The Curious Incident at Claridge's (4 page)

‘Fairchild? Never heard of him. Kept staring at me through his goggles, then whispered something to the steward who was pushing him. Didn't like it, the way they put their heads together.' Sir Seymour took out the silver box from his pocket. The diamond ring on his little finger flashed in the lamplight.

‘Actually, Dr Fairchild asked what your room number was.' The Master's eyes were on the ring. Rather an intricate design. It must have cost a pretty penny. An air of exclusivity about it. Exclusivity was something the Master was interested in, nay, aspired to. The Wallis ring, Sir Seymour called it. There seemed to be some strange tale attached to it. Did Sir Seymour mean the Duchess of Windsor? ‘I had the idea Dr Fairchild wanted to make friends with you,' he added.

‘I don't need any friends. That chap looks older than the Great Wall of China. It's terribly dispiriting for one to mix with people so much older than oneself. One can almost see—how did it go on?
The skull beneath the skin
. What was that joke Mr Lovell made at dinner? Down with Methuselah! Ha-ha. Frightfully funny. Made me laugh. May I have some water?'

‘Yes, of course.' The Master rose. He opened the highly polished door of a rather ornate cupboard in the corner. ‘Would soda water be all right? Sorry, I think it's my wife,' he said as a ringing sound was heard from his pocket. He produced a mobile phone. ‘
Do
excuse me. Yes, it's her.' There was a moment's pause. ‘Oh, it's only a message. Sorry, Sir Seymour.' The Master poured soda water into a cut-crystal glass. ‘Thank God for mobile phones. Marvellous inventions. Would have been completely cut off without them.'

‘I've got one in my case upstairs, but I never answer it. Twenty-five minutes won't make much difference, I don't think.' Sir Seymour held the blue-and-red capsule between his thumb and forefinger. He grimaced childishly. ‘I won't die, will I?'

‘Of course not.' The Master smiled as he watched Sir Seymour place the capsule in the middle of his tongue. Red healthy tongue, remarkable in one of his age. ‘Twenty-five minutes won't make the slightest difference,' he added reassuringly.

‘Famous last words!' Sir Seymour laughed.

He raised the glass to his lips.

5

Night and Silence

Major Payne waved the printout at Antonia. ‘Here it is. I found it. May
holme
Manor, Dulwich. It's the only one that fits the bill. A retreat for unmarried gentlemen and widowers of noble birth who pass the autumn and winter days of their lives in dignified and comfortable routine, “according to the tradition of the house”. It's got a Master all right—one Wilfred Cowley-Cooper. The place was once known as “Dutton's Retreat”. Quite an interesting history. There's a picture—want to see it?'

The picture showed a placidly beautiful house set in what appeared to be a small park. The photograph had been taken at night. All the windows sparkled like jewels. Like one of those enchanted houses in fairy tales, Antonia thought. There was always some lurking menace in houses like that. ‘It looks at once haunted and haunting,' she said. ‘Or is that the effect of the pale moon? What is it? Elizabethan?'

‘Yes. Built 1632 for the Earl of Sussex, on the site of a Carthusian monastery established in 1380. The monks all wore orange habits with hoods. The will of the founder, Digby Dutton, provided for a hospital for—“such as have been servants to the King's Majesty, who have been misfortunate enough to find themselves in a state of extreme penury or reached a decrepit old age” …'

‘An old gents
'
home …'

‘Of a particularly exclusive kind.'

‘Golden bedpans and walking-frames encrusted with diamonds and rubies?'

‘All male staff. Stewards. The residents, either widowers or bachelors, are known as the “brotherhood”. When you join, you automatically become a “brother”. There is an oath each new brother has to take, that's part of the tradition. It seems they make a huge thing of it. At the moment there are twenty-two brothers living at Mayholme Manor.'

‘So that's where your old boy was going.'

‘Yes. I can reveal now that his name is Sir Seymour Tradescant, eighteenth baronet. A family of great antiquity and distinction. The Tradescants can be traced back to a thirteenth-century Knight Templar. At one time their family homes included Buckingham House, which changed its name to “Palace” only after it was sold to George III.'

‘As grand as that?'

‘Sir John Tradescant, Sir Seymour's father, was in the diplomatic corps. In 1946 he was a member of the British team sent to Nuremberg for the trials. They had to ensure things were done properly. Sir Seymour didn't follow any particular career. He chose to play the old-fashioned squire. I thought he looked the part—put me in mind of those not terribly subtle caricatures that were so popular in the '30s.'

Antonia smiled. ‘Pendulous cheeks, port-wine complexion, knickerbockers, a tortoiseshell-rimmed eyeglass?'

‘Pendulous cheeks and port-wine complexion, but no eyeglass. He wore a blazer.' Payne looked down at the second sheet of printed paper. ‘He was born in 1938, which makes him sixty-nine. Married twice, 1956, Lady Frances Talbot (1939–1991), 2002, Penelope St Loup—no age given.'

‘
Penelope
.'

‘Our fair poisoner, yes. There can't be a mistake. That's the one. We
are
on the right track. Addresses: Half Moon Street, Mayfair and Tradescant Hall, Shropshire. Clubs: Brooks's—'

‘If you meant to poison somebody with a single capsule, you would want to make sure it contained something pretty lethal and fast-acting like cyanide. Death would take place in less than a minute,' Antonia said thoughtfully. ‘But, assuming that that indeed was the case, how
could
she have hoped to get away with it?'

‘Um. Perhaps she felt certain his death would be taken for suicide? Sir Seymour's mien struck me as a melange of moroseness-cum-melancholy. I would never have described him as a “bouncing baronet”.
Did
the type ever exist? Perhaps Sir Seymour does suffer from some depressive illness? Maybe he has already displayed suicidal tendencies and has tried to kill himself? That might have given her the idea.'

‘It's possible …'

‘What would have happened if the substitution hadn't been observed by Jesty? Sir Seymour suddenly keels over and dies halfway through dinner at Mayholme Manor. Or after dinner, as the stewards are handing round the brandy, the liqueurs, the
halva
and the Turkish coffee. So they'll think it's suicide, or else suspicion will fall on Sir Seymour's dinner companions and on the stewards.'

‘Or on the Master? For some reason I want the Master to suffer,' said Antonia.

‘So do I, isn't that interesting? I want him to squirm. I do believe we share a strong anti-authoritarian streak. If the police did manage to trace the poison capsule back to Half Moon Street,' Payne went on, ‘they would probably find a household teeming with suspects—that's what Penelope might be banking on. Sir Seymour may be one of those highly murderable baronets one used to find in detective stories of the well-bred “English” kind. I am sure you could come up with some highly original title?'

‘
Death of a Baronet
?'

‘I came across a Bettina Tradescant, style editor of a small, rather smart magazine called
Dazzle.
There is a picture of her on the internet, which shows her wearing what looks like a dead pheasant on her head and purple lipstick. I wonder if she is a relative. She looks sinister, in an Edith Sitwell kind of way, with a dash of the late Isabella Blow thrown in.'

‘Why did Penelope swap the capsules at Claridge's? Such a public place. Surely she must have had the opportunity to do it at home? Unless she had absolutely no access to her husband's room. Or else it was a last-minute decision,' Antonia mused. ‘Perhaps something happened—some kind of emergency that necessitated Sir Seymour's death? Can you think of a good reason why she should wish him dead?'

‘Well, she is young and beautiful while he is an unattractive old thing. He is terribly rich. When he snuffs it, she bags all the dosh—and she continues calling herself Lady Tradescant. I believe titles still matter to some people.' Payne glanced at his watch. ‘Do let me try to phone Mayholme Manor and see if I could warn Sir Seymour against swallowing the lethal capsule, if he hasn't already done so, that is. I don't mind making a fool of myself. Better safe than sorry.'

‘You don't think you should inform the police?'

‘No. Not yet. If it turned out to be a mare's nest, as it well might, I'd be in trouble. Lady Tradescant could take me to court, you know. I could be charged with intrusion into privacy, libel and God knows what else.'

‘We have this unfortunate thing about uncovering intrigue.' Antonia sighed. ‘We aren't really suited to frequent what is known as “normal society”.'

‘Jolly well put. We despise normal society. We cock a snook at it.'

‘No, we don't. Not really.'

‘We excel ourselves in rather bizarre imaginings,' said Pyane. ‘Bizarre imaginings have become an integral part of our daily existence. Most of our best friends suspect us of snooping on them.'

‘We haven't got any best friends, Hugh.'

‘Well, we've got each other.' Major Payne kissed her. ‘I wonder what Jesty's doing.'

‘Do you suppose he is up to something?'

‘I rather think he might be. He isn't the type to let go, or so everybody says.' Payne walked across to the telephone and lifted the receiver, while consulting the sheet in his hand.

Antonia's heart started beating faster. She was aware of a current of suspense generating itself in the room …

‘There are two numbers given on the Mayholme Manor website—a switchboard and the Master's. This is the switchboard now.' Payne shook his head. ‘Nobody answers … No signal, actually … How curious … Let me try again … No, nothing … Dead silence.'

‘Try the Master.'

There was a pause. ‘How odd—again, no signal.'

‘No signal?'

‘No. Both lines are dead.' Major Payne put down the receiver. ‘Well, that's that. I am sure there is a perfectly innocent reason for it. I'll try again tomorrow morning.'

‘Tomorrow might be too late.' Antonia bit her lip. ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to say that.'

‘To imagine the worst is somehow to guard against it really happening,' Payne said sententiously. ‘Things are hardly ever as bad as you think they will be but often very bad when you anticipate nothing much. Haven't you noticed?'

6

Blackmail

Her phone rang at ten minutes to midnight.

Putting down her glass of whisky, she picked up the receiver.

‘Lady Tradescant?'

‘Speaking.'

‘I sincerely hope you will allow me to call you “Penelope”?'

‘Who is that?'

‘An admirer. My name would mean nothing to you. You don't know me, though our eyes did meet today, for a split second.'

‘I am afraid I don't know what you are talking about.'

‘I am sure you do. You have a lovely voice. I haven't been able to get you out of my mind, you know.'

‘How do you know my name?'

‘I heard your husband address you. Earlier today. This afternoon, to be precise. At Claridge's.'

He heard her draw in her breath sharply. The girlie was losing her poise, eh? ‘You have nothing to fear from me,' he said slowly.

‘I don't know what you mean. How did you find my phone number?'

‘Where there's a will, there's a way.'

‘How did you know that that was my husband?'

Captain Jesty smiled. He had started enjoying his power over her. It acted as an aphrodisiac.
Not
that he needed an aphrodisiac. He reached out for the bottle and poured himself another glass of champagne.

‘Questions, questions. How did I know? Let me see. Well, I made some inquiries. I have my spies at Claridge's. I hope you won't think it boastful of me, but I enjoy a certain popularity, mainly thanks to the generous baksheesh and racing tips I bestow on some of the waiters. It was one of them who carried out some checks for me. A most enterprising little chap. You have a Claridge's account, correct? You have provided an address and a phone number. A highly desirable address, I must say. You enjoy life among the fleshpots? Hello? Are you still there?'

‘I am still here,' she said.

‘You and your husband—who is thirty-six years your senior—have been to Claridge's for tea and dinner a number of times. You are both well known to the staff and, as it transpires, the object of some wide-eyed fascination. People love outrageous age disparities between spouses, since it is invariably linked to big money. Look at the unfortunate Anna Nicole Smith. What else do I know?' Jesty sipped champagne. ‘You are a former
Harper's
model. Your origins are veiled in mystery. You appear to have been to a decent school, but you have always been something of a wild girl. You get bored easily. You have lived in sin with a racing driver, an actor and a footballer—before you bagged the eighteenth baronet.'

‘The waiters couldn't have told you all that.'

‘No, of course not. The waiters, as you so prosaically put it, have their limitations. But they provided me with leads—started me off on my quest. I did my own research after I got back home. These days there is very little one cannot find.'

‘The internet,' she said after a pause.

‘Your maiden name is St Loup—rather Proustian, what? You have some French blood, apparently. Unless you made it all up—to impress the eighteenth baronet? Penelope St Loup—dashed euphonic—dashed memorable. Pictures of you going back to your modelling days are available on the net. In all of them, without exception, you look stunning. As a matter of fact,' Jesty went on, ‘I am looking at one of your pictures at this very moment. I downloaded it, printed it and I intend to have it pinned above my pillow tonight. If you only knew what I'd like to—'

Penelope interrupted. ‘Which of the two are you? The fair-haired one or the one with the moustache?'

‘Now you are talking. I rather like your matter-of-fact tone. I am the one with the moustache. The dashing one.' Jesty frowned. ‘Damned unfortunate that the fair-haired one—I mean, that particular brother officer of mine—turned up when he did. The chap's a major pain.' He laughed at his joke. ‘You didn't get that, did you? No, you couldn't have.'

‘I didn't get what?'

‘Never mind. Even more unfortunate that I told him what I saw you do. Damn. Should have kept my mouth shut.'

‘What exactly did you see me do?'

Jesty's eyes opened wide. ‘Swap the capsules, of course. What else? Poison for medicine, correct?'

‘Aren't you being a little presumptuous?'

‘I don't think so. What else could it have been? Powdered monkey glands? Bicarbonate of soda? You wouldn't still be talking to me if you weren't a little afraid of me. You'd have rung off by now. You'd have threatened me with the police. Or maybe you have started playing some game of your own? Well, I like games.'

She said, ‘You wouldn't believe me if I told you you'd got the wrong end of the stick altogether?'

‘I wouldn't. You looked guilty as hell. But I would very much like to hear your version of events. You have such a lovely voice. I have fallen for you in a bloody big way. I want us to meet. Tonight, if possible? I am not famous for my patience.'

‘N-not tonight.'

Jesty smiled again. The girlie was weakening. ‘Perhaps not. I suppose you are expecting to hear the terrible news any moment? Your husband is dead, must be. Unless he forgot to take the capsule?
That
would be a bore, wouldn't it? You must be on tenterhooks. You poor girl. I will take good care of you, I promise. Tomorrow then, it's
got
to be tomorrow. We could have lunch somewhere smart. I am mad about you.' He poured more champagne into his glass. ‘Don't tell me you would rather wait till after your husband's funeral.'