Murder of Gonzago (7 page)

Their eyes were glued to the TV screen. Again they saw the french windows and the net curtains over them and once more the woman with the silver hair and the glasses – Clarissa’s aunt – was walking briskly towards the windows, but before she managed to draw the silk curtains, Payne held out the remote control and pressed the Pause button.

‘There it is.’ Payne pointed at the frozen image. ‘Do you see it?’

‘See what, Hughie?’

‘Do look carefully, darling.’

‘I am looking,’ Lady Grylls said a little peevishly. ‘Though I have no idea what I am supposed to see. There’s Roderick in the ghastly Gonzago beard lying on the divan – is that a divan?’

‘A chaise longue. What do you see behind the chaise longue?’

‘You make it sound like a game. What do I spy with my little eye? I see the french windows – the aunt – I have a feeling the aunt’s pretending to be scattier than she is. Beware of emotionally volatile women of a certain age – I wouldn’t trust the aunt.’

‘Never mind the aunt. What else do you see?’

‘I see a pedestal with what looks like a too perfect statuette of Pallas Athene. She has an annoyingly smug expression on her face. Am I the only one who finds classical figures forbidding?’

‘We’ll discuss art later,’ said Payne. ‘What else do you see?’

‘Nothing else. Only the net curtains.’

‘Concentrate on the net curtains … D’you notice anything?’

‘What is there to notice?’

‘Do you mean the shadow?’ Felicity Remnant said quietly.

‘I do mean the shadow. Eureka! You see it, Lady Remnant, don’t you?’

‘I do.’

‘Goodness, yes. You are absolutely right. There is some sort of shadow outlined against the net curtain. Someone is standing outside.’ Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Doesn’t look like a human shadow – too big. What are those things sticking out of it?’

‘Are those –
ears
?’ Felicity frowned.

‘I believe so.’

Lady Grylls screwed up her eyes. ‘What
is
it? Looks like a giant rabbit. Goodness, how gruesome.’

‘It’s a person dressed up as some kind of long-eared animal,’ Felicity said.

Payne fast-forwarded and paused again. The silk curtains were now drawn across the french windows.

‘Watch carefully,’ he said. ‘Do keep your eyes on the curtains. What do you see?
Now
.’

‘The curtains move – they part – oh, there’s someone standing there! Yes! Goodness!’ Lady Grylls’s hand was at her bosom. ‘Something’s protruding from between the curtains – oh, it’s gone! It caught the light for a moment, but it’s gone now. Something shiny. Something made of metal. There was a flash of sorts, but it happened awfully fast!’

‘Yes. It happened very fast.’ Payne leant back in his seat.

They watched the flailing Lord Remnant lift his head, gape and stare at the camera as though in tremendous surprise, then fall back and lie still.

There was a pause.

‘I believe that was a gun,’ Felicity said. ‘Wasn’t it?’

Payne nodded. ‘It was a gun, no bigger than a toy.’

‘So
that’s
what killed him,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘A gunshot to the head.’

Two hours later Major Payne was back in Hampstead.

‘Well, you will be pleased to know my copy-editing problem has been resolved,’ Antonia said. ‘My beloved Emmy has been persuaded not to hang up her pencil quite yet … Did the chest live up to your expectations?’

‘What chest?’

‘The chest you went to inspect, Hugh. Felicity Fenwick’s chest. The Damascus chest. I thought your aunt was taking you to see Felicity Fenwick’s Damascus chest.’

‘She was. I saw it. It has a secret drawer. The chest is fine,’ Payne said absently. ‘One of the most beautiful objects that has ever been crafted by man. I found it quite remarkable. Definitely on my list of desiderata.’

There was a pause.

‘What is it, Hugh? Has something happened?’

‘Well, yes. You’d never believe it if I told you. The most extraordinary business. The devil of a business.’

‘Surely not?’

‘I am afraid so.’ Payne produced his pipe portentously. ‘The game, as they say, is afoot.’

Antonia remained unimpressed. ‘You say that at least once every couple of days. You said it when Dupin disappeared
and you said it when we were charged for phone calls we’d never made.’

Dupin was their cat. Dupin had eventually reappeared, but Payne was convinced that he had been lured away and held captive by one of their neighbours, a solitary eccentric spinster who had been trying to persuade them to sell her Dupin.

‘This time it is much more serious than any cat or call we may or may not have made,’ said Payne. ‘
Much
more serious, my love, and utterly fascinating. More intriguing than, say, the case of the assassins at Ospreys.’

‘I don’t suppose you are talking about murder, are you?’

‘I
am
talking about murder. It happened on the privately owned Caribbean island of Grenadin. At a house called La Sorcière. No, I am not joking. The murder was committed with startling boldness in full view of at least five people, though none of them seemed to be aware that a shot had been fired.’

‘You are making this up.’

‘I am not. I saw it all with my very eyes.’

‘You mean you were one of the five witnesses?’

‘No. I saw a recording of it. The murder was captured on camera. That’s what makes the whole thing so terribly extraordinary.’

‘The island of Grenadin. Wasn’t that where—? It’s nothing to do with Lord Remnant, is it?’

‘It’s everything to do with Lord Remnant.’

Antonia stared back at him.

They had read Lord Remnant’s
Times
obituary together only a couple of days before. Antonia had idly commented on Lord Remnant’s photograph. She had said something to the effect that he looked arrogant and self-satisfied and she had taken particular exception to his wolfish smile.

‘The
Times
obituary said he died of a heart attack.’

‘That’s the official version. The consensus of opinion is that Lord Remnant was murdered.’

‘What consensus? Who are you talking about?’

‘My aunt. Felicity Remnant. Yours truly. We all agreed he was murdered. The whole thing is quite incredible. It starts with Felicity Remnant’s having her suspicions aroused at the crematorium,’ Payne went on. ‘She is struck by the conspiratorial behaviour of the people attending the cremation.’

‘I assume they were the very same crowd who watched as Lord Remnant handed in his dinner pail?’

‘The very same. Felicity thought they looked furtive. And then, as though in confirmation of her suspicions, she received an anonymous package containing a videotape showing Lord Remnant’s last moments.’

Payne went on to tell the rest of the story.

There was a pause.

‘Lord Remnant was shot through the back of the head by a giant rabbit,’ Antonia said.

‘Lord Remnant was shot by a person wearing a rabbit’s head, though I doubt it was a rabbit. I don’t think there are any rabbits in Shakespeare, are there?’ Payne held up his pipe. ‘Can you think of any animals at all in Shakespeare?’

‘There is a dog – Balthasar in
Romeo and Juliet
,’ said Antonia. ‘No – Balthasar is not a dog, but Romeo’s tragically precipitate friend. Sorry. How silly of me. I must be thinking of
The Forsyte Saga
– Old Jolyon and faithful Balthasar? Remember Balthasar’s death and subsequent burial?’

‘Vividly. The scene reduced me to tears. In which of Shakespeare’s tragedies does a character exit pursued by a bear?’

‘
The Winter’s Tale
? What has Shakespeare to do with Lord Remnant’s death?’

‘Lord Remnant died during a private performance of
The Murder of Gonzago
.’

‘I see. How fascinating … Hamlet’s brainwave. Hamlet was playing the detective. The play within the play. Hamlet
also called it
The Mousetrap
… That’s where Agatha Christie got
her
idea.’

‘They keep thinking of ingenious ways of making Shakespeare more accessible to the masses, but there seem to be more misses than hits … Do you remember the way they did Gonzago in the David Tennant
Hamlet?
You hated it, didn’t you? The Player Queen! Remember the Player Queen?’

‘I most certainly do. The whole thing was terrible.’ Antonia shuddered squeamishly. ‘A veritable freak show.’

The Player King had sported monkey ears, and shuffled on boots attached to his knees. The Player Queen was a bare-breasted transvestite. Once murdered, the Player King had been shrouded in a white sheet and winched into the air where he had hovered, ghost-like. The regicide Lucianus had strutted about, wearing a heart-shaped spangled codpiece.

‘Lord Remnant’s murderer appears to have been dressed up as some long-eared creature,’ Payne said. ‘If not a rabbit, then Bottom in
Midsummer Night’s Dream
seems indicated, wouldn’t you say? I can’t think of any other ass in Shakespeare – can you?’

‘No. Bottom is not
really
an ass … Am I the only one who doesn’t find Shakespeare’s comedies funny? Who videotaped the thing?’ Antonia asked.

‘A servant, but then the camera changed hands and it was Clarissa Remnant’s aunt who took over.’

‘You said there was no sound?’

‘No, sadly. No subtitles either. It made me exercise my brains and eyes harder, which wasn’t such a bad thing.’

‘The package was addressed to Gerard Fenwick who is Lord Remnant’s brother … Any idea as to who the sender might be?’

‘Well, Clarissa’s aunt was the last to handle the camera, so the logical assumption is that she had the best chance of monkeying about with the film. This is backed up by
the postmark.’ Payne frowned reflectively. ‘Her name is Hortense Tilling. Felicity says she looked particularly
hag-ridden
at the funeral. Well, Aunt Hortense may turn out to be one of those lonely middle-aged sensationalists who specialize in stirring up trouble for trouble’s sake – but it’s also possible that she sent the tape out of noble if somewhat muddled motives. She may be itching to spill the beans.’

‘Did you say postmark? What postmark?’

‘The Jiffy bag in which the tape was despatched bears the postmark Kensington and Chelsea and Aunt Hortense is the only member of the fatal house party who lives in Kensington. Dr Sylvester-Sale lives in Knightsbridge, the Hunters at a farm not far from Remnant Castle in Hertfordshire. Clarissa resides at Remnant Castle … As a matter of fact, I have been instructed to go and interview Aunt Hortense as soon as possible.’

‘What do you mean “instructed”? Who instructed you?’

‘The new Countess Remnant. Felicity. She wants me to investigate the circumstances surrounding her
brother-in-law’s
murder. She urged me to leave no stone unturned. She wants to know what exactly happened. She said that if I discovered the truth, the Damascus chest would be mine free of charge. She said she would tear up the cheque I gave her.’

‘She would tear up the cheque? How very interesting. And you accepted her commission, just like that? No hesitation?’

He shrugged. ‘One mustn’t refuse the unusual if it is offered to one. That, perhaps, should be our motto. You agree of course?’

‘It seems to me that the new Countess Remnant doesn’t care much for the family she married into,’ Antonia said. ‘Or is that too fanciful?’

‘Not too fanciful. I think she would be pleased if her husband’s family were to be embroiled in some sort of scandal. My aunt suspects the settling of old scores.
Apparently, Gerard’s late mama was beastly to Felicity when Gerard and Felicity first got married. Felicity doesn’t seem to think much of Clarissa either … None of my business, but I can’t help thinking there is something wrong with the Fenwick marriage. You should have seen the way her face hardened when her husband’s club got a mention.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve been able to obtain Aunt Hortense’s address?’

‘As it happens, I have. Felicity managed to get it for me.’ Payne waved a piece of paper. ‘Well, my love, I’m going to pay Aunt Hortense a visit tomorrow morning, at about eleven. Um … What do you think?’

‘What does it matter what I think?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I was wondering whether you’d care to join me.’

Sometimes my wife suffers from a fury of possession and she cannot bear me to be drawn to anyone but her
,
Gerard Fenwick wrote in his diary.
She may not look the kind of woman who falls prey to the emerald-eyed lizard, but the sad truth is she is jealous not only of pretty young things like Renée Glover, but of our Lithuanian maid, of my Davidoff Grand Cru cigars, of my books, of my
silver-topped
stylo and, indeed, of my writing.

I am at my club at the moment. If I have to be honest, I prefer my club to my house. My rooms overlook St James’s Park and they are rather splendid. I feel exceedingly comfortable and at peace here.

I am at my happiest when I am writing. Writing has the effect of a heavenly balm. Writing brings with it a sense of release, of assuagement, of profound contentment.

For some peculiar reason my penchant for a good cigar riles Felicity. Maybe because she associates it with my tête-à-têtes with Renée? Only the other day Felicity told me that I was the worst liar she had ever known, which, apart from being damned unfair, somehow manages to suggest she moves exclusively in the society of liars.

It is all rather tiresome, but, fortunately, I am of an equable temperament. I will not deny that sometimes Felicity taxes my patience, but I accept her acrimonious outbursts as an act of God
and no more think of rebelling against them than I would against bad weather or a cold in the head
…

Leaning back in his chair, he reached for his cigar case. Shouldn’t bother too much about Felicity, really. It would be wrong to get fixated on Felicity. The broader picture was not too bad at all. His shockingly unpopular elder brother was dead and he, Gerard Fenwick, was rich. Rich at last. Well, not yet, not technically speaking, but he would be soon enough.

As it happened, the opening and reading of the will was taking place later in the afternoon. He looked at his watch. He must try not to be late. He expected no surprises. How splendid it would be to be rich. He wouldn’t dream of actually articulating the sentiment, frightfully bad form, but a multi-million-pound fortune was, well, a
multi-million-pound
fortune. He would be so rich, he could buy the club and make it his writing pad, if he felt like it. He smiled at the idea.

Holding his cigar between his thumb and forefinger, he glanced round. He liked what he saw. The room had been recently repapered and hung with pleasing Piranesi prints – there was a good fire – a revolving mahogany bookcase, which he had filled with old favourites (Lord Berners’s
A Distant Prospect,
Salinger’s
The Catcher in the Rye,
Saki’s
Beasts and Super-Beasts,
Donna Tartt’s
The Secret History
) – a photo of him winning a shooting competition – his humidor. The ambience couldn’t have been cosier or more bachelor-ish.

Where
had
his cigar cutter disappeared to? For some reason he felt the stirrings of unease. Oh well, never mind, he’d use the point of his paper knife – it should do the trick –
voilà
. He clicked his lighter. Bliss.
A woman is only a woman but a good cigar is a smoke
. He wished it was he and not old Kipling who’d said that!

He regarded his lighter with some amusement. It was made of silver and shaped like a gun. It had been a present
from his wife, dating back to their shooting – and happier – days.

Gerard could handle any kind of gun. Big or small. He was a first-class shot. He was better than his late brother had been. Roderick had always been awfully jealous of him on that count. Awfully jealous. Odd chap, Roderick. Dangerous. What was it he told him once when they were children?
I’ll smash your big head like a pumpkin
. More than once, actually. Fancied himself as a ladies’ man too. Mad, most probably. Like Papa and Uncle William before him. Like Aunt Margot and Cousin Lionel. Living in a hot climate couldn’t have made things any better.

Oh well, Roderick was dead now. Dead and gone. He might never have existed. All that was left of him was little more than a handful of dust. I no longer have a brother, Gerard thought.

He had spent the previous night at his club. Felicity had phoned to ask where he was.
I am at my club, my dear, didn’t I say? No, you didn’t, Gerard. I am sure I did, my dear. No, you didn’t
. All too tiresome for words. Felicity appeared to think his writing was a cover for something else. It was fascinating to speculate what she might be suspecting. Gerard puffed at his cigar.

Brothels? The criminal underworld? Strolling up and down Piccadilly in drag? While all he did was sit at his club overlooking St James’s, in his shabbiest tweeds, leaning over a desk, scribbling away! Well, he was a sphinx without a secret, like the woman in the Oscar Wilde story. She was suspected of harbouring some extraordinary secret, of doing things no respectable woman should, whereas all she did was sit in a rented room and drink tea.

He found the idea of men in drag a jolly curious one. What was it that caused phenomena like that? Some chemical anomaly in the brain? Perhaps he could write a short story about it? There used to be a chap back in the nineteenth
century, a politician or a philosopher, who was said to have dressed much better as a woman than as a man and was an inspiration to a whole generation of Englishmen …

He could write a story about a man who disguises himself as his wife, makes himself look
exactly
like her, then starts following her about and makes sure she sees him. She is persuaded she has a twin sister of whose existence she hadn’t been aware – no – that she has a double – and she remembers the old wives’ tale that if you have seen your double, you are about to die. The husband’s intention is to drive her mad. Something on those lines.

Felicity had informed him that a videotape had arrived, which he needed to see. She said it was important. Apparently it showed Roderick’s death. She had been dashed mysterious about it.

He thought about Roderick’s phone call – the awful things Roderick had said – how it had made him feel – he’d seen red – his subsequent decision and the action he had taken—

He still couldn’t quite believe what he had done! It felt like a dream now.
Quite
unlike him.

Once more he glanced at his watch. Time to go. Old Saunders wouldn’t start without him, though it would be terribly bad form to make him wait.
Noblesse oblige
and all that kind of rot. The reading of Roderick’s will was going to take place in exactly three-quarters of an hour. Saunders’s office was in New Bond Street. He could walk. The weather seemed fine at the moment, though, to be on the safe side, he would take his faithful brolly with him.

People who didn’t know him well thought him
mild-mannered,
slightly eccentric, not terribly practical, completely unremarkable. Nothing like his exhibitionistic late brother – or the elusive Lucan – or Wodehouse’s master of misrule, the havoc-wreaking Ickenham – all of them unreliable earls! Not a controversialist like Spencer (
that
speech) or the late Longford (Myra Hindley!) either.

As he rose and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, Gerard thought about his cigar cutter once more. Such a pity if he’d lost it. He’d allowed himself to become attached to it. He believed he was emotionally starved. The cigar cutter was made of silver, fashioned like a guillotine, with his monogram engraved on one side and the Remnant coat of arms on the other, and it could fit into his waistcoat pocket.

When was the last time he’d used it?