R. Raichev - The Murder Of Gonzago

‘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.