R.T. Raichev - Murder of Gonzago

‘Did you like Lord Remnant, doctor?’

‘You do ask some very strange questions, Major Payne.’

‘Absolute monsters are rare, but the late Lord Remnant doesn’t seem to have had a single redeeming feature. Not a single one . Is that possible? I find it very hard to believe.’ Payne shook his head.

‘Did I like Lord Remnant? No, not particularly. In fact, if you must know,’ Dr Sylvester-Sale said, ‘not at all. No one did.’

‘No one? Not even Clarissa?’

‘Least of all Clarissa. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘That’s terribly sad,’ said Payne. ‘ Can one live without love?’

‘Lord Remnant clearly could.’

‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know … That’s how he emerges from all the stories I’ve heard so far. I must admit this whole case exercises a peculiar fascination over me. The protagonists and their foibles have got me firmly in their grip.’ Payne clenched his hand into a fist. ‘I understand Clarissa’s son has a serious drug problem?’

‘That’s been taken care of.’

‘What’s the likelihood of Lord Remnant having been involved in the drug trade on the island?’

‘If, for argument’s sake, he was involved, it couldn’t have been for the money. At the time of his death he was an extremely rich man, you know.’

‘Couldn’t he have done it for the thrill of it? To escape boredom? Isn’t that possible?’

Sylvester-Sale shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s possible. Anything was possible where Lord Remnant was concerned. He was prey to ennui. He referred to it as “my pathological condition”. He would do anything to escape boredom, yes. He said that danger stimulated him … He did some very silly things. In many ways he was quite mad. I don’t think he had a safety valve … So, yes, it’s perfectly possible.’

‘Was Lord Remnant a clever man, doctor?’

‘Depends on how one defines “clever”. He certainly thought of himself as clever, which is not quite the same thing. He considered himself a genius … I suppose he was clever — in a highly idiosyncratic kind of way. He seemed to identify with criminal masterminds like Dr No and Goldfinger.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Yes. He loved watching those awful James Bond films.’

‘Would you say Lord Remnant was capable of planning and executing a murder?’ Major Payne asked.

Dr Sylvester-Sale looked at him curiously. ‘I would. Yes. Perfectly capable.’

It was only after his visitor had taken his leave that Dr Sylvester-Sale remembered that Grenadin had been left to Clarissa and that it was highly unlikely that the Fenwicks should be planning to have holiday villas built on the island. Clarissa would have told him had that indeed been the case. What exactly had Major Payne been after?

Renee broke down and dissolved into sobs. Gerard Fenwick put a slightly awkward avuncular arm around her shoulders.

‘There, there. What is the matter? I knew there was something wrong.’

‘Everything’s wrong — everything!’

‘That’s not possible, my dear. Not everything . I don’t believe the end of the world has come yet, has it?’

‘No. No. I am sorry,’ Renee said indistinctly, her face pressed against the lapel of his tweed jacket. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ he reassured her.

‘I want to die. You can kill me if you like.’

‘What a damned silly thing to say. Why should I want to kill you? I don’t need to silence you. You don’t really think I killed my brother, do you?’

‘No. I know you didn’t. It’s just come to me. You couldn’t have got hold of the gun. The gun was taken from Lord Remnant’s study.’ She pulled away slightly and sniffed. ‘Unless someone handed it over to you.’

‘Yes, I might have had an accomplice.’ Gerard smiled. ‘Only I didn’t.’

‘You were there that night — why were you there?’

He gave her his handkerchief and said gallantly, ‘Won’t you first tell me what’s upset you so much? No, wait.’ He crossed to his desk and produced a bottle of brandy and a tumbler. ‘You must have some of this. It’ll put some colour in your cheeks.’

She blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes and sat down. She held the glass of brandy, took a dutiful sip. She then blurted out the whole pathetic tale. She knew it was a doomed entanglement, she said; she had known it from the very start, yet she had allowed herself to become obsessed with Dr Sylvester-Sale.

They had had a secret affair at La Sorciere. Syl had told her he loved her. He had said that she was his only really solid and unseverable lien with the world-

‘That’s rather good, actually, do let me make a note of it.’ Gerard reached for his notebook. ‘ Unseverable lien with the world . Do chaps talk like that? Outside books, that is?’

‘I’ve never heard anyone else say it,’ she admitted.

‘No, of course not. He said it to impress you. He never meant any of it. That should have put you on your guard, my dear. “Syl”, did you say? How very interesting. It’s an anagram of “sly”. “Rain” now is an anagram of “Iran”, though I don’t think that’s in any way important. An anachronistic anagram annoyed by anonymity …’

Dr Sylvester-Sale had made promises, Renee said, which she had believed, even though she had been perfectly aware of his affair with Clarissa. Her waking moments had been filled with thoughts of him. He was terribly good-looking, she hadn’t been able to help herself.

They had planned their future together, but, after they had been back in England a couple of days, his phone calls had suddenly stopped. She had started stalking him, she was ashamed to admit. She had seen him in the company of a red-haired woman. She had seen them kiss. She had been distraught. She had thought of throwing herself under a passing car. She might have been a lovelorn schoolgirl.

Gerard leant back and, picking up his smouldering cigar, said, ‘I must admit I am extremely surprised, Renee. I thought you were the epitome of cool and self-possession.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

‘Shall we have a game of demon patience, the way we used to? It might help you see things in perspective. I have a pack of cards somewhere.’ He glanced vaguely round.

‘No, thank you, Gerard. Not now. I’ll be fine.’ She blew her nose.

‘Would you allow me to take you out to dinner somewhere later on?’ I’d very much like to marry her, he thought. ‘At about seven?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘Of course you are. I don’t think you have a prior engagement, have you?’

‘I am not sure. I haven’t.’

‘There you are! How about the Caprice?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I am going to book a table. If you fancy eggs Benedict and steak tartare, that’s the place to go.’

Over dinner, he told her his story. It was as pathetic as hers. He too had made a fool of himself. He had acted irrationally, out of character, without much thought as to what exactly he intended to do. He had been in Scotland, in the Highlands, fishing in the river Spey when he had received a call from Roderick. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t had his mobile phone in his pocket. Weren’t mobiles the scourge of the modern age? After his late brother had challenged him, Gerard had got exceedingly angry, he’d seen red, he’d felt like killing Roderick — quite unlike himself, really. He had changed, packed a small case and driven to the nearest airport, hopped on a plane and flown to Grenadin.

‘I only had an overnight bag with me. I got a cab from the airport, but when we reached the estate, I decided to walk. I wanted to clear my head. There was a moon. Lovely weather — apart from the blasted mosquitoes.’