The Skull Beneath the Skin (3 page)

“Thank you. That should be helpful. Your wife has played a great deal of Shakespeare?”

“She was a member of the Malvern Repertory Company for three years after she left drama school and played a fair amount then. Less in recent years.”

“And the first of these—which she threw away—came when she was playing Lady Macbeth. What happened?”

“The first one was upsetting, but she told no one about it. Thought it was an isolated bit of malice. She says she can’t remember what it said, only that it had the drawing of a coffin. Then a second came and a third and fourth. During the third week of the season my wife kept breaking down and had to be continually prompted. On the Saturday she ran off the stage during the Second Act and her understudy had to take over. It’s all a matter of confidence. If you think you’re going to dry up—drying is the theatrical jargon I believe—then you dry. She was able to return to the part after a week but it was a struggle to get through the six weeks. After that she was due to appear at Brighton in a revival of one of those thirties murder mysteries, the sort where the
ingénue
is called Bunty, the hero is Clive and all the men wear long tennis flannels and keep dashing in and out of French windows. Curious affair. Not exactly her kind of part, she’s a classical actress, but there aren’t a lot of opportunities for middle-aged women. Too many good actresses chasing too few parts, so they tell me. Same thing happened. The first quotation appeared on the morning the play opened and they came at regular intervals thereafter. The play came off after four weeks and my wife’s performance may have had something to do with it. She thought so. I’m not so sure. It
was a stupid plot, couldn’t make sense of it myself. Clarissa didn’t act again until she accepted a part in Webster’s
The White Devil
, at Nottingham, Victoria something or other.”

“Vittoria Corombona.”

“Was that it? I was in New York for ten days and didn’t see it. But the same thing happened. The first note arrived again on the day the play opened. This time my wife went to the police. Not much joy. They took the notes away, thought about them and brought them back. Sympathetic but not very effective. Made it obvious that they didn’t take the death threat seriously. Pointed out that if people are serious about killing, they do it, they don’t just threaten. Must say, that was rather my view. They did discover one thing, though. The note which arrived while I was in New York was typed on my old Remington.”

Cordelia said: “You still haven’t explained how you think I can help.”

“Coming to that. This weekend my wife is to play the leading role in an amateur production of
The Duchess of Malfi
. The play is to be given in Victorian dress and will take place on Courcy Island about two miles off the Dorset coast. The owner of the island, Ambrose Gorringe, has restored the small Victorian theatre which was first built by his great-grandfather. I understand that the original Gorringe, who rebuilt the ruined medieval castle, used to entertain the Prince of Wales and his mistress, the actress Lillie Langtry, and the guests used to amuse themselves with amateur theatricals. I suppose the present owner is trying to restore past glories. There was an article in one of the Sunday papers about a year ago describing the island, the restoration of the castle and theatre. You may have seen it.”

Cordelia couldn’t recall it. She said: “And you want me to go to the island and be with Lady Ralston?”

“I hoped to be there myself but that won’t be possible. I have a meeting in the West Country which I can’t miss. I propose to motor down to Speymouth with my wife early Friday morning and take leave of her at the launch. But she needs someone with her. This performance is important to her. There’s to be a revival of the play at Chichester in the spring and if she can regain her confidence she might feel that she can do it. But there’s more to it than that. She thinks that the threats may come to a head this weekend, that someone will try to kill her on Courcy Island.”

“She must have some reason for thinking that.”

“Nothing that she can explain. Nothing that would impress the police. Not rational, perhaps. But that’s what she feels. She asked me to get you.”

And he had come to get her. Did he always procure for his wife whatever she wanted? She asked again: “What precisely am I being employed to do, Sir George?”

“Protect her from nuisance. Take any telephone calls which come for her. Open any letters. Check the set before the performance if you get the chance. Be on call at night; that’s when she’s most nervous. And bring a fresh mind to the question of the messages. Find out, if you can in just three days, who is responsible.”

Before Cordelia could respond to these concise instructions there came again that disconcerting pierce of gray from under the discordant brows.

“D’you like birds?”

Cordelia was temporarily nonplussed. She supposed that few people, except those afflicted with a phobia, would admit to not liking birds. They are, after all, one of the most graceful of life’s fragile diversions. But she supposed that Sir George was covertly inquiring whether she could recognize a marsh
harrier at fifty yards. She said cautiously: “I’m not very good at identifying the less common species.”

“Pity. The island’s one of the most interesting natural bird sanctuaries in Great Britain, probably the most remarkable of those in private hands, almost as interesting as Brownsea Island in Poole Harbour. Very similar, come to think of it. Courcy has as many rare birds; the blue-eared and Swinhold pheasants as well as Canada geese, black godwits and oyster catchers. Pity you’re not interested. Any questions—about the case I mean?”

Cordelia said tentatively: “If I’m to spend three days with your wife, ought she not to interview me before any decision is made? It’s important that she feels she can trust me. She doesn’t know me. We haven’t even met.”

“Yes you have. That’s how she knows she can trust you. She was having tea with a Mrs. Fortescue last week when you returned the Fortescue cat—Solomon, I think the brute’s called. Apparently you found him within thirty minutes of beginning the search so your bill was correspondingly small. Mrs. Fortescue is devoted to the animal. You could have charged treble. She wouldn’t have queried it. That impressed my wife.”

Cordelia said: “We’re rather expensive. We have to be. But we are honest.”

She remembered the drawing room in Eaton Square, a feminine room if femininity implies softness and luxury; a cluttered, cosy repository of silver-framed photographs, an overlavish tea on a low table in front of the Adam fireplace, too many flowers conventionally arranged. Mrs. Fortescue, incoherent with relief and joy, had introduced her guest to Cordelia as a matter of form but her voice, muffled in Solomon’s fur, had been indistinct and Cordelia hadn’t caught the name. But the impression had been definite. The visitor had sat very still
in her armchair beside the fireplace, one thin leg thrown over the other, heavily ringed hands resting on the arms. Cordelia recalled yellow hair intricately piled and wound above a tall forehead, a small, bee-stung mouth and immense eyes, deep-set but with heavy, almost swollen, lids. She had seemed to impose on the lush conformity of the room a hieratic and angular grace, a distinction which, despite the plainness of the formal suede suit, hinted at some histrionic or eccentric individuality. She had gravely bent her head and watched her friend’s effusions with a half-mocking smile. Despite her stillness there had been no impression of peace.

Cordelia said: “I didn’t recognize your wife but I remember her very well.”

“And you’ll take the job?”

“Yes, I’ll take it.”

He said without embarrassment: “Rather different from finding lost cats. Mrs. Fortescue told my wife what you charge per day. This will be higher, I suppose.”

Cordelia said: “The daily rate is the same whatever the job. The final bill depends on the time taken, whether I have to use either of my staff, and the level of expenses. These can sometimes be high. But as I’ll be a guest on the island, there will be no hotel bills. When do you want me to arrive?”

“The launch from Courcy—it’s called
Shearwater
—will be at Speymouth jetty to meet the nine-thirty-three from Waterloo. Your ticket’s in this envelope. My wife has telephoned to let Mr. Gorringe know that she’s bringing a secretary-companion to help her with various odd jobs during the weekend. You’ll be expected.”

So Clarissa Lisle had been confident that she would take the job. And why not? She had taken it. And she was apparently equally confident of being able to get her way with Ambrose
Gorringe. Her excuse for including a secretary in the party was surely rather thin and Cordelia wondered how far it had been believed. To arrive for a country-house weekend accompanied by one’s private detective was permissible for royalty, but in any less elevated guest showed a lack of confidence in one’s host, while to bring one incognito might reasonably be regarded as a breach of etiquette. It wasn’t going to be easy to protect Miss Lisle without betraying that she was there under false pretences, a discovery which would hardly be agreeable for either her host or fellow guests. She said: “I need to know who else will be on the island and anything you can tell me about them.”

“There’s not much I can tell. There’ll be about one hundred people on the island by Saturday afternoon when the cast and invited audience arrive. But the house party is small. My wife, of course, with Tolly—Miss Tolgarth—her dresser. Then my wife’s stepson, Simon Lessing, will be there. He’s a seventeen-year-old schoolboy, the son of Clarissa’s second husband who was drowned in August 1977. He wasn’t happy with the relatives who were his guardians so my wife decided to take him on. I’m not sure why he’s invited, music’s his interest. Clarissa probably thought it was time he met more people. He’s a shy boy. Then there’s her cousin, Roma Lisle. Used to be a schoolmistress but now keeps a bookshop somewhere in north London. Unmarried, aged about forty-five. I’ve only met her twice. I think she may be bringing her partner with her but, if so, I can’t tell you who he is. And you’ll meet the drama critic Ivo Whittingham. He’s an old friend of my wife. He’s supposed to be doing a piece about the theatre and the performance for one of the colour magazines. Ambrose Gorringe will be there, of course. And there are three servants: the butler, Munter, and his wife and Oldfield, who is the boatman and general factotum. I think that’s all.”

“Tell me about Mr. Gorringe.”

“Gorringe has known my wife since childhood. Both their fathers were in the diplomatic. He inherited the island from his uncle in 1977, when he was spending a year abroad. Something to do with tax avoidance. He came back to the U.K. in 1978 and has spent the last three years restoring the castle and looking after the island. Middle-aged. Unmarried. Read history at Cambridge I believe. Authority on the Victorians. I know no harm of him.”

Cordelia said: “There’s one last question I have to ask. Your wife apparently fears for her life, so much so that she is reluctant to be on Courcy Island without protection. Is there any one of that company whom she has reason to fear, reason to suspect?”

She could see at once that the question was unwelcome, perhaps because it forced him to acknowledge what he had implied but never stated, that his wife’s fear for her life was hysterical and unreal. She had demanded protection and he was providing it. But he didn’t think it was necessary; he believed neither in the danger nor in the means he was employing to reassure her. And now some part of his mind was repelled by the thought that his wife’s host and her fellow guests were to be under secret surveillance. He had done what his wife had asked of him, but he didn’t like himself any the better for it.

He said curtly: “I think you can put that idea out of your head. My wife has no reason to suspect any of the house party of wishing to harm her, no reason in the world.”

Nothing more of importance was said. Sir George looked at his watch and got to his feet. Two minutes later he said a curt goodbye at the street door, neither mentioning nor glancing at the offending nameplate. As she climbed the stairs, Cordelia wondered whether she could have managed the interview better. It was a pity that it had ended so abruptly. There were questions which she wished she had thought to ask, in particular whether any of the people she was to meet on Courcy Island knew of the threatening messages. She would have to wait now until she met Miss Lisle.

As she opened the office door, Miss Maudsley and Bevis looked up over their typewriters with avid eyes. It would have been heartless to deny them a share in the news. They had sensed that Sir George was no ordinary client and curiosity and excitement had virtually paralysed them. There had been a suspicious absence of clacking typewriters from the outer office during his visit. Now Cordelia told them as little as was compatible with telling them anything worth hearing, emphasizing that Miss Lisle was looking for a companion-secretary
who would protect her from an irritating but unimportant poison-pen nuisance. She said nothing about the nature of the threatening messages nor of the actress’s conviction that her life was seriously threatened. She warned them that this assignment, like all jobs, even the most trivial, was to be treated as confidential.

Miss Maudsley said: “Of course, Miss Gray. Bevis understands that perfectly well.”

Bevis was passionate in his assurances.

“I’m more reliable than I look. I won’t utter, honestly. I never do, not about the Agency. But I’ll be no good if anyone tortures me for information. I can’t stand pain.”

Cordelia said: “No one’s going to torture you, Bevis.”

By general consent they took an early lunch hour. Bevis fetched sandwiches from the Carnaby Street delicatessen and Miss Maudsley made coffee. Sitting cosily in the outer office they gave themselves over to happy speculation about where this interesting new assignment might lead. And the hour wasn’t wasted. Unexpectedly, both Miss Maudsley and Bevis had helpful information to give about Courcy Island and its owner, pouring out a spate of antiphonal chat. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Their more orthodox skills might be suspect, but they not infrequently provided a bonus in the way of useful gossip.