‘Ah, Master. We meet again. This is terribly distressing,’ Bettina Tradescant said.
‘Miss Tradescant, my sympathies.’ The Master inclined his head in a ceremonious manner. ‘A most tragic occasion—’
‘Indeed it is. But we need to get these things in perspective. My brother was not exactly a young man. You may not be aware, but there was an awful lot that was wrong with him. An awful lot. Anxiety spells, depression, indigestion, insensitivity, general lack of judgement, deafness. His deafness was much worse than he ever admitted, did you realize? Seymour was terribly embarrassed about his deafness. Seymour was a tormented soul. Not at all what you and I would call a “happy man”, so, in a manner of speaking, this is a merciful release.’
‘Sir Seymour always said he found great contentment and peace at Mayholme Manor.’
‘Well, that was certainly the impression he chose to give.’ She shook her head darkly. ‘You didn’t know my brother as well as I did, Master. Seymour believed in sparing the feelings of people he didn’t know particularly well.’
How and when she had heard the news, the Master couldn’t imagine. Perhaps it was Lady Tradescant who had told her? But he had informed Lady Tradescant about her husband’s death only an hour and a half earlier—and Bettina Tradescant was already sitting in his study, wearing profound and rather extravagant mourning, like some Victorian widow! A long black dress with a high collar, black pointed shoes, black hat with two shiny purple feathers, black gloves and two golden crucifixes around the neck. How had she managed it? She must have moved with the speed of lightning. No—impossible!
‘I have an admission to make, Master. I have been here for ages. I knew of course what I would find, so I came suitably dressed. I am famous for my sense of occasion. I arrived at the crack of dawn and I sat in my car. I was quiet as a mouse. I drank coffee from my thermos flask and read Vanity Fair. The book, not the magazine. I have been reading it for the past twenty-five years. I admire Becky Sharp terribly. Such enterprise. I must admit I prefer the magazine, always useful to know what my rivals get up to, but I doubt if that would have been appropriate in the circumstances. My brother disapproved of what he termed “the world of fashion”. Incidentally, I had a mishap in your downstairs lavatory earlier on. I am sure your stewards have informed you?’
‘No, they haven’t.’
‘They should have. Something needs to be done about all those locks and knobs, otherwise one day you may end up with a fatality,’ she warned him. ‘Next time it will be one of your old buffers! I doubt if any of them has my kind of stamina. I do apologize if I strike you as a little brusque, but I had a bad night. I couldn’t sleep at all well, in fact not at all. One of my tangos nocturnes. When that happens I tend to lose my temper easily. Everything annoys me. I hope you will forgive me. I explained about the chill the last time we met, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’
‘I can’t function if I’ve got the chill. I simply can’t. When did my brother die exactly?’
‘Between eight and half-past eight this morning.’
‘I locked myself in your downstairs loo at about that time, now isn’t that most interesting?’ Bettina scowled. ‘You are sure Seymour didn’t snuff it in the small hours of yesterday morning?’
‘Quite sure,’ the Master said patiently. ‘You could ask Dr Henley.’ He gestured towards the portly man with the mottled red face, who had been sitting in an armchair beside the window, drinking coffee.
‘It isn’t so much a question of trust as of principle,’ she said obscurely.
Dr Henley rose to his feet with some difficulty. ‘Miss Tradescant. How do you do.’
Her leathery skin and somewhat darting eyes gave her an inhuman look, almost reptilian. Later on he was to describe her to his wife as a ‘crackling mass of unrelated forces’.
‘How do you do. One must observe the forms even when one is confronted with the greatest provocation, I am sure you agree? One must assume the appropriate social mask. Fail in that and chaos follows.’ For a moment Bettina seemed transfixed by the vague plume of steam that rose lazily from the doctor’s cup.
‘My deepest condolences.’ Dr Henley went on to say that Sir Seymour’s death would be a great loss to everybody who knew him.
She gave a gracious smile. ‘I don’t seriously suspect the Master of deliberately withholding data, it is only that I felt the chill very strongly yesterday. I have had to live with the chill for most of my life. I first became aware of it when I was about four. That doesn’t mean I may not have had some sort of prevision. I consulted the Royal Society for Psychical Research about it once, years ago, and they wrote back saying that prevision phenomena happen much more frequently than people imagine. They are awful frauds, mind, still one expects them to offer a competent kind of opinion.’
‘As it happens, I am intrigued by psychic phenomena,’ Dr Henley said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Tradescant, how does the chill manifest itself exactly?’
‘It starts as a painfully persistent thought at the back of my head. Like a drill. It goes the moment I get confirmation. It simply disappears, as though it’s never been there, and then I am as right as rain. As light as a feather. The chill can be extremely demanding, almost like a living entity. Not a very nice living entity. It has tantrums. It craves attention. It snaps, it growls. No, I made that up.’
‘Fascinating. What will happen to it now?’
‘You mean now that my twin is dead?’
‘Yes. Will it—go away?’
‘I hope so. I have no idea. Only time will show. Strictly entre nous, I am sick and tired of talking about the chill in the mysterious and exclusive fashion in which Elijah might have spoken of his ravens. Well, it is refreshing to meet a man of science who is not primarily pig-headed. Doesn’t happen often, I assure you.’ She blew her nose. ‘Could Seymour have drowned?’
‘I can’t say until I have been able to examine the body properly,’ Dr Henley said. ‘I suspect a stroke or a heart attack. By the time I arrived, Sir Seymour had been taken out of his bath and one of the stewards had attempted artificial respiration, all in vain, sadly. Sir Seymour had high blood pressure. Those hot baths—I did warn him—’
‘I am sure you did your best, my good man.’ She shook her head. ‘I am afraid Seymour was always rather obstinate. Seymour never listened to people. He was singularly lacking in what is sometimes called the “imagination of disaster”. No question of a post-mortem then?’
‘I sincerely hope that will not be necessary,’ the Master said crisply.
‘It would look bad for you if there were a PM, wouldn’t it? I mean bad for the business, Master. It may cause chaps to think twice before they join this so-called “brotherhood”. I understand your fees are obscenely exorbitant. But perhaps there were no suspicious features, that’s why you are so damned relaxed about it? No signs of struggle—no bruises—broken nails—odd pigmentation—cracked vertebrae?’
‘My dear Miss Tradescant!’ The Master’s face had turned vermilion. ‘There is absolutely nothing to suggest that Sir Seymour died of anything but natural causes. Henley, please, would you be kind enough to confirm?’
Dr Henley said, ‘No suspicious features.’
‘I am terribly glad. You see, I have been in the grip of some extremely complex emotions, that may account for my lack of restraint. Somebody told me once that I had a first-rate mind,’ Bettina went on with a self-deprecating smile. ‘This may sound like an idle compliment, but it isn’t. No second-rate mind could have experienced such an intensity of feeling so … purely.’ She adjusted her hat. ‘I expect this means, Dr Henley, that your signature on the death certificate is imminent?’
‘I wouldn’t say imminent, no.’
‘But it is only a matter of time, yes? Oh, how I wish I’d been there beside Seymour as he lay breathing his last, holding his hand, stroking his forehead, saying the rosary with him …’
The Master frowned. ‘I was not aware that Sir Seymour was a Catholic.’
‘He wasn’t. He nearly became one about fifty years ago, only he hated the idea of turning into a priest-ridden puppet.’ Bettina sighed deeply. ‘I am in an odd state. I try not to give in to sorrow, you see. It is such an appalling waste of energy. You can’t get sorrow into shape—you can’t build on it, can you, Master?’
‘No.’
‘Gazing back into the past is equally fatal. I despise women who wallow in their woes! It’s women like that who bring womanhood into disrepute. But don’t let me detain you any longer with blasts from my feeble trumpet! You should have stopped me! I am sure you are a busy man, Master.’ She rose. ‘May I see Seymour’s body? Would you lead me to it? I want to check something. I will do it very discreetly. I promise I am not going to make a scene. I won’t disgrace myself either. I am not in the least squeamish.’
Her large brocade bag stood on the floor beside her feet and she was aware of the Master’s eyes fixing on the orange sleeve that stuck out of it. ‘Oh, this is one of the frock-coats your boys wear,’ she explained amiably.
‘It’s a habit.’
‘Good or bad? Sorry! That was a terrible thing to say. I mean, terrible in the circumstances. The truth is, I simply had to have one. I find inspiration for my dresses in the most unlikely quarters. My ideas come when I least expect them. Are you by any chance familiar with my latest creation? No? It is a dress that is incredibly soft and limp; it looks almost moist. It brings to mind—rather poignantly—the tongue of a dead kitten. Well! That’s precisely what gave me the idea.’
The Master tugged at his beard. ‘Where did you find the habit?’
‘I didn’t find it. A habit isn’t a dog or an umbrella or a one-pound coin. For heaven’s sake, Master, don’t look so disapproving! It creates such tension. There were quite a few of them downstairs, hanging on a rack in the small room, off the hall.’ Bettina made a vague gesture towards the door. ‘Gathering dust. I was certain you wouldn’t mind. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really imagine it would be missed.’
Penelope Tradescant stood looking down at the various objects that had been laid on the desk in her late husband’s room.
‘Snuff-box, monogrammed handkerchief, pocket watch … Yes … This is all, I believe. Oh, the ring’s not here. Where’s the ring, do you know? Seymour’s diamond ring. I don’t think it’s on his finger.’ She cast a quick glance towards the shrouded form that lay on the bed.
‘The ring?’ The Master’s hand went up to his beard. ‘I think Sir Seymour had some problem with his ring. For some reason he—um—he couldn’t wear it. He thought his fingers had become swollen. He said something to that effect last night. The ring should be inside the little porcelain dish over there—on the bedside table.’
‘It is not in the dish.’
‘How very curious. I am sure it was there last night. Goodness. You are perfectly right. It’s not here.’
‘It’s an extremely valuable ring.’ Penelope looked from the Master to the doctor, then towards the steward in the orange habit standing beside the door.