The Curious Incident at Claridge's (8 page)

11

Manoir de mes rêves

It clouded over as he drove along the narrow road, which, if his antiquated map spread out on the seat beside him was to be believed, led to Mayholme Manor. He had got the address from the Mayholme Manor website. How easy everything was nowadays. All one needed to do was to turn on the computer. They had been buying books and CDs and DVDs on Amazon and only the other day a Mark & Spencer van had delivered their shopping to their front door. His aunt, it seemed, had discovered the delights of Amazon too. Her butler had helped her set up her computer and now she spent hours on end in front of it, she informed him. She had phoned over the weekend to say she had managed to find a copy of a book her Scottish governess had read to her back in 1933—long out of print. She had bought it from a private seller for the curious sum of sixteen pence.

He wasn't going to drive into a storm, was he? Everything turning the colour of gun metal. A sinister Valkyrie sky. He should be listening to Wagner, not to Django Reinhardt. What was the name of the piece that was playing?
Manoir de mes rêves
. The manor of my dreams? He hadn't quite decided on his line. Was he a friend of Sir Seymour's, come to say hello? Or was he looking for a suitable retreat for his decrepit old uncle? Or was he, perhaps, writing a book about Mayholme Manor and its history? Mayholme Manor had been a monastery once.

There it was. Massive iron railings with rusticated corner piers topped by eagles—most certainly not Elizabethan—more of an eighteenth-century addition—‘Mayholme Manor ' in big block letters at the top. Squat gate-piers. Sentry boxes. Would there be French horns for visitors who wanted to announce their arrival? Would the porter be clad in a monk's habit?

But no porter was in evidence. The place seemed deserted. The gates gaped open and, after a pause, he drove through. So anyone could enter and exit undeterred …

Payne was driving very slowly now. He saw a mossgrown pyramidal structure on his right. It had an ancient and abandoned air about it—a Victorian ice-house? On his left he caught sight of a Chinese-style pavilion. It sported trelliswork, umbrella'd sages, dragons and bells and, in his humble opinion, seemed better suited to adorn the shores of a Soochow lake. There should be a ditty about it, Payne thought idly.
Dastardly Rhoda rents a pagoda.

The parking. A couple of cars were already there. No police cars and no ambulance either. All seemed to be well. Perhaps, after all, Sir Seymour hadn't died in suspicious circumstances. Payne parked his car beside a battered two-seater the colour of what he believed to be a cedar rose.

Placing the bowler firmly on his head, he made for the main entrance. The manor of my dreams, eh? An exuberant Elizabethan frontispiece. 1570s, at a guess. A bit like old Somerset House in London. A screen of ivy, through which, on a bright day, the sun rays would come in fancy patterns, he imagined—a sight that would no doubt please the more aesthetically inclined residents, or ‘brothers', as they seemed to style themselves. As he went up the flight of steps to the front door, he heard rapid footfalls and laboured breathing. The next moment the door was flung open and nearly hit him in the face.

A woman emerged.

She wore a velvet golf suit in a rusty colour, the trousers exaggeratedly baggy, and a silk shirt of a striking shade of reptilian green. Her hair was short, bobbed and jet-black—it brought to mind silent film actress Louise Brooks. The woman's face was dead-white with make-up, so her age was difficult to guess. Far from young—and ugly as sin. The black hair was too glossy and too perfectly shaped to be real. A wig?

‘Really!' The woman glared at Payne.

‘So sorry,' he murmured, taking off his bowler, though it was she who should have apologized. Her right hand was in a velvet glove embroidered with rosebuds. Cedar roses. Her other hand was bare. She was wearing a ring that appeared to be loose, Payne noticed. She held on to it with her gloved hand.

Something of the bloodhound about her features … Pendulous cheeks … She reminded Payne of somebody.

For a moment her eyes rested speculatively on his bowler, then she pushed past him and stumbled down the steps. She's the owner of the two-seater, he suddenly thought. The next moment several things clicked into place—

‘Miss Tradescant?' Payne called out. ‘It is Miss Bettina Tradescant, isn't it?'

She swung round. ‘Can't stop. Got to dash.' She spoke in a hoarse contralto voice.

‘My name is Payne. I am—um—a friend of your brother's.'

‘A friend of Seymour's?' She stopped short, an incredulous expression on her face.

‘I don't think we have met before—'

‘Did you say “Payne”?'

‘Yes. Major Payne. I believe we are distantly related.'

She took a step towards him. ‘Belinda de Broke married a Jack Payne. You are not—?'

‘That's my mama,' Payne said with a smile.

‘You are Belinda's boy? How lovely. I knew your mama.' Her features softened. ‘Not terribly well, but I remember her. She had
glamour
. Glamour is terribly important, don't you think?'

‘Absolutely. Your brother is still here, isn't he?'

‘You want to see Seymour?' Her hand gripped her loose ring. ‘I am afraid you can't.'

‘Why not?'

She licked her lips. Her tongue was very pale. ‘Nobody is allowed to go anywhere near Seymour's room. He is unwell, or so it is claimed. It's all very hush-hush. He has issued a strict injunction
not
to be disturbed. That's what the bearded fool told me. Complete rot. Chap known as “the Master”. I personally think that Seymour is dead.'

‘Why is that?' Payne asked lightly.

‘That's the reason I came, actually. To check. I find I am frequently misunderstood. Most people are fools, have you noticed? I haven't been able to get down to
any
work today. That's the effect the chill has on me.'

‘The chill?' I am in the presence of an eccentric, he thought.

‘Nag, nag, nag.
Here
.' She touched her bosom. ‘As though I've swallowed an ice-cube that's refusing to melt. Though it starts
here
.' She now touched the back of her head. ‘It's been like that ever since I was a girl. The bane of my life. Each time Seymour had a nosebleed, I had one too. Frightful bore. Funnily enough, it never happened the other way round, if you know what I mean, so people used to suspect me of fibbing.'

‘Is that the twin thing? You and your brother are twins, of course.'

‘I am
so
glad you understand. Your mother was always kind to me. Once I threw myself down the big staircase at Tradescant Hall. I did it quite on purpose. I must have been about thirteen. That's the age a girl becomes a woman.' Bettina sniffed. ‘I was so innocent, so trusting, so full of hope. I was blue all over. I wanted to see if Seymour would get mysterious bruises, the way the cognoscenti claim, but he didn't. Oh, never mind. Fussing like an old hen,
so
annoying. Cluck-cluck-cluck. I mean the Master. Have you ever met the Master of Mayholme Manor?'

‘No. I haven't had the pleasure.'

‘Pleasure doesn't come into it. I am afraid I lost my temper with him. Gloriously garbed, I must say. Looks like somebody who attended the Paris conference in 1918. I can forgive a true original almost
anything.
' Her restless eyes fixed on the bowler in Payne's hands. ‘No, not black. Please,
not
black. You will look good in a
grey
bowler. Have you ever worn a
grey
bowler?'

‘I have. Ages ago. Which one is Sir Seymour's room?'

‘No idea. If I were you I'd go away. You'd be wasting your time.
Abandon hope all ye—
' She broke off. ‘Terrible place. Gives me the creeps. Heaven knows what Seymour saw in it. The only thing I liked was the radiator.
Sealing-wax red
. It's got hold of my imagination. Oh—and the orange habits. Glorious gorgeous orange!' Bettina Tradescant sang out as she walked briskly in the direction of the car park.

Payne entered the flagstoned hall. It felt so chilly that he shivered. There was a musty monastic smell too. One almost expected to see coffers containing old bones. What was wrong with Sir Seymour? Was he really dead? Bettina seemed to think so. Bettina had spoken of her brother
in the past tense
. Twins, eh? As a matter of fact, Bettina Tradescant looked like Sir Seymour in drag. What if—? No—too fanciful for words! He should be ashamed of himself.

The hall was bare apart from a console table made of black marble and what looked like a font. A tall obelisk-like vase containing mauve gladioli stood on the console table. The windows were narrow and had a sucked-in, religious kind of shape, imparting to the whole area the appearance of a Victorian church.

One whole wall was taken up by an ancient frieze showing monks wearing orange habits. The monks were kneeling and they all had ecstatic expressions on their faces. They were holding their hands up in adulation of what looked like a spaceship descending from the sky. The spaceship was bubble-shaped and transparent and inside it stood a figure. Payne stared. Good lord. The chap, if a chap indeed was what he was, had no head. Can't be a spaceship—some aura-like thing, surely? Perhaps there had been a head once but it had been erased by Time?

That old fraud Erich von Däniken would be interested in seeing this, Payne decided. Von Däniken's book—an international bestseller in the '70s, if he remembered correctly—made the claim that Greek gods were in fact extraterrestrial beings who had arrived on the planet Earth thousands of years ago. Von Däniken had referred to the writings of the ancients, including Aristotle, to prove that gods interbred with humans, performed genetic experiments, and bred ‘mythical' creatures, such as centaurs and Cyclops. The oracular site of Delphi was apparently an aircraft refuelling station. Jason's pursuit of the golden fleece was in fact a search for an essential aircraft component.

Payne's thoughts turned once more to Bettina Tradescant's strange goat's eyes, suffering lips and female-impersonator's voice. Bettina claimed to possess the telepathic twin thing. One twin always knows when something awful happens to the other … Parapsychology … Was it all nonsense?

Father Ronald Knox had decreed against twins in his famous decalogue for detective story writing. Rule number ten—
Twins and doubles must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them
. Bettina's relevance to the plot might not go beyond providing the usual exotic obfuscation. Well, this was
not
a detective story and if there was a twin sister, there was a twin sister, and absolutely nothing could be done about it.

‘May I help you, sir?'

Payne turned round. A man in a monk's habit. Early forties, short cropped hair, perfectly ordinary features. One of the stewards. So they did wear monks' habits!

‘Oh, hello. I am a friend of Sir Seymour Tradescant's. Would you be kind enough to direct me to his room?'

‘You will need to talk to the Master first, sir. Would you like me to escort you to the Master's study?'

‘Is Sir Seymour ill?' Payne asked as he followed the steward up a flight of flagstoned steps.

‘Sir Seymour hasn't been feeling very well.'

Did that mean Sir Seymour had been poisoned after all? Sometimes people didn't die, only became ill …

Payne noticed that the hood hanging on the back of the steward's habit was rather large, twice the size of the chap's head. ‘Do you ever put your hood up? If you don't mind me asking.'

‘We rarely put our hoods up outdoors, sir, and
never
indoors,' the steward explained. ‘It would be against the regulations.' His otherwise neutral tone held a touch of asperity.

12

The Bafflement of the Elusive Baronet

‘How very interesting. Most gratifying too, of course—though, if you don't mind me saying so, Major Stratton, I am a little puzzled. Major
Payne
. So sorry. Ha-ha. We used to get regular visits from a Major Stratton at one time. A most remarkable fellow. There have already been
two
histories of Mayholme Manor. I've got them both …' The Master waved his hand towards the carved and highly coloured group of heavy panels, vaguely Burmese in style, which, Payne imagined, concealed bookshelves filled with vellum-bound volumes. Earlier on the Master had referred to this massive freak of fancy as his
petit cosy-corner chinois
.

‘I am certainly familiar with the previous two books.' Payne executed a stiff nod. Before setting off that afternoon he had done some research on the net. ‘One by Lofthouse, the other by Smithers. Both privately published.'

‘Magnificent editions. Gold-embossed. Lavishly illustrated. A joy to handle.'

‘But not to read?' Payne was sitting on what he believed to be a sham Louis XVI canapé in grey painted wood.

‘To read too! Oh. Ha-ha. You have reservations about Lofthouse and Smithers?'

‘
Tout au contraire
. I regard those two books as absolute triumphs of the embalmer's art.'

‘I fear the weather is letting us down, wouldn't you say?'

‘Most decidedly.'

‘I fear there will be a storm. Coffee. Let's have coffee, shall we?' The Master rose. ‘I do hope you will find my coffee no worse than modestly meritorious.'

The Master's study had tall windows, improbably draped with enormous velvet curtains, abundantly tasselled and overlooking the smoothest shaven lawn imaginable. Payne's eyes lingered on its razor-trimmed edges enviously. A showcase lawn. Where did the money come from? Donations from grateful brothers?

A gigantic clock made of dark ebony stood in one corner, its pendulum swinging to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous sound. There was also a Regency armoire, which Payne suspected was only the façade for a well-stocked bar.

The Master poured coffee out of a silver Queen Anne pot. He handed the cup over to his visitor with a ceremonious gesture, then he poured a second one for himself.

‘Sugar? No?'

The Master was dressed in a charcoal-grey frock coat and wore a waistcoat the colour of port wine and a cravat striped red and black. His silver beard ended in a sharp point. His gestures could only be described as ‘courtly'. He looks and sounds as sham as the canapé on which I am sitting, Payne thought. Very much like a character actor playing a part. Modestly meritorious indeed. How long did the fellow take to groom his beard each morning?

‘I always imagined our establishment was of a somewhat esoteric interest,' the Master went on. ‘That's why I can't help being a little surprised. Do you believe you will have anything new to say?'

‘As a matter of fact, I have made a couple of rather curious discoveries. The original name of the frieze in the hall downstairs, for example.' Until quarter of an hour ago Payne had had no idea such a frieze existed.

‘It's already got a name.' An impatient note crept into the Master's voice. ‘
The Vision of St Adolphus
.'

‘That name was given much later. At least a hundred years later. Initially the frieze was called
The Dreadful Holiness of the Groaning Bubble
.' Payne had been a little unsettled by the mad-eyed monks and the headless figure and this now was his revenge.
Reductio ad absurdum
. Make the bloody thing appear as silly as possible. Burst the bloody bubble. ‘I came across it in a thirteenth-century document. Fascinating stuff. Made my hair stand on end. You had no idea?'

‘No. The groaning bubble? Why groaning?'

‘It's a literal translation from Latin.' Payne took a sip of coffee.

‘Bartholomew Lofthouse makes no mention of an earlier name.'

‘I am afraid Lofthouse is not exactly the most reliable of chroniclers. You only need to look at his other books.'

‘I thought his history of Dutton's Retreat was the only book Lofthouse ever wrote.'

‘There are
two others
. Lofthouse wrote them under a pseudonym. Not surprising, since they are both on rather controversial—some would say “unsavoury”—subjects.'

‘Really? I would never have thought it of Lofthouse.' The Master's fingers absently stroked the ornate lid of the little silver box on the desk before him. ‘Have
you
written any other books, Major … Payne?' A note of doubt seemed to have crept into the Master's voice.

‘Isn't that Sir Seymour's snuff-box?' Payne wasn't sure it was the box he had seen at Claridge's, but decided to take a gamble. High time the conversation turned to Sir Seymour.

‘Yes, it is his box. He left it behind last night, after taking his medicine. Must give it back to him. But how did you know? Oh, sorry. You are a friend of Sir Seymour's, aren't you? Travis said something about you wanting to see him. I thought at first that was the reason for your visit.'

‘Partly the reason.' So Sir Seymour had taken the capsule! Payne felt an ice-cold thread run down his spine. ‘I am a friend of Sir Seymour's son's, actually,' he improvised. What was the son's name now? ‘Um. Tradescant was a bit concerned about his father's health and asked me to look him up.'

Good thing he belonged to the officer class where calling one's friend by his surname was still very much the done thing. He wouldn't have been able to get away with it if he had been an accountant, say, or a state school teacher.

‘The family are all rather worried about Sir Seymour's health,' Payne went on. ‘You have met Lady Tradescant, of course?'

‘I have. Lady Tradescant came with Sir Seymour yesterday, which was an exceedingly pleasant surprise. She didn't stay long. I found her most charming. A most
sympathetic
kind of person,' the Master said firmly.

‘What was the capsule for? Tradescant told me but I've forgotten. Was it ulcer? Diabetes?'

‘No, no. Sir Seymour has had an infection.' The Master cleared his throat delicately. ‘His big toe. He has been taking antibiotics.'

‘Antibiotics. Of course. Every eight hours?'

‘Every six hours, I believe. He took the last capsule yesterday evening.'

‘And he is—fine?'

‘I am happy to report that Sir Seymour is no longer in pain.'

‘That's splendid news. Though isn't that what they say when someone dies?'

‘Sir Seymour is not dead.'

‘Tradescant will be so pleased. But then why is Sir Seymour being kept behind such an impenetrable
cordon sanitaire
?'

‘Goodness, Major Payne, whatever gave you that idea?'

‘Sir Seymour seems to be quite inaccessible. His sister was not allowed to see him. Your steward was jolly evasive. He wouldn't divulge Sir Seymour's room number. One could be excused for thinking Sir Seymour's got the plague or cholera or maybe one of those deadly flesh-eating bugs.'

‘No, nothing as serious as that. Flesh-eating bugs! Ha-ha. You seem to be letting your writer's imagination get the better of you. More coffee?'

‘No, thank you.'

‘I think I will treat myself to another cup. I must admit I am fatally drawn to stimulants.' The Master picked up the coffee pot. He held his little finger elegantly crooked. He hummed a tune under his breath.

Was the old fraud playing for time? Payne was suddenly assailed with sinister thoughts.
He is no longer in pain
.

‘Have you seen Seymour since last night?' Payne asked.

‘I have. I saw him at about nine this morning. One of the stewards had reported that Sir Seymour was a bit under the weather. Well, he didn't look particularly bobbish and he complained of a headache and blurred vision. I called Dr Henley—that's our resident doctor,' the Master explained. ‘Dr Henley diagnosed high blood pressure and he gave Sir Seymour an injection. Sir Seymour felt better almost at once, but he asked not to be disturbed. He hadn't had a good night, it seems, so he needed to rest. He said he proposed to spend the day in bed, reading a detective story. He ordered a full English breakfast, which I thought a very good sign.'

‘He refused to see his sister. Bettina seemed put out.'

‘Sir Seymour did not refuse to see his sister. Sir Seymour doesn't know his sister was here. It was I who made the decision. Miss Tradescant is a splendid woman, absolutely splendid, but I am afraid sometimes she is—how shall I put it?'

‘A trifle impetuous? Lacking in wisdom?'

‘I honestly feared Miss Tradescant might say something that would send her brother's blood pressure soaring and bring on a seizure. So I said no. I couldn't risk it. Miss Tradescant, you are probably aware, is given to entertaining some highly unorthodox ideas.'

‘She is convinced that her brother is dead.'

The Master stroked his beard. ‘So she is. I am aware of the fact. Miss Tradescant was in what could only be described as an “occult mood”. She insisted her brother was dead and I said he wasn't, and she said she was sure he was. She then accused me of lying and asked me to show her Sir Seymour's body at once. She said she would call the police and, for some reason, the fire brigade. She had worked herself up into quite a lather. I remained adamant. I couldn't possibly let her upset Sir Seymour.'

‘I see. Incidentally, is your phone out of order? I tried to ring you several times last night and again today, but there was no signal.'

‘The phone? Oh dear, yes! I am so sorry. We've had some major fault. All the lines were down for quite a bit, but, thank God, they've been fixed now.'

‘Well, I should very much like to look around, if I may,' Payne said. ‘I'd like to soak in the atmosphere.'

‘Yes, of course. I will ask one of the stewards to be your guide. Make sure you visit our chapel. It is quite remarkable. Rich in interesting historical associations,' the Master went on. ‘Baden-Powell prayed there once, back in 1899, two months before the Battle of Mafeking, and then Queen Mary in 1941, on the eve of the Battle of Britain. Profumo also came to pray at the chapel in the spring of 1963.'

‘What did
he
hope to win? Christine Keeler?'

‘As it happens, Mr Lovell, our librarian, often includes these three in the quiz we do around Christmas.
Who is the odd man out and why? Profumo, Queen Mary or Baden-Powell?
'

‘I would say Profumo, since he was the only one who, in a manner of speaking, lost his battle?'

‘It isn't a battle question. Ha-ha. The correct answer is Queen Mary, since she is the only one of the three who is not a man. Mr Lovell can be very naughty. He is extremely popular with the brothers. Exceedingly popular. Mr Lovell's
bons mots
are the stuff of legend. I couldn't recommend the chapel more strongly, Major Payne.'

‘I should love to see the chapel.' Payne rose. ‘I'd also like to say hello to Sir Seymour from his son, if I may?'

‘I am afraid Sir Seymour made it absolutely clear he didn't want to be disturbed. Peace is something that is very much taken for granted at Mayholme Manor. Peace and permanency. In fact I can't think of anything else that's been taken for granted more—apart from an unwillingness to eat eels, as Mr Lovell put it. Ha-ha.'

‘Ha-ha. Well, Tradescant would be terribly disappointed if I told him I hadn't been able to talk to his father. You see,' Payne improvised, ‘he is the kind of chap who would worry and imagine things. You have met him of course?'

‘No, I've never had the pleasure.'

‘He might even decide that something dreadful has happened to his father and that you are involved in some kind of
suppressio veri.
He then will come himself!'

‘You think Nicholas Tradescant may decide to pay his father a visit?'

‘I would say it was most likely. His aunt's psychic prevision has had him perturbed.'

‘Goodness me. I don't think Sir Seymour will like that at all. There appears to be a certain—um—
froideur
between Sir Seymour and his son.'

‘Would you describe relations between Sir Seymour and his son as “strained”? Or worse?'

‘No, I wouldn't. We mustn't gossip.
Loose lips sink ships
. That, as it happens, is Mr Lovell's catch-phrase of the moment. Ha-ha. An incorrigible comedian, Mr Lovell. Very well.' The Master rose to his feet with a resigned air. ‘I will take you to Sir Seymour's room, but we must be careful
not
to tire him. Such an oppressive day, isn't it? Wonder if there's going to be a storm.'