R.T. Raichev - Murder of Gonzago

Louise Hunter fumbled for her handkerchief. Odd thing, memories — rising at such unexpected moments, quite unsolicited — exploding on the surface like bubbles.

And then, without rhyme or reason, she remembered something else that had happened at La Sorciere.

It had been about an hour and a half after lunch. She and Hortense had happened to walk past the open door of Lord Remnant’s study. Louise had been talking about the farm. Friends of Hortense’s had apparently just bought a farm in South Africa.

They had caught sight of Lord Remnant sitting at his desk, a startlingly gleeful expression on his face. In his hands Lord Remnant had been holding-

Unlocking the front door, Gerard Fenwick let himself into the house. His nose twitched. How terribly peculiar, someone had been smoking a cigar — one of his cigars. His thoughts turned once more to his vanished cigar cutter.

‘Felicity?’ he called out. He went into the drawing room.

He looked at the TV. What was that rigmarole about a videotape showing his brother’s death? His brother hadn’t died naturally, Felicity had said. Well, he was perfectly aware of the fact-

He rang the bell. Their maid appeared.

‘Ah, Goda. I would like a cup of tea.’ He spoke slowly, making it sound like a sentence out of an English grammar book. ‘And something to eat. A plate of sandwiches, perhaps? Have we got smoked salmon?’

‘Sir?’

‘People eat a lot of fish in Lithuania, don’t they?’ He tapped his forehead with a forefinger. ‘Must be terribly brainy, Lithuanians.’

‘Sir?’

‘Awfully good for the brain, fish. Is my wife in?’

‘My wife?’

‘ My wife.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Lady Remnant.’

‘Lady Remnant is upstairs.’

‘Upstairs? It’s starting to rain again, now isn’t that a bore? Does it rain a lot in Lithuania? I know it snows a lot, doesn’t it? I understand parts of the Baltic freeze in winter, is that correct? I suppose skating parties are terribly popular in Lithuania? Skating’s jolly graceful, if one does it properly. Do you miss Lithuania?’

‘Everybody know Miss Lithuania, sir.’ Goda beamed. ‘Miss Lithuania is very beautiful girl. Her name Ugne Tautvydas. I see Miss Lithuania on television. My sister say to me, you look like Miss Lithuania!’ Goda laughed. She shook her head vigorously. ‘My sister joke.’

‘Ah. Miss Lithuania. Beauty contests. Of course. Ha-ha. Most amusing. Jokes are so important. Life would be hellish without jokes. Ha-ha. Would you be kind enough to tell my wife I am back?’

Ten minutes later Gerard and Felicity sat in the drawing room drinking tea. I used to enjoy this, he thought. Perhaps we should get a divorce. She wanted to know about the will, so he told her.

‘No real surprises, my dear, all as I expected, all terribly predictable, barring one curious codicil added not so long ago.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Something of a mystery, though Clarissa didn’t seem particularly surprised.’

‘What curious codicil?’ Felicity sounded impatient.

‘Roderick left a largish sum of money to someone no one seems to have heard of. No, not a woman, my dear. Someone called Peter Quin.’

‘Peter Quin? Who the devil is he?’

‘No idea.’

‘How large is the sum?’

He told her.

‘You can’t be serious.’ She put her teacup down. ‘That’s a fortune.’

‘Not really, my dear. What is five million pounds when my brother left — um — I forget the exact figure, but you know perfectly well it’s an awful lot. I mean — an awful lot. Indecent, almost.’

‘Who is this Peter Quin?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest, I keep telling you. The fellow wasn’t there. Saunders didn’t know either, or maybe he’s had instructions not to divulge anything. Didn’t think it polite to press the point.’

‘Didn’t think it polite to press the point! Really, Gerard!’

‘It’s all being done through Quin’s solicitors. Saunders had the details of Quin’s bank account and so on. Oh, he also said that Quin was perfectly aware of the legacy. Apparently, Quin had done my brother some great favour or something.’

‘Is there a chance of your being less vague, Gerard? What great favour? Peter Quin. I have a feeling I’ve seen the name somewhere. I may be imagining it.’

‘ The Turn of the Screw . If that’s what you are thinking of. No, the name of the evil valet was Peter Quint. With a t, see? It’s considered to be the greatest ghost story ever written, but, entre nous , the pacing is somewhat sluggish. And what exactly happens at the end, I would like to know?’

‘I don’t think I’ve read it.’

‘ Did it all take place in the governess’s mind? But then who or what killed Miles? I may try my hand at a ghost story, actually. I would set it at a place like Remnant, which I remember one of my uncles describing as “magnificently macabre”. Remnant would make the perfect setting for some bizarre melodrama that culminates in a crime passionnel .’

‘What did Clarissa have to say about the codicil?’

‘Not much. She’s got awfully thin, you know. She wore black. Kept smoking. Egyptian cigarettes, I think. Had a haunted air about her. She didn’t seem at all surprised about the Quin codicil, no.’ He reached out for the teapot. ‘She looked terrified, for some reason. More tea, my dear?’

‘Terrified?’

‘Yes. She clasped her hands, to prevent them from shaking. She didn’t say much. She seemed oddly preoccupied. On a different planet altogether … Have you been smoking my cigars, Felicity?’

‘Your cigars? What an extraordinary question. Of course I haven’t been smoking your cigars.’

‘Any idea where my cigar cutter might be?’

‘No. You’ve already asked me. You probably dropped it somewhere. At your club, as likely as not. You are terribly absent-minded … I wonder if this Peter Quin had something to do with your brother’s death,’ she said in a thoughtful voice.

‘An interesting if somewhat far-fetched notion.’ Gerard raised the teacup to his lips. ‘Liquidated by Quin. I must admit it’s got quite a ring to it.’

‘Your brother was killed, Gerard. It’s all there, on the tape. I must show you the tape. I really must. After all, it was addressed to you.’ Felicity rose. ‘Hope you don’t mind my opening the package?’

‘No, of course not, my dear.’ He found himself wondering what little Renee Glover was doing. ‘I have no secrets from you, as I am sure you haven’t any secrets from me.’

Should she tell him? No. Not yet.

Maybe never.

What difference would it make if he knew the truth? He wouldn’t tell anyone, would he? Still, things were far from well between them, she was no longer sure of his loyalty.

She didn’t think he loved her any more. Had he ever loved her? He seemed to have stopped finding her attractive. Earlier on his lips had only brushed her cheek. He seemed to be thinking of something else.

Clarissa and Dr Sylvester-Sale were having dinner at the Cafe Regal. It was he who had booked the table, but why had his phone been engaged for so long? Who had he been talking to? He said there was something wrong with his mobile. He sounded contrite, though she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t all an act. In her experience, good-looking men were invariably accomplished actors.

‘You’re not eating. Aren’t you hungry?’ Sylvester-Sale asked.

‘No, not really.’ She tried to smile.

As she raised her aperitif to her lips, her satin dress rustled. She wore pearls, round her neck and in her earlobes, offsetting the gold of her dress. She also had a tiny brooch, of diamonds and gold, on her left shoulder. When she had asked Syl how she looked, he said she reminded him of the famous usherettes at the Clermont Club. It was universally known that it was only the prettiest girls in London who became usherettes at the Clermont Club, but Clarissa didn’t care much for the idea.