The following morning the rain stopped and the sun showed, pale and watery, from between the clouds.
In the room known as ‘Charlotte Russe’ Feversham woke up with a start. He hadn’t slept at all well. He was cold. No early morning tea. Why wasn’t the Teasmade working? No electricity! Of course. He’d forgotten. They would need to go down to the cellar and get the generator going. He and Payne. He didn’t relish the prospect at all …
Seven o’clock. Was that a spirit lamp on the side table? So he would be able to make himself some tea after all. There was a tin of powdered milk as well. The situation wasn’t as cataclysmic as it had seemed.
The moment he sat up in bed, he realised what it was that troubled him.
He hadn’t told Sybil.
Sooner or later he’d be found out. Payne already suspected there was a connection between him and Oswald, despite Feversham’s denials. Feversham had tried to avoid a display of anything that suggested a guilty conscience, but he was far from convinced he had been successful … Damn Romany. Why couldn’t the bloody woman keep her trap shut?
He’d got himself into a flap. He’d acted in a guilty fashion.
Once the story of Oswald’s death hit the papers, it would only be a question of time before the connection was made public property. The news would be everywhere, not only in the papers but on TV and the bloody Internet. Oswald was a big fish, a multi-millionaire, an oligarch. He’d had his finger on all manner of pies.
So odd that they should have shared a mother …
Feversham got up and put on his rather sumptuous dressing gown.
His eyes fell on the gloves that lay on his bedside table. He must get rid of them. He didn’t care much for them, if he had to be perfectly honest. He’d tell Sybil he’d lost them or something.
The window curtains were an attractive shade of dark green – like the patination of an ancient bronze. He pulled them apart.
He needed to think.
The sea appeared calmer. But how black and swollen it looked!
That silly conversation at tea, the day the Paynes had arrived. He had given himself away. It had made Payne wonder. Payne was clearly the noticing kind. He should have steered the conversation into a different direction, Feversham reflected; he could have talked about something else – grouse shooting, the absolute disgrace of wind turbines or the addictive absurdity of Downton Abbey. No – he shouldn’t blame himself. It had been Oswald’s fault. Oswald had led him on. Oswald thought he was being clever and funny.
Feversham wondered what his next line of action should be. Sybil. He should tell Sybil. Yes. That would certainly be the decent thing to do. That was what a gentleman would do. These things did matter. He must tell her before his mask – his second mask, so to speak – was ripped off …
He took a sip of tea. Masks – his whole life had been a series of masks. Who was he? He really had no idea. But one thing he knew: he loved Sybil better than life itself. He meant to marry Sybil, though heaven knew when that would be. The police wouldn’t take to him kindly, oh no. Still, he must tell Sybil the truth. Wouldn’t be fair otherwise.
He must make a clean breast of things. Tell her exactly who he was.
He would become suspect number one right away, he had no doubt about it. Would Sybil come and visit him in jail? He felt certain she would. He must speak to her as soon as possible.
As he dressed, he rehearsed his little speech in his head …
At eight o’clock Major Payne was fully dressed. So was Antonia.
Antonia was talking.
‘It was Sybil who started me thinking. She mentioned the vagaries of Fate. If the storm hadn’t smashed the library window, she said, Oswald might have been alive now. In her opinion his champagne was most probably poisoned in the library, after the French window got smashed.’
‘When we all looked in the direction of the explosion?’
‘Yes – in the chaos that followed. She said the killer had taken advantage of the chaos. Then I had my bright idea. What if it was the killer who caused the chaos? Do you see what I mean?’
Payne looked at her. ‘Clever girl. Of course I see what you mean. I am so proud of you.’
They went on to discuss the situation from every possible angle. Now they believed they knew who the killer was, what they needed was proof. It always boiled down to proof in the end …
‘I am going down,’ Payne said, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s the early bird that gets the worm. Gosh, hate clichés.’
‘It’s the early Christian that gets the fattest lion,’ said Antonia. ‘Or is it the other way round? You will be careful, Hugh, won’t you?’
‘You think I may be in danger?’
‘Well, unless we’ve got it all completely wrong, we are dealing with a double murderer.’
‘Up and about already? In the grip of “a detective fever”, I see.’ Lady Grylls nodded.
‘Is it so obvious? Who said that? I rather like it.’
‘Mr Wilkie Collins, I believe. He came up with the phrase at the height of the Constance Kent murder case.’
‘That was a nasty business, wasn’t it? One doesn’t often come across sisters slitting their brothers’ throats.’
She peered at him through her glasses. ‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream, but you don’t seem entirely happy.’
‘No, not entirely. Well, we believe we know whodunnit, but here is the tricky question of proof.’
‘You mean you haven’t got proof?’
‘No. Not what could stand up in a court of law. That’s the fly in the ointment. Anyhow I just wanted to see if you were all right.’
‘I am fine. Soldiering on. I am not comfortable – not at all – though that’s not quite the same thing, is it? Do you think we’ll be able to get back home today?’
‘I doubt it. Not today.’
‘You don’t think Doctor Klein killed Ramskritt?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t think then that Klein committed suicide?’
‘No.’
‘Who is the killer?’
He told her.
‘Can’t say I am particularly surprised,’ said Lady Grylls. ‘Fed up with this island. Freezing cold – guttering candles – no hot water – no wireless, so I can’t listen to the Shipping Forecast – no frilly-aproned, apple-cheeked maids bringing early morning tea.’
‘I don’t think you will find any frilly-aproned, apple-cheeked maids anywhere these days, darling. Except, I imagine, on certain rather dubious websites.’
‘It’s my fault. We should never have come here. Thought I was giving you the most original present you were ever likely to get on your wedding anniversary.’ Lady Grylls sighed. ‘Seemed such a good idea at the time.’
Although much overgrown, the terrace outside the library could be distinguished as attractively paved in ancient brick.
Mrs Garrison-Gore was walking about, scowling at the devastation the storm had caused and poking among the broken statuary with the tip of her golf umbrella. Neptune had been split into three pieces. Odysseus had been decapitated – if that indeed was Odysseus – might be Jason, of Argonaut fame, she reflected. Those muscular mythological mariners all looked the same.
She wore a voluminous belted trenchcoat in mud-grey, her green pork-pie hat and gloves.
Where was the blasted thing?
Hal Jackson would have found it by now. Hal Jackson never missed a trick. Hal Jackson was Mrs Garrison-Gore’s detective. A former First World War naval commando who always managed to sleuth his way to the truth and had done so in her first three novels. Shame she couldn’t continue writing about him, but for some reason her number two and three had been deemed ‘weak’, so she’d had to change gear …
Critics were such vermin! Stoats, snakes and stinking centipedes! She’d have them all hanged or garrotted, if she ever got the chance!
She went on raking the rabble with her umbrella, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. If she’d been a character in a novel she would have found it by now. Although the first fictional sleuths had been men, detection was a feminine talent, really. Women were more observant than men. They had a more natural instinct for deciphering what they saw and they put their intuition to good use.
Mrs Garrison-Gore had started feeling light-headed. She took a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. If she stood absolutely still for a moment or two, she would be all right. For all her appearance of bluff solidity, she was not emotionally robust. Your soul is threatened with eternal damnation. That’s what her former husband had told her once.
She had had a bad night. She had listened to the wind blowing in erratic gusts down the chimney, making the lulls between each onslaught less a relief than an ominous spell of unnatural calm. Anxieties and sinister presentiments kept flooding her brain.
And it all culminated in a dream.
Doctor Klein had been buried, but for some reason, the Home Secretary had given orders for the body to be exhumed. Romany was among the small group of people standing reluctantly beside the grave. When the coffin was unscrewed, they were faced with the ghoulish sight of Doctor Klein’s corpse, swollen to the point of bursting, a monstrous Michelin man with silver florins placed on his eyes and wearing a ball gown. Then a hissing sound was heard and the body started deflating. Foul gases emanated from the coffin, so powerful, so vile, it made Romany gasp and choke and stagger back. The next moment she had woken up, feeling terribly ill –
She blew her nose. Pull yourself together, Romany, she ordered herself. Snap out of it. Chin up. Put your best foot forward and not in it. But it was difficult getting the details of the nightmare out of her head. The ghastly gases – she could still smell them!
She reminded herself she was on a trail now. She needed to be disciplined. If someone came along at this very moment, she would tell them exactly what she was looking for and why. She would be blunt about it. She would say what it was she suspected.
Unless it was Feversham who appeared. Well, if Feversham turned up, she would tell him she was taking the air. She would say she was looking out for a boat.
Hearing a sound behind her, she turned round sharply.
‘Good morning, Mrs Garrison-Gore,’ Major Payne said with a pleasant smile. ‘I wonder if you and I might be looking for the same thing?’
‘Lovely morning, isn’t it, though there is a decided nip in the air,’ he went on. ‘The sea looks a lot calmer – and not a single seagull in view … Good lord, the library’s gone – completely gutted – what a waste – I thought there were some good books there …’
‘Terrible devastation. Brings to mind the worst excesses of a Baghdad or a Tripoli.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore harrumphed. ‘Shocking, simply shocking.’
‘Look at the broken glass … How curious.’ Major Payne frowned. ‘How terribly curious.’
‘What’s curious?’
‘Most of the glass is on the outside of the window. If it had been the wind that broke it, the pieces would have been on the inside … You know what that means?’
‘I believe I do.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore took a deep breath. She looked like a woman who had suddenly found herself free from all doubt and indecision. ‘Major Payne, I have no doubt you are someone I can trust. May I talk to you? I mean in confidence?’
‘Of course you may. Absolutely. I am the soul of discretion.’
‘You wouldn’t think it an imposition?’
‘Not a bit of it.’
‘I think I know who the killer is,’ she said after a pause.
‘You do?’
‘Yes. I have had my suspicions for some time and now I am convinced, though the whole thing is – well, too fantastic for words! I am sure you will laugh at me.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it … I also suspect someone,’ Payne said. ‘Could we, by any chance, be talking about the same man? It is a man, isn’t it?’
‘It is a man, yes,’ she breathed. ‘It’s all so terribly far-fetched …’
‘Shall we compare notes?’
‘I would like nothing better. You go first, Major, if you don’t mind frightfully. Shoot.’
‘Ladies first.’
‘Ladies? What ladies?’ She gave a loud laugh. ‘Shoot!’
Payne cleared his throat. ‘You told us something very interesting yesterday afternoon. You said that you didn’t have to provide any of the actors in the Murder Game since they were already here, on the island. The only exception was Feversham, who joined the “troupe” later – but he had nothing to do with you either. You said that Feversham had been Oswald Ramskritt’s idea. Those, I believe, were your precise words?’
‘That is correct.’
‘I didn’t pursue the subject – you seemed very upset – you said you were dog tired – but I have been meaning to ask you about it. I believe it is important to establish Feversham’s credentials. Did you mean Oswald Ramskritt had already contacted Feversham and asked him to join you on the island?’ Payne scanned the terrace as he talked. He kicked a stone.
‘Yes. That’s what I meant. Oswald told us he had a man in mind, who would be just right for the part of “John de Coverley”. It was someone who specialised in English gents. Who had the right air about him.’
‘I see. Well, Feversham told us a different story,’ said Payne. ‘He said that you and he went back a long way. He had taken part in previous Murder Weekends which you had organised.’
‘He said that? Well, that is simply not true,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said vehemently. ‘I’d never met Feversham before … But what possible reason could he have had for lying to you? Was it because he didn’t want anyone to know that there was a link between him and Oswald Ramskritt?’
‘That seems to be the obvious conclusion. And, as it happens, I have an idea as to what that link might be –’ Payne broke off. Bending down, he picked up a shining object from under a piece of statuary. ‘Hallo. This, I believe, belongs to you?’
‘Yes! My silver bullet pen!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore gave a delighted cry. Internally she cursed herself for being the blindest of bats. ‘I thought I’d lost it! I’d lent it to Feversham, you see, but he insisted he’d given it back to me!’
Major Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger. ‘I don’t think that without your pen Oswald Ramskritt’s murder would have taken place at all … At least not in the way it did … It was Antonia actually who hit on the idea … Does that make any sense?’
‘It most certainly does. I also worked it out.’ She took a step towards him and brought her face alarmingly close to his. ‘I know exactly what happened. The pen was hurled across the library. Like a mini missile. That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
‘Yes. That was the little light Maisie saw. A metal object flashing in the lamplight. Your silver pen. It was used as a missile, as you so aptly put it. Its target was the French window. When the window exploded,’ Payne went on, ‘everybody blamed the storm. We assumed the window pane had given way under the strong wind, while in actual fact, it was your pen that broke it.’
‘How did you work out it was my pen?’
‘We deduced it,’ said Payne. ‘It fitted the bill. We were there when you reminded Feversham that you’d lent him the pen, remember? We heard him say he’d already given it back to you.’
‘That was a lie! Another lie! I believe the man is a pathological liar!’
‘I believe you are right. I came down in the hope I might be lucky enough to find your pen, which I have now done. I also wanted to make sure the broken glass was on the outside – which it is.’ Payne weighed the pen in his hand. ‘Yes, it’s heavy enough to do the job.’
‘You remind me of Hal Jackson. That’s my detective. You speak like him, at least that’s how I hear him in my head, that’s exactly as I imagine him to be.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore made a self-deprecating grimace. ‘Feversham smashed the window to distract us, to divert our attention, so that he could drop the cyanide into Oswald Ramskritt’s glass of champagne unobserved. Simple, yet clever, in its own way.’
Payne nodded. ‘It did the trick all right … Everybody was compelled to fix their eyes on the window – we leapt back in shock and terror – staggered away from the mighty wind. Nobody was looking at Ramskritt’s glass. That was when the poisoning took place.’
‘And did he kill Doctor Klein as well?’
‘He did, yes. I found a fibre sticking to Doctor Klein’s teeth. Green and yellow.’ Payne made a significant pause.
‘The tartan gloves!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore gasped. ‘He pushed the cyanide into Doctor Klein’s mouth – he was wearing the gloves!
‘Yes.’
‘But why – why did he do it? I can’t imagine Feversham in the grip of a single strong emotion. He is so sham and so shallow. Murder, the unique crime, should always arise from strong emotions!’
‘I see you know your Orwell.’
She gave a short laugh, which to Payne’s ears sounded like the bark of a walrus demanding to be fed. I mustn’t be unkind, he thought.
‘Is that Orwell? I always thought it was one of mine!’ She hooted with laughter. ‘I am such an incorrigible cribber! The thieving magpie, that’s me. But what, in heaven’s name, does Feversham gain from Ramskritt’s death?’
‘What did he gain? It’s more a question of what he is about to gain. The answer is money. A lot of money. Or so Antonia and I believe,’ said Payne. ‘Feversham is Oswald Ramskritt’s half-brother. Or so we believe.’