‘I’d hate living in St John’s Wood … Nellie’s nephew is a detective.’
‘Don’t think Peverel is a detective.’
‘No, not Peverel. Hugh.’
‘Hugh Payne? I thought Hugh Payne was in the army.’
‘He isn’t a real detective, but one of those amateur ones. I’ve heard some incredible stories. He may be interested in buying the Damascus chest, Nellie says. He’s seen it in my catalogue. She is bringing him over to look at it tomorrow.’
‘That’s splendid, absolutely splendid. I’m afraid I’ll be off at some unearthly hour, so I’m bound to miss them. Good lord, it’s starting to rain again … Rain falling limply in intermittent showers.’ He whistled what sounded vaguely like ‘The Rain in Spain’ between his teeth.
She gazed across at him in an exasperated fashion. ‘Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious about the sinister secret of La Sorciere, Gerard?’
‘I do believe, my dear, that if you ever went to Plato’s cave and were asked about a Form or an Ideal, you wouldn’t talk about Love or Truth or Beauty, but about the sinister secret of La Sorciere. Why, you make it sound as though they all killed my brother and hushed it up!’
‘Perhaps they did. In fact I am sure they did. They looked conspiratorial.’
‘Renee Glover seemed as self-possessed as ever. Her manner was perfectly amicable. She said hello and I am so sorry about your brother and she actually smiled at me.’
‘It is me Glover hates, not you. It was I who dismissed her. Glover adores you. She worships the ground you walk on.’ Until a year ago Renee Glover had worked as Felicity’s secretary. ‘What she did was inexcusable. Outrageous. Poking her nose into my private affairs. Reading my letters.’
‘I am sure you were mistaken, my dear.’
‘I was not mistaken. Oh, I know perfectly well you have a soft spot for her, Gerard. All those cosy little chats in your study. You don’t think I am blind, do you?’
‘No, not at all, my dear. One couldn’t imagine anyone more eagle-eyed than you. Sometimes you even …’
‘Sometimes I even what, Gerard? See things that are not there? Is that what you were going to say?’
Gerard put on his oblique expression. ‘No, no, not at all.’ Felicity’s getting difficult, he thought, fed up with having to change the topic. ‘Such a blessing, never to have been fond of one’s brother. Thank God he arrived in a hermetically sealed coffin and now of course he is in an urn. We are terribly lucky, you know. In Greece and countries like that relatives are expected to kiss the loved one’s corpse as it lies in the coffin, by way of a final adieu.’
‘You should have given that poached egg a wide berth at breakfast,’ Felicity said sullenly. ‘You’re coming out in spots.’
‘This is not an allergy. It’s a nervous thing.’
She said she didn’t believe he had any nerves. ‘Did you hear about Stephan? Apparently he’s been taken back in.’
‘He should never have been allowed out.’ Gerard Fenwick stole a glance at his watch and said he needed to go to his study. ‘Sorry, my dear, but I am, as they say, being possessed by the Muse, which is also known as the divine furor. It would be unwise to ignore the call. The Muse is capricious and wilful and notoriously unpredictable. I may never get another visit.’
‘What are you going to do in your study?’
‘I am going to write.’
‘You are going to write?’
‘Well, yes. You know perfectly well that’s something I do. Do you have to sound so amazed?’ He paused with his hand on the door handle. ‘I am divided between writing an essay on the subject of funeral corteges and a bitter-sweet story of a chap who realizes he is in love with his wife’s former secretary.’
‘Oh, that’s been done so many times. I think you should write a murder mystery about a suspicious death that takes place on a tropical island.’
‘Murder is something I know nothing about,’ he said. He frowned down at his right hand, at the red blotch, which he knew perfectly well was a mosquito bite. ‘I suppose I could write a one-act comedy about a distinguished middle-aged couple having a desultory and somewhat pointless kind of conversation. One of those fictions that are rooted in reality. L’art egale la vie. It would be fun, I think.’
3
The moment her eyes fell on the Revd Duckworth’s clerical collar, a miasma of oppressive gloom descended on Hortense Tilling, not unlike the onslaught of sudden fever. She felt a shudder run through her. This is absurd, she thought. I have seen his collar hundreds of times.
‘Dear lady, there is an odd look about your eyes, which I cannot read,’ he said playfully.
‘I’ve only just come back, Ducky.’
‘Back? My dear Hortense, you are the most travelled person I have ever known! Back from what distant shores this time, pray?’
‘Back from Hertfordshire. Remnant Regis.’
‘Ah — Lord Remnant’s final journey. A melancholy occasion. Coronary thrombosis, I believe you said? Suddenly at his residence — they still write that, I’ve noticed. Cherished husband. I never cease to be amazed at the resilience of certain cliches. We all feel blessed to have known him … There is safety in cliches, I suppose … You will give me some tea, Hortense, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will, Ducky … The cup that cheereth,’ she murmured ruefully as she left the room.
They had known each other a number of years. He was a widower, she had never married. Both were in their mid-sixties. He invariably addressed her as ‘dear lady’. She called him ‘Ducky’. At one time Hortense had imagined the Revd Duckworth was steeling himself to propose to her.
In the kitchen, as she occupied herself with the tea, she suddenly felt on the verge of tears. I cannot live with so much doubt and fear and with so much intensity, she thought. I must talk — otherwise I will burst.
It took her a couple of moments to compose herself.
She re-entered the drawing room and put the tea-tray on the table.
The Revd Duckworth beamed at her. ‘Towards a clergyman, common benevolence expresses itself largely through the medium of a cup of tea. I have no idea if this is a quotation or whether I just made it up.’
‘Sounds like something out of Trollope,’ she said. ‘Trollope teems with clergymen, doesn’t he? All those bishops and archdeacons and prelates swimming in satins and port.’
It would help her if she talked. It would blow away the clinging cobwebs of her low and anxious mood. I don’t have to tell him the whole truth, she thought, I cannot possibly tell him what happened exactly, but I will certainly tell him about the bribe.
‘Who’s that?’ He was peering at one of the photographs on the wall. He was an old fool but she was fond of him. ‘Such an innocent face. Something of the lost angel about it. Brings to mind one of our most accomplished choirboys.’
‘That’s Stephan. Clarissa’s son.’
‘Your great-nephew. Of course. Was he at the funeral?’
‘No. He is not at all well.’
‘A most impressionable young person, I believe you said? Easily led astray? Short attention span? Undesirable friends?’
‘It’s much worse than that, Ducky. I’ve told you.’ She spoke a little impatiently.
‘Was it-? Not-?’
‘Yes. He started quite young, at thirteen, I believe. I am afraid they can do very little about it. Poor Clarissa is out of her mind with worry … A mother’s heart-’ Hortense broke off. She took a deep breath. ‘I find myself blaming God.’
‘One mustn’t blame God.’
‘I do blame God. I am afraid in my very personal hierarchy God does not occupy a front seat. What I actually most believe in is the imponderable perception of God. It is my idea that God is aware of everything but is holding back, doing very little.’