The Killing of Olga Klimt (4 page)

The next moment I remember something. ‘I don’t think I locked the front door, sir,’ I tell Mr Eresby.

‘A grave omission, Bedaux.’ He doesn’t sound particularly concerned. ‘I suppose it was my fault, rushing out madly the way I did.’

‘No, not at all, sir. Would you mind if I went back and checked if everything is in order?’

‘By all means. Take a cab, if you like. Do you suppose the old homestead may have been burgled?’

‘I consider that a most unlikely contingency, but it would be best to go and ascertain. It wouldn’t take me long.’ I glance at my watch. ‘I could be back in half an hour … Will you be all right, sir?’

‘What a peculiar question. I will never be all right, Bedaux.’ Mr Eresby takes another sip of sherry. ‘Not as long as –’ He breaks off. He leans his left elbow against one of the brocade cushions and once more shuts his eyes.

I give a bow and leave the room.

As I walk down the stairs, I hear the sound of a piano and children singing lustily: ‘I’d rather be a colonel with an eagle on my shoulder than a private with a chicken on my knee –’

That is a First World War song, I believe. This is an unselfconsciously old-fashioned establishment and no mistake.

I am in luck. The moment I come out of the front door I spot a cab. I hail it and get in. ‘Sloane Square,’ I tell the driver.

What was it Mr Eresby was about to say to me but was prevented by Miss Cooper’s presence? He would never be all right – not as long as – what? –
not as long as Olga Klimt lived
? I am certain that he intended to say something along those lines.

I lean back and dab at my forehead with my handkerchief. Did I say I was something of a student of English literature and that I sometimes indulge in making parallels between real-life people and personages in novels? It occurs to me that, odd as it may appear, the literary character Mr Eresby brings to mind most at the moment is the spinster schoolmistress in
Notes on a Scandal
– at one and the same time violently besotted and viciously vengeful.

Mr Eresby asked me to kill Olga Klimt for him but I don’t think he really meant it. He would be devastated if I did kill her. I believe he is experiencing a temporary derangement, what is known as a ‘psychotic episode’. This is not as uncommon as some may imagine. I read somewhere, I think it was in the
Telegraph
, that seventy-six per cent of the population of the British Isles have had at least one psychotic episode at some point in their lives.

As it happens, I have murder on my mind too, though, unlike Mr Eresby, I am perfectly serious and rational about it.

Murder, yes. I have been thinking of little else the last couple of days.

How ironic that Mr Eresby should want me to kill Olga Klimt. I smile, one of my rare smiles. If only Mr Eresby knew.

If only he knew.

‘My wife,’ said Lord Collingwood, ‘likes to create illusions for herself, which I tend to encourage, but
only
if they are the kind of illusions that are likely to make her happy in the long run. Otherwise I take a firm line. I tell her not to be silly. Now, don’t misunderstand me, Payne. I am awfully fond of my wife. Deirdre is a delightful woman, perfectly splendid, marvellous dress sense, but bonkers.’

‘Surely not?’

‘I meant that in the nicest possible way. No question of her being relegated to the attic or despatched to a
maison de santé.
Heavens, no. Nothing of the sort. But I must admit there are times when she does try my patience. One thing I find awfully hard to compromise with is rigid thought patterns. An Aconite addiction is another.’

‘Lady Collingwood takes Aconite?’

‘Indeed she does. She keeps saying it’s only herbal Valium. She says it’s completely harmless. She’s quite unable to face facts.’ Lord Collingwood lowered his cigar. ‘Do allow me to ask you a question, Payne, if I may, but you must try to give me an honest answer. Does your wife wear high heels?’

‘I believe she does at certain times, on special occasions.’

‘My wife wears high heels at
all times
– even in the country! Says she feels uprooted and destitute without her high heels – says the backs of her legs start hurting if she takes them off for more than five minutes. That sounds like another addiction, don’t you think? Then there’s her conversation. Deirdre’s conversation is marked by what – for want of a more precise phrase – I’d call “magnificent irrelevancy”. And she seems to entertain some truly extraordinary ideas – I’m not boring you frightfully, am I?’

‘No, not at all,’ Major Payne assured him.

It was eleven-thirty in the morning and the two men were sitting in the smoking room at the Military Club in St James’s.

‘Deirdre’s been pestering me to get a butler. Each time I say no, over my dead body! Butlers don’t go with an urban setting. In the country yes, in Park Lane, no. I know people do have butlers in London but I am not one to go with the flow, Payne, as you may have gathered. I told her she would only get a butler over my dead body. She is also convinced that Charlie’ll flood Sloane Square with his bath water should Bedaux let him out of his sight for one single moment, so she has instructed Bedaux to keep to Charlie’s side at all times. Bedaux apparently follows Charlie like Mary’s lamb. Charlie’s my stepson,’ Lord Collingwood explained with a scowl.

‘Who’s Bedaux?’ Major Payne asked.

‘Charlie’s man. He’s the sort of fellow that deserves to be flung over a precipice or, failing that, tarred and feathered. However, my wife won’t accept any criticism of him. Bedaux is one of Deirdre’s blind spots.’ Lord Collingwood’s face was very red now. ‘He’s been boasting about the regime he’s managed to establish
chez
Charlie – that’s the latest thing – every meal served at a precisely preordained moment, no dish on the menu ever repeated and every foodstuff of the highest quality!’

‘Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘No, but I doubt if any of it’s true. The fellow’s the worst slacker and scrounger who ever lived, Payne. Bedaux also told Deirdre he buttered and sliced Charlie’s toast into convenient fingers every morning at breakfast. Deirdre’s terribly impressed. Bedaux has her eating out of his hand. He’s been overstepping the mark in the most outrageous manner, Payne. He is a malignant creature. Your wife writes crime, doesn’t she?’

‘She does, yes.’ Payne blinked, somewhat startled by the change of subject. ‘Very old-fashioned crime.’

‘I understand her plots sometimes go wildly beyond the probable but not beyond the possible, that correct? Perhaps she may write a short story about someone like Bedaux one day? “The Enigma of the Nefarious Factotum” – something on those lines? Or she may be inspired to pen a novella about the facades most villains take such care to maintain?’

‘Antonia does that quite a lot, actually. The characters in her books are rarely what they seem. Is Bedaux a villain?’

‘Oh, without the slightest shadow of a doubt. Shall I tell you what’s behind villainy, Payne? Bad blood, that’s what. Bad blood has a lot to answer for. You’d never believe this,’ Lord Collingwood went on, dropping his voice, ‘but a couple of months ago I discovered that an early ancestor of mine had been one of the signatories to the death warrant of Charles I. Gave me quite a turn, I must admit. Couldn’t sleep a wink for quite a while. Haven’t had much peace since. Keep thinking about it. Still struggling to make sense of it.’

‘A republican Collingwood, eh?’

‘Just your saying it sends shivers down my spine. He was unquestionably mad. I find myself in a furnace of shame each time I think about it.’ Lord Collingwood paused. He sat examining the burning end of his cigar. ‘Sometimes you encounter a seemingly good family, perfect pedigree and so on, but what you don’t realise, what you never get a glimpse of, is that behind
the sunny facade a kink is being passed down the centuries, from father to son, from father to son, from father to son –’

‘Or daughter?’

Collingwood shot Payne a startled glance. His eyes bulged a little. ‘Or, as you say, daughter … Do you know anything about a Collingwood daughter?’

‘No, nothing at all. Of course not.’ Payne wondered why Lord Collingwood suddenly looked so agitated.

‘Take the Hitler family, for example. Apparently there are three Hitler nephews who live in America. Under assumed names, naturally, so nobody knows who they are. Well, they are said to have made a pact never to marry and never to procreate, which strikes me as a jolly sound idea. They are clearly convinced that they carry a murderous mad-dictator gene … What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. Some have compared the bad heredity hypothesis to astrology –’

‘The Hitler chaps did the right thing. Discontinue the line, that’s the only way to deal with it. Crackpots cause havoc, Payne. Flawed thinking ruins lives. One must be radical in such matters. For the good of civilisation and so on. I am strongly in favour of the “final solution” where madness is concerned. I can’t help holding awfully strong views on the subject. I wasn’t brought up to compromise. In that respect I take after Mama. So you don’t suppose murderers are born murderers, do you?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘
The Cain Anomaly.
How’s that for a book title?’

‘Sounds intriguing.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Lord Collingwood beamed. ‘That’s the title of the book I intend to write one day. All on the theme of bad blood.
The
Cain, don’t you know. The very first killer who ever lived. You may have gathered that your wife is not the only one who scribbles. I do it myself. Now and then. Nothing
serious so far. Nothing like your wife. How many books has she written to date?’

‘Nine. She’s just changed publishers.’

‘Writing, I find, keeps the Black Dog at bay. Better than any pill! “A Soul-bartering Subaltern”. That was a long poem I wrote once – it unspooled in a single movement, I remember. I had it published privately. Press owned by a cousin of mine.’

‘Was it a hit?’ Payne asked politely.

‘All my friends liked it. But of course poetry doesn’t sell, as I am sure you are well aware. Not that I need the money. Someone reviewed it in some publication or other, can’t remember which one. A terribly clever review. My poem was described, if I correctly recall, as having stretched the capacities of free verse to the limits of their acceptability. That’s damned clever, don’t you think? I then wrote a Shavian skit about a lapsed atheist who loses his faith in godlessness.’

‘Didn’t Shaw actually use the concept in his play
Too Good to be True
?’

‘Did he? I have no idea. I am sure he didn’t. I think you are wrong.’ Lord Collingood showed signs of annoyance. ‘But I was telling you about Bedaux. Well, there are strong indications that Bedaux’s devious and dubious, rather than devoted, if one may put it like that.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘It’s rather a tedious story. So boring, it’s bound to send you to sleep. Sure you want to hear it? Very well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Lord Collingwood leant back in his armchair. ‘Charlie had a girlfriend. Girl called Joan Selwyn. Good family, on her
mother’s
side – father a banker with JP Morgan – finishing school in Switzerland – all the rest of it. I used to – um – know her mother quite well at one time. Joanie is very spirited, though a little on the plain side and perhaps the tiniest bit bossy. She and Charlie are not together any more but it took her quite a bit
to let go. She was awfully keen on Charlie. Head over heels in love. Would walk through broken glass for him! Heaven knows what she saw in him, but there you are. I mean, if I were a girl, Charlie’s the last chap I’d set my cap at. The boy’s a sap and a damned neurotic. In addition to being a confounded nuisance.’

‘He is rich, I suppose? As far as I know the Eresby fortune –’

‘Yes, yes. That’s a circumstance not to be sneezed at, I know, but Joanie said she loved him for himself. For my part, I’ve found dealing with him to be as difficult as dealing with hunt saboteurs. As stubborn as Balaam’s ass. Have you ever had to deal with hunt saboteurs, Payne?’

‘No, not for some time.’

‘Poor Mama’s being driven out of her mind by hunt saboteurs. Those pheasant shoots at your aunt’s place were quite something, weren’t they? Shame she’s had to sell Chalfont, but that’s the way it is these days, I suppose … I’m thinking of selling myself though not before Mama kicks the bucket, perhaps. It would be unfair otherwise … Collingwood Castle’s quite something but it costs a fortune to maintain … Shall we have some fresh coffee? This new chap’s too slow – why is he so slow? I believe he’s foreign. This place is going to the dogs, the country itself is going to the dogs, wouldn’t you say?’

‘The coffee’s as good as ever,’ Payne said brightly. Raising his hand, he managed to attract the waiter’s attention.

‘One wonders for how long! Where was I? Oh yes. Apparently things between Joan and Charlie started going wrong the moment Bedaux appeared on the scene. Joan found Bedaux’s manner towards her cold and supercilious, bordering on the offensive. Bedaux made it glaringly obvious he resented her presence
chez
Charlie and considered her surplus to requirements. When she told Charlie about it, he said she’d imagined it.

‘They were on the point of tying the knot, so they gave a party at Charlie’s place, a kind of pre-engagement bash for some of their friends. Well, only hours before the party starts, Joan learns catering is to be provided by some firm she’s never heard of before and not by the people she’s recommended to Charlie. Charlie informs her it was Bedaux who did the hiring. Then the caterers arrive and they are revealed as three girlies, all of them foreign and pretty as pictures and wearing uniforms that don’t look like uniforms at all. Poor Joan says nothing but, naturally, she is frightfully upset and cross –’

‘There’s our coffee,’ Payne said. ‘Jealous, was she?’

‘Indeed she was. She told me all about it. She regards me as a kind of father figure. She said it wasn’t just the way the girlies looked, it was also the way in which they acted – trying to catch Charlie’s eye, leaning over him, letting their hands brush against his. Charlie has no head for drink. After knocking back half a glass of champagne he starts hitting on one of the girls – engages her in a conversation that goes on for some time. For quite some time. It’s obvious he has taken a fancy to her. The girl’s name is Olga Klimt.’