R. Raichev - The Murder Of Gonzago

She heard the sound of a car. Another car? The front door bell rang. Tradewell will get it, she told herself. No, he wouldn’t. Tradewell wasn’t there. She heard the bell again. She didn’t move. She shrugged. I am not at home.

The door bell rang a third time. Go away, she murmured. You are wasting your time. When too much was happening and the future seemed uncertain, the best thing to do was to stay very still. She went on standing beside the windows, gazing at the sky.

She was a little startled when the door opened and a man and a woman entered.

‘Lady Remnant?’ The man looked military, it was the way he held his arms. Greenish tweeds, a regimental tie. Rather nice, actually.

She smiled. ‘Have we met?’ Her voice sounded as though it was coming from hundreds of miles away. She had to strain her ears.

‘You don’t know us. My name is Hugh Payne and this is my wife Antonia. The front door was open… Are you all right?’

‘Am I all right? I am not sure. Sweet of you to ask.’ Her hand touched the forelock on her forehead. They were staring at her bared forearm.

‘Have you had an accident?’ It was the woman who asked that. A very nice woman. Blue suited her. Maybe she should do her hair slightly differently. Kind eyes. Kind but sharp. Clever .

‘No, not really. It was something which I had to do. I had a terrible experience earlier on, but I am all right – now I am. At least I think so. Yes.’

‘Where is your husband?’

‘My husband? Let me see.’ Clarissa frowned. ‘He is upstairs. No, he is not upstairs. He is dead.’ She laughed. She covered her mouth. ‘Sorry. I forgot.’

She believed that was a line in a play. My husband is not dead, he is upstairs . She laughed again. Everything seemed so unreal. She felt a bit confused. A bit woozy. She was perfectly aware of the existence of formulas to be employed in social situations, when dealing with people one had never met before, and she searched for them in vain. The right things to say seemed to dash round the corner and conceal themselves, rather cunningly, she thought, in the crowd of things which she knew she should not say. Well, it happened each time she had a fix, she’d noticed.

No one was supposed to know her husband was alive. That was a fiction she had agreed to maintain. Roderick had sworn her to secrecy. Roderick had bribed her. And he had ordered her to bribe all the others. To buy their silence.

As the Dowager Lady Remnant she would have pots of money in the bank, she would be the sole possessor of Grenadin and she would be able go out with any man she liked. All she needed to do in return was keep her mouth firmly shut, or zipped up, as he’d put it.

As arrangements went, it hadn’t sounded bad at all. Roderick had promised to disappear under an assumed name, or rather under Peter Quin’s name. But now he wanted something from her – something that had not been part of the deal – that was the reason she had cranked herself up-

Why were they staring at her? Who were these people? How light-headed she felt. Perhaps she should shake their hands. That was what hostesses did. The next moment she saw the military-looking man standing beside her. How terribly odd. She hadn’t seen him move! She had only blinked her eyes. She laughed again. Suddenly she felt extremely tired.

They were on either side of her now, these kind, well-bred people: goodness, how undignified. She seemed to have slumped to the floor. Her legs had turned to jelly. Her visitors were helping her up, they were doing it very gently, propelling her towards the sofa. Sweet of them. How her feet dragged!

She wouldn’t have been able to manage by herself. They seemed awfully nice people. It was good to have them here. They were the perfect guests. She wouldn’t mind having them stay on Grenadin some time-

‘Is the car outside Lord Remnant’s?’ she heard the captain – she was sure he was a captain – ask.

‘No – his car is in the garage – a rented car – he’s been extremely careful.’

‘Whose is the Mini? Who else is here?’ Now it was the woman who had spoken. Was she his wife? Why were all the nice men always married?

‘No one else.’ Clarissa shook her head. ‘No, that’s not true. The Mini is Mama’s. Mama is here. At least she told me she was my mama. My real mama. It is all very confusing. Dear Aunt Hortense.’

‘Is Hortense Tilling here?’

‘She is here, yes. She arrived quite unexpectedly. She seemed extremely agitated. She was in a real state. She kept staring at the Keppel Clasp – that’s what it is called, apparently.’ Clarissa held up her hand, showing them the bracelet. ‘The Keppel Clasp. It’s exquisite, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is,’ the man agreed.

‘You don’t look the kind of man who steps outside the rules,’ she said, looking at him fixedly.

He said something, she didn’t quite hear what, but it made her giggle. ‘Aunt Hortense – Mama – seemed determined not to allow Roderick to get me into bed with him. I hate the idea of it of course, but she – she behaved as though it were the end of the world.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’d have none of it. She looked furious . She clenched her fists and raised them above her head and shook them, as if summoning to her all thunderbolts and lightnings… Well, if the worst had come to the worst, I’d have had to shut my eyes and think of – no, not of England – of Grenadin.’ Clarissa pulled a funny face indicative of rueful acceptance of her predicament.

‘ Where is she? ’

‘Aunt Hortense? I believe Mama is upstairs – Aunt Hortense and Mama are the same person, you see. How silly it sounds. I must get used to calling her Mama. She really cares about me. I’ve pledged never to be horrid to her. Mama wanted to have a word with Roderick. She seemed cross, oh so cross- Where are you going?’

‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

‘That looks like one of the guns from the gun room. You shouldn’t mess around with guns, you know. Highly dangerous. What if it’s loaded?’

‘It is loaded. The ammunition was in the desk. You don’t seem to change your habits. You never lock anything up. Same as at La Sorcière.’

‘You made a big mistake at La Sorcière. You risk making another mistake now.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

‘You should get a new pair of glasses, perhaps?’

‘I hate you,’ she said.

‘Those one hates live for ever.’

‘So you don’t know who I am?’

‘You are my Anima. That’s a psychological term denoting the denied female element of the male psyche. Denied but desired.’ Lord Remnant picked up his glass. ‘Of course I know who you are, you old fool. You are Miss Baedeker. You are Clarissa’s dotty old aunt.’

‘I am five years younger than you.’

‘I’d never have thought it possible.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, men age differently from women. May I suggest you leave my room at once? In the next hour or so I shall be frightfully busy. I don’t want to be discourteous, but I’ve got things to do. Unfinished business, you may say. It’s all rather delicate. Not for your tender ears. It may shock you. You’d probably say I had a genius for defilement.’

Hortense Tilling didn’t lower the gun. Her eyes behind the glasses looked at him steadily. ‘I thought you guessed that night. I thought you recognized me.’

‘Go away, Aunt Hortense.’ He waved his hands. ‘Shoo!’ Definitely a few stamps short of the first-class rate, he thought. Wouldn’t be able to tell a hawk from a handsaw, if one accepted that feat as an adequate criterion of sanity.