Authors: R. T. Raichev
‘Here it’s the haunt of English people of the better class, apparently.’
‘How ghastly,’ Mrs Depleche said. ‘The oak panelling is bound to be riddled with dry rot. Termites everywhere. As a matter of fact, I have changed my mind. I won’t come with you after all. I feel a little tired. I’ll sit here in the sun and have another forty winks.’
‘Something’s burning,’ Major Payne murmured as they set out some five minutes later. ‘Can you smell it? A sulphurous smell. Bitterish. A hint of oleander and roses too.’
‘I think it’s Ria’s funeral pyre,’ said Antonia.
A Taste for Death
‘Would you like more tea?’
‘Yes. Thank you,
thank
you. This is such good tea!’
Lord give me patience. This is worse than yesterday. The way the creature gushes. At least she’s wiped that rainbow make-up off her face. She wanted to kiss my hand again. So embarrassing. People stared. She keeps her eyes on me. Keeps staring. Her hand brushing against mine. Mustn’t show distaste. She’s doing it on purpose, I am sure. Seems to be fascinated by . . . by my hands.
‘Sugar? Milk?’
‘Yes, thank you. Cream, please. I love cream,’ Sarla said.
It was Sarla’s second visit to the killer.
If only I’d looked at the window, I’d have seen her. Could I have done anything about it? Could I have run out and strangled her as well? I couldn’t. A sympathetic witness. How droll.
Somebody who approves.
How perfectly ghastly. Don’t feel terribly well. She seems to believe it was she who’d summoned me. Something to do with – bones in a bag? She is more than a trifle mad. What do I talk to her about? Ask her where she learnt her English? Yes. Small talk.
‘Where did you learn your English?’
‘My father was a teacher,’ Sarla explained. ‘He is an old man now. I don’t like him.’
Treat her with caution. Humour her. Get her out of the way at the earliest opportunity. How?
‘Your English is very good.’
‘My father beat me. I hope he dies soon.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Will you kill my father?’
‘More tea?’
Sarla leant across the table and spoke urgently. ‘Ria was going to die. I had a feeling that morning. I knew it, but I didn’t know
how
she was going to die. I knew it was coming to her. I didn’t expect somebody like you.’
‘This is all quite remarkable.’
A nod and a smile . . . Non-committal . . . Perfect poise . . . Preposterous . . . Say as little as possible . . . No other option, really . . . What is the time? What’s poor darling doing? Won’t speak. Won’t even look at me . . . Must be strong . . . Such dreadful tension . . . Despised and detested . . . Mustn’t burst into tears . . . Did it for the best . . . Impossible situation. . . . No winners.
‘The woman who sold me the hex said, great power. She said, the masters know how to do it, you just wait.
Great
power
.’ Sarla was nodding over her chocolate éclair. ‘You don’t look like a killer at all. The masters choose the most – the most – what is the word?’
‘The most unlikely means?’
Ridiculous, providing her with the
mot juste
. Get out of here, you crazy lump. You ugly fat monster. Your fingers are covered in chocolate. Your mouth too. You are starting on the sachertorte now . . . Dear God . . . Do you intend to eat everything within sight? Can’t stand watching you stuff yourself . . . Makes me sick . . . Such puffy eyes . . . Smile . . . Wouldn’t do to antagonize her . . .
Smile
. . . The maître d’hôtel is watching us, wondering whether to intervene. Waiting for a sign from me. All I need is give a nod.
No
. The creature might turn nasty . . . A scene . . . The last thing I need . . . Need to concentrate, reflect, make sense of things. What am I to do?
‘You don’t know Ria?’ Sarla said.
‘No. Shall I ask for more cakes?’
‘You got the call. You
knew
you must come. A feeling – and a thought, yes? I was told how it works. You knew it here . . .’ Sarla touched her voluminous bosom. ‘And here . . .?’ She touched her head now.
Humour her. ‘Yes. You are absolutely right.’
The way she’s pushing her breasts into the lemon tarts! She’s wearing ‘European dress’ this morning . . . Lime-green frilly blouse, skirt like a tent . . . So greedy – dipping her fingers into the custard tarts – so
fat
– if she had been a man, the buttons would have flown off her waistcoat like bullets . . . Henry said that once, about someone at his club . . . How much longer? I’m getting desperate . . .
‘You felt you had to come, yes?’ Sarla went on. ‘You gave up everything and got the plane. You knew you must come to Kilhar?’
‘I knew I had to come to Kilhar.’
‘I think you were in one of my dreams once.’
‘Really? How interesting.’
‘Sometimes I see things that are not there.’
It is clear that she is mad. The way she rolls her eyes. Such a monstrous lump. Some glandular disorder? How strong is she? Would she put up a fight if –? My wrist hurts. The way she goes on stuffing herself . . . Crushing meringues between her fingers!
‘More tea?’
Can’t go on like this . . . Hands brushing again . . . She’s doing it on purpose . . . The glint in her eyes . . . Possessed by the spirit of hero-worship . . . If I had poison, I’d put it in her tea . . . Am I destined to be having tea with her till kingdom come? Doomed for eternity! That’s what hell must be like . . . Mustn’t become hysterical . . .
What am I
to do?
‘That man,’ Sarla said. ‘Who is he?’
‘What man?’
‘You came together.’
Looks sly . . . Knowing . . . Seen us . . . Mad people can be very cunning . . . She knows too much . . . What’s that, gleaming in the sun? Fruit knives? Yes. Sharp, very sharp . . . Yes, why not? As sharp as scalpels . . . Checked one with my forefinger last night at dinner . . .
‘You told a lie, but it doesn’t matter. I checked at Reception. I asked them your name. I won’t tell anyone. You knew Ria. You have the same name as her.’ Sarla put her forefinger across her lips and looked round. ‘
Leighton
.’
There was a pause then the killer said, ‘What would you say to a walk along the beach?’
No one would suspect
me
. . . Plenty of suspects . . . Roman Songhera – though of course they wouldn’t touch Roman Songhera . . . Everyone in this damned place seems involved in some kind of illegal racket . . . The police are notorious slackers . . . It will be all right . . . Murder
is
easy . . .
‘A walk?’ Sarla breathed. ‘Only the two of us? I want you to kill my husband.’
‘I will have to change first. Won’t be a moment. Would you like to wait for me outside?’
A fruit knife, yes . . . In the back of the head, just above the neck . . . Quick as a flash . . . Somewhere on the rocks? Then shove her into the sea . . . What are those screams? Curlews and seagulls . . . Hungry, always hungry . . . Would they peck at her eyes?
At Brown’s Hotel
The hotel with its white Georgian façade and Union Jack dangling limply loomed before them. It looked incongruous in the haze, like a film set – somewhat distorted – shimmering. It was as though a sheet of hot glass were stretched between it and them.
The air felt close and oppressive. Something angry in it, or so Antonia imagined. Some active malignancy was slowly gathering round her, throbbing to a white-hot head. She could feel it like a weak current from a battery.
They entered the foyer. Payne crossed to the reception desk at once. There was a queue.
Antonia stood, looking round. Potted palms, Persian rugs and big buttoned leather armchairs that brought to mind the Military Club. A man and a woman sitting on the over-stuffed sofa, not talking, each one with a newspaper
.
English of course.
The Times,
five days old. The
Telegraph
, ten days old. Like a couple out of Somerset Maugham. Not exactly a picture of marital bliss. Might have been strangers. Perhaps they
were
strangers?
She didn’t think the air-conditioning was working properly. She really mustn’t stay in the sun too long, not even in her new straw hat. She had spent ages putting on sun cream. She wasn’t particularly keen on acquiring a tan. She remembered Miss Bingley sneering at Elizabeth Bennet for having grown ‘so brown and coarse’ as a result of travelling in summertime. People became delusional if they spent too much time in the sun. Mad dogs and Englishmen. A lot of mad-looking dogs had barked at them as they’d walked along the beach. Hugh had thrown a stick at one of them and that had sent the whole lot into paroxysms of rage. No RSPCA. Of course not. Dangerous place. Marvellous-looking beach, though.
‘They are burning patchouli sticks again,’ grumbled the Englishman on the sofa.
‘It’s
not
patchouli. It’s something else,’ the woman said.
‘It’s patchouli,’ he said.
Their faces were hidden by the newspapers. He: mottled frog hand, signet ring and horizontal-striped socks. She: patterned silk dress, flat sensible tan-and-white shoes, varicose veins . . . Marital ennui . . . Conversation of numbing banality . . . Would she and Hugh sit in companionable silence on over-stuffed sofas in former outposts of the Empire one day? Would they ever run out of things to say to each other? I hope I haven’t got sunstroke, Antonia thought. She dabbed at her forehead with her handkerchief. Why was it that one could always tell the English abroad?
What was Hugh doing? Still in the queue beside the reception desk.
Journey’s end. They had reached the
metamenusis
stage, where the detectives were required to explain their reasoning. Time for the final surprise. It would turn out Julian Knight hadn’t been killed by Lord Justice Leighton after all, but by somebody completely different. By, say, the adulterous Mrs Gilmour? Her husband had asked Julian Knight to follow her – she’d been having an affair with an Indian. Or why not a vindictive she-male from the notorious brothel where Mr Agrawal had been a habitué? Lady-boys, as they were also known, could be loyal to the death, Antonia had read somewhere.
No – the
faux
Julian Knight didn’t fit in with any of these solutions. It
had
to be Lord Justice Leighton.
A somewhat
outlandish denouement
. Would he have registered under a different name? He hadn’t intended to kill his daughter. He had loved Ria more than anything in the world. He had wanted her back. It had been a spur-of-the-moment murder. Not even that. An accident – a tragic accident – he’d lost his temper –
‘Garçon, la même chose
.’ The Englishman on the sofa had lowered his newspaper and was swirling his forefinger over his empty glass.
‘Why are you speaking French?’ His wife frowned. ‘We are no longer in Monte. You’re drinking too much.’
‘You are talking too much.’
Antonia was replaying the conversation in the folly in her head. Lord Justice Leighton – in the guise of Julian Knight – said he had seen Roman bang Ria’s head against the bedpost. That, he seemed to believe, was what killed her. But Ria had been strangled. He hadn’t said a word about strangling. Well, they were not really sure how she had died, actually. Curious. Things like that bothered Antonia. She didn’t like loose ends.
Hugh was talking to the receptionist. At long last! Antonia moved closer. He was asking if they had a Lord Justice Leighton staying at the hotel. The answer, after a brief check in the hotel register, was yes. Lord Justice Leighton was in his room. Would the gentleman like to leave a message? The gentleman wanted to see Lord Justice Leighton? Was the gentleman expected? No? Well, in that case they were not sure. (The Hispanic-looking receptionist kept employing the royal ‘we’.) Lord Justice Leighton hadn’t been feeling very well. Some twenty minutes earlier he had been outside, but had come back. The night before he’d had a bad turn. The resident doctor had been called. They had specifically been asked not to disturb him.
The couple on the sofa were talking again.
‘That woman we saw earlier on. The tall one with the immaculate hairdo.’
‘What about it?’ The husband appeared uninterested. ‘You know her?’
‘No. She did something quite extraordinary. She glanced round, then quick as a flash she took one of the –’
‘I am absolutely certain he will see me, my good man,’ Payne said in impossibly clipped tones, what Antonia called his Plummy-Blah voice. Hugh was doing his military trick of standing as though on parade, bent a little forward from the waist, his arms slightly curved at the sides. She could see the receptionist was impressed.
‘Would you please call him at once and tell him that it is about his daughter? Tell him it is an extremely serious matter. The name is Payne. Major Payne. He wouldn’t know me, no.
And
Mrs Payne. From the British High Commission in Delhi,’ he added.
So that was going to be their game. Antonia shook her head. Were they being irresponsible? It would be a cruel deception. On the other hand, why not? Hadn’t Lord Justice Leighton played a cruel deception on her? Hadn’t he made a fool of her in the folly?
The receptionist had picked up the phone. He turned his back on them as he dialled a number. He spoke in a low voice. A moment later he said, ‘Lord Justice Leighton will see you. Room number 45. Fourth floor. Would the gentleman and the lady like to be escorted by the bell-boy?
‘No, thank you. We’ll find our way up,’ Major Payne said.
As they headed for the lift Antonia heard one of the waiters say in perplexed agitation, ‘There were six fruit knives, I swear. There are only five now!’