What a Carve Up! (61 page)

Without another word, he got up and made his way to the hall. He was about to climb the staircase when he saw Pyles coming from the kitchen, a silver tray balanced precariously on his arm.

‘Enjoying your visit, Mr Owen?’ he asked.

‘Thomas has been looking for you. Did you see him?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Did they tell you what had happened?’

‘Yes. And it’s only the start. I’ve known it all along, you see: this whole house is doomed, and everyone in it!’

Michael patted him on the back. ‘Keep up the good work.’

When he reached the top of the staircase, he examined both suits of armour in detail. They were still in the same positions, and nothing seemed obviously awry. And yet surely, some subtle alteration had been made … Michael had the sense that he was being very obtuse, that he was missing something important which was staring him in the face. He looked again.

And then he saw it. At once a dreadful suspicion stole over him.

There was a loud crash from the direction of the billiard room. Michael ran down the stairs and almost collided with Mr Sloane in the hall. Together they ran towards the noise and burst in to discover Pyles collapsed in a chair, having dropped his tray to the floor.

‘I came in to collect the empty glasses,’ he said. ‘And then I saw –’

Their eyes followed his trembling finger. Mark Winshaw was slumped against the wall. At first Michael thought that his hands had been tied behind his back: then he realized that the body had been horribly mutilated. The missing axe from the suit of armour, its blade red and sticky, had been left on top of the billiard table; and protruding hideously from the two pockets at the baulk end were Mark’s severed limbs. To complete the macabre joke, a message had been scrawled in blood on the wall.

It said: A FAREWELL TO ARMS!

CHAPTER FIVE

A Lady Mislaid

‘Now the important thing,’ said Thomas, ‘is that we all remain calm, and civilized.’

They were gathered in the dining room again, sitting amidst the debris of their supper. Their faces, for the most part, were chalky and haggard. Tabitha alone was blissfully unmindful of the latest shocking turn of events, while Pyles, who had now joined them at the table, wore a crooked, fatalistic smile, having already delivered himself of the helpful opinion that ‘There’ll be more to come, before the night is out! Many more!’ The only (living) member of the family not in attendance was Dorothy, who for the time being was nowhere to be found. Out of doors, there seemed little promise of an end to the storm.

‘I suggest that we proceed on the assumption,’ Thomas continued, ‘that a madman is loose in the house, bent on the random slaughter of anyone with whom he comes into contact.’

Michael sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

The others looked to him for explication.

‘There’s been nothing random about these killings so far,’ he said.

‘Would you care to explain yourself?’

He turned towards Hilary. ‘All right then: what were your first words when you saw that Henry had been stabbed in the back?’

‘I can’t remember,’ said Hilary, shrugging carelessly.

‘They were “How appropriate”. They struck me as rather curious, even at the time. What did you mean by them, exactly?’

‘Well …’ Hilary gave a guilty laugh. ‘We all know that personal loyalty wasn’t the most obvious distinguishing feature of Henry’s political career. And certainly not towards the end.’

‘Quite. He was a turncoat, and, indeed, a backstabber. Can we all agree on that?’

From the ensuing silence, it appeared that they could.

‘And as for Mark, I don’t think we need have any illusions about what he was up to in the Middle East. Hence, I suppose, the message written on the wall above his body.’

‘Your theory, insofar as I understand it,’ said Roddy, ‘seems to be that each of us is on the point not only of being killed, but of being killed in a manner … appropriate, as it were, to our professional activities.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Well, it’s a ridiculous theory, if you don’t mind my saying so. It smacks of the scenario to a third-rate horror film.’

‘Interesting that you should say that,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps some of you saw a film called
Theatre of Blood
, made in 1973?’

Mr Sloane tutted reprovingly. ‘Really, I think we’re getting a long way from the point here.’

‘Not at all. Vincent Price plays a veteran actor who decides to revenge himself on his critics, and murders each of them using methods inspired by some of the grisliest scenes from Shakespearian tragedies.’

Roddy stood up. ‘Boredom, if nothing else, compels me to suggest that we abandon this wearisome line of inquiry and take some practical course of action. I’m worried about Dorothy. I think we should split up and go looking for her.’

‘Just one moment,’ said Thomas. ‘I’d like to play our film expert at his own game, if I may.’ He settled back in his chair and looked at Michael with the light of challenge in his eye. ‘Isn’t there a film where some crackpot – he turns out to be a judge – invites a lot of people to a remote house and does ’em all in: the point being that they all have guilty secrets to hide, and he sees himself as their executioner – a sort of angel of justice?’

‘The plot is from Agatha Christie’s
Ten Little Niggers.
There are three different film versions. Which did you have in mind?’

‘The one I saw was set in the Austrian Alps. Wilfrid Hyde-White was in it, and Dennis Price.’

‘That’s right. And Shirley Eaton, I seem to remember.’

Michael glanced at Phoebe as he said this; and noticed, in passing, that Roddy was now looking at her too.

‘Well,’ said Thomas, ‘doesn’t that little set-up seem remarkably close to what appears to be going on here tonight?’

‘I suppose that it does, yes.’

‘Fine. Now listen to this: what was the name of the fellow who did the killing? The one who organized the whole shindig? Can’t remember? Well I’ll tell you.’

He leaned forward across the table.

‘He called himself Owen. Mr U. N. Owen.’ Thomas paused triumphantly. ‘Now: what do you say to that?’

Michael was taken aback. ‘Are you accusing me?’

‘Damn right I am. We’ve all seen parts of that nasty little book of yours. We all know exactly what you think of us. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve lured us all here as part of some insane scheme of your own.’

‘Lured you here? How would I have done that? You’re not accusing me of organizing Mortimer’s death as well, surely?’

Thomas narrowed his eyes and turned towards Phoebe. ‘Well, perhaps that’s where Miss Barton comes in.’

Phoebe laughed angrily and said: ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘It makes sense to me,’ said Roddy. ‘I know for a fact she has a grudge against the family. And look at it this way: she and Owen go upstairs to look for Henry together – five minutes later, he’s dead. That makes them the prime suspects, in my book. What do you think, Hilary?’

‘I agree entirely. Apart from anything else, have you noticed the way they’ve been looking at each other all evening? Lots of little meaningful glances have been passing back and forth. I don’t think this is the first time they’ve met at all. I think they’ve known each other all along.’

‘Well, is this true?’ said Thomas. ‘Have you two met before?’

Phoebe gazed at Michael helplessly, before admitting: ‘Well, yes … We did meet once. Years and years ago. But that doesn’t mean —’

‘Ha! So now it’s all coming out!’

‘I’ll tell you another thing,’ said Roddy. ‘Owen’s already condemned himself out of his own mouth. Hilary and I were both upstairs when Mark was found: so was Dorothy, and so were you, Thomas – looking for Pyles. Now, Owen says that he was standing at the top of the staircase looking at the suits of armour all this time. So if any of
us
had tried to leave the billiard room and get past him, he would have seen us, wouldn’t he? But he says that nobody came by!’

Thomas rubbed his hands. ‘All right,’ he said to Michael. ‘Talk your way out of
that
!’

‘There’s a perfectly simple explanation,’ he answered. ‘The murderer didn’t enter
or
leave the billiard room by the door. There’s a passage from that room. It leads to one of the bedrooms upstairs.’

‘What the
devil
are you talking about, man?’ Thomas thundered.

‘It’s true. Ask Tabitha: she knows. She knows because Lawrence used to use it, during the war.’

‘What tommyrot.’ He turned to his aunt, who had been listening to this conversation with every appearance of enjoyment. ‘Did you hear that, Aunt Tabitha?’

‘Oh yes. Yes, I heard it all.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I think it was Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with the candlestick.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Hilary. ‘We’re wasting valuable time. Dorothy hasn’t been down for half an hour or more: we must try to find her.’

‘All right,’ said Thomas, getting up. ‘But these two aren’t coming with us.’

The curtains in the dining room could only be opened and closed by means of a thick cotton rope. Thomas cut off two lengths from this and lashed Michael and Phoebe securely to their chairs. Care of the prisoners was left to Mr Sloane (and Tabitha, for what she was worth), while Roddy, Hilary, Thomas and Pyles set off to search the house, agreeing to meet back in the dining room in twenty minutes’ time.

Hilary was the first to return, followed shortly by the butler.

‘Any luck?’ she asked him.

Pyles shook his head. ‘You won’t be seeing her again,’ he said, in his most lugubrious tone. ‘Not on this side of the grave.’

Roddy arrived with more bad news.

‘I went out to look in the garages. I thought she might have driven off without telling us.’

‘And?’

‘Well, her car’s still there, but it wouldn’t be any use to her in any case. One of those huge beech trees has blown right over, and the driveway’s completely blocked. So now we’re all well and truly stuck.’

Michael laughed. ‘What did you expect?’ he said. He was still tied to his chair, and not in the best of tempers. ‘We psychopaths think of everything, you know.’

Roddy ignored him. ‘I’ve had a thought, though, sis: what about your plane? Could we get away in that?’

‘Well, I can’t fly the thing,’ said Hilary. ‘And my pilot’s staying in the village tonight. He won’t be round till the morning.’

‘Do you mean Conrad?’ asked Phoebe mischievously. ‘I should like to meet him again.’

Hilary gave her a furious look, and Roddy couldn’t resist explaining, with a smirk: ‘Conrad got the push a few months ago – on Sir Peter’s orders. His replacement isn’t quite in the same league.’

‘Do you think he could
possibly
take me for a ride, when he comes round tomorrow?’ cried Tabitha, her eyes alight with anticipation. ‘I love aeroplanes, you know. What sort is it?’

‘A Buccaneer,’ said Hilary.

‘The Lake LA-4-200, I suppose? With the four-cylinder Avco Lycoming engine?’

‘Oh, shut up, you old fool.’

Hilary picked a grape from the fruit bowl and began tossing it nervously between her hands.

‘Now there’s no need to get bad tempered, you naughty girl,’ said Tabitha. ‘A kind word and a happy smile don’t cost much, do they? Always look on the bright side, I say. Things could easily be so much worse.’

‘Aunty,’ said Hilary slowly. ‘We’re trapped in an isolated house, with a homicidal maniac, in the middle of a thunderstorm. All the phone lines have been cut off, we have no means of escape, two of us have been killed and another has gone missing. How could things possibly be worse?’

At that moment, the lights went out and the house was plunged into darkness.

‘Oh God,’ said Roddy. ‘What’s happened?’

The blackness to which they had been consigned was absolute. The heavy dining-room curtains were closed, and it was impossible to see even an inch or two ahead in such thick, impenetrable gloom. To add to the eeriness of the situation, it seemed to all of the company that the sounds of the raging weather outside had increased tenfold as soon as their powers of vision were taken away.

‘It must be a fuse,’ said Pyles. ‘The fuse box is in the cellar. I’ll see to it at once.’

‘Good man,’ said Roddy.

Whether he would succeed on this mission seemed open to doubt, for his progress towards the door was marked by any number of thuds, crashes, smashes and tinkles as he collided heavily with various objects of furniture scattered around the room. But finally he made it: the door creaked open and shut, and they could hear his receding footsteps echoing faintly as he made his halting way across the stone-flagged hall.

Then the clicking of Tabitha’s needles resumed, and she started humming another tune. This time it was ‘The Dambusters’ March’.

‘For God’s sake, Aunty,’ said Roddy. ‘How on earth can you do any knitting in Ulis dark? And would you kindly desist from singing those infuriating songs?’

‘I must say, Mr Owen, your ingenuity compels admiration,’ said Hilary; and her brother could recognize in her voice a forced, brittle cheerfulness – a sure sign that her spirits were violently agitated. ‘I can’t help wondering what sort of fate you had in mind for the rest of us.’

‘I hadn’t really thought, to be honest,’ said Michael. ‘I was more or less improvising the whole thing, you see.’

‘Yes, but surely you must have had a few ideas. Henry’s back; Mark’s arms. What about Thomas? What part of
his
anatomy were you intending to go for?’

‘Where is Thomas, anyway?’ said Roddy. ‘He should have been here ages ago. The last I saw of him he –’

‘Ssh!’ It was Hilary who cut him short. The atmosphere in the room grew suddenly tense. ‘Who’s that moving about?’

They all strained to listen. Was that a footstep they had just heard? Was there someone (or something), in the room with them, a furtive, watchful presence, creeping through the inky shadows – and now very close at hand? Was that the sound of something on the table itself – where they were all sitting, rigid with expectation – being very quietly, very stealthily moved?