A Mansion and Its Murder
She hadn’t noticed the gargoyles before, or had forgotten all about them. They were looking down from the crenellations, leering at her unpleasantly, as though in triumphant mockery. Antonia pursed her lips. She felt a bit miffed that Dufrette had beaten her to it, that he had managed to get to the truth first. Three of the gargoyles had parts of their faces missing, either nose or ear or chin, but two looked as good as new, giving the impression they had been sculpted and mounted only recently. Twiston, it became clear to her, was undergoing renovation of some sort. To one side the stucco was so new that, she imagined, a few hundred tubs of yoghurt might have to be rubbed into it to develop some patina. But from the other two-thirds plants were protruding, gargoyles and griffins were disintegrating and streaks of damp ran down the walls.
The kind of place exiles think of when they dream of home.
It was she of course who had said that, on the day before Sonya disappeared, as it happened. She had spoken these words to Mrs Vorodin in this very garden.
Still, she didn’t start reading the letter. She wanted to work out every detail by herself, unaided.
She realized she was approaching the house from the back. She smelled the sweet aroma of honeysuckle. She went up the stone steps that led to the deserted sunlit terrace. She saw a round marble-topped table and a deck-chair under a striped umbrella. A tray with a silver coffee pot, a bone-china coffee cup, a plate containing a half-eaten wedge of Sachertorte, the chocolate glistening as it melted away in the sun. A starched napkin of gleaming whiteness. A small silver ashtray containing the stub of a purple-filtered Balkan Sobranie cigarette. A book lying face down on the chair. Antonia looked at the title. French. Un Autre Moi-Meme. Mrs Ralston-Scott clearly had Continental tastes of the refined kind, acquired, Antonia supposed, in the course of her cruise down the Mediterranean. What had she said? Sailing all the way from Monte Carlo to the Greek islands.
Un Autre Moi-Meme… How did that translate? Another Self? James Lees-Milne? Antonia frowned. How curious that Mrs Ralston-Scott should be reading James Lees-Milne in French, but then, Antonia decided, she was a very curious lady.
Antonia stood with her hand on the back of the chair. One couldn’t have conceived of a more innocent spectacle, nor of a more reassuring one, and yet she found the sheer civilized normality of it all a bit sinister. There was a hush. She was aware of an air of expectancy.
The french windows were wide open. Although there was no one in sight, she did believe secret eyes were following her every move from inside the house, wondering what was to be done about her. Would they attempt to – No. She considered that unlikely. If they did, they’d be left with two bodies to account for. Still, whatever plans had been made, she and Dufrette must have upset them. She looked round. Which way had the person gone? The person who had spied on them? She didn’t think they had come this way. Some side door, she imagined.
Antonia went in through the french windows and found herself inside the drawing room, as she had known she would. Most of it struck her as unchanged. There was something about its raw authenticity – floorboards so worn that they had the texture of driftwood, panes of wobbly seventeenth-century glass and 300-year-old paint which looked as though it might have been applied last week – that left her feeling disoriented. There were bowls of flowers everywhere, just as there had been on that fatal morning twenty years ago.
The cuffed leather armchair the colour of overdone veal – Sir Michael’s favourite seat – and the fender stool were as she remembered them. So, for that matter, was the black Chinese screen patterned with the figures of female samurai warriors fighting dragons, which had been bought by Lady Mortlock. (Was there an encoded message? Were the dragons symbols of sexual prejudice? Not too fanciful?) On the other hand, the French nineteenth-century sofa with the woven cotton Zoffany upholstery and striped taffeta curtains were brand new. Both sofa and curtains were the colour of seashells. Some of the ancient floorboards, she noticed, had been replaced with French oak in a soft colour, in what must have been an attempt to lighten the room. The process of renovation would be resumed at some future date – if Mrs Ralston-Scott was to survive the cataclysm.
(Antonia had a good idea now how Mrs Ralston-Scott fitted into the picture.)
On the floor beside the sofa she saw a stuffed toy. She went and picked it up. A giraffe, one of whose ears bore teeth marks. It had a rather supercilious expression on its long face. Sonya’s favourite toy. Curzon? Yes. Though it also brought to mind Lawrence Dufrette.
The sense of urgency had abandoned Antonia. She looked at her reflection in the oval mirror above the fireplace. She wasn’t surprised to see she had a dazed air about her. There was a cigarette case on the mantelpiece. An Asprey’s slide-action, engine-turned silver cigarette case. A gentleman’s case. She opened it. Empty. Then she noticed the monogram on the lid: T.N. For some reason she felt disturbed. She looked down at the blazer button in her hand. Replacing the case on the mantelpiece, she turned round and sat down in the veal-coloured winged chair. She put her feet on the stool. She thought she heard muffled barking coming from another part of the house. Mrs Ralston-Scott’s spaniels.
The kind of place exiles think of… Her own words, she realized, had been quoted back to her from the radio. On top of all my problems, Mrs Ralston-Scott had said next. She had meant Sonya of course. And she had meant Sonya again, not her dog, when she had asked her secretary to play the record that ‘calmed’ her. The sweet old-fashioned tune of course was ’Lavender’s Blue‘. That whimpering sound – Antonia shuddered. That too had been Sonya, not a dog. Mrs Ralston-Scott had been cautious. Extremely cautious. She had recognized Antonia’s name. She had feared that Antonia might remember.
Antonia opened the letter. As Dufrette had said, the English translation followed the Russian text. She read it through.
I don’t think it would be at all a good idea for you to come to Twiston.
That was what Veronica Vorodin had written to Lena. Antonia nodded to herself. Well, that explained Dufrette’s presence at Twiston. That was how he had known where to find them.
Somewhere a grandfather clock chimed the half-hour. The next moment she heard a composed voice ask, ‘Excuse me, what are you doing here? Who are you?’
She hadn’t been recognized, clearly. Well, it was twenty years. Furthermore, as the mirror had shown her, she looked a sight. Grimy-faced, badly sunburnt, sweaty and dishevelled. She couldn’t have presented a greater contrast to the woman who was standing beside the door, looking across the room at her.
It was a young woman with short glossy chestnut hair and glasses, wearing a caramel-coloured blouse, a heather skirt, pale silk stockings and shoes the colour of molasses that were as polished and shiny as conkers. She was the epitome of cool competence and might as well have been wearing a badge saying Superior Secretary pinned to her virginal bosom. Antonia saw her cast a quick glance round the room, as though expecting to see someone else. She clearly suspected Lawrence Dufrette might have managed to sneak in too.
Was that the secretary she had spoken to on the phone? What was her name? Laura?
Not leaving her seat, Antonia said, ‘I came to report a body. There is a dead body outside. The body of a woman.’
The secretary gave a little controlled gasp. ‘A dead body?’
Curious to see how this would develop, Antonia said, ‘Yes. A middle-aged woman. Rather big. Long grey hair.’
The secretary was staring back at her, her lips slightly parted. ‘How terrible… Where is she? I mean the body?’
‘There is a clearing – a small lawn with a sundial… Do you mean you don’t know who the woman is?’ Antonia asked.
‘No, of course I don’t. How could I? No such woman lives here.’ She was playing the part of mystification very plausibly.