‘No. No. So long as we keep John incarcerated, there should be no more problems.’
‘There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘Why
is
John’s bed in a diagonal position in the middle of the room?’
‘That’s according to the rules of Jutland. He’s always been awfully keen on Jutland. You remember the Jutland paper game, don’t you?’
‘I most certainly do. Good old Jutland. Such fun. I must say, John looked terribly distinguished in that eyeglass – same as that other chap, Feversham, who also cuts quite a dash. I haven’t seen a man wearing an eyeglass since
1951
, I believe, and now suddenly there are two of them. Most extraordinary. John handled that gun with
such
panache. There’s a lot to admire in John.’
Sybil said that, as always, Nellie was too kind.
Oswald Ramskritt had said he wanted to be left alone. He’d then opened the bottle of Louis Roederer champagne and started drinking.
He drank thirstily. He might have been drinking water.
He managed to finish the whole bottle in about twenty minutes.
He had had a narrow escape from death and that was his way of dealing with the shock.
Oswald didn’t seem to get drunk. He didn’t go into a stupor, he didn’t throw up, nor did he collapse or go to sleep. Only his face acquired a waxen corpse-like pallor. When at one point Feversham looked in and asked if he was all right, Oswald talked to him about yachting, fishing and how he intended to improve the facilities on Sphinx Island once he had become its owner. He spoke without a hint of a slur.
Eventually he rose to his feet and left the library.
Coming across Ella in the corridor, Oswald barred her way, stood in front of her and slapped her across the face. There had been no obvious reason for the attack. As she staggered back and leant against the wall, he brought his head close to hers and whispered something in her ear, which made her gasp and tremble with revulsion. The moment she turned her head away from him, he drew back. He smiled and told her he wanted to see her do her martyr act – ‘I’d like you to walk away from me, with your chin held as high as possible, your hands clenched in fists. I wish to see courageous suffering neatly portrayed in every inch of your body.’
He then went into the small study which had been placed at Mrs Garrison-Gore’s disposal. The study walls were covered in Victorian sporting prints. He sat down at the Regency desk and stared at the screen of Mrs Garrison-Gore’s laptop, which she had left turned on. He began to read the detective novel she happened to be writing, humming a little tune under his breath and tracing the words with his forefinger. When Mrs Garrison-Gore appeared, he commented on the way she had started changing her protagonists’ names as well as the names of places. ‘Not bad, not bad, if one likes this sort of thing. Stinking tripe of course. My fellow Americans call them “cozies” and it’s women mainly who read them, correct?’
‘I’d rather you didn’t read my novel,’ she said.
‘How come this bit sounds old-fashioned and that bit doesn’t? Your readers will accuse you of being inconsistent. Are you experimenting with styles or what?’
‘I am sorry, Oswald, but I do need my laptop –’
He took no notice. His eyes remained glued to the screen. His hand moved over the keyboard. ‘You leave the Internet on while writing? Why is that? The Project Gutenberg? Gutenberg
Lite
… What’s so special about the Project Gutenberg?’
‘Gutenberg invented the first printing press.’
‘You don’t say. The printing press, eh? And of what significance might that be to you?’
Mrs Garrison-Gore explained it was for something she was writing. ‘I do a lot of research on the Internet.’
‘It all seems to be about novels that are out of copyright … You are spoilt, do you know that? Like most hacks nowadays. Spoilt beyond redemption. Spoilt.’
‘In what way am I spoilt?’
‘You wanna know? You really wanna know? You have all the information you need at your fingertips, literally. You don’t have to go to libraries and put in orders for books and wait for ages and ages. That was how it used to be. The Internet practically writes your novels for you, doesn’t it?’
‘No, not quite.’ Romany managed a smile.
‘Don’t contradict me.’ Oswald shook his forefinger at her. ‘I hate being contradicted. Do you know what happens to females who contradict me? No, you wouldn’t want to know. Ask Ella. Saintly Ella
knows
. I particularly dislike females of the monitor lizard variety.
Varanus komodoensis
.’ He eyed Mrs Garrison-Gore fixedly. ‘All right, let me explain. In the olden days writers used to go on pilgrimages to public libraries. They used to put in orders for obscure reference books and then went back home and sat on their fat asses and waited to be notified that their book has arrived. Then
another
journey to the library –’
‘I am sorry but I need to work,’ she said.
‘You call this work?’ Oswald Ramskritt tapped the laptop screen. ‘What is the
point
of making a Cunningham into a Haverstock and Philippa into a Meredith? For some reason I am very interested in these changes. I can’t quite say why but I am. There’s something about changes that is always interesting.’
‘There is nothing special about them,’ Mrs Garrison-Gore said lightly. ‘Writers make changes all the time.’
She was standing in the doorway, with her back to the corridor. She thought she heard a noise behind her – she heard someone give a little cough – but she didn’t turn to look.
‘Philippa is a particularly obnoxious character, isn’t she? One of those frigid women who turn into indefatigable bullies and make other people’s lives hell? I strongly disapprove of bullying of any sort. Why the heck does Grimmold Manor transmogrify into Cedar Court? For what reason, pray, does a “dickey” become a “gleaming shirt front”?’ Oswald Ramskritt went on firing questions at her. ‘Can’t you make up your bloody mind? Nothing irritates me as much as indecision. Are changes essential to your writing? Is it true that the nearest thing to writing a novel is travelling in a strange country?’
He didn’t wait for an answer. As he rose to his feet, he seemed to lose his balance for a moment, but managed to pull himself together, then without so much as a glance in Mrs Garrison-Gore’s direction, he walked out of the small study.
He stopped outside Maisie Lettering’s room and knocked loudly on the door. When she opened and let him in, he asked her to get back into bed. He then insisted on joining her. When she resisted, he pushed her back and slapped her face, the way he had done with Ella earlier on, only more viciously. When the girl started crying, he put his hand across her mouth. She went on struggling. ‘Don’t, please, oh don’t,’ she sobbed.
‘
Don’t, please, oh don’t
,’ Oswald mimicked. ‘Very well. I will let you continue to maintain your precious virginal status, if that indeed is the case, but you must promise to be more amenable next time.’
‘Please, Oswald, go to your room.
Please
. You are not well.’
‘I never felt better.’ He then asked her if he could come later. ‘Some time after midnight, perhaps? Was that a no?’
Suddenly he relaxed his grip and stood up.
She was crying. ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you heard of girls who drown in their own tears?’ He then told her she was fired. He would make sure she became unemployable, he added. ‘As you know, I have many contacts. People listen to me. In some quarters my word is Law. So don’t be surprised when you start finding doors refusing to open for you.’ She could take the next boat to the mainland – unless someone was willing to give her a lift?
He laughed as he said this and then he walked out of her room.
Out in the corridor Oswald lit a cigar. He then strolled leisurely to his room, humming a little tune under his breath.
Major Payne was to point out later that without John de Coverley firing his gun at Oswald Ramskritt, the murder wouldn’t have taken place. In his not-so-humble opinion, the shooting incident in the library was cardinal to the whole affair.
Antonia agreed. She thought of it as a kind of a butterfly effect.
‘I am all right. I really am. It was a shock. It was quite awful, but I am – I am used to it. He’s done it before, it’s happened before, yes, but perhaps he’s getting worse. That’s the kind of thing he does when he is upset or rather when he gets drunk
after
he’s been upset by something. It’s happened before. He shows his true nature.’ She tried to smile. ‘Please don’t look so concerned. He cannot cope with crises.’
It was later that same night and Ella was talking to Doctor Klein, who had come to her room to see how she was. He insisted that she should have some brandy.
She wiped the tears from her eyes with a determined gesture. ‘When he gets upset, he needs a woman to take it out on. It
has
to be a woman. That’s his idea of a catharsis. I’ve reached the conclusion he hates women.’
‘I believe you are right,’ Doctor Klein said in his detached way.
‘It’s perhaps something to do with the fact he had a terrible childhood. Sometimes I am convinced he is possessed. Or else it’s some ineradicable psychological quirk. I am sure you can come up with the exact definition of what is wrong with him.’
‘I do not intend to come up with an exact definition.’
‘He is completely insensitive. I don’t suppose he would have been able to do what he did in the early
1980
s if he had had normal human feelings,’ Ella said thoughtfully. ‘He wouldn’t have been able to do the job properly if he had been sensitive …’
‘What job? What did he do in the early
1980
s?’
‘Oh. I thought you knew. Oswald used to work for the CIA. He was a spy. One of those “unofficial” ones. I am surprised he hasn’t told you anything about it. I thought he told you everything.’
‘I thought so too, but he hasn’t said a word about his spying work in Germany, no.’
‘You know he was in Germany then? So he must have told you?’
Doctor Klein shrugged. ‘He may have mentioned Germany, yes, though he never said what he did there.’
‘Perhaps he felt constrained by the fact you were a German?’
‘That is the likeliest explanation.’
‘Well, he was a Romeo spy.’
Doctor Klein slowly rose and walked towards the open window. He stood there, looking out. There was a full moon and, where it touched it, the sea resembled molten silver. It was very quiet …
‘A Romeo spy … I don’t think I have heard the term used before.’
His voice sounded odd – a little – weary?
Her cheek, the spot where Oswald had slapped her, was still throbbing. She thought it might be a little swollen. She had extremely sensitive skin.
‘Oswald used to work for the CIA. He was extremely good-looking as a young man. He was in his late twenties or early thirties at the time. Not unlike the young Robert Redford, if photos are anything to go by. Women found him irresistible, went mad over him. He was chosen for his good looks – alongside a number of other young American men. They were called ‘‘Romeos’’ or ‘‘Romeo spies’’. Because of the love element.’
‘I see.’
‘Of course love has very little to do with it … Oswald’s credentials were impeccable. His father was a fundraiser for the Republican party. His patriotism was never in question. He adored Ronald Reagan. Still does.’
‘What was his Berlin mission about?’
‘It involved seducing German girls who worked across the wall in the Soviet sector – as well as keeping a “stable” of fillies living in the free sector of the city. The latter he groomed for the purpose of entrapping Soviet officials and getting state or military secrets out of them. The girls were also trained to put out incorrect, misleading information, which they made sure the Soviet enemy would receive, accept as true, act on and blunder. I may have got some of the details wrong, mind, but this is the gist of it. Oswald’s front, or cover, was a restaurant in West Berlin, the so-called “free sector”.’
‘Did Oswald tell you about it in person or do you have other sources of information?’ Doctor Klein turned back and resumed his seat opposite her.
‘Oswald told me. He was drunk when he did. Not as drunk as tonight but enough to start showing off.’ She gave a twisted smile. ‘Benevolently inebriated, if one can put it like that. He enjoys talking about his conquests. He likes boasting, as I am sure you have noticed.’
‘I have noticed, yes.’
She started telling him about the last German girl Oswald had seduced before returning to the US. The girl’s name was Gabriele Hansen and she had a sister called Freddie. The Hansen sisters. That was one of the most shocking stories she had ever heard, Ella said. She still found it incredible that anyone could do a thing like that.
Doctor Klein sat monumentally still. He looked enormous in his old-fashioned double-breasted dinner jacket, stiff collar and black tie. He brought to mind Watts’ picture of the Minotaur, Ella thought. Outside, the moon had intensified its glow and it was as light as day.
‘Oswald had marked Gabriele down as a suitable target because her sister worked for one of the big Soviet officials in East Germany while Gabriele herself lived in Free Berlin. The two girls were very close. They exchanged letters and spoke on the phone. They hadn’t seen each other for several years. It was very hard for Freddie to visit her sister in Free Berlin but she had managed it somehow. Perhaps she and her Soviet boss were having an affair, I don’t know. Freddie was very pretty. Both girls were very pretty. Very fair. Beautiful blue eyes.’
‘I expect Oswald showed you photographs?’
‘Yes … I also saw the home movie, which Oswald shot on the day Freddie arrived, commemorating the occasion, so to speak … The three of them met at his restaurant where they had dinner …’ Ella’s voice tailed off.
There was a pause. Doctor Klein leant back in his chair. He brought his fingertips together and urged her to continue.
‘I am not sure I want to,’ Ella whispered. ‘I get upset only thinking about it.’