‘I realised I had all the necessary information at my disposal,’ Payne was saying. ‘Ramskritt mentioned the fact he had a half-brother when we first arrived, on our way here. He said his half-brother was an actor – “treading the boards” was how he put it – and that he was still chasing the ladies – despite his back injury. He also said that his brother was more English than the English. Well, Feversham’s speciality is a certain rarefied kind of an English gent, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed it is. The kind that never existed.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore gave a contemptuous laugh.
‘At one point Feversham said he had suffered a back injury … Then there was the reference to Bonwell and Norah … I believe Norah is their mother … Ramskritt apparently had Norah’s eyes … Well, suddenly everything clicked into place … I caught Feversham unawares and he admitted his father’s name was Bonwell.’
‘Most actors are psychotic, though they don’t know it, and character actors are the craziest. As for you, Major Payne,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said, ‘you are so much like Hal Jackson, it’s uncanny. That’s my detective. That’s how I’ve always pictured Hal, you know – as someone like you. Sorry – this sounds like a declaration of love, doesn’t it?’
‘Are you in love with your detective?’
‘Perhaps I am, I don’t know. Naval men and military men are a bit alike, aren’t they?’
‘They most certainly are,’ Payne agreed politely. Privately he thought they were nothing of the sort. He found the idea abhorrent.
‘Bluff admirals and bluff colonels are practically inter-changeable.’ She was rubbing her right hand with her left. Her face twisted. ‘I seem to have got a sore patch,’ she explained. ‘I seem to be – um – allergic to something, don’t know what.’
‘Hope you haven’t been bitten –?’
‘Bitten? Bitten?’ Her face turned the colour of a fire extinguisher. ‘Do you mean – bugs? You don’t think –? Well, it’s an old house … I don’t believe Sybil has ever had it properly cleaned and fumigated … What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve had a brainwave, that’s all. I do believe,’ Payne said, ‘that it is thanks to you that I’ve got my final proof now.’
‘Your final proof? Really? You mean – proof of Feversham’s guilt? How exciting! What did I say? Was it my reference to Hal Jackson? Or to bugs? Or to bluff admirals? What is your proof?’
‘If I told you, the story would be over,’ he said. ‘It isn’t time for the denouement yet. You must wait for the right psychological moment.’
‘When is the right psychological moment? I never seem to know. I tend to write my last chapters several times and I am always left with this deeply dissatisfied feeling –’ Mrs Garrison-Gore broke off. ‘Oh there’s Antonia Darcy! I am sure she knows. I am sure she is a much better novelist than I shall ever be! Ahoy there!’ She waved her umbrella in the air. ‘I must say you look terribly festive. Your husband’s been marvellous, truly marvellous. It seems he’s managed to solve the mystery! He’s beaten us all to it!’
Antonia was wearing a red burgundy dress in fine wool and a short black coat. She was also wearing the new hat. She smiled. ‘This morning he was complaining how hard it was to get proof. I advised against despair. I told him that sooner or later he’d get his proof.’
‘You are lucky to have a husband who listens to you. How I envy you, Antonia Darcy! Oh how I envy you! I haven’t had your obvious good fortune.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore sighed gustily. ‘Your murder mysteries are all set in modern times, aren’t they?’
‘On the surface they are.’
‘Scientific changes have affected all serious writers of mystery novels set in modern times and not necessarily for the better. Don’t you find that infuriating? Don’t you feel threatened? I mean, all that DNA business! I can’t help feeling threatened.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore rubbed her hand.
‘DNA has certainly revolutionised the investigation of murder,’ Antonia agreed.
‘If you had a corpse with some blood or skin from the killer under their nails, and if you had six suspects, say, well, it wouldn’t take the police long at all to solve the mystery, would it? What would you do then?’ Mrs Garrison-Gore was speaking in her loudest voice. She had a frantic air about her. ‘How do you produce sixty-five thousand words or thereabouts without losing momentum? How do you manage to maintain that vice-like narrative grip?’
‘How indeed … I often find myself struggling.’
‘Once the police turn up on the scene, you’ve simply got to introduce DNA as well. If you don’t do it, they’ll say you are anachronistic and irrelevant. I know what critics are! I’d rather die than write a murder mystery set in modern times!’
‘My solution is not to involve the police till the very end of a novel if at all … It seems to me that most modern crime fiction deals in documentary realism rather than creative ingenuity …’
‘Jolly well put, Antonia Darcy!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore boomed approbation. ‘I couldn’t agree more!’
‘You ladies seem to hold similar views,’ said Payne. ‘Would I be right in saying that your books are about murder only in the sense that The Importance of Being Ernest is about child neglect and identity crisis?’
This made Mrs Garrison-Gore choke with laughter.
‘The good news is that the network is back and I have managed to make a call.’ Antonia held up her mobile phone. ‘I have called the police. They are sending a launch.’
‘Well done,’ Payne said. He glanced at his watch.
‘The police are coming? Hoorah! Thank God!’ Mrs Garrison-Gore cried. Tears sprung from her eyes. ‘Thank God! At long last! I can’t bear to stay on this island a moment longer! How about subplots? Are you keen on subplots?’
Antonia scrunched up her face. ‘No, not really. Maybe a hint or two of romance. I try to make everything relate to the main murder …’
Antonia glanced round. The edge of the cliff was less than ten feet away, bounded by a waist-high crumbling stone wall. A solitary seagull soared above them.
‘The sea looks like a mighty mud bath. They say mud baths are extremely good for the nerves,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said with a frown. ‘Mud baths were used to be known as a “cure”.’
‘I have got my final proof now,’ Payne told Antonia.
‘Really? What is it?’
‘Want to see it?’
Antonia blinked. ‘Well, yes. Of course I want to see it.’
Mrs Garrison-Gore went on gazing at the sea. For some reason she was remembering what a critic had written about her second novel. The ending, when it finally stumbles into view, isn’t so much contrived as almost meaningless in relation to what had preceded it.
The next moment she screamed. ‘Major Payne! What are you doing?’
Major Payne had got hold of her right hand.
‘How dare you? Have you gone mad? Let go of me at once!’
But he didn’t.
He pulled off her glove and held her hand up firmly for Antonia to see.