasions he resorted to spiking the girls’ drinks.’

‘He drugged them? Rohypnol? That’s a notorious date drug,’ Antonia murmured. ‘I wonder if it was available in the sixties?’

‘It was awful, sitting there listening to him. It was particularly awkward for Clarissa of course,’ Louise said with ill-concealed relish. ‘She pretended to treat the whole thing as a joke, as a ridiculous fantasy, but I could see she was upset. Poor old Hortense looked quite shaken too. I thought she might faint. In fact she got up and left the room. When she came back she looked sick as a parrot. Even Augustine seemed shocked – and he is rumoured to have slept with every single woman on Grenadin!’

‘Did anyone say anything?’

‘No. We all pretended that nothing untoward had been said. Basil praised the wine. SS asked if there was anything wrong with the air-conditioning. Renée, as usual, said nothing. Then suddenly Lord Remnant declared he was bored. He launched into one of his monologues. Why was it that most of the people he met were bores – conventional conformists, trivial-minded, insignificant little people with peanut-sized brains? Did anyone have an
explanation
? He invariably felt depressed and demoralized after a dinner
party. Talking to bores was like prodding at particularly resilient mattresses. He could bear neither the sound nor the look of bores. He glanced round the table as he said that. He then said he felt an irresistible urge to have himself blindfolded. There was only one chap he knew who wasn’t a bore. A chap called Quin.’

‘Quin?’

‘Yes. Peter Quin. Lord Remnant then said he intended to leave Quin something in his will, as a reward for not being a bore. He went on to describe Quin as one of the cleverest, most inventive, most stimulating men he had ever known. Hadn’t we ever heard of Peter Quin, the man of the hundred faces? He seemed surprised and annoyed when we said we hadn’t.’

‘The man of the hundred faces,’ Antonia said thoughtfully.

‘Hello? Clarissa? It’s Peter Quin speaking.’

There was silence on the line and he thought they had been cut off, but then he heard her catch her breath, so he smiled and said, ‘
Peter Quin
’ again, with greater emphasis, then went on to greet her with courteous formality and ask after her health.

He wanted to know how things had been since the funeral. Had she been coping well with her widowed state? Was she feeling lonely? Was she feeling forlorn? She wouldn’t go so far as to describe herself as ‘inconsolable’, would she?

At the sound of his voice Clarissa’s hand had gone up to her mouth. ‘Where – where are you?’ Her voice sounded incredibly hoarse, as though she had suddenly developed a sore throat.

‘Sharp, inquiring and purposeful as ever. No time for small talk, eh? You seem to have embraced the hyperactive spirit of the age, my dear … I don’t suppose you have given the matter of the memorial service any serious consideration, have you?’

‘What memorial service?’

‘Lord Remnant’s memorial service. The
éloges funèbres
are always the same and so tiresomely fulsome. If you’ve heard one sanctimonious, mock-sorrowful eulogy, you’ve
heard them all. No one is likely to say what they really think, are they?’

‘What – what do you mean?’

‘No one is going to say that the late Lord Remnant will be remembered mainly for his monstrous manners, his terrible temper and his flair for inflicting discomfort. There won’t be a single reference to the fact that when his death was announced, the whole island of Grenadin erupted in wildest jubilation, will there?’

‘You aren’t on Grenadin, are you?’

‘No, of course not. On reflection, a memorial service may not be such a good idea. If you really miss someone,’ he went on, ‘you would be better off doing something you both enjoyed doing together, which is unlikely to mean, except in the most bizarre cases, standing around in a draughty church, wearing black and singing hymns.’

‘Where
are
you?’

‘In London. The Ritz is not, alas, as it used to be. London is not what it used to be. England is not what it used to be.’ He sighed deeply. ‘To think that once we had an empire, that we ruled the waves and so on, and now we have degenerated into a provincial, polyester sort of place.’

‘Did you have a good flight?’ She had secretly hoped the plane had crashed, that he had perished.

‘A good flight? Are you trying to be clever, my darling? Wit has never been your strongest suit, you know. But do tell me, how are things? How is life at the castle? Does good old Remnant still stand? Smothered in mists, as usual? Are there daffodils and crocuses in the garden?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘You don’t consider yourself a prisoner of the vast ancestral barracks? I am prepared to bet you find cosiness unattainable? I want the truth – you
must
tell me the truth!’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Remnant’s cold, isn’t it? I vividly remember how on one
memorable occasion you made the journey between your bedroom and the dining room wearing a fur coat, to escape pneumonia, you said, which I thought a perfectly charming kind of explanation. The feel of that fur coat drove me mad …’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘You sound as though you are in a state of narcosis.’

‘I am not in a state of narcosis.’

‘No need to be defensive, Clarissa. Your secret is safe with me. Safe as houses. You know it’s not the kind of thing I disapprove of. Better ersatz happiness than no happiness, my darling. I
want
you to be happy … You did what I asked?’

‘Yes.’

‘You followed my instructions to the letter? You got rid of Tradewell and all the other flunkeys and lackeys?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are all alone at Remnant? Good girl. You know how much I value submission. I apportion you extra Brownie points. So no trouble of any sort? You haven’t attracted the attention of agents provocateurs? Any police officers? Any snoopers – any well-meaning busybodies?’

‘No. No one.’

‘Splendid. You haven’t had your fancy boy to stay yet? No? Splendid, absolutely splendid news. I suppose you’ve grown out of him, which doesn’t surprise me at all. He was unworthy of you. That film now. I hope you destroyed it? I said burn it, didn’t I? It shouldn’t have been made in the first place. It was your idea, my darling. Your rather idiotic idea, I should say.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Only the most conventional kind of brain would come up with an idea like that. It is almost as though you
wanted
me to be caught! … No, of course not. That was a joke. A little light relief. Oh well, too late to fuss and fret now. What is it they say? No day is so dead as the day before
yesterday … You didn’t forget to have the film destroyed, did you?’

‘I didn’t forget,’ Clarissa lied after a moment’s pause. ‘The film’s been destroyed.’

He would have been furious if she had told him she had no idea where the film was. The film had been the last thing on her mind that night. She had asked Aunt Hortense to put the camera away. She hadn’t the foggiest what had become of the film.

‘You burnt it? You let it be consumed by fire? Good girl,’ she heard him say. ‘I believe I have been misjudging you, my darling, for which I humbly apologize … I have a confession to make.’

‘What confession?’ She was filled with foreboding.

‘It concerns our reunion,’ he said solemnly. ‘I find myself looking forward to our reunion with ardour and
tendresse
. You will indulge me, won’t you, my darling? I want you to wear one of your fur coats. Mink … against … naked skin?’

As Major Payne walked down Harley Street towards Dr Sylvester-Sale's surgery, he mulled over Louise Hunter's strange tale, which Antonia had recounted to him on her mobile phone some five minutes previously.

Well, there seemed to be only one explanation that covered all the facts: the dead man's hands, the high-pitched giggle in the bathroom, the arrival of the Grimaud, Lord Remnant putting a silencer on the gun, the mysterious Mr Quin, Clarissa dismissing all her servants …
Yes
.

Going up the couple of well-polished steps leading to Dr Sylvester-Sale's front door, Payne rang the bell.

A minute later he was ushered in. He wondered if he would be able to get the information he needed. It was a very tiny bit of the puzzle, but it was important to fit it in where Payne believed it belonged.

Late thirties or early forties, black hair smoothed back off a high forehead, sculpted nose and well-shaped mouth. Dr Sylvester-Sale possessed the dark and handsome, if somewhat conventional, looks of a matinée idol. Or what fifty years previously would have qualified as a matinée idol …

Dr Sylvester-Sale's consulting room did not look like a consulting room at all. The walls were covered in washed silk paper of an Oriental design, the parquet floor was the colour of burnt sugar. The mantelpiece was carved out of black marble and on it stood a very intricate-looking clock under a glass dome and two crystal candlesticks dripping with minute stalactites.

The fireplace was filled with oleander blossom placed in a copper bowl polished so that it shone like burnished red gold. The window curtains were made of light blue chenille and they were magnificently looped; the three tall windows looked out over the most decorous of inner-court gardens. The walnut desk was kidney-shaped and it was decorated with a delicate orchid in a vase made of Venetian glass.

Payne sat down in one of the two Chippendale chairs. He glanced at the comic triptych on the wall,
eighteenth-century,
at a guess, showing a bewigged medico in various difficult, surreally absurd situations.

‘Doctor's dilemmas, eh?' He waved at them.

‘That, I believe, is what the cycle is called.' Dr
Sylvester-Sale
glanced down at the card his visitor had handed him. ‘It doesn't say here that you are a private detective … Are you really? Didn't think they existed any longer.'

Dr Sylvester-Sale wore a charcoal suit of a discreet stripe and a silk tie that hinted but only hinted at flamboyance.

‘I am acting on behalf of Felicity Fenwick, who is now Lady Remnant. Lady Remnant asked me to look into the possibility that her brother-in-law might have been the victim of a local vendetta,' Payne said.

‘You seem to have got hold of the wrong end of the stick.' Sylvester-Sale gave a superior smile. ‘Lord Remnant died of natural causes. He had a heart attack. Whatever gave his sister-in-law the idea that he was killed?'

‘Lady Remnant received a videotape showing Lord Remnant's death in the course of a playlet based on
The
Murder of Gonzago
,' Payne said smoothly. ‘One can actually see Lord Remnant being shot in the back of the head.'

‘I very much doubt that such a tape exists,' Dr Sylvester-Sale said.

‘It does exist. As it happens, I watched it twice. You are in it. You take part in the playlet.'

‘Impossible. You seem to be taking me for someone else.'

‘You are one of the protagonists. You are the murderous beau. It is you who kills the King. At one point the camera shows you carrying a tumbler
upside down
. Am I likely to know such a detail if I hadn't actually seen it?'

The doctor's expression didn't change, but his face turned the colour of a guardsman's jacket. ‘I am sorry, Major Payne, but I am going to ask you to leave, if you don't mind.' He glanced at his watch. ‘I've remembered that I have a patient coming any moment now.'

Payne didn't stir. ‘You are seen examining Lord Remnant's body. There is no sound, sadly, so it is impossible to ascertain what you are saying, but everybody looks quite shocked.'

‘Didn't you hear what I said?
You must leave
.'

‘The tape was sent to Lady Remnant by one of your fellow guests, who has subsequently talked to us about what happened. You were all involved in a cover-up,' Payne went on relentlessly. ‘It was you and another doctor – a Dr McLean – who signed the death certificate, giving the cause of Lord Remnant's death as a heart attack.'

‘If you don't leave my surgery within the next minute, I'll have no other option but to call the police,' Dr Sylvester-Sale said.

‘By all means. I am sure they will be interested in hearing the story about the tape. And perhaps they will choose to follow it up.'

Sylvester-Sale passed a weary hand across his face. ‘What is it you actually want from me?'

‘A simple answer to a simple question – is the place safe? I mean Grenadin. Is Grenadin safe?'

There was a pause. ‘You want me to tell you – if Grenadin is safe? Is that all you want to know? Is that why – why you came to see me?'

‘That is all I want to know, yes.' Payne smiled pleasantly. ‘Lady Remnant – Felicity Fenwick, as she once was – is anxious to ascertain exactly how safe the island of Grenadin is. She and her husband – the thirteenth earl – are considering building property on Grenadin.'

‘I thought the Fenwicks couldn't stand the place. Not their kind of scene at all.'

Payne had prepared his answer.

‘Neither Lady Remnant nor her husband proposes to live on Grenadin. Their intention is to have several holiday villas built and then to let them. Lady Remnant believes it was one or more of the locals who brought about her
brother-in-law's
death. She has heard about the death threats Lord Remnant had been receiving.'

There was another pause. ‘Very well. It's true. Lord Remnant did receive a number of anonymous death threats. I am afraid his popularity ratings among the people of Grenadin were rather low … No, he wasn't perturbed, at least that was the impression he gave. He amused himself by sticking the death threats in a scrapbook.'

‘Did he ever show them to you?'

‘He did. He showed them to all of us one evening after dinner. He read aloud three or four of the more lurid ones. He put on an exaggerated Grenadin accent, which was actually quite funny … He was warned that he'd have his left arm chopped off, then his right, then his right ear, then his nose – you get the idea. There were some silly ones as well, like threatening to unleash the Grimaud on him.'

Payne feigned ignorance. ‘What's that? A dog?'

‘No. A demon. The Grimaud is conjured up by a curse. It
is one of the most popular superstitions on the island. Lord Remnant said he longed to meet the Grimaud.'

‘He wasn't at all frightened?'

‘I don't think he was. He said once emotionalism was for the lower orders and that he was bound by his blue blood code. In his own mad way he was quite brave. A rattlesnake appeared in his bathroom one night, but he managed to spear it with his swordstick and then carried it down to the incinerator in the basement. We saw him as he came down the stairs. He was holding the swordstick aloft, with the snake dangling from it, dripping blood. It made the women scream. That seemed to please him.'

‘He liked striking attitudes?'

‘Oh, very much so. He told us what happened in some detail. Apparently the snake went for him the moment he opened the bathroom door. It is my belief it had been injected with amphetamines – that would explain why it was so aggressive.'

‘Are amphetamines easy to obtain on Grenadin?'

‘I believe they are. Drugs, generally, are a big industry on Grenadin. According to some statistics, one in every three islanders is involved in the drug trade,' Sylvester-Sale drawled. He appeared to have regained his composure completely.

‘When did the snake incident take place?'

‘About a fortnight before he died, I think. Lord Remnant suspected it was one or more of the locals who'd doctored the snake and put it in his bathroom.'

‘Do you have to be a doctor to be able to doctor a snake?'

‘No, not necessarily. You need to have the stomach for it, though. Oh and a syringe … Lord Remnant said it was the work of his “enemies”, but he refused to report the incident to the police. Guards? Yes, Lord Remnant had guards, but, as it happened, they were far from reliable.'

‘I suppose Clarissa left the room in the immediate aftermath of her husband's murder?' Payne spoke casually.

‘I don't see what that's got to do with anything. Why do you want to know?' Suddenly Sylvester-Sale looked extremely suspicious. ‘You are wasting your time if you are trying to pin the murder on Clarissa.'

‘That, I assure you, is not my intention.'

‘Well, as it happens, she did leave the room,'
Sylvester-Sale
said. ‘She needed to go to the bathroom. Nothing odd in that. I believe she needed to collect her thoughts.'

‘How long was she out of the room?'

‘No more than five or ten minutes.'

A consultation, thought Payne; Clarissa had needed an urgent consultation. It all fitted in. The situation had been extremely complicated. Clarissa had been out of her depth and unable to make a decision. She had needed to know what her next move should be …

‘Did you like Lord Remnant, doctor?'

‘You do ask some very strange questions, Major Payne.'

‘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?