Nonsense, all nonsense, she told herself. It’s this bloody island – it’s sapping my energy – the sooner I get rid of it, the better –
She gasped and her hand flew up to her throat as she heard the door open.
She gave a sigh of relief.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said with a smile. ‘Why the solemn look?’
I incline towards overdoing things, Feversham thought. I tend to
become
the part. Like Perkin Warbeck, or was it Lambert Simnel, who had really believed himself to be one of the Princes of the Tower?
He must be careful. By no means must he
become
the part. It wouldn’t do for him to edge into something like a play by Pirandello. Pretending to be someone else was rather fun and he believed he could do it really well, but convincing himself to
be
someone else was quite a different matter.
That way madness lay.
Antonia and Hugh and Lady Grylls were now the only people in the drawing room.
‘What in heaven’s name is “slosh”?’ Antonia asked.
‘A game one plays with billiard balls,’ Payne explained.
‘This sofa is big enough to hold ten,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘What period is it, Hughie? It’s the sort of thing you’d know.’
‘No particular period. Manufactured round the First World War, I imagine.’
‘Suggests people had much bigger behinds then. No slimming aids and I don’t suppose anyone really
cared
. I read somewhere that a chap was in a shipwreck and was saved from drowning by a sofa. Older women who constantly diet and exercise end up with the asexual body of a young boy, I can’t help noticing. Quite extraordinary. Look at that actress – the Barbarella girl – what was her name? In my day people were mad about something called Dexedrine. It was all the rage. It was known as the “go pill”. It killed appetite but it made you terribly alert and focused, which was all very well if you were a pilot on a mission, but what if you weren’t? Now then, did Sybil manage to talk to you?’
‘No. She meant to, but we were interrupted. She was about to show us some object, which was of some special importance, but then Ramskritt barged in and monopolised her. He practically dragged her out of the library.’
‘Really? What did he want? That fellow’s getting quite impossible. Poor Sybil looked
distraite
at dinner, did you notice? She hasn’t been herself for some time. I do hope she is wrong.’
‘Wrong about what?’
‘She’s been imagining things. She said she felt thoroughly jinxed. I’m sorry, but I don’t know the precise details. She believes someone is getting ready to kill someone else.’
‘That’s what she told us,’ Antonia said.
‘I wish she weren’t so annoyingly vague.’ Payne produced his pipe. ‘I wonder if we could have some fresh coffee? Where’s that damned bell? Or maybe not.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It would be jolly embarrassing if Ella and Maisie had already gone to bed.’
‘So Sybil was interrupted by Ramskritt? I hope that doesn’t mean Ramskritt is the man Sybil suspects. It would be a little difficult for her to sell him the island if he tried to silence her or something, wouldn’t you say?’
There was a pause. Payne regarded his aunt levelly. ‘I believe the time’s come for us to put our cards on the table, darling. We actually think this whole thing’s getting a trifle tedious. None of you has been particularly subtle, you know. It’s all a bit like something out of a novel by Mrs Garrison-Gore.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Hughie. I have never read any of that woman’s books and I don’t propose to do so in the foreseeable future. Life is too short. Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Come
on
, Aunt Nellie, out with it. This is all your doing, why don’t you admit it? I wouldn’t go so far as to claim you were N. Nygmer, but you initiated the game, didn’t you?’
‘What game?’
‘It’s your anniversary present to us,’ Payne said patiently. ‘We worked it out, so do stop pretending. Sybil decided to humour you. She employed Mrs Garrison-Gore’s services. She managed to persuade her guests to take part.’
‘What services? I really don’t know what you mean, Hughie.’ Two bright spots had appeared on Lady Grylls’ cheeks.
‘I am sure you do, darling. Ten little sailor boys. The Riddler’s letter.
The Murder Game
. You thought it was the sort of thing we’d enjoy. Challenge to the famous sleuths and so on – all orchestrated and choreographed by Mrs Garrison-Gore, who is a detective story writer specialising in this sort of nonsense.’
‘You might as well tell us who is going to be murdered and by whom,’ Antonia said with a smile. ‘We won’t be cross. I personally believe Oswald Ramskritt is only a red herring, but Sybil
is
going to be the victim, isn’t she?’
Lady Grylls scowled. ‘However did you discover Mrs Garrison-Gore wrote detective stories? I am told she employs a pseudonym, though I have no idea what it is. You couldn’t have
recognised
her. She assured us her photo had never appeared anywhere. So how did you know?’
‘Nothing remains hidden from us for long,’ Payne said.
‘Oh very well. I must admit I was getting fed up with the whole bloody thing. I am glad it’s over.’ Lady Grylls sat up. ‘I meant well. I thought it was the kind of set-up you’d find entertaining.’
‘Actually it
is
entertaining,’ Antonia said. ‘I find the
dramatis personae
quite interesting.’
‘Do you, my dear? I am terribly glad. So you don’t think you’ve been wasting your time?’
‘No, not in the least,’ Payne said.
‘Then you must go on pretending you know nothing about it. You must. Mrs Garrison-Gore seems to suffer from the most alarming mood swings and heaven knows what she might do if she starts thinking she’s been made to look a fool. Hang herself or something, which would be terribly unsettling. Promise you will go on pretending.’ She clutched at her nephew’s hand. ‘Just get on with the investigation, which you will be asked to conduct when Sybil’s dead body is found in the library. She won’t be dead, merely pretending of course. I believe it’s John who will ask you to investigate.’
‘The police won’t be called?’
‘No, the police won’t be called. It would be impossible,’ Lady Grylls whispered. ‘The phone wires have been cut, you see. And as you discovered, there is no “network” on the island, so you won’t be able to use those pocket phones of yours either. The G-G checked it all. I must say she’s been terribly thorough.’
‘The phone wires have been cut? You mean, for real?’ Payne’s brows went up. ‘Wasn’t that overdoing it a bit?’
‘John did it himself. He hates it when the phone rings. He is a little mad, you see. I must say, everybody’s been terribly cooperative. Ramskritt and those poor girls and the odd doctor –’
‘What poor girls? Do you mean Ella and Maisie? Why poor?’
‘Well, Ramskritt’s been treating them quite appallingly. He keeps upsetting them. The other night he tried to get into Maisie’s bed and said some awful things to her. Then Sybil heard him say something vile to Ella, happened just before dinner, apparently.’ Lady Grylls shook her head. ‘I knew he was a wrong ‘un the moment I saw him. He talks as though he owns the Bank of England, but his manners would be better suited to a street bazaar in Cairo.’
‘Why do Maisie and Ella stick to him?’
‘Heaven knows – it’s one of those things – unless he has some hold over them? Can’t fathom it myself. He’s simply asking to be killed … What was that? Sounded like twenty French horns doing the prelude to
Die Valkyrie
. Not the Garrison-Gore woman again, is it?’
Payne smiled slyly. ‘I expect the body has been found.’
Lady Grylls pushed her glasses up her nose. She peered at the Empire clock on the mantelpiece and said that it was all a bit too early for that. ‘The body is not supposed to be found till quarter-to-eleven. Mrs Garrison-Gore is not supposed to scream either. I am sure I’d have been told if there’d been any changes.’ Her expression was puzzled.
There was a pause. Payne and Antonia exchanged glances. Neither of them believed Lady Grylls was acting. Or maybe she was?
The next moment the door opened and Maisie Lettering appeared. She held her hand at her mouth and her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘Oh please
– please
– come at once – there’s been a murder!’
As they entered the library, the windows creaked ominously and the lights flickered. Everybody was already there – no, not everybody – Doctor Klein was missing, Antonia noticed.
Semi-darkness, dark wallpaper, dark drapes. Only the gold script on the crowded book spines glimmered.
The body lay on its back on the shabby tiger hearthrug. There was someone kneeling beside it, John de Coverley, the victim’s brother.
A rather theatrical kind of tableau, Antonia thought.
‘I am not sure, but I believe she is dead,’ John de Coverley said in a hoarse voice. ‘Where’s that doctor? We need a doctor. Why isn’t he here when he is needed?’
‘Will someone kindly inform me what’s going on? Have we all stepped through the looking glass? It isn’t supposed to happen like this at all, you know that perfectly well,’ Lady Grylls spoke in an imperious voice.
‘Sybil is dead,’ John de Coverley said.
‘She can’t be. It’s too early.’
‘Don’t touch anything,’ Major Payne said automatically, though he knew it was a bit too late for that.
‘She seems to have been strangled with the curtain cord.’ John de Coverley’s right hand flew up to his eyes and a sob escaped his lips. He rose. He winced. He clutched at his side. ‘Sorry – my back – old injury – always gets bad each time there’s a crisis. Sorry – I need to sit down. Old injury.’ He collapsed into one of the fraying tapestry-covered armchairs.
Payne eyed him speculatively. Where was it he had he heard something about backache? He asked for more light, then walked up to the body and bent over it.
The curtain cord was deeply embedded into the folds of Sybil’s neck. The flesh around it was swollen, reddish-blue – so was the face – distorted, almost unrecognisable – the mouth was gaping open – the tongue protruded from between the teeth. He touched her wrist, then his hand went up to her neck. The skin felt rubbery under his fingers.
‘Where the heck is Klein?’ he heard Oswald Ramskritt say to Ella. ‘He’s your buddy, you should know.’
‘He is in his room. I believe he is ill.’
‘Oh how convenient!’
‘I think it’s serious.’
‘I knew it would end in tears,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Something told me it would end in tears.’
Payne took his time. He was taking no chances. He still couldn’t quite believe that this wasn’t all part of the Murder Game that was being staged in their honour …
The body was still warm but it was limp and no pulse could be detected.
Payne then noticed that Sybil’s left hand was clenched in a fist. Something was protruding from between the fingers. Black silk cord – thinner and finer than the curtain cord –
With some effort Payne managed to open the fingers. There was something clutched between them – something round and flat –
He looked up. His eyes fixed on the desk.
‘My love, would you –?’
Antonia seemed to know exactly what he wanted her to do. Silently she walked up to the desk and examined the drawer.
‘Forced open. Badly splintered,’ she said. She wrapped her hand with her handkerchief, stooped over and picked up a bronze paper knife from the floor. One or two wood fibres still clung to it. She held it up within Payne’s view.
‘I see.’ He nodded. ‘Someone was in an awful hurry.’
Sybil de Coverley had been about to unlock the drawer which, she said, contained what she imagined was vital evidence. Sybil had been about to reveal to them the identity of the would-be killer. But hadn’t that been part of the murder mystery they were expected to solve? Where did the game end and the real murder begin?
‘Is my sister dead?
Really
dead?’ John spoke from the armchair, his hand covering his eyes.
‘I am afraid she is.’
‘But why – why would anyone want to kill Miss de Coverley?’ Mrs Garrison-Gore spoke in a choked voice.
Payne cocked an eyebrow. ‘You don’t know?’
She reeled back. She might have been struck by a bullet. ‘Of course not! This has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.’
‘It was you who organised the Murder Game. You wrote the script, didn’t you? It was you who decided where and when Sybil’s body was to be discovered. In the Murder Game you have been playing,’ Payne went on slowly, ‘Sybil was going to be killed because she knew the identity of a would-be killer. That’s correct, isn’t it? No point denying it. We know all about it.’
‘Don’t look at me! I didn’t tell them. I am not a snitch,’ Lady Grylls wheezed. ‘They worked it out. They are awfully clever, I keep telling you.’
‘But maybe this has nothing to do with the Murder Game,’ said Payne. ‘Sybil was killed for real, brutally strangled. We must call the police at once.’
‘That could be a little difficult,’ Oswald Ramskritt said. Antonia had the impression he was suppressing a smile. ‘The phone is not working. There’s no network, so our mobiles are no good either. And it would be impossible to navigate the mainland. The sea’s like a seething cauldron – can’t you hear it?’
Major Payne locked the library door and put the key in his pocket. ‘No, impossible. Out of the question,’ he said.
John de Coverley went on pleading with him in an urgent whisper. ‘I know this kind of thing doesn’t often happen in real life, maybe not at all, but I beg you to investigate my sister’s murder. I beg you.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Please.’
‘Out of the question,’ Payne said again. ‘This is not a game. Not any longer. This is a matter for the police.’
‘Can’t call the police. Landline not working. No network either.’
‘Ramskritt could go to the mainland in his yacht.’
‘He said he couldn’t. You heard him – the sea’s like a seething cauldron and so on. Besides,’ John de Coverley said, ‘I am damned if I’ll let that fellow out of my sight. He’d probably skedaddle.’