R.T. Raichev - Murder of Gonzago

As a rule Louise Hunter felt quite happy on Thursdays, more animated than on any other day of the week, because of London, but her broken night had left her listless, with an aching head and an instinctive shrinking from light. Familiar noises seemed amplified; the chirruping of birds outside the window, the ticking of the grandfather clock and the distant bleating of sheep all sounded distressingly piercing to her ears. She felt heavy and unwieldy; she might have been her own wax effigy — now wasn’t that a curious concept?

‘You are going to London, aren’t you? Your usual haunts?’ Basil had spoken from behind his Telegraph .

‘I don’t know. I am not sure,’ she said hesitantly in the hope that he would try to persuade her not to go, that he might suggest they did something together, something simple like going for a walk or doing the crossword, but he didn’t.

Recklessly, she started buttering her fourth piece of toast. So much for her intention to go on a diet!

‘I am not sure,’ she repeated.

‘You love London,’ he said firmly. ‘Your week would be incomplete without your visit to London.’

He wants to be rid of me, she thought. ‘Don’t you like the marmalade?’ She had seen him grimace.

‘It tastes a little odd-’

‘There is a sealed jar in the pantry.’ She started to rise. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

‘No, don’t bother. Please. Don’t fuss. I’ll survive.’ He gave a rueful smile. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

She saw him glance towards the window. A longing kind of gaze. A gaze of glazed devotion. On a bright day one could see the spires of Remnant Castle from here. That woman! She would tear her apart if she could!

‘The coffee, on the other hand, is first class,’ he said.

‘I am so glad. I will order more of the same. It is a rather special kind of blend.’

‘Not Harrods, is it?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘That fellow mustn’t be encouraged.’

‘He mustn’t. Though I believe he sold Harrods to someone else.’

‘It’s a matter of principle.’

‘Of course it is. I completely agree,’ she said. ‘Shall I make you some more buttered soldiers?’

‘No, thank you. Don’t believe in gorging myself. Have you ever considered spending a day without eating?’

‘Do you think I should go on a diet?’ It was clear he found her fat. The thought plunged her into the depths of renewed depression and self-contempt.

‘Do you good, I should think.’ He rustled his paper. ‘Wouldn’t call it a diet. Not exactly.’

‘What is it then?’

‘One whole day without eating. Perhaps two. Or three. Why not four?’ Basil Hunter went on, warming to his theme. ‘Thinking of giving it a try myself. Apparently one wakes up the next day bright as a button. Mental faculties a great deal sharper. Starving encourages the flow of extra blood to the brain.’

‘That’s what happens when you stand on your head,’ she said.

He shook his teaspoon at her. ‘You will feel as though you are beginning to float away. And you find yourself laughing for no apparent reason.’

‘Sounds marvellous,’ Louise said. ‘Absolutely enthralling.’

Two red spots had appeared on her cheeks and now she felt a surge of excitement. Why, this seemed like old times! They were having a conversation .

Her joy, however, was short-lived. Basil failed to answer her question about the new heifer he had bought. He didn’t address her again and then she saw him gazing towards the window once more.

There was a silence.

Louise helped herself to a Danish pastry. She sighed. How she wished she had a narrower gullet, if not a supermodel’s inhibited appetite. Her thoughts returned to her conversation with Stephan. Stephan claimed to have seen the Grimaud, the immaculately dressed homunculus that was said to turn up at the house of the doomed in a coffin.

The Grimaud was a malevolent spirit, some Caribbeans said the Devil himself. The Grimaud had sleek black hair, three rows of teeth and burning red eyes. The Grimaud was conjured up by a man’s enemies and sent to his house to ‘claim’ him.

Nonsense. All nonsense, she told herself. Stephan had been under the influence of heaven knew what cocktail of drugs. Stephan had been hallucinating. Stephan had been seeing things that hadn’t been there.

Still, the fact remained that strange things had happened at La Sorciere on the day Lord Remnant died …

How did one explain the hands? And how exactly did one account for the laughter?

‘There she is, the big girl at the far end, the table on the right. The vanquished Valkyrie.’ Payne pointed. ‘Gosh, look at that turban of trumpeting vermilion!’

‘Where? Oh yes. Goodness.’

‘She’s eating as though her life depends on it — what’s that she’s having? Blini? With dollops of what looks like blackcurrant jelly. I didn’t think I’d ever live to see such an outrage.’

‘ I am large, I contain multitudes … Walt Whitman. Sorry. Perhaps she is terribly unhappy,’ Antonia said. ‘She’s drinking tea out of a saucer.’

‘I would be unhappy if I had to drink tea out of a saucer. Well, there you are, my love. The mighty Hunter is doing exactly what Hortense said she would be doing. It is clearly something of a ritual with her. This,’ Major Payne said didactically, ‘is what happens when people turn their backs on God.’

‘You don’t know if she’s turned her back on God.’

‘I am sure she has. You only have to take one look at her. This is actually quite exciting. The hunter becomes the hunted … Make sure she doesn’t eat you ,’ Payne whispered in Antonia’s ear. ‘Don’t forget to report back to base.’

‘I won’t.’

He kissed her. She watched him hold up his umbrella and hail a taxi.

Matroni clearly translated as ‘matrons’ and Antonia wondered if the Russian word held the same disparaging connotation as the English. What were matrons exactly? Motherly ladies? Respectable middle-aged women? Matrons were usually staid and stout. Was she a matron? She hoped not — not yet. Was Louise Hunter a matron? Most decidedly.

I will introduce myself as Antonia Rushton, she decided. She had been married to a Richard Rushton once.

A smiling young waiter with high Slav cheekbones, pale blue eyes and fair hair bowed disconcertingly low and asked where she would like to sit.

‘Over there, perhaps?’ Antonia waved towards an empty table alongside Louise Hunter’s.

She bravely ordered a pot of Tibetan tea and a piece of gooseberry pirog . She was aware of Louise Hunter stealing a glance at her. The clothes Louise Hunter wore had presumably been constructed by a dressmaker of the better class, but it was hard to believe that she could have been adequately fitted out by anyone less spacious in his methods than Omar the Tent Maker.

As their eyes met, Antonia smiled at her. ‘Excuse me — Mrs Hunter? It’s Mrs Louise Hunter, isn’t it?’

‘Yes?’ The fat woman in the red turban looked startled. ‘Yes? I am sorry but I don’t — have we met?’

‘We haven’t. My name is Antonia Rushton. I believe we have friends in common. The Fenwicks. Felicity and Gerard,’ Antonia improvised. ‘He is now the Earl Remnant.’

‘Oh.’ Louise Hunter suddenly looked frightened.

‘Felicity and I were at school together. Gerard is awfully nice. Both of them are awfully nice,’ Antonia prattled on. ‘As it happens, I was at their place about an hour ago.’

‘Actually, I don’t know them awfully well … What — what did they say about me?’

‘They pointed you out-’