The Curious Incident at Claridge's (6 page)

‘It was dreadful,' the blonde girl agreed. ‘No class. Never again.'

Never again
, Olivia Tradescant thought. Never again shall I humiliate myself ringing up White's and asking to speak to him. The cheating bastard. Did he really imagine he had managed to deceive her? She knew very well the explanation she had been given as to why Nicholas couldn't come to the phone was a fabrication. Did he bribe people to tell her tales? How sordid. Stooping so low. He claimed he had broken his mobile and was still waiting for a replacement. That was a lie, of course. Did he think she was a fool?

Where
was
he? Who was he with? Well, she didn't want to know, though she could very well guess. That phone call. A young person's voice asking rather perkily to speak to ‘Nicky'. An extremely common voice. The exchange had given Olivia such a frightful headache, she'd had to spend two hours lying down in her bedroom. Some girl. At least it hadn't been a
boy
. Thank God for small mercies. Olivia gave a mirthless laugh. The next moment her eyes filled with tears. She pressed her handkerchief against her lips.

Olivia was sitting in bed, a book across her lap. It was the latest P.D. James; however, she hadn't read a single sentence since she had opened it. She felt exhausted but sleep was out of the question. Perhaps if she were to start reading, she might be able to go to sleep? That was the effect P.D. James often had on her.

Olivia was at the end of her tether. Nicholas was becoming quite impossible. He didn't even pretend to like her. He treated her abysmally. What was it he said about the garden party at Fane Park, which she had actually quite enjoyed?
Two ghastly hours of sheer banality, during which I heard not one single remark worthy of remembrance
. Olivia felt certain he said these things on purpose, to upset her. She pressed her handkerchief against her lips once more. If perhaps they had had children, things might have been different?

Nicholas found himself at a loose end too often, that was the trouble. His life lacked purpose and direction. Now, if they were in the country
permanently
, if they lived at Tradescant Hall and Nicholas had a position to maintain, things might be different.
Yes
. It would be an entirely different kettle of fish. Nicholas would be kept busy. He wouldn't like it, but he would soon enough accept his various responsibilities.

Nicholas had a sense of duty, she must give him that. He wouldn't be able to keep rushing to London all the time, no matter what delights awaited him there. (Olivia's Roman nose wrinkled fastidiously.) Besides, he would soon be fifty. One didn't expect the calls of the flesh to continue for much longer, though of course there was no guarantee—men were different from women in that respect—look at her father-in-law, making a fool of himself in his sixties marrying that girl! Still, she felt confident that once her husband became ‘Sir Nicholas Tradescant', things would change, gradually, if not overnight … When would that be, though?

Olivia looked at the clock as though in anticipation of an answer. Twenty to one. Divorce was not something she was prepared to consider. No, divorce was most certainly
not
on her agenda. But her father-in-law might live to be a hundred. Tradescants were notoriously long-lived. I wish he were dead, she thought. Oddly enough, it was her father-in-law's housekeeper who had died that morning. Mrs Melton—some such name. (Olivia could never remember the names of servants.) The woman seemed to have killed herself. Mrs Mowbray, that was it. Her father-in-law had made a complete recovery, or so she'd been given to understand … He would never kill himself … Never … Could he perhaps be …
assisted
? A death could be made to look like suicide …

Olivia Tradescant must have dozed off because the next moment she heard herself say, ‘It wouldn't really matter. He never seems frightfully happy, so it would be an act of kindness, helping him out of his misery.'

She appeared to be talking to an accomplice of some sort, a shadowy figure whose face she couldn't see.

8

The Rendezvous

The girlie had said yes in the end, as he had been sure she would. She didn't want trouble. Of course she didn't. She knew perfectly well which side of her bread was buttered. She was no fool. She knew what would happen if she tried to be difficult, if she refused to meet him. She knew that all he needed to do was pick up the phone and ring Scotland Yard. The poisoning of Sir Seymour Tradescant, with his great wealth and links to royalty, would be front-page news and the police would certainly listen to what he had so say. She was well aware that he could provide the police with the kind of detail that would leave little doubt that he was a plausible eyewitness.

He could tell the police the exact time Penelope and the pantaloon—Sir Seymour—had been at Claridge's. He could describe the silver box. He could tell them about the reference to Maybrick Manor—or something very similar—and to the ‘Master'—about the request for a cab too. When the police did check with Claridge's, his story would be corroborated by the waiters and the maître d' … Payne too would be able to testify to the terrified expression on Penelope's face … She looks a picture of guilt, Payne had said … Payne looked and sounded trustworthy … Payne would make a perfect witness …
Yes
.

No, the girlie couldn't risk it.

Jesty went on examining his reflection in the mirror. He opened his eyes wide, then narrowed them. He bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. He gave himself a wink. He looked good, but then he always looked good. He smelled good too. This new aftershave was quite something. He regarded his moustache critically. Not exactly what he expected—well, not yet—he needed to be patient. Moustaches were funny things. Must phone Xandra, he suddenly remembered. Must tell her I couldn't see her today. Couldn't see her ever again, perhaps. She would be terribly disappointed of course—nay, inconsolable. He smiled. He enjoyed being pined after. He adored being adored. He rather liked the idea of breaking hearts too.

The death of Sir Seymour Tradescant was yet to be announced. Jesty had got up early and bought all the morning papers, starting with the tabloids; he had also glanced at the news online, but there was nothing about it. The only deaths the
Mirror
announced were a tragic accident (family in Fife perishing in fire) and a suspected suicide (woman chucking herself from top of house in Mayfair). Nothing on the box or the radio either.

Curious. Perhaps it was too soon? Perhaps the Tradescant family were managing to keep Sir Seymour's unnatural end out of the news. If you had money and influence you could do that sort of thing, he imagined, though they couldn't conceal the death
indefinitely
. Could the police have decided not to release any information while they were conducting their investigation? Maybe it would be in the later edition of the
Evening Standard.

What was it the girlie had said? Something about him ‘getting the wrong end of the stick'? What the devil did she mean by that? She was clearly trying to wriggle out of it. The wrong end of the stick my foot, Jesty thought. Could his eyes have deceived him? No. Of course not. Out of the question. The girlie swapped the capsules all right. What else if not poison could there have been inside the capsule? The fact that she had agreed to a rendezvous was as good an admission of guilt as any.

He could have saved the pantaloon's life, he supposed. He could have dashed out—caught up with them before they reached the exit—tapped the pantaloon on the shoulder and advised him not to take the capsule if he wished to remain in good health—
flush it down the loo, old boy, or better, have it analysed by one of those toxicologist fellows.

Why hadn't he done it? Why hadn't he run after the pantaloon? Had he feared making a fool of himself? No, that was not the reason. He hadn't warned the pantaloon because—if he had to be perfectly honest—because he'd
wanted
the pantaloon to swallow the poison and die … Yes … He'd wished the pantaloon poisoned, so that he, Jesty, could have the girlie to himself, at his mercy. To do with her as he jolly well pleased. He'd envisaged establishing some sort of a hold over her. How curious. Jesty frowned. Did that mean then that he'd known, instinctively known, even at that early stage that the pantaloon was the girlie's aged husband? Yes. He seemed to have a sixth sense about that sort of thing.

Jesty's hand went up to his moustache. He had made love to all sorts of women—from barmaids to baronesses—but never before to a poisoner. Or if he had, he wasn't aware of the fact. The idea of making love to a poisoner was oddly titillating. He licked his lips. Was the girlie likely to try the same trick on him? Slip something into his drink—attempt to eliminate the witness, eh? That was said to have been Lucrezia Borgia's favourite party trick. Jesty smiled. Could he possibly be in
danger
? Well, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

He would watch her like the proverbial hawk.

Io son colei che ognuno al mondo brama …

The line popped into his head the moment he set eyes on her across the dining hall. He had little Italian but he knew how it translated. ‘I am she whom everyone in the world longs for.' That, as it happened, had been the inscription below an etching he had seen once during a holiday in Venice, inside some cathedral or other. What was the etching called?
An Allegory of Fame.
Something on those lines.

‘The lady at the corner table is expecting me. I booked the table this morning,' he told the waiter, his eyes on Penelope Tradescant.

‘What name?'

‘Jesty.'

‘Captain Jesty? For one o'clock? Of course. This way, sir.'

With its grand sweeping curving staircase and illuminated skylight running the complete length of the restaurant, Quaglino's had an air of romance about it, also of the theatre. Appropriate on both counts, Jesty thought. He had no doubt that the girlie was a good actress.

The etching he had seen in Venice showed an extremely enticing woman, a proper tigress, who, he assumed, was Fame, flanked by two other figures: an insipid-looking angel, blowing a trumpet and holding a wreath while expertly standing on a sphere, and what looked like a lascivious satyr who was stretching his greedy paws out towards Fame's breasts. Oddly enough Fame was not gazing at the angel, the representation of all that was good and pure and noble and so on, as one might have expected her to, but towards the satyr, the symbol of evil. Was it possible that Fame was enamoured of the satyr? Jesty felt encouraged, thinking about it.

Penelope Tradescant's light brown hair fell in a gleaming wave down to her shoulders, her eyes were cosmetically enlarged and darkened, her Chanel suit was a sharp, animated green, the lapels a striking deep kind of red that brought to mind morello cherries, her perfectly shaped mouth a lighter shade of the same colour. The faintly flushed skin of her face wasn't just peachy, it looked softer than velvet. Jesty was sure it would feel soft to the touch too. He had been with some very beautiful women in his time, but nothing like this one. What would it be like to run one's forefinger down her cheek and trace her lips?

She had clearly taken the trouble. That was very interesting. She hadn't been exactly forthcoming on the phone, so why had she taken the trouble now? Well, wishful thinking aside, it seemed she was prepared to play ball. She
wanted
him to fancy her. Or, rather, she meant him to fancy her even more. She had made herself irresistibly attractive. She was trying to mollify him.
Whatever you say—anything—please, don't tell the police
—

She was ready to give herself to him.

‘Lady Tradescant,' he said as he stood stiffly beside the table.

Damn. He had meant to address her less formally, as ‘Penelope'. Too late now.

‘Captain Jesty.'

‘Hope you haven't been waiting long?' His voice, he noticed with astonishment, sounded different, not like his voice at all. His throat felt extremely dry. How ridiculous his name sounded on her lips—why hadn't he noticed it before?

‘Not at all. Five minutes at the most. I like to arrive early. Won't you sit down?'

She looked calm and composed—serene—ever so slightly bored, perhaps. She appeared to be taking control of the situation. He had envisaged her looking tense, nervous, on edge. He hadn't expected her to sit smiling graciously at him. He had imagined she'd be casting furtive glances around, that she'd be worried lest she be seen by someone who knew her or her husband, but no—her eyes met his levelly. Rum, to say the least. He was not sure he liked it.

It didn't seem as though she had been called to identify her dead husband's body. She most certainly did not look as though she had been up since the small hours of the morning, paying visits to the mortuary, calling her solicitor, answering questions from the police. She didn't have a recently widowed air about her. Not a scrap of black on her. Had she used some untraceable poison? Did such poisons exist? Or maybe Sir Seymour's death hadn't been discovered yet? Jesty glanced at his watch. There was also the possibility that the bloody pantaloon had forgotten to take the capsule. Which meant he was still alive. What was she doing here then, if that indeed were the case?

He sat down. He was aware of his heart racing. She seemed to expect him to start the ball rolling, but he felt tongue-tied. That was unlike him. He had always been at ease with the fair sex, man of the world par excellence, it didn't matter whether he was in the company of countesses or call-girls, he'd had them all, he never lost his poise—

‘Lovely colour,' he heard himself say. ‘I mean your lapels. Damned attractive. A curious shade of red. Not exactly red, is it?' At once he felt like kicking himself. Man of the world? Gabbling like some gauche schoolboy!

‘It's called “magenta”. Did you know that Napoleon III invented the colour magenta from the mixture of mud and blood on the battlefield of that name?' She smiled. ‘As a military man, you must be familiar with the battle of Magenta?'

‘Magenta. Yes. To be sure.' Jesty had only the vaguest recollection of having read about the battle at Magenta. ‘Blood and mud, did you say?'

‘Blood and mud. You wouldn't think it, would you? It is hard to associate a smooth rich colour like this with filth and violence.' She stroked her lapels with her hand.

He swallowed. Such a lovely hand, like everything else about her. Filth and violence. The last thing one would have associated with her. She was perfection personified. She was a goddess. How could he have ever thought of her as a ‘girlie'? His eyes remained fixed on her lips—strayed down to her hands—then back to her lips. He wondered if he was falling in love with her …

‘Are you ready to order? Madam? Sir?' The waiter was standing beside their table, very correct, bending slightly from the waist.

‘Yes, of course. What would you like to have?' Jesty asked.

‘They have king prawns
al forno
,' he heard her murmur over the menu.

Later Jesty was to tell Payne that he had absolutely no recollection of what they had had to eat or drink. He had chosen something with lots of vodka in it for himself, to give himself courage, that much he remembered. He'd hardly eaten anything, in fact. It had never happened to him before, that sort of thing. He believed he was in love with her, yes. Head over heels.

Absurd, he thought defiantly. Tommy rot. Absolute rubbish. He'd never been in love, never. Not even in his adolescence. He had been tormented by desire, lust he was jolly well familiar with, but what he felt now was—well, it was something completely different, dammit. A fluttering in his stomach—a great tension in his chest—the ridiculous urge to prostrate himself at her feet—
tendresse
. Was that what
tendresse
felt like? So far he'd only heard such sensations described; he'd never experienced them at first hand. He'd always despised chaps who went on about being head over heels in love with some girlie.

All I want is to get her between the sheets, Jesty reminded himself.

No—not true—he wanted more than that.
Much
more. I want to spend the rest of my life with her, he thought, appalled.

Jesty was experiencing an odd sense of dislocation. It felt as though there were two people inside him. Him—and, well, bloody
not
-him. If such a thing were possible. She's bewitched me, he thought in a sudden panic. I am under Penelope's spell. I am her slave for life. He made a desperate effort to pull himself together.

‘Such a warm day,' Penelope Tradescant said. ‘Much warmer than yesterday, wouldn't you say?'

‘Yes. You are absolutely right.'

‘Have you come a long way, Captain Jesty?'

‘Albany.'

‘That's not too far.'

‘Not too far, no.'

‘Albany or
the
Albany?'

‘Both are permissible. I prefer Albany. The Albany sounds too much like a public house.'

‘It does. How funny. You'll never believe this, but I have taken quite a fancy to the waiters. Look at them! Sombre, attentive and perfectly charming.' She smiled. ‘Like—like those Florentines Dante meets in Purgatory.'

Her expression, he imagined, was ironic but not unfriendly. Once more he glanced down at her hand. He wanted to reach out and take hold of it in his but didn't dare. She was looking at him in a quizzical manner now.

He had the idea she was assessing him—appraising him. He was put in mind of those princesses in fairy tales who set their suitor some impossible task. I'd do anything for her, he thought.
Anything.

‘Have you been to Italy, Captain Jesty?'

‘I have. To Rome and to Venice. Also to Tuscany. A bloody marvellous place, Tuscany.'

‘We have a villa in the South of France but I try to go to Italy whenever I can.'

‘Do you? Italy is jolly amazing.'