Murder of Gonzago (5 page)

The image was black and white and not very clear. An intermittent jerking movement suggested the recording had been made with a hand-held camera. There was no sound.

A man was seen sitting at a dressing table, in front of a mirror. He was almost bald and his eyes had sinister dark circles round them. He gave a knowing wink at the camera and proceeded to put on a wig, a pair of caterpillar eyebrows, a beard, and, finally, a crown. Then, giving every impression of it being an afterthought, he put on a false nose. As he did so, he stuck out his tongue at the camera.

‘My brother-in-law is quite impossible. Was.’ Felicity paused the video.

‘In that documentary he said he could be himself only when he was somebody else,’ Lady Grylls said.

‘It seems Roderick didn’t want to do that documentary to start with, but then suddenly changed his mind,’ Felicity said. ‘Gerard couldn’t recognize him at first; he hadn’t seen him for so long, you see. Roderick seemed to have become more manic and he kept losing his temper.’

‘That’s what happens if one spends too much time in the sun,’ Lady Grylls said.

‘Apparently he used to pay regular visits to a local witch doctor,’ said Felicity. ‘He was in the habit of taking all sorts of highly dubious potions and powders and things, though they did seem to have had the desired rejuvenating effect. The rumour among the locals was that he’d actually sold his soul to the Devil.’

Lady Grylls gave a reminiscent laugh. ‘He sang “Chattanooga Choo Choo” in duet with his estate agent, but got excessively cross when the poor fellow deigned to walk ahead of him and he tried to punch him on the nose. How he screamed at him. He clearly considered it
lèse-majesté
. You and he didn’t get on frightfully well, did you, my dear?’

‘Not frightfully well, no. My brother-in-law was an acquired taste and that’s putting it mildly. Well, since he chose to spend most of his time in Grenadin, we hardly ever laid eyes on him.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘About ten years ago. We were invited to Grenadin, but it wasn’t a particularly auspicious occasion. Poor Gerard suffered the most awful mosquito bites. My brother-in-law boasted of having become a crack shot. He was terribly eager to do a William Tell. He asked me to stand in the garden with an apple on my head. He claimed he could fell it with a single shot.’

‘Did you agree to it?’ Payne asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘That’s how Paul Bowles killed his wife … Similar sort of set-up.’

‘You haven’t seen the documentary, Hughie, have you? Oh, but you
must
,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘For some reason they kept referring to it as a
meta
-documentary.’

‘Did they?’

‘You look as though you know what that means. I believe Provost recorded it when it was on the box, so I’ll give
you the video. Do remind me.’ Lady Grylls turned to their hostess. ‘Let’s see what happens next, my dear, shall we?’

As Felicity pressed Play, the scene changed to a room of a striking art deco design. They saw an arch hung with a shimmering, transparent curtain and double doors made of what Payne imagined was onyx and silver. The enormous torchieres with serpentine curves had been derived, as Payne was to learn later, from Poelzig’s expressionistic columns designed for the foyer of Max Reinhardt’s Grosses Schauspielhaus in 1919.

The room was spacious and accented with circular and semicircular lines and arches placed within arches. The windows were curved like goldfish bowls, there was a rounded fireplace and clustered flowerlike lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling. The camera focused on a chaise longue covered in what looked like camellia blossoms.

‘La Sorcière. Roderick’s house on his island,’ Felicity explained.

A couple of feet behind the chaise longue were french windows with net curtains over them. A middle-aged woman went up to the windows and drew the silk curtains across. She had silver hair, dramatically mascara’d eyes and star-shaped earrings; she was clad in a long dress. At one point she produced a pair of glasses and put them on her nose.

The camera swirled round and several other people came into view. A man and a woman wearing cardboard helmets raised their hands to their foreheads in a military salute. A young woman with long dark hair parted in the middle and a white diaphanous dress curtsied.

Lady Grylls shook her forefinger at the TV screen. ‘I know these people! I’ve seen them. They were at the funeral yesterday! The very same!’

‘Clarissa’s aunt. The Hunters,’ Felicity said.

‘Who is the pretty girl?’ Payne asked.

‘What pretty girl? Do you mean Glover? Her name is Renée Glover.’ Felicity pursed her lips. ‘You think she is pretty?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘What are they supposed to be?’ Lady Grylls asked.

‘Characters out of Shakespeare. That, apparently, was the craze at La Sorcière at the time of Roderick’s death.’

‘Of course. There was something about it in the
Mail
.’

Major Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger. ‘I imagine Silver Hair is meant to be either Titania or Gertrude, the Helmets Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Miss Glover is Ophelia – or maybe Cordelia.’

A man and a woman were walking at a stately pace towards the chaise longue. They were wearing crowns and richly embroidered robes and were holding hands.

‘The King and the Queen,’ Lady Grylls murmured. ‘Though which king and which queen? Shakespeare is full of kings and queens. I think Roderick is the King … Is Clarissa the Queen?’

Felicity said in a flat voice, ‘That’s my sister-in-law, yes.’

Lord Remnant was heavily bearded and moustachioed; his long hair reached down to his shoulders. His caterpillar eyebrows slanted slightly upwards. Clarissa’s face was white, her lips very dark; she brought to mind some sinister Vampyra – all she needed were fangs, Payne reflected. Her eyes were excessively made up.

The King drew the Queen to himself, brought his heavily bearded face close to hers and kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the cheeks and finally on the lips. The Queen in return stroked the King’s hair.

‘Jolly uncommon for royalty to look so ostentatiously in love, but maybe they did in the old days,’ Lady Grylls observed. ‘Or maybe they are not meant to be British?’

The King yawned and rubbed his eyes. The Queen pointed to the chaise longue.

‘
My darling. Do take a nap
,’ Lady Grylls said in a funny voice.

The King nodded. He took off his crown and placed it on a little round table. He then reclined on the chaise longue. He lay on his side, folded his arms and shut his eyes. The camera followed the Queen as she tiptoed in an exaggerated manner out of the arched doorway.

Once more the screen went black, then the sleeping figure of the King was seen again, but he was no longer alone. Another man had entered the frame. He was young and handsome and sported a black moustache with waxed-up ends. His head was covered in romantic curls.

In his right hand the man held a tall glass painted black and decorated with what looked like a skull and crossbones. He glanced furtively to the left, and to the right. His eyes then fixed on the crown and he contemplated it for a moment or two.

‘I think I know what this is supposed to be,’ Payne said.

The man stooped over and held the black glass to the King’s ear. For a moment only the man’s back could be seen and the recumbent form was hidden from view.

‘What’s he doing?’ Lady Grylls leant forward.

‘Pouring poison into the King’s ear.’

‘Really? This rings a bell …
Hamlet
?’

‘Yes.
The Murder of Gonzago
. The play within the play.’

The King’s body was seen jerking spasmodically upwards. The King’s eyes looked as though they were about to come out of their orbits. His mouth opened in a silent scream. Then he slumped back and lay still.

‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!’ Lady Grylls made the sign of the cross.

The Queen re-entered. She glanced at the King, then at the Poisoner who made a slashing gesture across his throat and smiled. The Queen’s hand went up to her mouth, then she smiled too. She crossed over to the Poisoner and the
two embraced. The Poisoner then picked up the crown and placed it on his head. He and the Queen kissed again, then arm in arm they walked up and down the room. They waved royal waves.

‘How terribly interesting. The King is dead, long live the King. Who is the new King?’ Lady Grylls asked.

‘Chap called Sylvester-Sale,’ Felicity Remnant said. ‘Dr Sylvester-Sale.’

‘Look! I have an idea they are no longer acting,’ Lady Grylls said.

Dr Sylvester-Sale and Clarissa Remnant were shown gazing across at Lord Remnant’s body. Lord Remnant’s hand was hanging limply, the fingers touching the floor. Dr
Sylvester-Sale
went up to the chaise longue and bent over the body. Something in his manner suggested none of this was scripted.

‘No, they are no longer acting,’ said Felicity.

The doctor lifted Lord Remnant’s hand and held it by the wrist, checking the pulse. He then turned round and held up his hand; he was stopping the others from getting close. He said something. Louise Hunter was seen covering her mouth with her hand. Clarissa shook her head as though in disbelief.

‘Is Roderick dead? I mean
really
dead – is that how he died?’

‘It looks like it,’ Felicity said expressionlessly.

‘Heart attack? That’s what it said in
The Times
.’

Dr Sylvester-Sale was seen bending over the body, once more concealing it from view. He rose and said something which made Clarissa’s mouth open in a show of incredulity. Clarissa turned towards the camera. She looked cross. She waved her hands. The camera lingered on the bracelet on Clarissa’s right wrist.

Clarissa gesticulated peremptorily. The camera swirled round. Hortense Tilling was seen entering the room. She looked flustered. Basil Hunter’s expression was a mixture
of dismay and disbelief. Louise Hunter looked outraged. Renée Glover’s face remained blank.

Clarissa was seen speaking to the cameraman again. There was a movement. The cameraman seemed to be walking towards Hortense Tilling, who looked at once frightened and excited. The camera jerked up and down. They saw the ceiling with its ornate plasterwork and crystal chandelier.

There was a momentary blackout and when the image reappeared, it was upside down.

‘What
is
going on?’ Lady Grylls asked.

‘The camera has changed hands. I think it’s Clarissa’s aunt who’s got hold of it,’ said Payne. ‘Um. I believe she has been asked to turn it off but she doesn’t seem to know how.’

‘Oh, how tiresome! It’s impossible to work out what they are doing now. No chance of turning the box over and watching it upside down, is there, my dear?’

‘Better not,’ Felicity Remnant said.

‘This is making me feel seasick. No, can’t watch it.’ Lady Grylls turned her head and rested her gaze on a picture of a particularly repulsive pug. ‘Can someone tell me what’s happening?’

‘Miss Glover is walking towards the french windows.’ Payne paused. ‘The Hunters have taken off their helmets. Dr Sylvester-Sale is scowling. Now he is putting the black glass with the skull into his pocket. It looks like an automatic gesture. There is a tall black man with them. He has the puzzled expression of a child. The original cameraman, I imagine.’

Lady Grylls spoke. ‘Roderick is not moving? He is not rising?’

‘No.’

‘So he is dead,
really
dead?’

‘I believe so. His death seems to have been captured on camera. Yes. Mrs Hunter is now walking towards the french window. She looks
enormous
—’ Payne broke off. ‘Oh. The
screen’s gone black. It’s all over. The aunt seems to have managed to switch the camera off at last.’

Felicity tugged at her pearls. ‘What I am interested in ascertaining is the exact cause of my brother-in-law’s death.’

Lady Grylls frowned. ‘He had a heart attack, didn't he? That's what the
Times
obituary said. Goodness, my dear, you look as though you doubt the
Times
obituary! You think there is something fishy about his death?'

‘As a matter of fact I do. I have the unshakable conviction that there is something very wrong indeed.'

‘
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark
,' Payne quoted.

‘I believe they all know what happened. The Hunters, Clarissa's aunt, Dr Sylvester-Sale, Glover. I couldn't help noticing that when the coffin disappeared into the furnace, they seemed incredibly relieved.'

‘You think Roderick might have been murdered like the character he played in the dumbshow staged at Hamlet's request? What was it all about, Hughie?' Lady Grylls turned towards her nephew. ‘All that Gonzago business. What was the reason for it?'

‘Well, Hamlet suspects his uncle Claudius of having killed his, Hamlet's, father, in order to replace him on the throne and marry his, Hamlet's, mother, after whom Claudius has been lusting.'

‘Oh yes. The evil uncle. It was the ghost who told Hamlet, wasn't it? The ghost of Hamlet's father. Remember Olivier's Hamlet? I had a big crush on him, you know – so
tantalizingly indecisive and blond. I had quite a thing about indecisive blond men at one time.'

‘Claudius pours poison into his brother's ear as the King lies sleeping in the garden. Well, Hamlet needs proof, so he gets a troupe of itinerant actors to stage a play that shows Gonzago being killed in precisely the same manner. Claudius is in the audience and he gets up and leaves abruptly, which Hamlet – who's been watching his uncle closely – interprets as a guilty reaction.'

‘How awfully ingenious. I don't suppose such a person as Gonzago ever existed, did he?'

‘He did exist. The murder of Gonzago is believed to have been a reference to a real sixteenth-century murder. A Luigi Gonzaga murdered the Duke of Urbino. It seems to be generally accepted by Shakespearean scholars that Shakespeare's plot was founded on an Italian original. The dumb players have been identified as a
commedia dell'arte
troupe. Well, Italians of noble birth did poison each other. They were Machiavels at heart, poisoners like the Borgias, and libertines like the Venetians.'

Lady Grylls nodded. ‘Broadening the intellectual basis of
any
discussion is something my nephew excels at. How he does it I have no idea, but he makes it look so terribly easy!'

Payne gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘My forehead positively bulges with useless information.'

‘Going back to what you were saying, my dear.' Lady Grylls addressed their hostess. ‘Do you actually suspect your brother-in-law was poisoned?'

‘I don't know if he was poisoned,' Felicity said, ‘but I don't believe he died of natural causes. Well, since he's been cremated, we'll probably never know how exactly he died.'

‘
Must
be the doctor. The doctor seems implicated, wouldn't you agree? It was the doctor who bent over the divan and held a glass to Roderick's ear.'

‘That's what his part required him to do, darling. He was playing the regicide,' Payne reminded his aunt.

‘It all fits in perfectly. Doctors know about poisons. Doctors are used to death. They take it in their stride. And this Sylvester-Sale had a good motive for wishing Roderick out of the way. He was having an affair with Clarissa – who is now a terribly rich widow. The doctor is a libertine, as you said.'

‘I never said Sylvester-Sale was a libertine. I said Venetians were.'

‘He is dark and handsome, therefore it is not inconceivable that he should have Venetian blood. He might have had a Venetian grandmother. We saw him bend over Roderick with the glass of poison in his hand. All terribly straightforward and simple. He killed Roderick while pretending to be killing him. That was the cleverness of it. It is only in murder mysteries,' Lady Grylls concluded, ‘that things are never straightforward and simple.'

‘Why did I choose to write murder mysteries? I don't really know. It's so difficult to explain.' Antonia frowned. ‘I always wanted to be a writer and that seemed to be the only type of story I was drawn to writing. As it happens, detective stories were my favourite form of reading in my adolescence. Most people grow out of detective stories but I didn't seem to.'

‘Did you only read murder mysteries of the classical kind?

‘Mostly. I liked the idea of suspicion falling on all the characters, even on the most unlikely. It seemed to suit my sceptical and somewhat paranoid imagination.'

The owlish young man cleared his throat. ‘I believe you were involved in a real-life crime – about the time you were writing your first detective novel – is that correct?'

‘I was,' Antonia admitted. At once she wished she had held her tongue.

How could her interviewer know about it? As far as she was concerned, no one but she and Hugh knew about the murders at Twiston.
**
That murderer, as it happened, had got away with it. Could the murderer have confessed and been arrested without her knowing about it? No – it would have been in all the papers. Could the murderer have
confided
in someone? Antonia thought it highly unlikely, but then one never knew.

‘Did your involvement in a real-life murder have any effect on your development as a detective story writer?'

‘I am not sure. It may have done. I believe it served to cure the writer's block from which I happened to be suffering at the time.'

‘Do you agree with the assertion that the whodunnit is an extremely artificial form and that it obeys rules as rigid and ridiculous as those of North Korean formation dancing?'

Antonia gave a little shrug and said she knew next to nothing about North Korean formation dancing. ‘Isn't all fiction artificial? What is fiction but the selection of the writer's internal compulsions, preoccupations, passions, fears and external experiences distilled in a form which he or she hopes will satisfy the reader's expectations?'

‘Do you read much modern crime fiction?'

‘No, not much.'

‘Are you familiar with the names of Martina Cole and Dreda Say Mitchell?'

‘I am not … Should I be?'

‘Do your books conform in any way to Henry James's definition of the purpose of a novel?
To help the human heart to know itself
. Or do you write exclusively for entertainment purposes?'

‘I write exclusively for entertainment purposes,' Antonia said in a firm voice.

‘Do you ever try to enlist the reader's support for views and theories of your own?'

‘No, I don't. Sometimes my characters express opinions of books or authors which happen to be my own. On the whole, I am careful to keep my views as inconspicuous as possible.'

‘Do you exercise complete control over your characters?'

‘Complete and absolute. I like playing God to the page,' Antonia said gravely. She tried to keep a straight face. She had started to enjoy herself.

‘Do you regard plotting as the most fascinating aspect of detective story writing?'

‘I suppose I do. But I also like to balance setting, characterization and plot, so that all three are interrelated and contribute to the whole. The kind of story I write,' Antonia went on, ‘might have been written in the 1930s or early 40s, though I do make some concessions to modernity.'

‘Mobile phones and the internet play an active part in your novels, don't they?'

‘They do … No, I must admit I know very little about police procedure, forensic medicine or the intricacies of the law. I write extremely old-fashioned detective stories … “Propulsively readable”? Who said that? Really? Are you sure?' Antonia smiled. Must tell Hugh, she thought. ‘I had no idea … My detectives depend exclusively on their capacity for noticing things. My detectives are obsessively observant.'

‘How important is setting to you?'

‘Important enough. Though I try not to overdo it. Some writers tend to overdo the setting. Settings establish atmosphere and they can also influence the plot and the characters. Settings can enhance the horror of murder, sometimes by creating a contrast between the outward peace of the scene and the turbulence of human emotions.'

‘How would you describe your books?'

‘Do I have to? OK. I'd describe them as unpretentious celebrations of reason and order. Oh, and of logic as well. Logic is very important.'

‘E. M. Forster once wrote something like, The husband died, then the wife died is a story. The husband died and the wife died of grief is a plot. The wife died for no apparent reason is a mystery, a higher form. Can you improve on that? Can you come up with a definition of a murder mystery?'

Antonia scrunched up her face. ‘How about, The wife died and everyone thought it was of grief until – um – until they discovered the bullet hole in the back of her head?'

‘But if he did do it,' Lady Grylls said, ‘there
must
have been a cover-up. You are absolutely right, my dear. They must have agreed to keep mum. All six of them, which is not as extraordinary as it may appear. Conspiracies are said to be a part of everyday life. Perhaps they were bribed by Clarissa to form one of those spectacular pacts of silence?'

‘Yes. That's what I think,' said Felicity. ‘They all had a conspiratorial air about them at the crematorium. They looked guilty as hell. Gerard pooh-poohed it. He says I imagined it.'

Lady Grylls shook her head resolutely. ‘You aren't the fanciful sort. So let's see what happens. The dashing doctor poisons Roderick and of course he is only too eager to sign the death certificate. Clarissa bribes everybody into keeping mum. The official version presented to the authorities will be that Roderick died of a heart attack. That is how it is to appear in
The Times
.'

‘There have to be
two
doctors' signatures on the death certificate,' Payne pointed out.

Lady Grylls waved her hand. ‘They managed to rope in another doctor. Couldn't have been difficult, persuading a local chap to sign on the dotted line and so on, given that Clarissa now owns the island.'

‘I doubt somehow that Dr Sylvester-Sale killed Roderick by pouring poison into his ear,' Felicity said.

‘Why not?'

‘In front of everybody else? Using a highly theatrical black glass decorated with a skull and crossbones?
On camera
?'

‘Perhaps they were all in on it from the start and the dashing doctor was their appointed executioner,' said Lady Grylls. ‘Maybe they all hated Roderick so much, they put their heads together and came up with the idea of getting rid of him? Like in
Julius Caesar
or – or on that stranded Orient Express.'

Felicity Remnant conceded that it was an intriguing theory – but would they have filmed the killing?

‘I don't see why not. People do the oddest things,' Lady Grylls said. ‘Years ago I used to play bridge with a woman – her husband was in the diplomatic corps – our man in Vaduz, I believe – and she would do anything to avoid bidding diamonds.'

‘That must have been somewhat limiting. Did you ever find out why?'

‘I did, my dear, yes, eventually. She was rather coy about it at first, but in the end it turned out she stuttered very badly on the letter d.'

‘I don't believe my brother-in-law was
meant
to die on camera. It was obvious that it just – happened. Clarissa seemed to want the camera switched off at once. She looked extremely agitated. What do you think, Hugh? You are very quiet.'

‘The doctor couldn't have poured poison into Lord Remnant's ear since the glass was empty,' said Payne. ‘There was nothing in it. He only
pretended
to be pouring.'

‘How can you be sure the glass was empty?' Lady Grylls said.

‘Well, he was holding it upside down.'

‘
Upside down
? Are you sure, Hughie? I never noticed!'

‘I didn't notice either,' Felicity Remnant admitted.

‘It's the kind of thing I tend to notice. You see, I am one of those obsessively observant people. I seem to possess what is known as “sensitivity to visual impressions”.' Payne
spoke in apologetic tones. ‘Let's play that bit again, shall we? I'll show you. Lady Remnant, would you be so good as to rewind? There it is – stop. Look.
Look
.'

There was a pause.

‘Goodness, yes. How extraordinary,' Lady Grylls said. ‘You are perfectly right, Hughie.
Yes
. It happens very fast. He's holding the glass upside down and then he realizes it looks silly and turns it over quickly and handles it properly! The glass is empty, that's as plain as the nose on your face … Does that mean Roderick wasn't killed after all?'

‘If he was killed, it was done in some other way.'

Felicity said, ‘The anonymously sent videotape showing the precise moment of my brother-in-law's death suggests that there was something wrong about it, wouldn't you say?'

Payne nodded. ‘Yes. I believe it does. Though it isn't immediately clear from watching it
how
Lord Remnant died. The tape was sent to Lord Remnant's brother, the present Earl Remnant … The sender is most likely to be one of the people who was there when Lord Remnant died. Some poor soul tormented by a guilty conscience or – or someone intent on stirring up
miching mallecho
.'

‘I'd be grateful if you spoke plain English, Hughie.'

‘Mischief, darling. Trouble.
Miching mallecho
is the phrase Hamlet uses … Did the tape sender mean to plant a suspicion or suggest a line of inquiry? Does the recording perhaps contain something which we should have seen but didn't?'