The Murder Of Gonzago

21

Should she tell him? No. Not yet.

Maybe never.

What difference would it make if he knew the truth? He wouldn’t tell anyone, would he? Still, things were far from well between them, she was no longer sure of his loyalty.

She didn’t think he loved her any more. Had he ever loved her? He seemed to have stopped finding her attractive. Earlier on his lips had only brushed her cheek. He seemed to be thinking of something else.

Clarissa and Dr Sylvester-Sale were having dinner at the Café Regal. It was he who had booked the table, but why had his phone been engaged for so long? Who had he been talking to? He said there was something wrong with his mobile. He sounded contrite, though she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t all an act. In her experience, good-looking men were invariably accomplished actors.

‘You’re not eating. Aren’t you hungry?’ Sylvester-Sale asked.

‘No, not really.’ She tried to smile.

As she raised her aperitif to her lips, her satin dress rustled. She wore pearls, round her neck and in her earlobes, offsetting the gold of her dress. She also had a tiny brooch, of diamonds and gold, on her left shoulder. When she had asked Syl how she looked, he said she reminded him of the famous usherettes at the Clermont Club. It was universally known that it was only the prettiest girls in London who became usherettes at the Clermont Club, but Clarissa didn’t care much for the idea.

She was overdressed. She looked like a Christmas tree. She should have put on something more restrained – her Liberty smock in pale lavender would have been perfect.

‘You seem thinner. You must eat,’ he said. ‘You will make yourself ill if you don’t.’

‘How nice of you to care about my health.’

‘I am a doctor.’

‘Of course you are, darling. I keep forgetting. Yours is the most humanitarian profession in the world.’

She had ordered sole Waleska. Sylvester-Sale had plumped for chargrilled quail breast and celeriac remoulade, with lots of French fries. Nothing wrong with his appetite, as far as she could see. He was being so annoyingly aloof. No one would have thought they were lovers, looking at them. White wine for her, red for him.

‘Apparently,’ he said, ‘one should never refer to red wine as “red wine” but as “wine”. Rosé, on the other hand, should be called “pink wine”.’

‘Is that so? What about white wine?’

‘White wine can be called “white wine”.’

‘How fascinating.’

‘The place is practically empty,’ he said.

It was the kind of polite conversation a stranger would make.

‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘Dining out is on the decline. The credit crunch has gnawed its way to the giddiest summits of high society.’

‘My brother-in-law intends to write a book entitled The Romance of Restaurants. We met at Mr Saunders’s office earlier on,’ Clarissa explained. ‘I told him I was having dinner at the Café Regal.’

‘You didn’t tell him you were having dinner with me, did you?’

‘No. Don’t worry, darling. Your secret is safe with me. Gerard said the Café Regal was going to feature prominently in his book. He is going to devote a whole chapter to it.’ Clarissa glanced round. ‘I wonder how many of the diners tonight are Freemasons. It seems the Café Regal is a haunt of Freemasons.’

‘Really? They say Freemasons rule the world.’ He didn’t look particularly interested.

‘Apparently there is a gilded room on the second floor. Gerard claims to have seen it. That’s where they hold their hush-hush meetings and cook up various conspiracies. They masquerade as a culinary club of cheerful gourmets. They call themselves Les Bons Frères.’

‘How many books has old Fenwick written?’

‘I don’t know. He’s never been able to get anything published, I don’t think. Well, now he’s got Roderick’s money, things may change. He seemed terribly excited about it.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s contemplating vanity publishing?’

‘I believe he is.’

‘Waste of money.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Yes. Utter waste of money.’

What an uninspiring conversation we are having, Clarissa thought. For the last five minutes she had been trying to will her lover to reach out and lay his hand over hers…

‘Gerard is very keen on founding what he calls a small but exclusive press,’ she said. ‘He did try to get Roderick interested. He kept asking Roderick for funds. Roderick never said no; he strung Gerard along. He enjoyed teasing his brother. Poor Gerard kept writing to him – phoning him – kept leaving messages. I don’t think Roderick ever answered his calls.’

Sylvester-Sale raised the wine glass to his lips. ‘Actually he rang him the day before he died.’

‘Roderick rang Gerard? Are you sure?’

‘Yes. On his mobile.’

‘How terribly peculiar.’

‘We were on the terrace. Your late husband, Basil and I. Your late husband said, I am going to ring my brother now. He then said some truly awful things into the phone. It was terribly embarrassing for us, listening to his side of the conversation. Your late husband was showing off. He kept winking at us. He enjoyed having an audience.’

‘My late husband was the worst exhibitionist who ever lived.’

‘That night at dinner – the night he died. I still can’t believe the things he said.’ Sylvester-Sale shook his head. ‘About the glorious sixties and his escapades – that story about the debs and their jewels! What a cad! Poor you.’ He reached out and put his hand over hers. At long last!

‘It was horrid.’ She shut her eyes. ‘Horrid. In front of everybody! To be told that-’ She broke off. ‘I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. I felt debased. I didn’t know where to look. I truly wished him dead at that moment.’

‘Well, your wish was granted. He died an hour and a half later.’ Sylvester-Sale removed his hand.

‘Syl, there is something I… What if I told you…’

‘If you told me what?’

‘Nothing. Nothing!’ If only I were sure he loved me, I would tell him the truth, she thought. ‘What exactly did Roderick say to Gerard on the phone?’

‘Some horribly personal things. Um. About Gerard’s singular lack of talent and enterprise. He referred to some incident in their childhood. He also asked Gerard to come and murder him.’

‘Murder him?’

‘Yes!’

‘What did he say exactly?’

Sylvester-Sale cleared his throat. ‘Of course, dear boy, most of my earthly riches will be all yours to keep one day, no question about it, but you may have to wait some time – I may live to be a hundred, you know. Unless you kill me?’

She laughed. ‘How spooky! You sound exactly like him!’

‘That would be a solution, yes, most definitely a solution. Why don’t you come over, dear boy? Hop on the next plane and pay us a visit, now why don’t you? Have it out with me? Challenge me to a duel! Show that you are a real Remnant? Well, you know where to find me.’