Sarah Caudwell - The Sirens Sang of Murder

“What exactly does she do?”

“She invests other people’s money for them — according to Clementine, with astonishing brilliance.”

“The name,” I said, “seems vaguely familiar. Wasn’t her husband once noted for some kind of sporting activity? Riding horses or driving motorcars or something of that sort?”

“I think he was a tennis player,” said Julia.

“Ah yes,” I said, remembering now that it was indeed in that sport that the Count di Silvabianca had fifteen or twenty years before achieved celebrity. Though he had never been quite among the first rank of players, his title and his exceptional good looks had combined to make him interesting to the gossip columnists and a certain portion of the public. I concluded that the Contessa shared Julia’s taste in profiles.

They also had in common, it seemed, an extreme distaste for the advances of Edward Malvoisin, which neither Julia’s diplomatic deception nor the Contessa’s devotion to her husband were ever quite sufficient to discourage. They had commiserated, on their first evening in the Cayman Islands, about the need to avoid doing or saying anything during their stay which Malvoisin might construe as encouragement.

“The trouble was,” said Julia, “that we could think of very few things that he wouldn’t construe as encouragement. We had no doubt, for example, that for either of us to appear on the beach in any form of bathing costume, however decorous, would seem to him the clearest possible invitation to seize upon us in the manner of a hungry schoolboy claiming the last cream bun. And it would have been difficult, of course, to avoid him altogether. Fortunately, however, it turned out that Clementine found him unobjectionable — it’s curious, isn’t it, how tastes differ in these matters? — and agreed, as it were, to draw his fire in exchange for Gabrielle and me each buying her a large pina colada.”

“Gideon Darkside,” I said, “also sounds like someone whom one might wish to avoid — did you know him as well?”

“Oh yes,” said Julia with a weary sigh, “I knew Gideon Darkside. I once had the misfortune to call him as a witness before the Special Commissioners for the purpose of proving that certain accounts he had prepared were an accurate reflection of the events which had occurred. I had imagined, in my innocence, that this was a mere formality. I was therefore disconcerted when he was cross-examined on behalf of the Revenue for five hours, during which it became clear that any similarity between what had actually happened and what the accounts said had happened was purely accidental. And when he found that this was attracting unfavourable comment from the Commissioners, he became hurt and resentful — he seemed to think that preparing false accounts was a perfectly usual and accepted method of tax planning.”

“I suppose,” said Ragwort, “that he is simply one of those all too numerous people who have no idea of the difference between right and wrong.”

“I suspect,” said Julia, “that he thinks things are wrong only if one enjoys them, and is able on that basis to regard himself as a man of the highest moral character. But at least there was no difficulty about avoiding him — he makes a point of always being too busy for idle amusement. He likes it to be known, you see, that he works harder than anyone else — that is to say, that he spends more time giving bad advice to his clients than other people do giving good advice to theirs.”

“So you knew everyone,” I said, “except Oliver Grynne and Patrick Ardmore?”

“Oh,” said Julia, “I’d met Oliver Grynne once or twice. As I may have mentioned, I’m quite often instructed by Stingham’s. I rather liked him — he was slightly pedantic sometimes, and he had a morbid obsession about keeping fit, but he was a very good lawyer. No, the only one I hadn’t met at all was Patrick Ardmore.”

Julia lit a Gauloise and adopted what she intended, I believe, to be a very casual expression.

“On our first evening in Grand Cayman I was sitting with Clementine and Gabrielle in a little bar called the Cayman Arms, overlooking Georgetown Harbour, buying pina coladas in accordance with the bargain previously mentioned. Gabrielle had mentioned that her colleague from Jersey might be joining us, but it didn’t at once occur to me, when Patrick Ardmore came into the bar, that he was the person she had referred to. He had — I don’t quite know how to describe it — a slightly adventurous look, which one doesn’t usually associate with bankers.”

“I should hope not indeed,” said Ragwort.

“All the same, he was not at all the kind of man I usually find attractive. He had unquestionably entered on his fifth decade, and it did not seem to me that his profile, even in youth, would have had the classic perfection of — say, yours, my dear Ragwort. He had not, it is true, let himself go, as men so often do when they have found someone to marry them and think they don’t need to take any trouble with their appearance anymore — there was no blurring of the jawline or unsightly bulge over the waistband. Nonetheless, as he approached our table I was surprised to find myself thinking…” Julia paused and looked dreamily at the ceiling, drawing deeply on her Gauloise.

“Thinking,” said Ragwort, “if that is indeed the appropriate word for what we take to have been a not wholly cerebral activity — thinking what, precisely?”

“Thinking,” said Julia, “and I agree, of course, that it was not a process in which the intellect was predominant — thinking, as it were, ‘Dear me, what a remarkably stylish bit of goods.’ Or words to the like effect. What I chiefly experienced was a sudden shortness of breath and a peculiar queasiness in the pit of the stomach, similar to mild indigestion.”

“At her first sight of him,” said Selena firmly, “her pulse quickened, and she was stirred by a strange emotion which she could find no words to describe.”

By a fortunate or unfortunate coincidence, it had happened that Julia and Ardmore were staying at the same hotel, close to the midpoint of West Bay Beach, while the rest of the party were accommodated at another establishment on the same long stretch of golden sand but a mile or two further north of Georgetown. It was accordingly natural that they should form the habit of concluding the evening in each other’s company, drinking a last glass of wine together under the palm trees at the bar beside the swimming pool.

“And it was on these evenings,” said Selena, “amid the exotic scents of the Caribbean night, while the air throbbed with the intoxicating rhythms of the calypso and the waves foamed sensuously across the sand, that this man without pity or scruple undertook his conquest of a trusting and innocent heart. Under the tropic moon he murmured to her of — what precisely did he murmur of, Julia?”

“Mostly,” said Julia after some reflection, “of the effect of tax legislation on investment policies, that being a subject of mutual interest. And he always asked how my case was going and seemed to like hearing about it. The trouble was, you see, that quite apart from the feelings I have mentioned, I found him — I found him very amusing.”

“You mean,” said Selena, “that he laughed at your jokes.”

“Yes,” said Julia.

“I am afraid,” said Selena, “that very few women can resist a man who laughs at their jokes, and a man such as Patrick Ardmore would all too easily have realized that you are not one of them. Oh, poor Julia, it’s too heartless.”

Ragwort, however, was unwilling to admit that laughing at Julia’s jokes, in whatever climatic conditions, was sufficient to constitute a campaign of seduction and demanded further particulars in support of the charge.