The Skull Beneath the Skin (18 page)

“That’s what she will do, at least until after the play. She won’t see this. I can trust you not to tell her?”

“Of course. I have a strong interest in Clarissa’s success, remember. You didn’t put the thing there yourself by any chance?”

“No.”

“I thought not. Forgive my asking, but you see my difficulty. If it wasn’t you, it was presumably her husband—except that he isn’t here at the moment—her stepson, her cousin, her faithful dresser, or one of her oldest friends. Who am I to start probing
these family and long-standing relationships? Incidentally, that woodcut belongs to Roma.”

“To Roma! How do you know?”

“You do sound fierce, quite like a schoolmistress. Roma used to teach, you know. Geography and games, Clarissa tells me. A strange combination. I can’t quite picture Roma, whistle at the lip, panting down the hockey field exhorting the girls to greater efforts or plunging into the deep end of the swimming pool. Well, perhaps I can believe that. She has aggressively muscular shoulders.”

Cordelia said: “But the woodcut?”

“She told me that she found it in a second-hand book and thought I might be interested in seeing it. She showed it to me yesterday, just before the rehearsal, and I left it on the blotter on my desk in the business room.”

“Where anyone could have seen and taken it?”

“You sound like a detective. As you say, where anyone could have seen and taken it. It looks, incidentally, as if the message were typed on my machine. That, too, is kept in the business room.”

The typesetting, at least, would be easy enough to check. She might as well do it now. But before she could make the suggestion Ambrose said: “And there’s another thing. Forgive me if I find it rather more annoying than Clarissa’s poison pen. Someone has broken the lock of the display cabinet outside the business room and taken the marble arm. If, during your duties as secretary-companion you should happen to learn who it is, I’d be grateful if you would suggest that he or she put it back. I admit that the marble’s not to everyone’s taste but I have a fondness for it.”

Cordelia said: “The arm of the Princess Royal? When did you notice that it had gone?”

“Munter tells me that it was in the display case when he locked up last night. That was at ten minutes past midnight. He unlocked this morning shortly after six but didn’t look at the display case although he thinks that he might have noticed if the arm had gone. But he can’t be sure. I myself saw that it was missing, and that the lock had been forced, when I went to the kitchen to make tea just before seven.”

Cordelia said: “It couldn’t have been Clarissa. She was asleep when I got up this morning. And I doubt whether she’d have the strength to break a lock.”

“Not much strength was required. A strong paper knife would have done the trick. And, conveniently enough, there was a strong paper knife on the desk in the business room.”

Cordelia asked: “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, at least until after the play. I can’t see how it affects Clarissa. It’s my loss, not hers. But I take it you would prefer her not to know?”

“I think it’s vital that she doesn’t know. The least thing could upset her. We’ll just have to hope no one else notices that the arm has gone.”

He said: “If they do, I suppose I can say that I’ve removed it since Clarissa found it so displeasing. It’s humiliating to have to lie when there’s no need, but if you think it important that Clarissa isn’t told …”

“I do. Very important. I’d be grateful if you’d say and do nothing until after the play.”

It was then they heard the footsteps, firm, quick, clanging on the tiled floor. Both turned simultaneously and gazed at the door. Sir George Ralston appeared, tweed-coated and holding a grip. He said: “I got through the meeting late yesterday. Drove most of the night and slept in a lay-by. Thought
Clarissa would like me to put in an appearance if I could make it.”

Ambrose said: “But how did you get to the island? I didn’t hear a launch.”

“Found a couple of early fishermen. They put me ashore in the small bay. Got my feet wet but nothing worse. I’ve been on the island a couple of hours. Didn’t like to disturb you. Is that coffee?”

A jumble of thoughts ran through Cordelia’s mind. Was she still wanted? She could hardly ask Sir George directly with Ambrose present. She was supposed to be on the island as Clarissa’s secretary, a job that was unlikely to be affected by his sudden appearance. And what about her room? Presumably he would wish to move next door to his wife. She was uncomfortably aware that she must look less than pleased to see him and that Ambrose was glancing at her with a sardonic, wryly amused look which recognized her discomfiture. Murmuring an excuse she slipped away.

Clarissa was stirring although Tolly hadn’t yet brought in the early tray. Cordelia drew back the curtains and unlocked the door. She stood by the bed until Clarissa opened her eyes, then said: “Your husband has just arrived. Apparently the meeting ended sooner than he expected.”

Clarissa heaved herself up from her pillows.

“George? But that’s ridiculous! He isn’t expected until late tonight at the earliest.”

“Well, he’s here.”

Cordelia thought that it was as well she had warned Clarissa. Sir George could hardly have been gratified at her reception of the news. She sat up and stared straight ahead, her face expressionless. Then she said: “Tug on that bell-rope, will you? The one by the fireplace. It’s time Tolly brought in my tea.”

Cordelia said: “I wondered whether you’ll still want me.”

Clarissa’s voice was sharp, almost frightened.

“Of course I still want you! What possible difference does this make? You know what you’re here to do. If someone’s out to get me, they aren’t going to stop because George has arrived.”

“I could move out of the next-door room if you like.”

Clarissa swung her legs out of bed and made for the bathroom.

“Oh, don’t be so bloody naive, Cordelia! Stay where you are. And tell George I’m awake if he wants to see me.”

She disappeared. Cordelia decided to wait in the bedroom until Tolly arrived with the tea. If she could help it, there would be no time between now and the rise of the curtain when Clarissa would be left unguarded.

Clarissa returned from the bathroom and climbed back into bed.

Cordelia said: “Before Miss Tolgarth arrives, could you tell me what the programme is today?”

“Oh, don’t you know? I thought I’d explained it all. The curtain is due to rise at three-thirty. Ambrose is arranging an early lunch, about midday, and I shall rest up here alone from one until two-forty-five. I don’t like to spend too long in my dressing-room before a performance. You can call me at two-forty-five and we’ll decide what, if anything, I want you to do during the play. The launch will fetch the Cottringham party from Speymouth. They should arrive at two-thirty or shortly afterwards. There is a larger hired launch for the guests and that is due at three. We have tea in the interval at four-thirty, set out under the arcade if it’s warm enough, and supper at seven-thirty in the great hall. The launches are ordered for nine.”

Cordelia said: “And this morning? What is planned for the
three hours between breakfast and luncheon? I think we should try to stay together.”

“We shall all stay together. Ambrose has suggested that we might like a trip round the island in
Shearwater
but I’ve told him that we’re not a party of his five-pounds-a-day summer trippers. I’ve thought of a better plan. There are sights on Courcy that he hasn’t shown us yet. I don’t think you need worry about being bored. We’ll start with a visit to the skulls of Courcy.”

Cordelia said: “The skulls of Courcy? Do you mean real skulls, here in the castle?”

Clarissa laughed.

“Oh, they’re real enough. In the crypt of the Church. Ambrose will recite the famous legend. They should put us all nicely in the mood for the horrors of Amalfi.”

Tolly with the tea tray and Sir George arrived simultaneously. He was received very prettily. Clarissa held out a languid arm. He raised her hand to his lips then bent with a stiff, graceless movement and briefly laid his face against hers. She cried, her voice high and brittle: “Darling, how lovely! And how clever of you to find someone to bring you across.”

He didn’t look at Cordelia. He said gruffly: “You’re all right?”

“Darling, of course. Did you think I wasn’t? How touching! But, as you see, here I am, Duchess of Malfi still.”

Cordelia left them. She wondered whether Sir George would find an opportunity of speaking to her privately and, if so, whether she should tell him about the woodcut pushed under the door. It was, after all, he who had employed her. But it was Clarissa who had sent for her, Clarissa who was her client, Clarissa she was paid to protect. Some instinct urged her to keep her counsel, at least until after the play. And then she remembered the missing marble. In the surprise of Sir George’s
arrival it had slipped from the front of her mind. But now its pale image gleamed in her imagination with all the sinister force of an omen. Ought she at least to warn Sir George that it was missing? But warn him against what? It was only the carved replica of a baby’s limb, the limb of a long-dead princess. How could it harm anyone? Why should it hold in its chubby fingers such a weight of portentous power? She couldn’t even explain to herself why she thought it so important that Clarissa wasn’t told about the loss, except that the marble had repelled her and that any mention of it would be upsetting. Surely she had been right in asking Ambrose to say nothing, at least until after the play? So why tell Sir George? He hadn’t even seen the limb. It would be time enough for them all to be told when Ambrose started inquiring and looking for it after the play. And that would be this evening. There was only today to be got through.

She was aware that she wasn’t thinking very clearly. And one thought in particular surprised and fretted her. Surely the presence of Clarissa’s husband on Courcy Island ought to make her job easier? She should be feeling relieved at a sharing of responsibility. Why then should she see this unexpected arrival as a new and unwelcome complication? Why should she feel for the first time that she was caught in a charade in which she stumbled blindfolded, while unseen hands spun her round, pushed and pulled at her, in which an unknown intelligence watched, waited and directed the play?

Breakfast was a long-drawn-out meal to which the members of the house party came singly, ate at leisure and seemed reluctant to finish. The food would have done justice to Herbert Gorringe’s Victorian notions of a proper start to the day. As the lids of the silver dishes were raised, the discordant smells of eggs and bacon, sausages, kidneys and haddock filled the breakfast room, stifling appetite. Despite the early promise of another warm day, Cordelia sensed that the party was ill at ease and that she wasn’t the only one present who was mentally counting the hours to nightfall. There seemed to be an unspoken conspiracy not to upset Clarissa, and when she announced her plan to visit the Church and the crypt the murmur of agreement was suspiciously unanimous. If anyone would have preferred a trip round the island or a solitary walk no one admitted it. Probably they were well aware how precarious was her control before a performance and no one wanted to risk being held responsible if that control broke. As they walked in a group along the arcade, past the theatre and under the shadow of the trees which led to the Church, it seemed to Cordelia that Clarissa was surrounded
by the solicitous care afforded to an invalid or—and the thought was disagreeable—to a predestined victim.

Sir George was the one most at ease. When they entered the Church and the rest of the party gazed round with the air of people resolved to find something positive to say, his reaction was immediate and uncompromising. He obviously found its nineteenth-century fusion of religious enthusiasm with medieval romanticism unsympathetic and viewed the richly decorated apse with its mosaic of Christ in glory, the coloured tiles and the polychromatic arches with a prejudiced eye.

“It looks more like a Victorian London Club—or a Turkish bath come to that—than a Church. I’m sorry, Gorringe, but I can’t admire it. Who d’you say the architect was?”

“George Frederick Bodley. My great-grandfather had quarrelled with Godwin by the time he came to rebuild the Church. His relationships with his architects were always stormy. I’m sorry you don’t like it. The paintings on the reredos are by Lord Leighton, by the way, and the glass is by William Morris’s firm who specialized in these lighter hues. Bodley was one of the first architects to use the firm. The east window is considered rather fine.”

“I don’t see how anyone could actually pray in the place. Is that the war memorial?”

“Yes. Put up by my uncle from whom I inherited. It’s the only architectural addition he ever made to the island.”

The memorial was a plain stone slab set in the wall to the south of the altar which read:

This at least met with Sir George’s approval.

“I like that. Plain and dignified. Wonder who put the wreath there. Been there some time by the look of it.”

Ambrose had come up behind them. He said: “There’ll be a fresh one on the eleventh of November. Munter makes them from our own laurels and hangs one up each year. His father was killed in the war, in the navy I think. Anyway, he was drowned. He told me that much.”

Roma asked: “And do you assist at this charade?”

“No, he hasn’t asked me. It’s a purely private ceremony. I’m not sure I’m even supposed to know that it happens.”

Roma turned away.

“It throws a new light on Munter though. Who would suspect him of that streak of romanticism? But I wouldn’t have thought that the memorial was particularly appropriate. His father didn’t live or work on the island, did he?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“And if he drowned, his bones won’t be buried in any soil, foreign or otherwise. It all seems rather pointless. But then, Remembrance Day is pointless. No one seems to know any longer what it’s supposed to be for.”