‘Is that to be blamed on the curse as well?’ Lady Grylls appeared amused. ‘You don’t have to speak of the Royal Family in such hushed tones, Provost. Ridiculous. I don’t suppose you still pray for the Royal Family, do you? You do? Goodness. Remnant parties were the stuff of legend. One had to be terribly amusing or good-looking or fascinating or outrageous to get an invitation to a Remnant party. Not any longer, it seems. Still, they appear to have been getting up to all sorts of silly things. The latest craze – there was something about it in the Mail. What was it? Miltonesque litanies?’
‘Shakespearean capers, my lady.’
‘Sounds like the kind of thing that would drive me mad. Who was the ugly character in Shakespeare who lived on an island?’
‘Caliban, m’lady.’
‘Are you sure, Provost? I thought the Caliban was a somewhat extreme Afghan nationalist movement.’
‘That’s the Taliban, m’lady.’
‘I wonder if the stepson will be at the funeral. The stepson is subject to sudden and intense disorientation, or so they say. His head, apparently, poses great problems for the medical brains of Harley Street. They keep sending him to some terribly expensive place, but then he comes back and the whole thing starts all over again. He hates his stepfather. Hated, one should say. I understand he threatened to kill him on a great number of occasions.’
2
‘Do correct me if I am wrong, my dear, but you seem to be enhaloing the name La Sorcière with a whole new morbid aura,’ said the former Gerard Fenwick, now the thirteenth Earl Remnant.
‘I am certain they are all involved in some way, the whole Sorcière set. Clarissa and Glover and Miss Tilling and Dr Sylvester-Sale,’ Felicity Fenwick said. ‘And the Hunters. The Sorcière Six, as the press may well dub them one day. On the analogy of the Tapas Seven.’
‘Can’t imagine the Hunters being involved in anything.’
‘They all had a guilty air about them. They looked conspiratorial. They kept exchanging furtive glances. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’ The new Lord Remnant crossed over to the drinks trolley and poured himself a whisky. ‘No one is at their best at funerals. I thought they looked subdued and terribly pale and pinched, but then didn’t we all?’
‘You couldn’t look pale even if you tried.’
It was the kind of cutting remark that made Gerard Fenwick wonder about the state of their marriage. Better pretend he hadn’t heard.
He raised the whisky glass to his lips. ‘That was an embarrassing little scene, wasn’t it? Never imagined Tradewell was an emotional chap. Falling to his knees – praying in that booming voice, with his hands clasped above his head. Sobbing.’
‘I am sure Tradewell was crying for himself. His fate is a bit uncertain now.’
‘Tradewell’s an oxymoron. An emotional butler. But you may be right. Don’t suppose Clarissa cares much for Tradewell. I know he “goes” with the house, but we may not need him either.’
‘We don’t have to live at Remnant, do we?’
‘We’ll be expected to put in an appearance every now and then. Noblesse oblige and all that sort of rot.’
Gerard Fenwick stood beside the window, nursing his drink, gazing at the sky, which was a gash of crimson and orange. His thoughts turned to Renée Glover. The way she had smiled at him – such a sweet smile. Renée was genuinely interested in his writing…
Felicity said, ‘No second thoughts about starting the – what is it you wanted to call it? Dilettanti Drag?’
‘Dilettanti Droug. Was that meant to be funny? It will be a small but rather exclusive press,’ he said stiffly. She doesn’t understand me, he thought. She doesn’t understand me at all.
‘Oh yes. Droug is Russian for “fiend”, I keep forgetting.’
‘It’s Russian for “friend”. There is a difference, you know.’ Felicity was doing it on purpose, he was convinced of it. She was trying to get at him. ‘No, no second thoughts, my dear. No reason why I should have changed my mind, is there?’
‘Clarissa says she’ll move to La Sorcière permanently. Grenadin clearly agrees with her.’
‘Clearly. It doesn’t agree with me. Thank God we only got invited once. So hot – and all those mosquitoes! I don’t suppose we were their sort of people. We don’t seem to scintillate.’
‘I wouldn’t have said the Hunters scintillated exactly. Louise Hunter is so fat. The Hunters lack – what is it they lack? A significant something.’
‘Charm? Unity? An edge?’
‘That’s it. No edge.’ Felicity nodded. ‘I have known beach balls with more edge to them than the Hunters.’
‘I believe they are frightfully mismatched. Louise is dire, I agree, but I don’t think there’s anything really wrong with Hunter.’
‘I don’t suppose I could ever like Louise Hunter, not even if she were to save me from drowning or death by fire.’
‘I feel sorry for Hunter. He is a first-class farmer. I wouldn’t be able to do half the jobs he does. He understands cattle… When was it we saw my brother on the box? Was it last year or the year before?’
‘Last year – you mean that ghastly documentary, don’t you?’
‘Yes. It was ghastly, wasn’t it? Roderick’s teeth didn’t seem to fit and he never for a moment took off that ludicrous hat. He seemed peculiarly rejuvenated, didn’t you think?’
‘People always look different on the box,’ Felicity said dismissively. ‘Would you get me a Scotch, Gerard? With plenty of soda.’ Kicking off her shoes, she sat on the sofa. ‘I am chilled to the bone. Hate funerals. The trawl from Remnant Regis to the crematorium was unbearable. It’s a miracle I survived.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. I feel as stiff as a varnished eel myself.’
‘And that vicar, how he droned on! I didn’t feel a flicker of spiritual devotion, not a flicker, only a vague kind of annoyance. I can’t imagine your brother being in heaven now playing the harp – can you?’
‘I don’t think the vicar said anything about a harp, did he? It would have been unscriptural.’
‘I hate the idea of an afterlife. The shocking insecurity of it all – the spectacular lack of privacy – bumping into people you’d hoped never to see again or wondering why so-and-so was not there! It would be my idea of hell.’
‘Plenty of soda, did you say? Wise girl. Here you are, my dear.’ He handed her a glass. I am not sure I like having drinks with my wife, he thought. I used to, but I no longer do. And she is wrong if she expects me to start discussing my religious beliefs with her. ‘Chin-chin, my dear.’
‘Chin-chin… The moment the coffin disappeared into the furnace, the Sorcière Six all looked immensely relieved. Why did they look so relieved?’
‘Scotch and soda is my favourite drink,’ he said. ‘No question about it. Next to frozen Daiquiris.’
‘Clarissa was wearing all her pearls and all her diamonds, which was certainly de trop, and such a theatrical little hat. To start with, her face was a studied Madonna Dolorosa, but then it began to crumple-’
‘You don’t think Clarissa loved Roderick?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Clarissa is the voguish vamp type. In profile she brings to mind Madame Sarkozy.’
‘Clarissa is so overloaded with sex, it sparkles. She reminds me of one of those golden striped things that roam the jungle… It’s perfectly obvious she’s had an affair with the doctor, which he has now ended.’ Felicity put down her glass. ‘What do we know about your brother’s death, Gerard? How exactly did he die?’