Romany Garrison-Gore, my copy-editor informed me, writes pastiches of 1930s whodunnits. Her first novel was moderately successful in terms of sales; though that was mainly thanks to a clever Art Deco cover the book had been given. Her second novel did not sell at all well, neither did her number three. The critical reception she received was scant as it was scathing.
One critic castigated her novel Mad About Murder for its ‘complete lack of narrative drive, a storyline that is inconsequential, derivative and painfully predictable … its sole dependence on melodrama and coincidence wince-making … characters who seem to have experienced a kind of pre-frontal lobotomy … a mishmash of ominous and cheap thrills … blunders on like a flat-footed dancer … a ludicrous damp-squib of a climax … entire paragraphs held together by comma splices … eminently put-downable’.
Mrs Garrison-Gore was dropped by Collins and, as a result, seemed to become slightly unhinged. According to one apocryphal story, she started performing conjuring tricks at children’s parties in Kensington and was much admired for her sleight of hand. After an eight-month hiatus, she resumed her literary career. She was taken up by The Severed Head, a much smaller publishing house.
Then a miracle happened. Her book number five was a hit. It was considered ‘diabolically ingenious’; it might have been written, according to one critic, in the heyday of the Golden Age of the English detective story and The Severed Head managed to sell the television rights for a decent sum of money.
Mrs Garrison-Gore is probably in her late forties or early fifties. She is short and a little dumpy. Her face is round. Her eyebrows have been carefully, if unwisely, plucked and pencilled and she wears pancake make-up of the peachy variety and cyclamen lipstick. She was dressed in an Irish tweed jacket and skirt in fuchsia hues and she sported a profusion of oriental jewellery. On her head she wore a pork-pie hat.
Mrs Garrison-Gore had a preoccupied air about her. I imagined she cast one or two wary glances at Oswald Ramskritt, but she assumed a hearty manner the moment she started talking to us. She said she was delighted to meet me. She had heard so much about me from dear Lady Grylls. She didn’t indicate in any way that she was a fellow crime writer.
It was John de Coverley himself who greeted us at the front door. He has the sly pointed face of an amused lizard. He sported a smoking jacket with silk lapels and a monocle. He is perhaps the only man living in the twenty-first century who wears a monocle that is not part of some fancy-dress. Chaps with monocles invariably project an attitude of contemptuous aloofness, but that is not the case with John de Coverley. He seems to have a problem keeping his monocle in his eye; it makes him scowl ferociously and contort his face.
‘And what in faith make you from Wittenberg?’ John de Coverley said. ‘Terribly glad you managed to come after all. We are going to give you tea. You had a pleasant journey, I trust? It’s ages since I’ve been to London. Does the Royal Overseas League in St James’ still stand? Used to meet up with an old girlfriend there quite often. She was involved in charity work. One of those dull but worthy women. I was experimenting at the time. Your aunt has told us so much about your exploits. Come and meet the others. Everybody’s longing to meet you. Everybody is agog.’
From what Sybil had told us, I had expected her brother to brandish a gun, not quote from
Hamlet
.
He led us through a panelled hall into a spacious drawing room. The white and gold Louis Seize chairs were more agreeable to the eye than to the posterior, as I discovered, and had been designed, one might think, to enforce an alertness of posture in an age when it would have been considered a breach of good manners to relax either physically or mentally. The windows are high and open on to a balcony. The curtains are of striped magenta and cream brocade. There is a grey marble mantelpiece with a somewhat mottled mirror over it, an Empire clock and crystal candelabra. The Aubusson carpet is sun-bleached and in places torn. Two of the pictures on the wall are seascapes and seem to be genuine Turners.
Sybil and a rather striking tall woman dressed in pearly white were presiding over the teatable. The woman was introduced to us as ‘Ella’. Sybil wore a loose embroidered garment of a vaguely Byzantine motif, what I imagine to be a tea-gown, 1920s style.
‘Would you like to try the Parma ham sandwiches? Or would you rather have good old-fashioned cucumber?’
‘Could I have an egg-and-cress sandwich, Syb? These are seagull eggs,’ John de Coverley explained. ‘Awfully good. I hope everybody agrees. Ridiculous to be squeamish. Awfully good. Taste like no other. Plenty of seagulls around. A positive colony.’
‘I would like a fish-paste sandwich,’ Oswald Ramskritt said. ‘I love fishing.’
‘The number of things one can do on a minuscule island is a little limited,’ Sybil said. She beamed at her brother. Her face was quite flushed. I thought she looked positively girlish.
‘Assam, Earl Grey or Russian tchai?’ Ella asked. There were three silver tea-urns. I had the impression Ella was avoiding looking at Oswald Ramskritt.
‘I wouldn’t touch anything Russian with a barge pole. I have had dealings with Russians. I have always found Russians unreliable,’ Ramskritt said.
‘Ah, there you are! At long last!’ Aunt Nellie greeted us. ‘I feared you might have got shipwrecked – or been abducted by pirates. Pirates seem to be all the rage these day, isn’t that extraordinary?’ She wore a silk dress in dove grey, a single row of pearls and two brooches pinned to her left shoulder.
When I kissed her, she whispered in my ear that something damned odd was going on.
Maisie is a stunningly beautiful girl with a sunny smile who brings to mind Hollywood actress Scarlett Johansson. She was clad in a straw-coloured dress whose design looked – but only looked – simple. He manner was eager and attentive, her face uplifted, her eyes alight.
Doctor Klein is monstrously fat and his skin is of slug-like whiteness. He has sad, wide-spaced eyes and purplish lips. He wore a black suit, white shirt and black tie.
‘I understand you are past masters of forensic logistics,’ he said tonelessly. ‘Your aunt tells us that not even the Prince of Darkness himself could outwit you.’
I found myself wondering if he might be the Riddler.
‘I don’t know where my aunt gets these ideas.’ As usual on such occasions Hugh was breezily dismissive.
‘I do believe the Devil is also known as the “Son of the Morning”,’ John de Coverley’s monocle flashed.
‘What happens if the electricity decides to go AWOL, Sybil?’ Aunt Nellie asked. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you use oil lamps or candles?’
‘We are much more advanced than that on Sphinx,’ Sybil said. ‘We have our own electric generator. It’s in the cellar.’
‘Oil lamps have a charm of their own,’ Ella said.
‘They can cause a fire, I guess,’ said Maisie.
‘New lamps for old, eh? Was that in some fairytale or other?’ Oswald Ramskritt looked at Mrs Garrison-Gore. ‘Or was it the other way round? Come on, Mrs G-G, you should know. You are the expert. Old is always best, isn’t it?’
‘I believe it’s in Aladdin. I heard that there would be a storm.’ Mrs Garrison-Gore spoke in a very loud voice. ‘They issued a serious warning. The news was on the local radio, only some ten minutes ago.’
‘We are having Châteneuf-du-Pape at dinner tonight,’ Sybil said.
‘Du Pape – that means the Pope, doesn’t it? But that’s amazing!’ Oswald opened his eyes wide in exaggerated surprise. ‘Did you hear that, Ella? The Pope! That’s perhaps what your brother drinks? Ella’s brother is the Pope’s right-hand man,’ he explained, matter-of-factly.
Ella said nothing. I thought she looked very pale.
Oswald started talking to John de Coverley.
‘Is old Bonwell still alive then?’
‘Oh very much so, very much so, my dear fellow. Ancient as the hills but self-indulgent as ever.’
‘That’s swell. I am glad to hear it.’
‘Needs constant toning up with gin and Dubonnet – while snacking on warm coddled quail eggs lopped open and dusted with beluga caviar. Regrettable addiction. Set on a suicidal course. Wouldn’t hear of slowing down.’ John sighed. ‘One of these days a treacherous aorta will take him from us, of that I have no doubt.’
‘And how is Norah? Does she still maintain I have her eyes?’
‘Norah is at a home in Windsor, within a striking distance of the castle, marvellous view, though she says that’s the Reichstag.’
‘Forgive me but I have never had a nuanced grasp of European history. Why the Reichstag?’
‘She believes she is in Berlin. She is no longer herself, I fear. Practically round the bend. Suspects the nurses of trying to poison her and so on.’
Tea cups were replenished. More sandwiches were brought in. There were no servants, I noticed. The catering was done exclusively by Ella and Maisie.
‘I can never be friends with people whose only redeeming feature is a sort of flaccid amiability,’ Sybil said.
‘My bêtes-noires are facile enthusiasm and excessive earnestness,’ Aunt Nellie said.
‘It is fake enthusiasm I abhor,’ Oswald Ramskritt said. ‘Incidentally, I wouldn’t advise anyone to touch the Russian tchai. It is bound to be contaminated by toxic waste. Mismanagement at every level, that’s Russia for you. Mismanagement and corruption.’
‘I’ve heard that said about India,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said.
‘I’ve heard that said about Italy,’ Sybil said.
‘I’ve heard that said about the continent of Africa,’ John de Coverley said. He then turned to Hugh and asked if he could play something called ‘slosh’ and seemed delighted when Hugh said he could. Perhaps they could have a game after dinner?
It was all rather surreally inconsequential.
Who was Norah and who was Bonwell? Did they exist?
I have no doubt now that we are being set up. I could imagine the instructions Mrs G-G had given them. Extemporise, but try not to lose the sense of artifice, or the role will die on you. Remember you are playing yourselves, your names haven’t been changed, but you are not really yourselves.
We seem to be in the kind of story that wears layers of disguises – no sooner does one mask come off, than another is revealed beneath it.
But I was also aware of a tension that felt like an electric current in the air, which I thought was quite genuine. Well, we were warned that there was a storm coming.
Later on Sybil gave them a tour of the house, which, she explained, was called Mauldeley (pronounced ‘Mudly’), though everybody, without any particular flight of the imagination, insisted on calling it ‘Sphinx House’.
On the stairs they caught up with Ella Gales, who was carrying a tray with a silver cover. For some reason, on seeing them, she looked flustered. She went up another flight of stairs and disappeared down a gloomy corridor. A fine-looking woman, Payne thought. He sniffed the air. He had caught the whiff of a fried chicken. There had been something of the automaton about Ella’s movements. Something weighing on her mind. As though encumbered with a terrible burden, heavier than a mere tray …
The library was long and narrow and it had an air of melancholy charm about it. Bookshelves containing a great number of gilt and russet volumes reached up to the ceiling. It seemed to be used chiefly as a repository for things that their owners had not had the heart to throw away. Dilapidated chairs of different styles, a large sofa of the Louis Philippe period, partially disembowelled, with springs and stuffing coming out in places, little tables covered with knick-knacks, pipes, tarnished silver cigarette lighters, candlesticks, bowls full of dry flowers, one or two empty chocolate boxes and a shabby tiger hearthrug. There were some indifferent Edwardian family portraits on the walls. The window curtains were of faded green silk, their pelmets intricate with folds and tassels.
On a side table there lay pre-war copies of
The Field
,
Cineworld
and
The Tatler
and an off volume of the
Revue Hebdomadaire
. There was also a batch of
Batman
comics, at the sight of which Hugh and Antonia exchanged glances.
‘My God, what a dump,’ Sybil said with a sigh. ‘Too embarrassing for words.’
Payne picked up a book that had been left on the sofa and glanced at the title.
Return to the Stars
. Von Daniken.
‘One of papa’s. It goes back a terribly long time, beyond the flames of Troy and Carthage,’ Sybil said. ‘At least thirty years. Isn’t it odd that people who believe in aliens are never called “alienists”? Mama, on the other hand, was a Socialist. You’d never believe this, but her favourite book was
On the Condition of the Working Classes in England
. Porcelain socialism, papa used to tease her.’
‘The female version of champagne socialism, eh?’
‘That’s mama over there.’ Sybil pointed to the portrait on one of the walls. It showed a placid-looking woman swathed in several dead foxes and wearing lace mittens, her hair an immaculate white halo around her head. ‘Mama went on two expeditions to Tibet but she never changed the way she did her hair. It’s the same periwigged style so beloved by our own dear Queen, as I am sure you’ve noticed.’
‘A bit more cumulo-nimbus than HM’s Ionic capital, surely?’
‘Mama was the worst cheat at solitaire who ever lived.’