‘My poor darling. Are you poor?’
‘Poor as a rat. Completely broke.’
‘It would be splendid being married to a man with no money since you tend to appreciate little treats so much. I read that somewhere. I must say I prefer poor people to rich people. In that respect I take after mama. She was a Socialist, you know. The Duke of Westminster should be made to pay more tax; I do feel strongly about it. Rich people incline towards callous egotism and careless extravagance.’
‘As a matter of fact, Syb, I am no longer poor. I am getting most of Oswald’s fortune.’
‘Are you really? This is terribly exciting. Actually, I don’t mind you being rich at all. That means you can buy the island off me now – no, sorry. I keep forgetting you abhor the sea. You get
mal-de-mer
. We are so alike! But wait a minute. How
can
you be sure you are getting most of Oswald’s fortune?’
‘He sent me a copy of the will. He wanted me to know I was his main legatee.’
‘That may have been an elaborate practical joke. Oswald was the kind of fellow papa would have dismissed as “second-rate”. He wore a toupee.’
‘He was unpredictable all right, but I do believe he was serious about the will,’ said Feversham. ‘He hardly knew me, but he found me amusing. Besides, he was fond of mother – before she lost her mind, that is. He said he couldn’t cope with irrational behaviour as it unsettled his equilibrium, though of course he paid all the fees for her upkeep. Mother is in a home in Windsor.’
‘Ah the shared mother. Norah, yes? She must have breast-fed the two of you. That’s the sort of thing that makes a big difference. Did Oswald leave Ella anything at all in his will, do you know?’
‘Not a penny.’
‘What a bounder. But he must have left her
something
. They’d lived together for ages. She did so much for him. Running errands and cooking and making phone calls and changing her dresses each time he told her to. No? What a bounder.’
‘He was not a good man. Something very wrong with him, actually. He left nothing to Maisie either.’
‘Maybe he was waiting to see which way things would go with Maisie?’ Sybil mused. ‘She did blot her copy-book, poor child, didn’t she, when she turned down his advances. These American girls are a mystery to me. An English girl would have taken a thing like that in her stride. She would have lain back and thought of England.’
‘I will be a very rich man, Sybil.’
‘Why the long face then? You aren’t worried someone will say you killed him, are you?’
‘Major Payne seems to have tumbled onto my secret,’ said Feversham. ‘Payne is awfully good at making connections between things. Oswald was very silly, you see. He talked to me about my father. He thought he was being funny. It happened when the Paynes first arrived, remember?’
‘You mean the silly talk?’
‘Yes. Oswald and I managed to exchange family information under the guise of silly talk. We thought we were being clever, but Major Payne’s proved to be cleverer. Major Payne is the kind of fellow who would be terribly good at teasing anagrams from recalcitrant master phrases, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh he is a major pain.’ She waved an impatient hand. ‘Who does he think he is? An exemplar of a superior purpose? God Himself? You know the kind of thing.
Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of Him to whom we must give account
. Don’t tell me he suspects you of killing Oswald. The idea is preposterous.’
‘Not that preposterous. Once my true identity is revealed,’ Feversham said, ‘I will be suspect number one. The police will take a special interest in me, of that I have no doubt. I am sure I’ll make a bad impression. When I am nervous, I find myself reduced to blubbering incoherence.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I tend to say all the wrong things. Even if in the end they decide it’s Doctor Klein who did it, suspicion will linger. There’s bound to be talk …’
‘Most people are fools. Never submit to hypocritical hysteria, that’s my motto,’ Sybil said firmly. ‘I never imagined you cared what self-appointed arbiters of moral orthodoxies might be saying.’
Feversham’s hand went up to his tie. ‘You don’t really think I killed Oswald, do you?’
‘Of course not … If you killed Oswald, that would mean you killed Doctor Klein as well … Not that it would make a scrap of difference to the way I feel about you, if you did kill them, you know. Souls come in pairs, but when we are born they are split in two and we spend all our lives trying to find the other half …
Now I have found you and you have found me
… I find this public passion for justice and retribution such a bore anyway … But
did
you kill them?’
‘I realised I had all the necessary information at my disposal,’ Payne was saying. ‘Ramskritt mentioned the fact he had a half-brother when we first arrived, on our way here. He said his half-brother was an actor – “treading the boards” was how he put it – and that he was still chasing the ladies – despite his back injury. He also said that his brother was more English than the English. Well, Feversham’s speciality is a certain rarefied kind of an English gent, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is. The kind that never existed.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore gave a contemptuous laugh.
‘At one point Feversham said he had suffered a back injury … Then there was the reference to Bonwell and Norah … I believe Norah is their mother … Ramskritt apparently had Norah’s eyes … Well, suddenly everything clicked into place … I caught Feversham unawares and he admitted his father’s name was Bonwell.’
‘Most actors are psychotic, though they don’t know it, and character actors are the craziest. As for you, Major Payne,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said, ‘you are
so
much like Hal Jackson, it’s uncanny. That’s my detective. That’s how I’ve always pictured Hal, you know –
as
someone like you
.
Sorry – this sounds like a declaration of love, doesn’t it?’
‘Are you in love with your detective?’
‘Perhaps I am, I don’t know. Naval men and military men are a bit alike, aren’t they?’
‘They most certainly are,’ Payne agreed politely. Privately he thought they were nothing of the sort. He found the idea abhorrent.
‘Bluff admirals and bluff colonels are practically inter-changeable.’ She was rubbing her right hand with her left. Her face twisted. ‘I seem to have got a sore patch,’ she explained. ‘I seem to be – um – allergic to something, don’t know what.’
‘Hope you haven’t been bitten –?’
‘Bitten?
Bitten?
’ Her face turned the colour of a fire extinguisher. ‘Do you mean –
bugs
? You don’t think –? Well, it’s an old house … I don’t believe Sybil has ever had it properly cleaned and fumigated … What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve had a brainwave, that’s all. I do believe,’ Payne said, ‘that it is thanks to you that I’ve got my final proof now.’
‘Your
final
proof? Really? You mean – proof of Feversham’s guilt? How exciting! What did I say? Was it my reference to Hal Jackson? Or to bugs? Or to bluff admirals? What
is
your proof?’
‘If I told you, the story would be over,’ he said. ‘It isn’t time for the denouement yet. You must wait for the right psychological moment.’
‘When
is
the right psychological moment? I never seem to know. I tend to write my last chapters several times and I am always left with this deeply dissatisfied feeling –’ Mrs Garrison-Gore broke off. ‘Oh there’s Antonia Darcy! I am sure
she
knows. I am sure she is a much better novelist than I shall ever be! Ahoy there!’ She waved her umbrella in the air. ‘I must say you look terribly festive. Your husband’s been marvellous, truly marvellous. It seems he’s managed to solve the mystery! He’s beaten us all to it!’
Antonia was wearing a red burgundy dress in fine wool and a short black coat. She was also wearing the new hat. She smiled. ‘This morning he was complaining how hard it was to get proof. I advised against despair. I told him that sooner or later he’d get his proof.’
‘You are lucky to have a husband who
listens
to you. How I envy you, Antonia Darcy! Oh how I envy you! I haven’t had your obvious good fortune.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore sighed gustily. ‘Your murder mysteries are all set in modern times, aren’t they?’
‘On the surface they are.’
‘Scientific changes have affected all serious writers of mystery novels set in modern times and not necessarily for the better. Don’t you find that infuriating? Don’t you feel
threatened
? I mean, all that DNA business! I can’t help feeling threatened.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore rubbed her hand.
‘DNA has certainly revolutionised the investigation of murder,’ Antonia agreed.
‘If you had a corpse with some blood or skin from the killer under their nails, and if you had six suspects, say, well, it wouldn’t take the police long at all to solve the mystery, would it? What would you do
then
?’ Mrs Garrison-Gore was speaking in her loudest voice. She had a frantic air about her. ‘How
do
you produce sixty-five thousand words or thereabouts without losing momentum? How do you manage to maintain that vice-like narrative grip?’
‘How indeed … I often find myself struggling.’
‘Once the police turn up on the scene, you’ve simply
got
to introduce DNA as well. If you don’t do it, they’ll say you are anachronistic and irrelevant. I know what critics are! I’d rather die than write a murder mystery set in modern times!’
‘My solution is not to involve the police till the very end of a novel if at all … It seems to me that most modern crime fiction deals in documentary realism rather than creative ingenuity …’
‘Jolly well put, Antonia Darcy!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore boomed approbation. ‘I couldn’t agree more!’
‘You ladies seem to hold similar views,’ said Payne. ‘Would I be right in saying that your books are about murder
only
in the sense that
The Importance of Being Ernest
is about child neglect and identity crisis?’
This made Mrs Garrison-Gore choke with laughter.
‘The good news is that the network is back and I have managed to make a call.’ Antonia held up her mobile phone. ‘I have called the police. They are sending a launch.’
‘Well done,’ Payne said. He glanced at his watch.
‘The police are coming? Hoorah! Thank God!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore cried. Tears sprung from her eyes. ‘
Thank God!
At long last! I can’t bear to stay on this island a moment longer! How about subplots? Are you keen on subplots?’
Antonia scrunched up her face. ‘No, not really. Maybe a hint or two of romance. I try to make everything relate to the main murder …’
Antonia glanced round. The edge of the cliff was less than ten feet away, bounded by a waist-high crumbling stone wall. A solitary seagull soared above them.
‘The sea looks like a mighty mud bath. They say mud baths are extremely good for the nerves,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said with a frown. ‘Mud baths were used to be known as a “cure”.’
‘I have got my final proof now,’ Payne told Antonia.
‘Really? What is it?’
‘Want to see it?’
Antonia blinked. ‘Well, yes. Of course I want to see it.’
Mrs Garrison-Gore went on gazing at the sea. For some reason she was remembering what a critic had written about her second novel.
The ending, when it finally stumbles into view, isn’t so much contrived as almost meaningless in relation to what had preceded it.
The next moment she screamed. ‘Major Payne! What are you doing?’
Major Payne had got hold of her right hand.
‘How dare you? Have you gone mad? Let go of me at once!’
But he didn’t.
He pulled off her glove and held her hand up firmly for Antonia to see.
It was late afternoon now.
The police had been and gone. Lady Grylls, Sybil de Coverley, Feversham and Ella Gales were sitting in the conservatory listening to Antonia and Hugh Payne’s explanation.
‘She hit Hugh on the head with her umbrella. Then she ran to the edge of the cliff and jumped into the sea. It was all quite awful,’ Antonia said. ‘Like something in a dream. Everything happened extremely fast. There she was one moment, the next she was gone.’
Payne rubbed the side of his head. ‘Her body hasn’t been recovered yet.’
‘With great victory, comes great sacrifice,’ Feversham said. ‘Sorry. Awfully bad form. But the blasted woman did try to frame me, didn’t she? She used my gloves to kill Klein and then she replaced them in my room! How did you trap her exactly? By pretending you suspected me, thus lulling her into a false sense of security? You led her on and then you suddenly pounced on her, what?’
‘Something like that, yes. Well, she had reached the end of the line. Her nerves were in a dreadful state. She was
not
the cold-blooded killer type.’
‘She was a wildly erratic character,’ Lady Grylls said.
‘She knew it was all over. She could do nothing about it. The proof was there – like the mark of Cain – on her hand. She wore gloves in an attempt to conceal it.’
‘A
bite
mark. How extraordinary. How does one get rid of a bite mark? Well, she could have cut her hand off,’ Lady Grylls said ruminatively. ‘
That
would have eliminated the evidence once and for all.’
‘The bite mark was flaming red, since it seemed to have got infected. I believe it was
an exact imprint of Doctor Klein’s teeth.
Doctor Klein bit her when she tried to push a lump of cyanide into his mouth. He bit her badly, that’s how a fibre from the tartan gloves got between his teeth,’ Payne explained. ‘It was the fibre and his ferocious expression that gave me the idea.’
‘Poor plucky Freddie Hansen died fighting,’ said Antonia.
‘Envisage the scene,’ Payne went on. ‘Doctor Klein is in his room, lying on the bed, probably dozing. He is not feeling well. Mrs Garrison-Gore sneaks through the balcony door. She’d done it once before, when she ransacked Doctor Klein’s chest of drawers. One of the drawers contained a file with pictures tracing Freddie’s transformation into Klein. I believe the phial containing the cyanide was also there at the time and Mrs Garrison-Gore helped herself to some of it.’