‘Ah. Miss Lithuania. Beauty contests. Of course. Ha-ha. Most amusing. Jokes are so important. Life would be hellish without jokes. Ha-ha. Would you be kind enough to tell my wife I am back?’
Ten minutes later Gerard and Felicity sat in the drawing room drinking tea. I used to enjoy this, he thought. Perhaps we should get a divorce. She wanted to know about the will, so he told her.
‘No real surprises, my dear, all as I expected, all terribly predictable, barring one curious codicil added not so long ago.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Something of a mystery, though Clarissa didn’t seem particularly surprised.’
‘What curious codicil?’ Felicity sounded impatient.
‘Roderick left a largish sum of money to someone no one seems to have heard of. No, not a woman, my dear. Someone called Peter Quin.’
‘Peter Quin? Who the devil is he?’
‘No idea.’
‘How large is the sum?’
He told her.
‘You can’t be serious.’ She put her teacup down. ‘That’s a fortune.’
‘Not really, my dear. What is five million pounds when my brother left — um — I forget the exact figure, but you know perfectly well it’s an awful lot. I mean — an awful lot. Indecent, almost.’
‘Who is this Peter Quin?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest, I keep telling you. The fellow wasn’t there. Saunders didn’t know either, or maybe he’s had instructions not to divulge anything. Didn’t think it polite to press the point.’
‘Didn’t think it polite to press the point! Really, Gerard!’
‘It’s all being done through Quin’s solicitors. Saunders had the details of Quin’s bank account and so on. Oh, he also said that Quin was perfectly aware of the legacy. Apparently, Quin had done my brother some great favour or something.’
‘Is there a chance of your being less vague, Gerard? What great favour? Peter Quin. I have a feeling I’ve seen the name somewhere. I may be imagining it.’
‘The Turn of the Screw. If that’s what you are thinking of. No, the name of the evil valet was Peter Quint. With a t, see? It’s considered to be the greatest ghost story ever written, but, entre nous, the pacing is somewhat sluggish. And what exactly happens at the end, I would like to know?’
‘I don’t think I’ve read it.’
‘Did it all take place in the governess’s mind? But then who or what killed Miles? I may try my hand at a ghost story, actually. I would set it at a place like Remnant, which I remember one of my uncles describing as “magnificently macabre”. Remnant would make the perfect setting for some bizarre melodrama that culminates in a crime passionnel.’
‘What did Clarissa have to say about the codicil?’
‘Not much. She’s got awfully thin, you know. She wore black. Kept smoking. Egyptian cigarettes, I think. Had a haunted air about her. She didn’t seem at all surprised about the Quin codicil, no.’ He reached out for the teapot. ‘She looked terrified, for some reason. More tea, my dear?’
‘Terrified?’
‘Yes. She clasped her hands, to prevent them from shaking. She didn’t say much. She seemed oddly preoccupied. On a different planet altogether … Have you been smoking my cigars, Felicity?’
‘Your cigars? What an extraordinary question. Of course I haven’t been smoking your cigars.’
‘Any idea where my cigar cutter might be?’
‘No. You’ve already asked me. You probably dropped it somewhere. At your club, as likely as not. You are terribly absent-minded … I wonder if this Peter Quin had something to do with your brother’s death,’ she said in a thoughtful voice.
‘An interesting if somewhat far-fetched notion.’ Gerard raised the teacup to his lips. ‘Liquidated by Quin. I must admit it’s got quite a ring to it.’
‘Your brother was killed, Gerard. It’s all there, on the tape. I must show you the tape. I really must. After all, it was addressed to you.’ Felicity rose. ‘Hope you don’t mind my opening the package?’
‘No, of course not, my dear.’ He found himself wondering what little Renee Glover was doing. ‘I have no secrets from you, as I am sure you haven’t any secrets from me.’
21
Les Amants
Should she tell him? No. Not yet.
Maybe never.
What difference would it make if he knew the truth? He wouldn’t tell anyone, would he? Still, things were far from well between them, she was no longer sure of his loyalty.
She didn’t think he loved her any more. Had he ever loved her? He seemed to have stopped finding her attractive. Earlier on his lips had only brushed her cheek. He seemed to be thinking of something else.
Clarissa and Dr Sylvester-Sale were having dinner at the Cafe Regal. It was he who had booked the table, but why had his phone been engaged for so long? Who had he been talking to? He said there was something wrong with his mobile. He sounded contrite, though she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t all an act. In her experience, good-looking men were invariably accomplished actors.
‘You’re not eating. Aren’t you hungry?’ Sylvester-Sale asked.
‘No, not really.’ She tried to smile.
As she raised her aperitif to her lips, her satin dress rustled. She wore pearls, round her neck and in her earlobes, offsetting the gold of her dress. She also had a tiny brooch, of diamonds and gold, on her left shoulder. When she had asked Syl how she looked, he said she reminded him of the famous usherettes at the Clermont Club. It was universally known that it was only the prettiest girls in London who became usherettes at the Clermont Club, but Clarissa didn’t care much for the idea.
She was overdressed. She looked like a Christmas tree. She should have put on something more restrained — her Liberty smock in pale lavender would have been perfect.
‘You seem thinner. You must eat,’ he said. ‘You will make yourself ill if you don’t.’
‘How nice of you to care about my health.’
‘I am a doctor.’
‘Of course you are, darling. I keep forgetting. Yours is the most humanitarian profession in the world.’
She had ordered sole Waleska. Sylvester-Sale had plumped for chargrilled quail breast and celeriac remoulade, with lots of French fries. Nothing wrong with his appetite, as far as she could see. He was being so annoyingly aloof. No one would have thought they were lovers, looking at them. White wine for her, red for him.
‘Apparently,’ he said, ‘one should never refer to red wine as “red wine” but as “wine”. Rose, on the other hand, should be called “pink wine”.’
‘Is that so? What about white wine?’
‘White wine can be called “white wine”.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘The place is practically empty,’ he said.
It was the kind of polite conversation a stranger would make.
‘It is, isn’t it?’
‘Dining out is on the decline. The credit crunch has gnawed its way to the giddiest summits of high society.’
‘My brother-in-law intends to write a book entitled The Romance of Restaurants. We met at Mr Saunders’s office earlier on,’ Clarissa explained. ‘I told him I was having dinner at the Cafe Regal.’
‘You didn’t tell him you were having dinner with me, did you?’
‘No. Don’t worry, darling. Your secret is safe with me. Gerard said the Cafe Regal was going to feature prominently in his book. He is going to devote a whole chapter to it.’ Clarissa glanced round. ‘I wonder how many of the diners tonight are Freemasons. It seems the Cafe Regal is a haunt of Freemasons.’
‘Really? They say Freemasons rule the world.’ He didn’t look particularly interested.
‘Apparently there is a gilded room on the second floor. Gerard claims to have seen it. That’s where they hold their hush-hush meetings and cook up various conspiracies. They masquerade as a culinary club of cheerful gourmets. They call themselves Les Bons Freres.’