The Murder Of Gonzago

8

The image was black and white and not very clear. An intermittent jerking movement suggested the recording had been made with a hand-held camera. There was no sound.

A man was seen sitting at a dressing table, in front of a mirror. He was almost bald and his eyes had sinister dark circles round them. He gave a knowing wink at the camera and proceeded to put on a wig, a pair of caterpillar eyebrows, a beard, and, finally, a crown. Then, giving every impression of it being an afterthought, he put on a false nose. As he did so, he stuck out his tongue at the camera.

‘My brother-in-law is quite impossible. Was.’ Felicity paused the video.

‘In that documentary he said he could be himself only when he was somebody else,’ Lady Grylls said.

‘It seems Roderick didn’t want to do that documentary to start with, but then suddenly changed his mind,’ Felicity said. ‘Gerard couldn’t recognize him at first; he hadn’t seen him for so long, you see. Roderick seemed to have become more manic and he kept losing his temper.’

‘That’s what happens if one spends too much time in the sun,’ Lady Grylls said.

‘Apparently he used to pay regular visits to a local witch doctor,’ said Felicity. ‘He was in the habit of taking all sorts of highly dubious potions and powders and things, though they did seem to have had the desired rejuvenating effect. The rumour among the locals was that he’d actually sold his soul to the Devil.’

Lady Grylls gave a reminiscent laugh. ‘He sang “Chattanooga Choo Choo” in duet with his estate agent, but got excessively cross when the poor fellow deigned to walk ahead of him and he tried to punch him on the nose. How he screamed at him. He clearly considered it lèse-majesté. You and he didn’t get on frightfully well, did you, my dear?’

‘Not frightfully well, no. My brother-in-law was an acquired taste and that’s putting it mildly. Well, since he chose to spend most of his time in Grenadin, we hardly ever laid eyes on him.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘About ten years ago. We were invited to Grenadin, but it wasn’t a particularly auspicious occasion. Poor Gerard suffered the most awful mosquito bites. My brother-in-law boasted of having become a crack shot. He was terribly eager to do a William Tell. He asked me to stand in the garden with an apple on my head. He claimed he could fell it with a single shot.’

‘Did you agree to it?’ Payne asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘That’s how Paul Bowles killed his wife… Similar sort of set-up.’

‘You haven’t seen the documentary, Hughie, have you? Oh, but you must,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘For some reason they kept referring to it as a meta-documentary.’

‘Did they?’

‘You look as though you know what that means. I believe Provost recorded it when it was on the box, so I’ll give you the video. Do remind me.’ Lady Grylls turned to their hostess. ‘Let’s see what happens next, my dear, shall we?’

As Felicity pressed Play, the scene changed to a room of a striking art deco design. They saw an arch hung with a shimmering, transparent curtain and double doors made of what Payne imagined was onyx and silver. The enormous torchieres with serpentine curves had been derived, as Payne was to learn later, from Poelzig’s expressionistic columns designed for the foyer of Max Reinhardt’s Grosses Schauspielhaus in 1919.

The room was spacious and accented with circular and semicircular lines and arches placed within arches. The windows were curved like goldfish bowls, there was a rounded fireplace and clustered flowerlike lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling. The camera focused on a chaise longue covered in what looked like camellia blossoms.

‘La Sorcière. Roderick’s house on his island,’ Felicity explained.

A couple of feet behind the chaise longue were french windows with net curtains over them. A middle-aged woman went up to the windows and drew the silk curtains across. She had silver hair, dramatically mascara’d eyes and star-shaped earrings; she was clad in a long dress. At one point she produced a pair of glasses and put them on her nose.

The camera swirled round and several other people came into view. A man and a woman wearing cardboard helmets raised their hands to their foreheads in a military salute. A young woman with long dark hair parted in the middle and a white diaphanous dress curtsied.

Lady Grylls shook her forefinger at the TV screen. ‘I know these people! I’ve seen them. They were at the funeral yesterday! The very same!’

‘Clarissa’s aunt. The Hunters,’ Felicity said.

‘Who is the pretty girl?’ Payne asked.

‘What pretty girl? Do you mean Glover? Her name is Renée Glover.’ Felicity pursed her lips. ‘You think she is pretty?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘What are they supposed to be?’ Lady Grylls asked.

‘Characters out of Shakespeare. That, apparently, was the craze at La Sorcière at the time of Roderick’s death.’

‘Of course. There was something about it in the Mail.’

Major Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger. ‘I imagine Silver Hair is meant to be either Titania or Gertrude, the Helmets Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Miss Glover is Ophelia – or maybe Cordelia.’

A man and a woman were walking at a stately pace towards the chaise longue. They were wearing crowns and richly embroidered robes and were holding hands.

‘The King and the Queen,’ Lady Grylls murmured. ‘Though which king and which queen? Shakespeare is full of kings and queens. I think Roderick is the King… Is Clarissa the Queen?’

Felicity said in a flat voice, ‘That’s my sister-in-law, yes.’

Lord Remnant was heavily bearded and moustachioed; his long hair reached down to his shoulders. His caterpillar eyebrows slanted slightly upwards. Clarissa’s face was white, her lips very dark; she brought to mind some sinister Vampyra – all she needed were fangs, Payne reflected. Her eyes were excessively made up.

The King drew the Queen to himself, brought his heavily bearded face close to hers and kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the cheeks and finally on the lips. The Queen in return stroked the King’s hair.

‘Jolly uncommon for royalty to look so ostentatiously in love, but maybe they did in the old days,’ Lady Grylls observed. ‘Or maybe they are not meant to be British?’

The King yawned and rubbed his eyes. The Queen pointed to the chaise longue.

‘My darling. Do take a nap,’ Lady Grylls said in a funny voice.

The King nodded. He took off his crown and placed it on a little round table. He then reclined on the chaise longue. He lay on his side, folded his arms and shut his eyes. The camera followed the Queen as she tiptoed in an exaggerated manner out of the arched doorway.

Once more the screen went black, then the sleeping figure of the King was seen again, but he was no longer alone. Another man had entered the frame. He was young and handsome and sported a black moustache with waxed-up ends. His head was covered in romantic curls.

In his right hand the man held a tall glass painted black and decorated with what looked like a skull and crossbones. He glanced furtively to the left, and to the right. His eyes then fixed on the crown and he contemplated it for a moment or two.

‘I think I know what this is supposed to be,’ Payne said.

The man stooped over and held the black glass to the King’s ear. For a moment only the man’s back could be seen and the recumbent form was hidden from view.

‘What’s he doing?’ Lady Grylls leant forward.

‘Pouring poison into the King’s ear.’

‘Really? This rings a bell… Hamlet?’

‘Yes. The Murder of Gonzago. The play within the play.’

The King’s body was seen jerking spasmodically upwards. The King’s eyes looked as though they were about to come out of their orbits. His mouth opened in a silent scream. Then he slumped back and lay still.

‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!’ Lady Grylls made the sign of the cross.

The Queen re-entered. She glanced at the King, then at the Poisoner who made a slashing gesture across his throat and smiled. The Queen’s hand went up to her mouth, then she smiled too. She crossed over to the Poisoner and the two embraced. The Poisoner then picked up the crown and placed it on his head. He and the Queen kissed again, then arm in arm they walked up and down the room. They waved royal waves.

‘How terribly interesting. The King is dead, long live the King. Who is the new King?’ Lady Grylls asked.

‘Chap called Sylvester-Sale,’ Felicity Remnant said. ‘Dr Sylvester-Sale.’

‘Look! I have an idea they are no longer acting,’ Lady Grylls said.

Dr Sylvester-Sale and Clarissa Remnant were shown gazing across at Lord Remnant’s body. Lord Remnant’s hand was hanging limply, the fingers touching the floor. Dr Sylvester-Sale went up to the chaise longue and bent over the body. Something in his manner suggested none of this was scripted.

‘No, they are no longer acting,’ said Felicity.

The doctor lifted Lord Remnant’s hand and held it by the wrist, checking the pulse. He then turned round and held up his hand; he was stopping the others from getting close. He said something. Louise Hunter was seen covering her mouth with her hand. Clarissa shook her head as though in disbelief.

‘Is Roderick dead? I mean really dead – is that how he died?’

‘It looks like it,’ Felicity said expressionlessly.

‘Heart attack? That’s what it said in The Times.’

Dr Sylvester-Sale was seen bending over the body, once more concealing it from view. He rose and said something which made Clarissa’s mouth open in a show of incredulity. Clarissa turned towards the camera. She looked cross. She waved her hands. The camera lingered on the bracelet on Clarissa’s right wrist.

Clarissa gesticulated peremptorily. The camera swirled round. Hortense Tilling was seen entering the room. She looked flustered. Basil Hunter’s expression was a mixture of dismay and disbelief. Louise Hunter looked outraged. Renée Glover’s face remained blank.

Clarissa was seen speaking to the cameraman again. There was a movement. The cameraman seemed to be walking towards Hortense Tilling, who looked at once frightened and excited. The camera jerked up and down. They saw the ceiling with its ornate plasterwork and crystal chandelier.

There was a momentary blackout and when the image reappeared, it was upside down.

‘What is going on?’ Lady Grylls asked.

‘The camera has changed hands. I think it’s Clarissa’s aunt who’s got hold of it,’ said Payne. ‘Um. I believe she has been asked to turn it off but she doesn’t seem to know how.’

‘Oh, how tiresome! It’s impossible to work out what they are doing now. No chance of turning the box over and watching it upside down, is there, my dear?’

‘Better not,’ Felicity Remnant said.

‘This is making me feel seasick. No, can’t watch it.’ Lady Grylls turned her head and rested her gaze on a picture of a particularly repulsive pug. ‘Can someone tell me what’s happening?’

‘Miss Glover is walking towards the french windows.’ Payne paused. ‘The Hunters have taken off their helmets. Dr Sylvester-Sale is scowling. Now he is putting the black glass with the skull into his pocket. It looks like an automatic gesture. There is a tall black man with them. He has the puzzled expression of a child. The original cameraman, I imagine.’

Lady Grylls spoke. ‘Roderick is not moving? He is not rising?’

‘No.’

‘So he is dead, really dead?’

‘I believe so. His death seems to have been captured on camera. Yes. Mrs Hunter is now walking towards the french window. She looks enormous-’ Payne broke off. ‘Oh. The screen’s gone black. It’s all over. The aunt seems to have managed to switch the camera off at last.’

Felicity tugged at her pearls. ‘What I am interested in ascertaining is the exact cause of my brother-in-law’s death.’