She had seen him put his hand in his pocket and produce a round object. The next moment she had realised what it was. It was most curious – the last thing she’d expected him to produce – she had watched him, mesmerised – the matter-of-fact way in which he had done it – she didn’t believe
beauty
came into it – no, a bit late for
that
– the poor fellow was destined to die a monster – it was something he was eager to
conceal
.
She had known at that moment that Doctor Klein had a secret – that there was more to Doctor Klein than met the eye – it was her gypsy blood whispering in her ear – what secret
exactly
, though?
Perhaps she could search his room? She didn’t know what she was hoping to find, but she felt sure there would be
something
. She stood up. She told herself she needed distraction, – the kind of thrills only some risk-involving activity could provide – otherwise she’d go mad with anxiety.
She had seen Doctor Klein go into Ella’s room and she didn’t think he was back yet; she would have heard him. It was now getting late. It was the small hours of the morning. What
did
those two find to talk about? Anything in the nature of a romance between Ella and Doctor Klein seemed extremely unlikely, but of course some women had rather unusual tastes, so perhaps she shouldn’t discount the possibility entirely.
The door of Doctor Klein’s room was locked, but he had left his balcony door ajar, she’d noticed. All she needed to do was climb over the partition and enter his room …
Raffles in a frock
. She was Raffles in a frock. She suppressed a hysterical giggle. She must remember to write this down. Perhaps she could use the phrase in a book? The idea had cheered her up a bit but not an awful lot.
She opened her balcony door. Perverse and foolish oft I strayed, eh? This must come under the heading of ‘reckless decisions’, she reflected. Well, the
last
reckless decision she made had paid off, actually. She had hunches, which more often than not proved to be correct. She was aware that her behaviour wasn’t entirely rational, but she knew in her bones that her search would, as they say,
bear fruit
.
And it did.
A couple of minutes later she stood transfixed beside the chest of drawers in Doctor Klein’s room, her skin crawling, her hand clapped over her mouth to prevent herself from crying out, staring down at her discovery …
On Friday morning Sphinx Island woke up enshrouded in swirls of milky-white mist, at first no more than a delicate translucent veil that kept dissolving, but then it gradually started thickening into a damp impenetrable fog, which rendered the sea invisible. Nor could the sea be heard. The seagulls were quiet too. It was all a little eerie.
Once more Lady Grylls and Maisie were sitting in the drawing room.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten-thirty.
‘You are an awfully brave gel, my dear. If I’d been you, I’d have screamed the house down. I’d have picked up the phone and called the police right away, though I don’t think that would have been much good, would it?’
‘No.’
‘It would have taken them
ages
to arrive
–
in the middle of the night – we are, after all, in the middle of the
sea
– I suppose they have their own boats and things –
is
there such a thing as coastal police? If that’s what they are called. Must ask Sybil. They must hate it, I am sure they hate it, I mean the police, whenever they get an emergency call from an island. You are looking terribly pale, my dear.’
Maisie gave a little smile. ‘I didn’t sleep very well.’
‘I am not at all surprised. What did you do after he left?’
‘I cried a little. I was upset, I guess.’
‘I bet you were. You poor thing.’
‘I am OK now. I really am.’
‘Miss Havisham – that’s who Oswald reminds me of. Remember Miss Havisham?
Sometimes I have sick fancies
. Trying to get into your bed indeed. You should have screamed the house down. Would you be an angel and pour me another cup of coffee? So cosy sitting here, so
quiet
– looks as though we are among the clouds – we might be up in Valhalla – one of those places.’ Lady Grylls gestured towards the window. ‘It is jolly sporting of you to have forgiven him. I don’t think he deserves your forgiveness.’
‘He was extremely drunk. He couldn’t have known what he was doing, could he? Actually, it wasn’t so very dreadful, apart from the things he said to me.’
‘I wish I had your generosity of spirit! My life may not have been a dedicated pursuit of virtue, but there are certain things I draw the line at.’
‘OK. It
was
dreadful but – I mean –
nothing happened
.’
‘I should think not! I would have refused to stay under the same roof with him if it had.’
‘He doesn’t seem to remember what he said or what he did. You saw him this morning at breakfast, didn’t you? He acted as though nothing had happened. Smiling and talking about the weather and giving me my instructions for the day!’
‘Having threatened to throw you out on your ear and make you unemployable!’ Lady Grylls shook her head. ‘I believe he also asked you if you’d heard from your sister in Oregon and how her baby was doing? He sounded genuinely interested, as though he really cared about you. I couldn’t imagine anything creepier.’
Maisie smiled happily. ‘My sister gave birth last week. Her first baby! I am an aunt!’
‘That’s splendid news … Has Oswald ever done anything like that before?
Never
? How perfectly extraordinary. Sybil says that’s the way some chaps react after they get their heads nearly blown off. Perhaps she is right.’
‘I was so frightened … The way Mr de Coverley appeared at the door with that gun!’
‘It was the stuff of nightmares, I quite agree.’
‘It looked as though he really meant to kill Oswald!’
‘I believe he did mean to kill Oswald. John seems to resent his intentions of taking over the island.’
‘I thought Mr de Coverley was quite pleasant when I first talked to him. He never used to open his door. Oh it was so funny. He’d ask for something on the house phone and I’d take it to his door, then we’d talk through the keyhole. He said he liked the sound of my voice.’
‘Like Pyramus and Thisbe, eh? Could be the start of a romance, you never know. Maybe all John needs is the love of a good woman and then he’ll be right as rain? Or would the age difference be a problem?’
‘I saw him watch me through field-glasses from his window.’
‘Well, I think that clinches it. Sybil says John’s never been violent before, with people, that is, but then Sybil is the queen of understatement. I do honestly believe he needs to have his head properly examined. Some may say he is ready for the men in white coats. Incidentally, how do you clean those solid silver candelabras?’ Lady Grylls pointed. ‘They become so badly clogged after use, don’t they; it must take
hours
to get rid of the wax.’
‘Oh, it’s not too bad. Ella and I blast them with our hairdryers till the wax runs off on to blotting paper. It only takes a couple of minutes,’ the girl explained cheerfully.
‘Perhaps they could be fitted with cardboard “collars” – what they use on dogs’ necks, to stop them scratching?’ Lady Grylls took a sip of coffee. ‘We seem to have not one but
two
dangerous men on the island,’ she went on in a thoughtful voice. ‘I personally believe Oswald is more dangerous than John, but you will probably disagree … So quiet, isn’t it? Or have I gone completely deaf? My doctor keeps telling me I should get a hearing aid.’
‘It
is
quiet.’
‘Not sure I care much for such dead calm … Like the hush before the proverbial storm … Goodness, what was that? Sounds like someone being skinned alive.’
‘It’s Mrs Garrison-Gore. She wants us in the library. Today’s Friday, remember? Last instructions, I think.’
‘Last rites more like. What a bore that woman is. To tell you the truth, I’ve been having second thoughts. I am not sure we are doing the right thing at all. Poor Hugh and poor Antonia. They’ll probably never forgive me. Wouldn’t be surprised if they stopped speaking to me altogether. I
may
have miscalculated. Oh well. Too late now.
Iacta alea est.’
‘
Are you all right, Lady Grylls?’
‘Never felt better, my dear. The sea air agrees with me. The die is cast. That’s what it means, in case you wonder. Latin, you know. I heard Hugh say it once. I seem to resemble my nephew more and more as I get older. I find the Garrison-Gore a perfect pest. She sets my teeth on edge. Goodness, is that her again? Let’s go, shall we?’ Lady Grylls put down her coffee cup. ‘Where’s my stick? Blasted thing!’
‘Lean on my arm, if you like.’
‘Thank you, my dear, I shall … I am not as young as I was … If Mrs G-G makes her quip about putting one’s best foot forward and not in it, I shall scream … All that horrible heartiness must be a cover for something, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I guess she is worried the murder may not be a success.’
‘I don’t think all crime writers are like her,’ Lady Grylls said resolutely. ‘My niece-by-marriage is
quite
different.’
Mrs Garrison-Gore cleared her throat, ‘There is a change I would like to make, in view of what happened yesterday …’ Her eyes strayed significantly to the portrait above the fireplace. ‘We
must
take the shooting into account … They are bound to notice the bullet holes and they’ll ask questions. We could always have the picture taken down and replaced with another one and remove the book altogether, I suppose, but I have a better idea … I’ll explain exactly how it’ll work, so please listen very carefully. This is a corporate effort, don’t let’s forget. So all hands to the mast, as they say. Do let’s put our best foot forward,
not
in it
, shall we?’
Oswald Ramskritt met us as arranged and led us to his yacht. He wore what Sybil had called ‘his rather superior yachting cap’.
(Antonia wrote in her diary.)
He is a pleasant enough chap with an open, weather-beaten face and intensely blue eyes. I imagine he is in his late fifties, but it is clear he must have been a handsome man in his youth. His eyes, I noticed, were a little bloodshot and at one point he popped an Alka-Seltzer into a glass of water and drank it without waiting for the fizz to subside. (Nights of revelry on Sphinx Island?)
He rhapsodized about the island. He said he’d always dreamt of possessing an island. He said everybody was enjoying themselves very much indeed and was looking forward to our joining the ‘gang’. Everyone was having a whale of a time. And wonder of wonders, John de Coverley had at last made an appearance! Must be in our honour, Oswald said with a laugh.
So far John had kept to his room but this morning he apparently surprised everybody by turning up at breakfast, something he’d never done before. John’s demeanour was what one would have expected from an old-world English gentleman. With his eyeglass and spats, he might have stepped out of the pages of a 1930s ‘Society’ novel. John had done something ‘very silly’ the day before and that seemed to be his way of saying sorry to everybody.
Oswald went on to tell us how much he loved England. One of his remaining ambitions was to become an honorary Englishman. This is what his brother, or rather half-brother, had done. His half-brother was his only living relative and he was more English than the English. His half-brother had suffered a back injury, but that didn’t stop him from treading the boards and chasing the ladies. Oswald gave a knowing look and laughed as though at the best of jokes.
Hugh pressed him to tell us what John had done exactly, but Oswald only shook his head and smiled. It was nothing serious, he insisted. Nothing at all.
Oddly enough, Oswald didn’t mind informing us how he had made his fortune. Everybody seemed to think it was extremely difficult, but it wasn’t. He became quite voluble on the subject. He said he had done it by the simple expedient of combining the haphazard methods of the gambler with the less spectacular techniques of the investor. If we ever decided to become millionaires, that was the way to go about it.
The island has a sinister enough air about it, though, personally, I couldn’t see the Sphinx it is supposed to resemble. It is essentially a grey and bare configuration of rocks. The house is white as a bone and it looks forlorn and empty. It brings to mind a painting by Edward Hopper, that master-blender of loneliness, nostalgia and shadowy foreboding.
As we got nearer, I was filled with curious sadness. Despite myself, I felt something resembling a sense of loss …
I mentioned Hopper and the talk turned to painting. Oswald Ramskritt’s favourite artist is Norman Rockwell – such a sunny painter, he said – it is always summertime in Rockwell – smiling moms making apple-pie, healthy-looking boys playing baseball, friendly dogs chasing after them. Simple happiness, old-fashioned charm and self-effacing dignity – those were the kind of things Oswald valued most.
I may be tempted to use the house and the island as a setting for a novel one day. Setting establishes atmosphere and it can influence plot and character. An island like that would certainly enhance the horror of a murder, especially if the heinous act were to be committed during a storm. The turbulence of the sea would parallel the turbulence of human emotions. Though this is a terrible cliché, it could still be effective, if properly done.
Strangely enough, the moment I thought about clichés, Mrs Garrison-Gore sprung into view. Of course we didn’t immediately know that she was Mrs Garrison-Gore, not till Oswald Ramskritt introduced her to us after we’d landed.
Mrs Garrison-Gore had come out of the house and was sitting on a rock, looking out across the sea, incongruously bringing to mind the famous statue of Andersen’s mermaid I’d seen in Copenhagen once. If newspaper reports are to be believed the poor little mermaid had been vandalised a great number of times – head hacked off, red paint splashed over it and, on one occasion, the whole statue was blasted from its base with dynamite. Each time it had been restored. In an odd way this is what has been happening to the literary reputation of Mrs Garrison-Gore.