The Murder Of Gonzago

26

‘Hello? Clarissa? It’s Peter Quin speaking.’

There was silence on the line and he thought they had been cut off, but then he heard her catch her breath, so he smiled and said, ‘Peter Quin’ again, with greater emphasis, then went on to greet her with courteous formality and ask after her health.

He wanted to know how things had been since the funeral. Had she been coping well with her widowed state? Was she feeling lonely? Was she feeling forlorn? She wouldn’t go so far as to describe herself as ‘inconsolable’, would she?

At the sound of his voice Clarissa’s hand had gone up to her mouth. ‘Where – where are you?’ Her voice sounded incredibly hoarse, as though she had suddenly developed a sore throat.

‘Sharp, inquiring and purposeful as ever. No time for small talk, eh? You seem to have embraced the hyperactive spirit of the age, my dear… I don’t suppose you have given the matter of the memorial service any serious consideration, have you?’

‘What memorial service?’

‘Lord Remnant’s memorial service. The éloges funèbres are always the same and so tiresomely fulsome. If you’ve heard one sanctimonious, mock-sorrowful eulogy, you’ve heard them all. No one is likely to say what they really think, are they?’

‘What – what do you mean?’

‘No one is going to say that the late Lord Remnant will be remembered mainly for his monstrous manners, his terrible temper and his flair for inflicting discomfort. There won’t be a single reference to the fact that when his death was announced, the whole island of Grenadin erupted in wildest jubilation, will there?’

‘You aren’t on Grenadin, are you?’

‘No, of course not. On reflection, a memorial service may not be such a good idea. If you really miss someone,’ he went on, ‘you would be better off doing something you both enjoyed doing together, which is unlikely to mean, except in the most bizarre cases, standing around in a draughty church, wearing black and singing hymns.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In London. The Ritz is not, alas, as it used to be. London is not what it used to be. England is not what it used to be.’ He sighed deeply. ‘To think that once we had an empire, that we ruled the waves and so on, and now we have degenerated into a provincial, polyester sort of place.’

‘Did you have a good flight?’ She had secretly hoped the plane had crashed, that he had perished.

‘A good flight? Are you trying to be clever, my darling? Wit has never been your strongest suit, you know. But do tell me, how are things? How is life at the castle? Does good old Remnant still stand? Smothered in mists, as usual? Are there daffodils and crocuses in the garden?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘You don’t consider yourself a prisoner of the vast ancestral barracks? I am prepared to bet you find cosiness unattainable? I want the truth – you must tell me the truth!’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Remnant’s cold, isn’t it? I vividly remember how on one memorable occasion you made the journey between your bedroom and the dining room wearing a fur coat, to escape pneumonia, you said, which I thought a perfectly charming kind of explanation. The feel of that fur coat drove me mad…’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘You sound as though you are in a state of narcosis.’

‘I am not in a state of narcosis.’

‘No need to be defensive, Clarissa. Your secret is safe with me. Safe as houses. You know it’s not the kind of thing I disapprove of. Better ersatz happiness than no happiness, my darling. I want you to be happy… You did what I asked?’

‘Yes.’

‘You followed my instructions to the letter? You got rid of Tradewell and all the other flunkeys and lackeys?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are all alone at Remnant? Good girl. You know how much I value submission. I apportion you extra Brownie points. So no trouble of any sort? You haven’t attracted the attention of agents provocateurs? Any police officers? Any snoopers – any well-meaning busybodies?’

‘No. No one.’

‘Splendid. You haven’t had your fancy boy to stay yet? No? Splendid, absolutely splendid news. I suppose you’ve grown out of him, which doesn’t surprise me at all. He was unworthy of you. That film now. I hope you destroyed it? I said burn it, didn’t I? It shouldn’t have been made in the first place. It was your idea, my darling. Your rather idiotic idea, I should say.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Only the most conventional kind of brain would come up with an idea like that. It is almost as though you wanted me to be caught!… No, of course not. That was a joke. A little light relief. Oh well, too late to fuss and fret now. What is it they say? No day is so dead as the day before yesterday… You didn’t forget to have the film destroyed, did you?’

‘I didn’t forget,’ Clarissa lied after a moment’s pause. ‘The film’s been destroyed.’

He would have been furious if she had told him she had no idea where the film was. The film had been the last thing on her mind that night. She had asked Aunt Hortense to put the camera away. She hadn’t the foggiest what had become of the film.

‘You burnt it? You let it be consumed by fire? Good girl,’ she heard him say. ‘I believe I have been misjudging you, my darling, for which I humbly apologize… I have a confession to make.’

‘What confession?’ She was filled with foreboding.

‘It concerns our reunion,’ he said solemnly. ‘I find myself looking forward to our reunion with ardour and tendresse. You will indulge me, won’t you, my darling? I want you to wear one of your fur coats. Mink… against… naked skin?’