The Curious Incident at Claridge's (3 page)

4

The House of the Lurking Death

‘I may last another twenty years, Master,' Sir Seymour Tradescant was saying. ‘Or even twenty-five, if I take care. I am not in bad health. Nothing really wrong with me. Heart, liver, blood pressure, all perfectly tickety-boo. If I strike you as a bit off-colour at the moment, it's because of this damned abscess thing, so tiresome. My big toe, would you believe it. Thought it was gout at first, that's why I didn't have my toe seen to sooner. I let it fester. That's how my fool of a doctor put it.'

‘Medical men are not what they used to be,' the Master said with a sigh. ‘My dentist is Chinese. He treats my teeth as though they were Hong Kong.'

‘The abscess was caused by an ingrown nail. Perfectly idiotic, but I might have lost my toe, apparently. At my age it could have been fatal,' Sir Seymour went on. ‘One more day and they might not have been able to save it—they would have had to amputate it or something. Terribly gruesome, I know. Reminds one of the worst excesses of the French revolution. Penelope was not particularly sympathetic, I am afraid.'

‘I am sorry to hear that.'

‘Not at all sympathetic. She insisted it was my own fault. Said I needed to have a pedicure regularly. Hinted that my washing habits weren't up to scratch. Implied that I was mean—that I was saving on soap and hot water. That hurt me. I can't tell you how that hurt me, Master. Pedicures cost the earth, apparently, if one gets the top people to do them.'

Sir Seymour stared ruefully at his left foot. Beside him, propped against the leather armchair, was his ivory-topped cane. Since his arrival he had changed into a plum-coloured smoking jacket, black tie and black velvet shoes with his monogram stitched on the toes in gold braid. The Master, as was his invariable custom, wore a black dinner jacket. Both looked like figures from a bygone age. Dinner over, they were sitting in the Master's study.

‘I couldn't wear a shoe on that foot till yesterday, things were so bad,' Sir Seymour continued. ‘Feared I might end up in a wheelchair. Ghastly swelling.'

‘But you have recovered now?'

‘The swelling's gone down. My foot is back to its natural colour, whatever that is. I am no longer in pain, just the tiniest twinge every now and then. I am taking the last of the antibiotics tonight, thank God. It's been every six hours without fail for the past week. Hate the damned stuff. It seems to disagree with me. I have been getting these awful tummy aches—odd rashes. I get depressed too.' Sir Seymour's lugubrious pale eyes fixed on the bronze inkstand on the Master's desk. ‘That may have nothing to do with the antibiotics, mind.'

The Master asked if Sir Seymour was sure he wouldn't like a nightcap.

‘Would have loved nothing better, my dear fellow, but I am not allowed alcohol, not while I'm still taking antibiotics. I may get a reaction, apparently. May balloon and choke to death, or so my doctor tells me. They always exaggerate, these fellows. Terrible quacks. I worry too much, that's the trouble. I wake up in the middle of the night and I have rather grotesque thoughts apropos of nothing in particular. No prospects except pain and penury on this side of the grave. That sort of idea. At one time, I decided Penelope was plotting to kill me. I keep falling into spells of sudden and morbid anxiety.'

‘The Tradescants are long-lived.'

‘Awfully long-lived, almost indecently so, you may say.'

‘I wouldn't dream of saying so,' the Master said primly.

‘My great-grandfather lived to be a hundred and two. A biblical age, almost. An uncle of mine is still going strong at ninety-seven. Keeps writing letters to
The Times
. Terribly depressing.'

The Master observed that it had been pleasing to see Lady Tradescant looking so well.

‘Oh, Penelope's blooming, blooming. Well, she is
young
. Having a young wife can be a strain, I don't mind telling you, Master. My mistake. Got a bee in my bonnet—wanted a young and beautiful wife.' Sir Seymour shook his head. ‘Who was the fellow that kept calling for more of the food of love? Fellow in Shakespeare. Orsino? Nothing but the best would do for me. That was six years ago. I used to set store by that sort of thing. Well, should have known better.
Eros is perfidious and ambiguous, a cheat and a sorcerer, a mixer of
… Remember that one? How did it go on?'

The Master stroked his pointed silver beard. ‘
The mixer of inflaming potions and hemlock, destroyer of human hearts, sensuous and violent, brother to Thanatos
.'

‘Hemlock, eh? Oh, it's been a terrible day. Absolute calamity. My housekeeper died this morning. That shook me up. I
was
angry with her but I didn't really want her to chuck herself from the top of my house. That was a bit extreme.'

‘From the top of your house? Oh dear!'

‘No one can say for sure what exactly happened
.
No witnesses. Looks like suicide. The police came, of course. Bloody nuisance. Might have been an accident. I'd just sacked her, you see. Mrs Mowbray wasn't a nice woman. Far from it. Vindictive. Had a son called Victor. I didn't like him coming to the house one little bit. Told her off about it hundreds of times. Wonder if he was after Penelope? Then I caught Mrs Mowbray cooking the accounts—that's what did it in the end—the last straw. I'm afraid I lost my temper—shouted—showed her the door—she quibbled over her wages. Didn't strike me as suicidal at all. Tiresome business—tragic too, ultimately.
Not
my fault. No question of me being held responsible in any way.'

‘I should hope not!'

‘You are a good chap, Master. One of the very few who understand me. For once, Penelope took my side. She was most supportive. Usually, when it comes to that sort of thing, she is no more good than a sick headache, but this time she rose to the occasion. She had no illusions about Mrs Mowbray. Penelope can be a sweet girl—but she tends to be demanding and capricious. Always wants something. I try to keep her on a short leash. She's got a budget she needs to stick to and she resents it. She likes to buy new clothes, you see. Not ordinary clothes, good heavens, no. Haute couture. She's a pretty girl and looks good in expensive rags, so these are the only kind of rags she buys. Hangover from her modelling days, I suppose. Such a lot of nonsense. She's a former model, remember.'

‘I do remember.'

‘Penelope craves luxury. She'd be snacking on ground-diamond toasties and bathing in champagne, if I ever lowered my guard. Oh yes. She likes foreign travel—holidays abroad. We've got a house in the South of France, but that's proving too expensive to maintain. She's fond of parties, the theatre, something called “gigs”. I am afraid I can't keep up with her. Well, perhaps I
am
a little set in my ways, which at my age is not entirely to be marvelled at.'

‘You shouldn't blame yourself!'

‘Oh, but I don't. Not in the least. Such nonsense. I feel at peace here. Each time I find myself under your roof, I have the sensation of—having arrived. This place feels like home. A proper sanctuary. I hate Half Moon Street. I feel wretched in Half Moon Street.'

‘I am so sorry.'

Sir Seymour's lower lip trembled slightly. His voice quavered. Penelope had been brusque with him lately. She spent too much time talking to her friends on the phone. Most of his opinions either annoyed her or made her laugh. ‘For example, yesterday I said—what did I say now? No, I can't remember. Never mind. We had a bit of a row this morning. I said I intended to sell the villa in Monte and she said—oh, it was most unpleasant. And to add insult to injury, she then said it was high time I got a hearing aid. Well, that was only an hour before the commotion started—I mean Mrs Mowbray deciding to end it all. Never imagined that class of person ever went in for the final solution, but there you are. A perfectly ghastly day. I do apologize, Master. I have no right to bore you with my jeremiads.'

‘Not at all, Sir Seymour. Not at all. You are an old and valued friend.'

‘It's good to be appreciated. Doesn't happen often these days. Penelope is not the worst, mind. Bettina's gone mad—quite mad. That's my sister, yes—the “fabled fashionista”, heaven preserve us. She lives in Rutland Gate, but she keeps coming over, uninvited, looking like something out of the Chamber of Horrors. Each time she looks
different
, which is jolly disconcerting. Frightens the servants, but does she care? She insists on putting such impossible demands on me—recalling episodes from fifty years ago, things I can't possibly remember having said or done! She enjoys twisting the past and issuing ultimata. She keeps getting something called the “chill”. No idea what it is. You've never met her, have you? Pray you never do. It was she who introduced me to Penelope, you see. Probably did it on purpose, out of sheer spite, as an act of revenge. Then there's Nicky.'

‘Your son Nicholas?'

‘Nicky never forgave me for marrying Penelope. Perhaps he did have a point when he told me I'd live to regret it. That was six years ago. He was quite taken with her himself, mind. I have an idea that she led him on. He's nearly fifty now and hates her—' Sir Seymour broke off. ‘Do you think Penelope's got a lover?'

The Master drew back a little. ‘I—I couldn't possibly say, Sir Seymour.'

‘She is always on the phone, but she stops talking when I happen to enter the room. When I ask her who it was, she says nobody. You can't talk to “nobody”, can you?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, they are all after my money. Nicky can't wait to see me dead and buried. He already envisages himself as the nineteenth baronet. His wife has grandiose plans about renovating Tradescant Hall. Vast wealth is a curse, Master. The title couldn't matter less, but Nicky's set his heart on it.
Sir Nicholas Tradescant, Bart.
He's already got some writing paper with that heading. In gold. Frightfully tasteless.'

‘That was naughty of Sir Nicholas—' The Master gave an awkward titter. ‘Sorry! Such a silly mistake!'

‘One hundred sheets of thick expensive writing paper, waiting in his top desk drawer. Waiting for me to kick the bucket. Don't know why I bothered to have any children. It's not as though I've ever set any value on perpetuation through progeny. Olivia's even worse—that's Nicky's wife. Not much of a marriage, that. I used to feel sorry for him. I am not entirely without a heart, you know. Maybe it is all Olivia's fault. I don't know. Maybe she is the power behind the throne. She's got black eyes, you know.
Come, you spirits, unsex me here
. She's that kind of woman. I am fed up with it all. But I am afraid I must be boring you frightfully, you poor fellow.'

‘Not at all,' the Master said.

‘Wish I were nobody. Then perhaps Penelope would talk to me. Wish I were a pauper. I do mean that, Master. I want to wake up tomorrow morning and find myself in one of those cardboard boxes under Tower Bridge, or on the river bank, looking at the sunrise, feeling free. Being here is the next best thing. Brought tears to my eyes, seeing the old bookstand and the biscuit tin on the bedside table. When will you have the radiator repainted? I hate that sealing-wax kind of red. None of the other radiators at Mayholme Manor are red, are they?'

‘No. I do apologize, Sir Seymour. I promise that by the time you pay us your next visit—'

‘I don't like the idea of leaving and then coming back and then leaving again. I'd rather stay here all the time. D'you know what? I've got a proposition to put to you. I have made up my mind. I intend to leave
everything
I have to this splendid old institution of yours. What do you say to that?'

‘Everything? I am afraid I don't understand.'

‘All my earthly riches, Master. In return for the room I occupy each time I come here. How about that? A fair exchange? The room with the lovely view over the bell tower, the maple tree outside the window and the sundial in the centre of the quad. Such peace—waking up to feathered
débats
outside—wondering if it's nightingales or chaffinches—then the early morning walk down to the pond.
I want to move in here permanently
. I want to join the brotherhood. I know I have to be either a widower or a bachelor to qualify, but surely you could stretch the rules the tiniest bit?'

The Master had turned quite pink above his silver beard. ‘Goodness me. You want to join the brotherhood. This is quite unexpected. An unexpected pleasure. I believe we could—yes—I'd need to put the matter to the rest of the board first, but I don't think there'd be any serious opposition. You are after all one of our chief benefactors—your generous donations have been greatly appreciated.'

‘Don't mention it.'

The Master gave a little cough. ‘But there's bound to be opposition of a different kind, Sir Seymour. I mean—your son—your second wife—your sister—they won't be happy about you joining the brotherhood, will they?'

‘Of course they won't be happy. My sister regards the brotherhood with contempt. They'll all say I've lost my marbles. They'll try to have me certified and locked away. Nicky will probably call in specialists and employ some gilded legal troupe. But don't you worry, Master. They may try to contest the new will, but they won't succeed. Incidentally, I'm thinking of giving up the title too. That'll be one in the eye for Nicky. Think of all that writing paper going to waste!' He laughed, a slightly manic laugh, the Master thought uneasily.

‘You have had a bad day, Sir Seymour. Perhaps things will seem different in the morning, after a good night's sleep.'

‘What's the time? Half past nine? Half an hour to go. Oh what difference would it make? I'm going to take that accursed capsule now. Incidentally, who's the fellow in the wheelchair? He seems to be a new brother.'

‘That's Dr Fairchild. He arrived last week.'