The Killing of Olga Klimt (21 page)

‘I have. Millions of times.’

‘You do amaze me. But your marriage is in good shape? If you don’t mind my prying?’

‘My marriage is fine. As close to perfection as you’ll ever get in an imperfect world.’

‘That’s splendid.’ Lord Collingwood became wreathed in cigar smoke. ‘Collingwood Castle, yes. My mother tells me the roof’s leaking, the ghillies don’t say much and the dogs keep howling, as though sensing some imminent calamity, but I can’t wait to be reunited with my fishing rod and old Balmoral bonnet! Remember what a Balmoral bonnet looks like, Payne? Mine is festooned with dry-flies and battered old creed. Fond of trout fishing?’

‘Used to be. Haven’t done it for quite some time now.’

‘Nothing like it! Perhaps you could join me at Collingwood when this awful business is over?’ Lord Collingwood glanced at his watch. ‘Must dash, if I’m to speak to someone at Scotland
Yard. Used to know all the chief commissioners at one time. I’ll also have to convey my condolences to Joan’s father, who of course wasn’t –’ Lord Collingwood broke off. He rose to his feet. ‘Not a prospect I relish!’

‘Have you by any chance a phone number for Joan Selwyn’s new young man?’ Major Payne asked. ‘Or his address?’

‘You’d like to speak to him? His name is Billy Selkirk. I haven’t got his number but I learnt he shares a flat in Shepherds Market with a friend of his, a most decent chap called Mortimer, who happens to be the nephew of a great chum of mine.’ Putting on a pair of half-moon glasses, Lord Collingwood produced a notebook and started leafing through it. ‘Here it is – Sieg Mortimer – that’s the chap’s name – a terribly decent young fellow – much admired for his maturity and good sense – good address too –’

He dictated the address to Payne who wrote it down. Both of them rose to their feet at the same time.

‘One more thing Collingwood. What was it you started to say but broke off? You are bound to think me a nosy parker but I can’t stand the idea of loose ends. I am worse than Antonia in that respect. You started saying that Joan’s father was not – what?’

Lord Collingwood looked at him steadily out of his bright china-blue eyes. ‘You really want to know? Well, why not. You are a most trustworthy fellow. He was not her real father, Payne.
I
was.’

‘Joan was your daughter? So that’s what you meant by a “very private kind of wound” …’

‘Yes, Payne. I had no idea but her mother wrote to me about it some time ago. Came as a complete surprise. I was – well, appalled – I mean, delighted.’ Lord Collingwood gave a little smile. ‘It was a shock. I have no children, you know. I was glad to have found a daughter. And now I have lost her.’ He shook his head. ‘Makes everything appear so pointless, doesn’t it?’

‘I am sorry,’ Payne said.

‘I got Ada’s letter a month ago. Ada de Ravigny. She seems to have reverted to her maiden name.’

‘I knew a de Ravigny who was in the diplomatic corps.’

‘Her brother, I believe. Well, Ada was my mistress for quite a while. Years ago. Poor Ada’s in a hospice now. She is dying. Cancer. May be dead by now, I don’t know. Her letter sounds like one of those deathbed outpourings. She never told Joan I was her father. It was up to me to tell her, if I thought it right. That’s what she wrote.’

‘Did you tell Joan?’

‘Afraid not. Never got round to it.’ Lord Collingwood sighed. ‘But one thing I did do. I drew up a draft for a new will. I meant Joanie to have
everything
. All my earthly riches, including Collingwood Castle. I was going to take the draft to my solicitors next week … Now she is dead … The futility of it!’

They collected their coats.

‘Does Lady Collingwood know that Joan is your daughter?’ Payne asked.

‘Deirdre? She is not supposed to know but I have reason to believe she does know, blast her. I strongly suspect that Deirdre’s read Ada’s letter – as well as the draft of the new will. Deirdre has the habit of ransacking my desk whenever the fancy takes her. She thinks I have no idea but I do. She always leaves everything in a mess.’ He sighed. ‘I should have been more careful. I should have changed the lock.’

‘You said it was only the draft of a new will. Who is the main beneficiary according to your current will?’

‘Deirdre of course, blast her, though I am not sure she deserves to be, do you?’ Lord Collingwood put on his black homburg. ‘Good grief, Payne, why are you staring at me like that? You don’t think it was Deirdre who –?’

I clear my throat and say that the knowledge her ladyship has chosen to impart has given me an idea for a different and much more serious motive for murder that could be attributed to Lord Collingwood.

‘Are you implying you’ve got another stellar plot up your sleeve, Bedaux?’

‘More of a nouveau scenario, m’lady. I wonder what you will make of it. A gentleman of noble birth, the scion of a family of great distinction and antiquity, has an affair with his young secretary. He then learns that the girl is actually his daughter by a former mistress. He realises he has had an affair with his own daughter.’

‘Ah, the incest motive. You mean it could be made to look as though Rupert’s feelings of shame were so intense and devastating that he killed his daughter?’

‘That’s what I mean, yes. His mind suffered a lethal aberration which resulted in Lord Collingwood killing his daughter – before taking the honourable way out. A remorseful death. A kind of an
Oedipus Rex
in reverse. What does your ladyship think?’

‘The honourable way out … Yes … I like that … It’s terribly clever … I don’t see why not.’ She suddenly becomes brisk and
business-like, ‘It must be done
before
he gets the idea of changing his will once more. The draft I found in his desk remains just that, a draft. I phoned his solicitor who’s an old flame of mine and asked some probing questions and he assures me the old will still stands, the one in which I am named as Rupert’s principal legatee. But he and I are not on good terms and now that Joan’s dead, he may decide to leave his fortune to – to some gardening society or heaven knows who else! So we must hurry. I can’t bear the thought of being cheated out of what is rightfully mine, Bedaux.’

‘An understandable sentiment, m’lady.’

‘But I do so hate the idea of blood or any kind of mess!’

‘There doesn’t have to be a mess, m’lady.’

‘Nothing too lurid or too sensational please. Can Rupert suffer a broken neck?’

‘Indeed he can, m’lady.’

‘Or take an overdose? He takes some absurd tablets for his Black Dog. He’s a manic depressive.’

‘Indeed he can, m’lady.’

‘I feel rather inspired talking to you, Bedaux. I think that we should meet and work out the details as a matter of some urgency? It would be imprudent to try to do it over the phone. Any objection to a tête-à-tête?’

‘No objection at all.’

She asks if I can come over at once.

I tell her I could be with her in less than an hour.

‘There is a delightful little place just round the corner. A patisserie of a rather exclusive kind. Chez Charlus. It is authentic French. It boasts the best pastry-cook in Europe. It may sound a bit louche, to the cognoscenti, though it is a perfectly respectable place. I think it would be much safer for us to meet on neutral ground.’

It is forty minutes later and we are sitting in Chez Charlus, partaking of a selection of sugary concoctions, which I find I enjoy.

‘Oh who would have thought it would come to this?’ Lady Collingwood sighs wistfully over her cup of jasmine tea. ‘When I married Rupert I didn’t see how anything could possibly go wrong. Rupert was every young widow’s dream. He had all the Bs, you know.’

‘All the bees, m’lady?’

‘Background, breeding, blue blood, bank balance … But he turned out to be a beast … And as they say, the beast must die … There is a novel of that name, isn’t there?’

‘We must prepare the ground for his suicide. Set the wheels in motion, if you’d permit the cliché, m’lady. I believe you said Lord Collingwood talked in his sleep?’

‘He does. He shouts and screams. He is not a well man. He is prey to nightmares. I often hear him through the wall.’

‘That would be perfect. You will say that you heard Lord Collingwood make a confession in his sleep: “Joan, my little girl, what have I done? I had no idea.” Something on those lines.’ Even though all the neighbouring tables are empty and no waiter is within earshot, I continue to speak sotto voce. ‘He will also say that he can’t possibly go on living with himself.’

She twists her face and moans in the manner of a soul tormented by toothache. ‘
Joan, Joan! My little girl! What have I done
?’

‘You don’t have to mimic Lord Collingwood’s voice, m’lady. It is not as though you will ever be expected to impersonate him.’

‘Who will be my “audience”, Bedaux? Not Scotland Yard, I hope?’

‘No, m’lady. There is no question of Scotland Yard being involved at this point. I have been giving the matter some
serious consideration and I think you should approach Antonia Darcy, m’lady. In my opinion, Antonia Darcy will make the perfect witness. She is a detective-story writer and, according to one critic, she displays a fondness for “outlandish premises”. I came across the phrase on the Internet. There is a great deal about her on the Internet. I am sure she’d want to listen to you. You said you knew her?’

‘I only know her husband. How I wish I could have been married to someone like Hugh Payne! Rupert went on about how happily married Hugh and Antonia were. Their marriage seems to have been made in heaven, with angels as witnesses and St Peter as best man.’

‘Do you think you could engineer a meeting with Antonia Darcy, m’lady?’

Lady Collingwood takes a delicate bite of a millefeuille, which is also known as the Napoleon of pastries and says, ‘I’ll do my best. I consider myself a good actress, you know. I excel at charades. Writers as a rule tend to be impractical and fanciful, don’t they? They’d believe things ordinary mortals wouldn’t. Six impossible things before breakfast and so on. Detective-story writers, someone said, are the worst. Their cleverness is of a particularly synthetic kind.’

‘That strikes me as a fair assessment, m’lady. It of course applies exclusively to the purveyors of the more old-fashioned type of whodunit.’

‘Of which Antonia Darcy is one!’

I glance around, at the purple peacock-patterned wallpaper, lotus-shaped tables and gilded chandeliers of Chez Charlus, then I watch Lady Collingwood swallow a tablet, which she informs me is one of her ‘little Aconites’. She says it has no taste and is perfectly harmless. She never suffers any side effects. She might have been taking an aspirin, really. Then she swallows a
second
Aconite.

Suddenly I am filled with misgivings. My ‘stellar plot’ is a bit on the overcomplicated side. I have also remembered the way Antonia Darcy stood at the top of the stairs at the Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School looking down at me …

I clear my throat. ‘May I suggest that you exercise caution, m’lady? Please, do
not
underestimate Antonia Darcy.’

It was some time after two in the afternoon that Antonia received a phone call from Lady Collingwood.

‘I don’t think we have ever been properly introduced, Antonia, but I’ve been
dying
to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. I don’t think you were at the Peruvian embassy bash, were you? No, I thought not. I would have remembered. Hugh, of course, I remember vividly. I tend to think of Hugh as of one of the most remarkable men of his generation.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘I most certainly do! Yes! But I need to thank you first. I’m so terribly grateful to both of you for what you did for Charlie the other night. That meant a lot to me. Do you think we could meet for coffee – or a drink? Would that be at all possible? It would give me tremendous pleasure.’

‘Yes, of course. When?’ Antonia was curious about Lady Collingwood.

‘In the next hour or so? Or is that too soon? You’ll probably think me an awful bore but the fact is – all right, I’ll put my cards on the table. The fact is I am at my wits’ end, Antonia. I am absolutely frantic. I’ve been feeling terribly apprehensive. I need to consult you about something –
badly
.
It’s extremely important. It concerns poor Joan – Charlie’s former inamorata. You see, something happened – there’s been a development, at least I think of it as a development.’

‘What sort of development?’

‘I can’t talk about it over the phone. It’s a very delicate matter – rather distasteful too – I may be completely wrong of course, in fact I hope I am wrong, but, you see,
something happened
– it concerns Joan and Rupert, my husband –’ At this point Lady Collingwood became quite breathless and she started speaking very fast. ‘A second opinion from someone like you would be most welcome. You have more than proved your credentials. I hold you in the highest regard, Antonia. I think you may be able to advise me. I haven’t talked about it to anybody else –’

They arranged to meet at the cafe in Liberty’s, of which Lady Collingwood said she had fond memories.

‘I am sure I will recognise you,’ Lady Collingwood said. ‘I’ve managed to get hold of one of your books. Your photo is on the back flap.’

‘I am afraid that looks nothing like me,’ Antonia said.

‘I never look right in photos either,’ Lady Collingwood said. ‘I am always taken for someone else. That’s what people tell me. Sometimes I wonder if I lack reliable personal identity … I am sure I will recognise you.’

Lady Collingwood held out her left hand in a jet-black glove. She sported an indigo-coloured hat of the pillbox variety and a little tailored black jacket that managed to be at once sombre and severe, an effect somewhat spoilt by a provocatively plunging neckline and her preternaturally high heels. Lady Collingwood’s hair was a curious silver-brown shade that reminded Antonia of the underwings of a
moth. Her face was carefully made-up and she was wearing a very pale mauve lipstick. Her age was impossible to guess. Her mascara-ed eyes, Antonia noticed, did not quite focus.