It was five minutes to nine and dinner was over.
Sybil de Coverley led the way to the drawing room where Maisie and Ella served the coffee. Sybil said that although she was awfully fond of the game, she wasn’t going to pester anybody into forming a four for bridge. She believed in having things ad hoc, in leaving people to their own devices. There were jigsaw puzzles and books and papers and magazines and Scrabble and crosswords and, of course, Cluedo. The box didn’t seem to be working for some reason, but then she’d never found television had much to offer in terms of entertainment these days, so terribly vulgar, strictly for the delectation of the half-witted. Thank God there were more than enough drinks – brandy and scotch and several kinds of liqueurs, some rather unusual ones.
‘Do help yourselves,’ she urged them.
Picking up a small silver hand-bell she gave a prolonged tinkle. ‘Sorry. I keep forgetting we haven’t got maids or a butler. This place is getting harder to manage by the minute. The roof leaks, windows rattle, pipes burst, floors collapse, cisterns overflow, doors jam – now it’s the phone.’
‘I’ll see to all that. Once we’ve signed our agreement, things will move very fast, I promise you,’ Oswald said.
‘What’s the matter with the phone?’ Antonia asked. She wondered if they were getting closer to the murder.
‘I have no idea. It’s gone dead,’ Sybil said. ‘Something wrong with the line.’
‘We’ve all got mobile phones, haven’t we?’ Maisie looked round.
‘I haven’t got a mobile phone,’ Lady Grylls said.
Payne produced his mobile. ‘Still no network, so our mobiles won’t be much use.’
‘Are we completely cut off then?’ Doctor Klein said.
‘I believe the wind’s rising. Would you excuse me? I need to see to something.’ With a vague gesture, Sybil left the room.
‘Do let’s play some game, shall we?’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Cluedo can be fun.’
‘I hate Cluedo. I absolutely detest it,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said in her alarmingly loud voice.
‘There’s a frightfully clever game called The Game,’ John de Coverley said. ‘It goes like this. Everybody writes the names of famous people on sticky labels, which are then put into a hat. Names like Marshall Pétain, Justin Bieber, Nurse Cavell, Pippa Middleton and so on. Each player then draws out a label without looking, sticks it on their forehead and tries to work out who they are by asking questions to which the others can answer only yes or no. It’s all frightfully clever. What do you think? Shall we play it?’
‘Drinks, let’s have drinks. I could do with a stiff brandy. Nothing like a Mind Number followed by a Liver Paralyser when things start flagging!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore laughed.
‘There was a game we used to play when I was young. It was called Who Can Bring Home the Awfullest Thing.’ Lady Grylls looked at Mrs Garrison-Gore fixedly.
‘First-class coffee,’ Major Payne said.
Oswald Ramskritt had taken Maisie’s hand in his. ‘My enemies have called me hyperactive and hyper-acquisitive. You don’t believe that, do you? Tell me you don’t. You know how much your opinion matters to me.’
‘I don’t.’ Maisie looked very nervous.
‘You are a sweet child, but I notice you always smile in the same way at everybody, why is that? I’d have preferred the occasional special smile. Is that such an unreasonable request?’
Antonia was unpleasantly reminded of the murderous Duke in ‘My Last Duchess’.
‘It will soon be May,’ Ella said to Doctor Klein. ‘A time of lilacs and shooting stars. I believe there was a poem about it.’
‘Summer’s practically knocking on the door. For me, buying summer clothes is the ultimate nightmare. It always puts me in mind of Sisyphus.’ Mrs Garrsion-Gore raised her brandy glass to her lips.
John de Coverley said that summer was etched in his psyche as the time for girls. ‘I think of it as the most magical time of the year. The acrid tang of heat emanating from the sidewalks, the breezes of late afternoon, the whiff of perfume of a passing beauty – eh, Major Payne?’
‘One certainly falls in love quicker in summer,’ Payne agreed.
‘I miss summers in Germany,’ Doctor Klein said. ‘I remember walking in the Black Forest and thinking, but I haven’t yet started to live! One of your English poets, I believe, describes summer as a “dress rehearsal of coming manhood”.’
‘Am I right in thinking magnolias go into bloom in May?’ Antonia asked Ella. ‘I love magnolias.’
John was talking to Lady Grylls, ‘ … the realisation that sooner or later one would fall desperately, knuckle-bitingly in love and lie drugged with pleasure on the grass with the girl of one’s dreams … There is nothing that quite compares to the pure poignancy of first love – nothing at all!’
‘Particularly when accentuated by several prodigious dollops of gin. That’s what one of my beaux used to say. He was described as “lovably louche” by his aunt of all people. He was known for spiking girls’ lemonades at dances. Do men still do that sort of thing?’ Lady Grylls glanced round.
‘Girls used to be notoriously broad-minded, but not any longer, it seems. Now they are bound to file for erotic coercion.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore boomed with laughter.
‘Talking about illicit love, we saw a production of Romeo and Juliet last month, but we didn’t think it terribly convincing.’ Payne said. ‘Romeo took the news of Juliet’s supposed demise as though it were a disappointing cricket score.’
‘Juliet came across as a pert blue stocking, which isn’t exactly as Shakespeare intended,’ Antonia said with a smile.
‘I thought I heard thunder – very distant thunder,’ Maisie said with an anxious glance towards the window.
‘Do you know how they used to create the illusion of distant thunder in old-fashioned plays?’ John de Coverley looked round. ‘By rubbing two coconuts together.’
‘The sea sounds furious. There’s a storm coming, that’s what the forecast said,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore reminded them.
‘Last time we had a storm on the island, the roof leaked like Alpine streams in springtime,’ John de Coverley said. ‘Like Alpine streams. Then the waves came – fuming and foaming. Looked as though the Kraken had awoken. Maybe that’s why we can’t get servants for long. Not that I mind awfully. This place practically runs itself. Practically runs itself.’
‘An island is an acquired taste,’ Lady Grylls said.
‘I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but haven’t you ever yearned for a son, Mr de Coverley?’ Doctor Klein asked. ‘I read somewhere that scions of old dynastic families preserved an ancestral nostalgia for the dignity and ceremonial of kinship.’
‘As it happens, I have been thinking about it. Yes, most certainly.’ John held up his monocle in a didactic fashion. ‘I believe in asserting the honourable lineage of the de Coverleys … Where the hell has Sybil vanished to?’
‘I think I will go to my room now,’ Doctor Klein said. ‘Don’t look so alarmed, Ella. Sometimes I am overpowered by a general sense of worthlessness, that’s all.’
None of this is real, Antonia thought. How long had it taken them to learn their speeches? Had there been any clues for her and Hugh to pick up? And how closer were they to the murder?
It was five minutes later.
Doctor Klein stood in front of the chest of drawers in his room. He had discovered that the bottom drawer had been opened and that someone had rummaged inside it. The file hadn’t been replaced properly. And they must have seen what was under the file. Not very careful, were they? How very curious. Someone now knew his secret …
No, not ‘someone’. Only Mrs Garrison-Gore from the room next door could have done it. She was the Nosey Parker type. He had noticed her shooting curious glances at him. She knew. Did she have any intention of telling anyone? Would she tell Oswald? Or would she perhaps use the idea in her next book?
Oh well, it was bound to come out sooner or later.
He sat on his bed. He felt an odd fuzziness in his head. Perhaps he needed to change his medication?
He thought of Oswald. He found Oswald a fascinating study. Oswald enjoyed having what the English called the ‘whip-hand’ on women. Could a man be so unselfconsciously bad – so thoroughly evil? Was that possible? Doctor Klein had decided that he would continue observing Oswald and if he found that Oswald had but one redeeming feature, then Oswald might be given another chance – then he might be – well, spared.
Sybil de Coverley had entered the library and was preparing for her murder. She went round flicking an old-fashioned feather duster across the rows of books. She didn’t want anyone to start sneezing at what was to be the culmination of the Murder Game. She turned off all the table lamps barring one. She walked up to the desk and pulled out the diaries that had belonged to one of her uncles, perhaps the most a-typical de Coverley – morocco-bound and written in multi-coloured inks – amethyst-purple, blood-red, chrome-yellow, jet-black, sapphire-green.
The diaries contained arcane clues to her forthcoming death – no they didn’t, she suddenly remembered. Mrs Garrison-Gore had ruled against using the diaries.
Sybil felt tired and a little confused. She went on leafing through the diaries. Not diaries exactly. They contained pensees, the odd observation on the predictability of life as well as beauty tips. ‘Bathe the eyelashes in moon-water … When photographed, place tapering hands on cheeks as if supporting a Greek vase.’
How lovely the calligraphy had been seventy years ago, as stern and frivolous as her uncle’s pure profile and floating fair … In his prime her uncle had been known as the ‘last professional beauty’ …
She put the diaries back in the desk. ‘Tonight is as good a night to be killed as any,’ she said aloud.
Turning round she gave an awkward laugh. She’d been startled by her ghostly reflection in the mirror. She felt an odd reluctance to apply the horror make-up they had decided on. For some reason she found herself in the grip of sudden panic – panic, as it had been defined by the ancient Greeks – as a ‘conviction that some malignant supernatural power was coming’.
Nonsense, all nonsense, she told herself. It’s this bloody island – it’s sapping my energy – the sooner I get rid of it, the better –
She gasped and her hand flew up to her throat as she heard the door open.
She gave a sigh of relief.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said with a smile. ‘Why the solemn look?’
I incline towards overdoing things, Feversham thought. I tend to become the part. Like Perkin Warbeck, or was it Lambert Simnel, who had really believed himself to be one of the Princes of the Tower?
He must be careful. By no means must he become the part. It wouldn’t do for him to edge into something like a play by Pirandello. Pretending to be someone else was rather fun and he believed he could do it really well, but convincing himself to be someone else was quite a different matter.
That way madness lay.