What a Carve Up! (60 page)

Michael thought this a most dramatic announcement, but the others evinced no particular interest. It was finally Dorothy, seated nearest to the door, who got up and said: ‘Better have a word with him, I suppose.’

Michael followed her into the hall, where they were met by Mark, coming down the Great Staircase.

‘What’s all this about, then?’ he said.

A thickly bearded, beetle-browed figure of indeterminate age, his policeman’s uniform soaked through with the rain, introduced himself as Sergeant Kendall of the village constabulary.

‘By crimes!’ he exclaimed, his local accent almost impenetrable to Michael’s ear. ‘It’s a night when we’d all want to be tucked up safely at home, and no business to take us out of doors.’

‘What can we do for you, Sergeant?’ Dorothy asked.

‘Well, I’ve no wish to alarm you, Madam,’ the policeman said, ‘but I thought it best you were warned.’

‘Warned? About what?’

‘You have a Miss Tabitha Winshaw staying with you tonight, I believe.’

‘We do, yes. Is there any harm in that?’

‘Well you know, I suppose, that at the … hospital where Miss Winshaw usually resides, a number of highly dangerous cases – mental patients, you understand – are also held, under conditions of absolute security.’

‘What of it?’

‘It seems there was a break-out this afternoon, and one of these patients escaped – a murderous cut-throat, no less: a killer without mercy or remorse. By crimes! The life of the man unlucky enough to cross his path on a night like this would not be worth an hour’s purchase!’

‘But surely, Sergeant, the Institute lies more than twenty miles away. This incident, distressing though it may be, can hardly concern us.’

‘I’m very much afraid that it does. You see, the vehicle of his escape, we believe, was the very same car which brought Miss Winshaw here tonight. The cunning fellow must have concealed himself in the boot. Which means, in all probability, that he’s still somewhere hereabouts. He can’t have got far, in this weather.’

‘Let me get this straight, Sergeant,’ said Mark Winshaw. ‘Are you telling us, in effect, that there’s a homicidal maniac at loose in the grounds?’

‘That’s about the size of it, sir.’

‘And how would you advise that we adapt ourselves to this regrettable state of affairs?’

‘Well, there’s no need to panic, sir. That would be my first advice. Don’t panic, whatever you do. Simply take the precaution of locking all the doors to the house – bolt them, too, if you can – set a few dogs out to roam the gardens, fortify yourselves with whatever guns and firearms you happen to have about the place, and make sure there’s a light burning in every room. But whatever you do, don’t panic. These creatures can sense fear, you know. They can smell it.’ Having thus reassured them, he set his cap firmly on his head and made for the door. ‘I’d better be getting along, now, if you don’t mind. My colleague’s waiting for me out in the car; and we’ve several more houses to visit tonight.’

After seeing him out – and letting in a torrent of rain and swirling leaves in the process – Mark, Dorothy and Michael returned to the dining room to inform the others of this extraordinary news.

‘Well, that just about puts the tin lid on a delightful evening,’ said Hilary. ‘Now we get to spend the night here with Norman Bates for company, do we?’

‘There might, even now, be time to leave,’ Mr Sloane murmured, ‘if anyone cares to try it.’

‘I may well take you up on that,’ said Dorothy.

‘I can’t believe that one of my neighbours would ever do such nasty things,’ said Tabitha, half to herself. ‘They all seem such quiet and pleasant people.’

Several of her relatives snorted at this point.

‘Incidentally, you know, you mightn’t be far wrong,’ Michael remarked, turning towards Hilary. ‘I don’t know about Norman Bates, but of course there
are
films where this sort of thing happens.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, like
The Cat and the Canary
, for instance. Did anybody see that?’

‘I know it,’ said Thomas. ‘Bob Hope and Paulette Goddard.’

‘That’s right. All the members of a family are summoned to an isolated old house for the reading of a will. There’s a terrible storm. And a police officer turns up to warn them that there’s a killer in the area.’

‘And what happens to the members of this family?’ asked Phoebe, looking directly at Michael for the first time.

‘They’re murdered,’ he said calmly. ‘One by one.’

The crash of thunder which followed this statement was louder than ever. It was succeeded by a long pause. Michael’s words seemed to have had a powerful effect: only Hilary remained determinedly unimpressed.

‘Well, to be honest, I don’t see what we’ve got to be worried about,’ she said. ‘After all, you’re the only one who’s been attacked so far.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Michael. ‘We all know that that was an accident. Surely you’re not suggesting –’

‘Do you mind?’ Roddy now broke in abruptly. ‘I’m beginning to find the tenor of this conversation almost as tasteless as this confounded Stilton.’

He pushed his plate away in disgust.

‘And you know all there is to know about
taste
, of course,’ said Phoebe.

This remark was accompanied by a very meaningful look, which provoked him to point a finger at her and stammer furiously: ‘You’ve got a damned nerve, you know, being here at all. One weekend, you spent up here, but it was still long enough for you to get your claws into my father. How much money did you squeeze out of him, that’s what I want to know? And more to the point, what’s he supposed to have died of, anyway? Nobody seems to be talking about that.’

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Phoebe, on the defensive. ‘I was away when it happened.’

‘Look, we’re wasting time here,’ said Dorothy. ‘Somebody should fetch Henry and let him know what’s going on.’

This struck everyone as a very sensible idea.

‘Where is he, though?’

‘Up in Nurse Gannet’s old room, watching television.’

‘Well where on earth’s that? Does anyone know their way around this blasted house?’

‘I do,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ll go and get him myself.’

Michael was slow to oppose this course of action, because he had been confused and intrigued by the sudden display of animosity between Roddy and Phoebe, and was beginning to wonder if it had any sort of history behind it. But as soon as he realized that she had departed on what might well be a dangerous errand, he turned to reproach the others.

‘She shouldn’t be wandering around by herself,’ he protested. ‘You heard what the sergeant said. There might be a killer in the house.’

‘What nonsense,’ scoffed Dorothy. ‘We’re not in a film now, you know.’

‘That’s what you think,’ said Michael, and ran off in pursuit.

But once again he had occasion to curse the fiendishly convoluted architecture of the building. Reaching the top of the Great Staircase, he found that he had no idea which direction to take, and wasted several breathless minutes tearing up and down the winding, intersecting corridors until all at once he turned a corner and ran straight into Phoebe herself.

‘What are you doing up here?’ she said.

‘Looking for you, of course. Did you find him?’

‘Henry? No, he’s not there any more. Perhaps he went back downstairs.’

‘Probably. Still, let’s have another look, just in case.’

Phoebe led him around the corner, up a small flight of steps, and then along three or four short, gloomy passages.

‘Ssh! Listen!’ said Michael, laying a hand on her arm. ‘I can hear voices.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s only the television.’

She flung open a door upon an empty room, containing only a sofa, a table, and a portable black and white television which was tuned to
Newsnight.
Unwatched, Jeremy Paxman was interviewing a harassed-looking junior defence minister.

‘See?’ said Phoebe. ‘Nobody here.’

‘It would be wrong to regard the UN deadline simply as a trigger point,’ the minister was saying. ‘Saddam knows that we now have the
right
to take military action. When – and indeed whether – we choose to
exercise
that right, is another thing altogether.’

‘But nearly nineteen hours have elapsed since the deadline expired,’ Paxman insisted. ‘Are you saying that you still have
no
information as to when –’

‘Oh my God.’

Michael had noticed something: a stream of blood was running down the side of the sofa and dripping on to the floor. He peered gingerly over the back and saw that Henry was lying face down on the sofa, a carving knife sticking out from between his shoulder blades. Phoebe followed him and gasped. They stared speechlessly at the corpse for some time; until they became aware that a third person had entered the room and was standing between them, looking down with blank indifference at the dead man.

‘Stabbed in the back,’ said Hilary drily. ‘How appropriate. Does this mean that Mrs Thatcher is somewhere in the house?’

CHAPTER FOUR

Carry On Screaming

MICHAEL, Phoebe, Thomas, Hilary, Roddy, Mark and Dorothy stood in a solemn circle and contemplated the body. They had raised Henry into a sitting position, and he now stared back at them with the same outraged, incredulous expression which had been the hallmark of all his public appearances.

‘When do you think it happened?’ asked Roddy.

Nobody answered.

‘We’d better get back downstairs,’ said Hilary. ‘I suggest we find Tabitha and Mr Sloane and all have a good talk about this.’

‘Are we just going to leave him like that?’ asked Thomas, as the others started to leave.

‘I’ll … clean him up a bit, if you like,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ve got some things in my bag.’

‘I’ll stay and help you,’ Dorothy volunteered. ‘I’ve had a bit of experience with carcasses.’

The rest of the party proceeded downstairs in a silent cortège, and convened in the dining room, where Tabitha was once again placidly employed with her knitting, and Mr Sloane sat beside her, a look of the utmost horror drawn on his face.

‘Well,’ said Hilary, when nobody else showed signs of beginning the conversation, ‘Norman seems to have claimed his first victim.’

‘So it would appear.’

‘But then, appearances can be deceptive,’ said Michael.

Thomas rounded on him.

‘What on earth are you blathering on about, man? We know there’s a lunatic on the loose. Are you telling me you don’t think he’s responsible for this?’

‘It’s one of the theories available: that’s all.’

‘I see. Well perhaps you’d be so good as to tell us what the others are, in that case.’

‘Yes, come on, out with it,’ said Mark. ‘Who else could have killed him?’

‘Why, any one of us, of course.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Thomas. ‘How could any of
us
have done it, when we were all down here having supper?’

‘Nobody had seen Henry since the will was read,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Between then and supper, we were all of us alone, at one time or another. I don’t rule anybody out.’

‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Mark. ‘He can only have been killed a few minutes ago. You forget that I was watching the television with him, for a while, when you were all down here eating.’

‘Well, that’s
your
story,’ said Michael coolly.

‘Are you calling me a liar? What else do you suppose I was doing?’

‘You could have been doing anything, for all I know. Perhaps you were on the telephone to your friend Saddam, helping him out with a last-minute order.’

‘You impudent swine! Take that back.’

‘I’m afraid that intriguing hypothesis will have to be discounted,’ said Roddy, who had slipped out into the hall, and now returned carrying a telephone. The cord had been roughly snapped in two. ‘As you can see, the service seems to have been temporarily suspended. I found this out because, unlike the rest of you, I had the sense to think of phoning for the police.’

‘Well, it isn’t too late,’ said Hilary. ‘There’s a telephone in my room as well. Come on – if we hurry, we might still get to it before he does.’

Mark smiled a superior smile after them as they hurried out of the room.

‘I’m amazed that people still rely on these primitive methods of communication,’ he said. ‘You brought your cell-phone up here, didn’t you, Thomas?’

The elderly banker blinked in surprise. ‘That’s right: of course I did. Never without it. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before.’

‘Where did you leave it, can you remember?’

‘Billiard room, I think. Had a few frames with Roddy before you arrived.’

‘I’ll just go and get it. We should have this business wrapped up in no time at all.’

He sauntered out, leaving Michael and Thomas to glower silently at one another. Meanwhile Mr Sloane began to pace the room, and Tabitha carried on with her knitting as if nothing had happened. Before long she was quietly humming a tune to herself – dimly identifiable, after a few bars, as ‘Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines’.

‘Has anyone seen Pyles lately?’ Thomas asked, when he could stand no more of this.

Mr Sloane shook his head.

‘Well, hadn’t someone better find him? He certainly wasn’t with us in the dining room all the time. What do you say, Owen – shall we try to track him down?’

Michael was lost in thought, and didn’t appear to have heard this question.

‘All right then – I’ll go and find the fellow myself.’

‘And now we are three,’ said Tabitha happily, once Thomas had gone. ‘I’ve never known so much running about. What a to-do! Have we started to play sardines?’

Mr Sloane shot her a withering glance.

‘What a long face you’re wearing, Michael!’ she exclaimed, after a little more humming. ‘Not entering into the party spirit? Or perhaps you’re beginning to get a few thoughts about how your book might end?’

‘There was something strange about those suits of armour at the top of the stairs,’ said Michael, taking no notice, and continuing with his own line of thought. ‘Something about them had changed, when we came past them just now. I can’t put my finger on it.’