It occurred to her that ‘snooper’ just missed being an anagram of ‘poisoner’. It would be dreadful if Major Payne and Antonia Darcy started suspected her of murder. Of
double
murder.
Once more she started crying. She couldn’t help herself. She was a self-deluding fool. Her nerves were in a poor state. She felt like opening the window and jumping into the sea. She was in the grip of a cold, lifeless despair. Her thoughts were running with the frenzied violence of a rat caught in one of those old-fashioned traps. It was as though some noxious substance had been syringed into her mind, curdling and destroying her peace.
She should never have allowed herself to be led into this quagmire. She cursed the day she said yes to Sybil de Coverley, who, of course, had been acting on behalf of Lady Grylls. She should have said no.
Pampered aristocracy, never done an honest day’s work in their entire lives, expecting everybody to be at their beck and call. Romany had bourgeois blood running in her veins and she was proud of it. Well, she had made a wrong decision. She had thought a small island would be rather fun to stage a murder mystery on. She had also felt flattered to have been asked to do the staging. She was a vain fool.
‘Bring back the guillotine!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore waved an imaginary banner. ‘Off with their heads!’
Murder by request
. Perhaps she could write a book with a title like that one day?
She had always been aware of the ambiguity within the human condition; the double-sidedness that allows us to exist within ourselves, yet be different …
‘Pull yourself together, Romany. You never killed anyone.’
She still felt a little queasy. Deep breathing should do the trick.
Inhale, exhale
.
Mrs Garrison-Gore spoke out loud again. ‘You are completely innocent, my girl. You have nothing to fear. Your reputation remains unblemished. You are a good person. Your feet are not clawed, nor do you sport a tail, don’t you ever forget that. You need to be strong because it is up to you to nail down the killer.’
‘Well, that’s that,’ Feversham said. He swung his monocle on its black ribbon. ‘It’s perfectly clear what happened. Doctor Klein killed Ramskritt and then employed the same technique, only this time for purposes of self-extinction. Poetic justice, some may ay. Nothing poetic about it, really. Ghastly business. Poor fellow. Though perhaps “fellow” isn’t quite
le mot juste
. Chaps like that are never happy. They lead their lives in limbo. Neither fish nor fowl. Problems with passports, heading for the wrong lavatory and so on. I have heard some
very
strange stories
. Neither fish nor fowl.’
‘Is that a hunting metaphor, Fever? Papa
loved
hunting metaphors,’ Sybil said. ‘Does your encyclopaedic knowledge extend to any hunting metaphors, Major Payne?’
‘To hunt with the hounds and run with the hares? That’s the only one I can think of.’
‘I know a good one.
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog
.’
‘That’s not a metaphor, Miss de Coverley, it’s a pangram.’
‘I don’t think there is such a word. It would be absolute hell playing Scrabble with you.’
‘A pangram contains all twenty-six letters of the English alphabet,’ Payne explained. ‘It was particularly popular in the benighted pre-computer days when it was used to test typewriters.’
‘Quite a Mr Know-all, aren’t you? I bet you were frightfully unpopular at school.’
‘
Au contraire
.’
‘Tragic collisions between the two identities can become a daily occurrence. A fragile sense of self and a general feeling of futility and pointlessness. Chaps like that never feel they are in charge of their own destiny,’ Feversham went on in a meditative voice. ‘Self-pity and self-disgust are constant companions, not to mention the dreadful loneliness that comes with an inability to enjoy real intimacy. I am not talking entirely through my hat, you know. I
nearly
played a transvestite once.’
‘That’s not
the same thing, Fever,’ Sybil said. ‘Different psychology altogether. Transvestites are quite happy, I think. They adore dressing up and putting on wigs and false eye-lashes and sequins and dancing and making risqué jokes and seducing boxers and cage fighters.’
‘I considered wearing a girlishly tiered ra-ra skirt of crushed velour,’ Feversham said in a reminiscent voice.
‘What a coincidence, my first teddy bear was made of crushed velour!’
‘I have locked Doctor Klein’s room. I will keep the key, if you don’t mind. I will hand it over to the police, whenever that may be.’ Payne spoke stiffly.
Sybil and Feversham had started getting on his nerves.
‘It’s a comfort in a way,’ Sybil de Coverley said. ‘Absolutely ghastly of course, but at least we know the nightmare is over. Poor Doctor Klein. A merciful release, I can’t help feeling. I don’t think he had any future, really.’
‘It’s got a lot quieter, hasn’t it?’ Feversham said. ‘Some wind, but no gibbering gulls. They have all been swept to the very bottom of the sea and eaten by giant turtles.’
‘In my opinion, it was Doctor Klein who killed Oswald and then took his own life. An open-and-shut case, if there was one. Wouldn’t you say?’ asked Sybil.
‘I wish I had your certainties, Miss de Coverley,’ Payne said.
His eyes were on Feversham.
The following morning the rain stopped and the sun showed, pale and watery, from between the clouds.
In the room known as ‘Charlotte Russe’ Feversham woke up with a start. He hadn’t slept at all well. He was cold. No early morning tea. Why wasn’t the Teasmade working? No electricity! Of course. He’d forgotten. They would need to go down to the cellar and get the generator going. He and Payne. He didn’t relish the prospect at all …
Seven o’clock. Was that a spirit lamp on the side table? So he would be able to make himself some tea after all. There was a tin of powdered milk as well. The situation wasn’t as cataclysmic as it had seemed.
The moment he sat up in bed, he realised what it was that troubled him.
He hadn’t told Sybil.
Sooner or later he’d be found out. Payne already suspected there was a connection between him and Oswald, despite Feversham’s denials. Feversham had tried to avoid a display of anything that suggested a guilty conscience, but he was far from convinced he had been successful … Damn Romany. Why couldn’t the bloody woman keep her trap shut?
He’d got himself into a flap. He’d acted in a guilty fashion.
Once the story of Oswald’s death hit the papers, it would only be a question of time before the connection was made public property. The news would be everywhere, not only in the papers but on TV and the bloody Internet. Oswald was a big fish, a multi-millionaire, an oligarch. He’d had his finger on all manner of pies.
So odd that they should have shared a mother …
Feversham got up and put on his rather sumptuous dressing gown.
His eyes fell on the gloves that lay on his bedside table. He must get rid of them. He didn’t care much for them, if he had to be perfectly honest. He’d tell Sybil he’d lost them or something.
The window curtains were an attractive shade of dark green – like the patination of an ancient bronze. He pulled them apart.
He needed to
think
.
The sea appeared calmer. But how black and swollen it looked!
That silly conversation at tea, the day the Paynes had arrived. He had given himself away. It had made Payne wonder. Payne was clearly the noticing kind. He should have steered the conversation into a different direction, Feversham reflected; he could have talked about something else – grouse shooting, the absolute disgrace of wind turbines or the addictive absurdity of
Downton Abbey
. No – he shouldn’t blame himself. It had been Oswald’s fault. Oswald had led him on. Oswald thought he was being
clever and funny.
Feversham wondered what his next line of action should be. Sybil. He should tell Sybil. Yes. That would certainly be the decent thing to do. That was what a
gentleman
would do. These things did matter. He must tell her before his mask – his
second
mask, so to speak – was ripped off …
He took a sip of tea. Masks – his whole life had been a series of masks. Who
was
he? He really had no idea. But one thing he knew: he loved Sybil better than life itself. He meant to marry Sybil, though heaven knew when that would be. The police wouldn’t take to him kindly, oh no. Still, he must tell Sybil the truth. Wouldn’t be fair otherwise.
He must make a clean breast of things. Tell her exactly
who
he was.
He would become suspect number one right away, he had no doubt about it. Would Sybil come and visit him in jail? He felt certain she would. He must speak to her as soon as possible.
As he dressed, he rehearsed his little speech in his head …
At eight o’clock Major Payne was fully dressed. So was Antonia.
Antonia was talking.
‘It was Sybil who started me thinking. She mentioned the vagaries of Fate. If the storm hadn’t smashed the library window, she said, Oswald might have been alive now. In her opinion his champagne was most probably poisoned in the library, after the French window got smashed.’
‘When we all looked in the direction of the explosion?’
‘Yes – in the chaos that followed. She said the killer had taken advantage of the chaos. Then I had my bright idea.
What if it was the killer who caused the chaos?
Do you see what I mean?
’
Payne looked at her. ‘Clever girl. Of course I see what you mean. I am so proud of you.’
They went on to discuss the situation from every possible angle. Now they believed they knew who the killer was, what they needed was proof. It always boiled down to proof in the end …
‘I am going down,’ Payne said, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s the early bird that gets the worm. Gosh, hate clichés.’
‘It’s the early Christian that gets the fattest lion,’ said Antonia. ‘Or is it the other way round? You will be careful, Hugh, won’t you?’
‘You think I may be in danger?’
‘Well, unless we’ve got it all completely wrong, we are dealing with a double murderer.’
‘Up and about already? In the grip of “a detective fever”, I see.’ Lady Grylls nodded.
‘Is it so obvious? Who said that? I rather like it.’
‘Mr Wilkie Collins, I believe. He came up with the phrase at the height of the Constance Kent murder case.’
‘That was a nasty business, wasn’t it? One doesn’t often come across sisters slitting their brothers’ throats.’
She peered at him through her glasses. ‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream, but you don’t seem
entirely
happy.’
‘No, not entirely. Well, we believe we know whodunnit, but here is the tricky question of proof.’
‘You mean you haven’t got proof?’
‘No. Not what could stand up in a court of law. That’s the fly in the ointment. Anyhow I just wanted to see if you were all right.’
‘I am fine. Soldiering on. I am not
comfortable
– not at all – though that’s not quite the same thing, is it? Do you think we’ll be able to get back home today?’
‘I doubt it. Not today.’
‘You don’t think Doctor Klein killed Ramskritt?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t think then that Klein committed suicide?’
‘No.’
‘Who
is
the killer?’
He told her.
‘Can’t say I am particularly surprised,’ said Lady Grylls. ‘Fed up with this island. Freezing cold – guttering candles – no hot water – no wireless, so I can’t listen to the Shipping Forecast – no frilly-aproned, apple-cheeked maids bringing early morning tea.’
‘I don’t think you will find any frilly-aproned, apple-cheeked maids anywhere these days, darling. Except, I imagine, on certain rather dubious websites.’
‘It’s my fault. We should never have come here. Thought I was giving you the most original present you were ever likely to get on your wedding anniversary.’ Lady Grylls sighed. ‘Seemed
such
a good idea at the time.’
Although much overgrown, the terrace outside the library could be distinguished as attractively paved in ancient brick.
Mrs Garrison-Gore was walking about, scowling at the devastation the storm had caused and poking among the broken statuary with the tip of her golf umbrella. Neptune had been split into three pieces. Odysseus had been decapitated – if that indeed was Odysseus – might be Jason, of Argonaut fame, she reflected. Those muscular mythological mariners all looked the same.
She wore a voluminous belted trenchcoat in mud-grey, her green pork-pie hat and gloves.
Where
was
the blasted thing?
Hal Jackson would have found it by now. Hal Jackson never missed a trick. Hal Jackson was Mrs Garrison-Gore’s detective. A former First World War naval commando who always managed to sleuth his way to the truth and had done so in her first three novels. Shame she couldn’t continue writing about him, but for some reason her number two and three had been deemed ‘weak’, so she’d had to change gear …
Critics were such vermin! Stoats, snakes and stinking centipedes! She’d have them all hanged or garrotted, if she ever got the chance!
She went on raking the rabble with her umbrella, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. If she’d been a character in a novel she would have found it by now. Although the first fictional sleuths had been men, detection was a feminine talent, really. Women were more observant than men. They had a more natural instinct for deciphering what they saw and they put their intuition to good use.
Mrs Garrison-Gore had started feeling light-headed. She took a deep breath.
Inhale, exhale
. If she stood absolutely still for a moment or two, she would be all right. For all her appearance of bluff solidity, she was not emotionally robust.
Your soul is threatened with eternal damnation
. That’s what her former husband had told her once.