Later on Sybil gave them a tour of the house, which, she explained, was called Mauldeley (pronounced ‘Mudly’), though everybody, without any particular flight of the imagination, insisted on calling it ‘Sphinx House’.
On the stairs they caught up with Ella Gales, who was carrying a tray with a silver cover. For some reason, on seeing them, she looked flustered. She went up another flight of stairs and disappeared down a gloomy corridor. A fine-looking woman, Payne thought. He sniffed the air. He had caught the whiff of a fried chicken. There had been something of the automaton about Ella’s movements. Something weighing on her mind. As though encumbered with a terrible burden, heavier than a mere tray …
The library was long and narrow and it had an air of melancholy charm about it. Bookshelves containing a great number of gilt and russet volumes reached up to the ceiling. It seemed to be used chiefly as a repository for things that their owners had not had the heart to throw away. Dilapidated chairs of different styles, a large sofa of the Louis Philippe period, partially disembowelled, with springs and stuffing coming out in places, little tables covered with knick-knacks, pipes, tarnished silver cigarette lighters, candlesticks, bowls full of dry flowers, one or two empty chocolate boxes and a shabby tiger hearthrug. There were some indifferent Edwardian family portraits on the walls. The window curtains were of faded green silk, their pelmets intricate with folds and tassels.
On a side table there lay pre-war copies of The Field, Cineworld and The Tatler and an off volume of the Revue Hebdomadaire. There was also a batch of Batman comics, at the sight of which Hugh and Antonia exchanged glances.
‘My God, what a dump,’ Sybil said with a sigh. ‘Too embarrassing for words.’
Payne picked up a book that had been left on the sofa and glanced at the title. Return to the Stars. Von Daniken.
‘One of papa’s. It goes back a terribly long time, beyond the flames of Troy and Carthage,’ Sybil said. ‘At least thirty years. Isn’t it odd that people who believe in aliens are never called “alienists”? Mama, on the other hand, was a Socialist. You’d never believe this, but her favourite book was On the Condition of the Working Classes in England. Porcelain socialism, papa used to tease her.’
‘The female version of champagne socialism, eh?’
‘That’s mama over there.’ Sybil pointed to the portrait on one of the walls. It showed a placid-looking woman swathed in several dead foxes and wearing lace mittens, her hair an immaculate white halo around her head. ‘Mama went on two expeditions to Tibet but she never changed the way she did her hair. It’s the same periwigged style so beloved by our own dear Queen, as I am sure you’ve noticed.’
‘A bit more cumulo-nimbus than HM’s Ionic capital, surely?’
‘Mama was the worst cheat at solitaire who ever lived.’
‘Whose are those Batmans,’ Payne asked casually.
‘Oh my brother’s.’ Sybil waved a dismissive hand. ‘Batman used to be John’s hero. No, sorry – it was one of Batman’s enemies John used to adore, forget which. The Joker?’
‘Not the Riddler?’
‘Isn’t that the same character?’
‘No, not really,’ said Payne. He started leafing through one of the comics. ‘I don’t think many people know that Patricia Highsmith used to write copy for Batman before becoming a proper writer.’
‘Did she? I wonder if Batman was an influence on Tom Ripley,’ Antonia said thoughtfully. ‘Duality is central to both characters. Batman leads a double life: dapper man about town by day, vigilante by night.’
She walked up to the fireplace and stood peering at the portrait above the fireplace. ‘Is that a bullet hole?’
‘How clever of you to notice. Apparently John got carried away with his gun and he fired two shots,’ Sybil explained. ‘No one was hurt. Happened while I was in London. John seemed to have had a delusional episode or something. He’s apologised to everyone now.’
Antonia pointed to the bookshelves on the right of the fireplace. ‘I don’t think those books are one hundred per cent authentic, are they?’
‘Trompe d’oeil – yes! If you push Sodom and Gomorrah slightly, the panel will open and you will see a secret staircase that leads upstairs, straight to John’s dressing room. No, don’t touch it! We’ve got the other matter to discuss first. The reason why you are here. Remember?’ Sybil looked round, as though making sure there was no one around who could overhear them and asked in a low voice, ‘Well, what do you think? Now you’ve met everybody. Any ideas?’
‘I can’t say we suspect anyone at this juncture, if that’s what you mean,’ Payne said.
‘None of your guests looks like a homicidal maniac,’ Antonia said. ‘Unless it’s your brother. He is the only one who seems vaguely implicated.’
‘Because of the shooting incident? Oh but that’s got nothing to do with it, nothing at all.’ Sybil shook her head vehemently. ‘It isn’t John. I’d have told you if it was John. Besides, I never said “homicidal maniac”. The killer – I mean the person who is planning to commit the murder – has a very rational reason for wanting to do it. He is not a nutcase.’
‘So it’s a man,’ Payne said.
‘No, it’s not. I believe you are trying to catch me out.’
‘You said “he”.’
‘Did I?’ Sybil sighed. ‘I knew I’d slip up sooner or later. I might as well tell you the whole story. Wouldn’t be at all fair otherwise. But I must show you the object first. To my way of thinking it is the object that proves without any shadow of a doubt that –’ Sybil broke off and put her finger across her lips. Her eyes were fixed on the door. ‘I thought I heard a noise. No, it’s nothing.’
After a moment’s pause she walked up to a small desk in the corner. She took out a key, inserted it in the lock but she didn’t turn it at once – she glanced over her shoulder –
As though on cue, the door opened and Oswald Ramskritt came into the library.
Sybil took out the key and turned round. She leant against the desk. She smiled. ‘Oh Oswald! It’s you!’
‘It’s me, yes. Did you expect somebody else?’
‘No, of course not. I am sorry. I’m a little jumpy, I don’t know why. Is anything the matter?’
‘I would like to talk to you for a moment, Sybil. If I may.’
‘Of course you may, Oswald, but I am a little busy at the moment. In about twenty minutes perhaps?’
‘I need to talk to you now. It really is rather urgent.’ Oswald Ramskritt looked towards Antonia, then towards Payne. ‘Sorry, folks. Do you mind? It’s very important. Oh and it’s private.’ He laughed.
Payne said it was all right, they didn’t mind. They watched Oswald Ramskritt put his hand at Sybil’s back and pilot her out of the library.
‘He practically dragged her out,’ said Payne.
‘They were acting,’ Antonia said firmly. ‘The whole thing was staged.’
‘You think so? I am not sure.’
As it turned out, they never got another chance to be alone with Sybil de Coverley again.