The Curious Incident at Claridge's (9 page)

13

Holy Dread

The ponderous, electric-charged air seemed to grow steadily more weighty as they walked down the corridor. Sir Seymour's room, it transpired, was on the third floor. They went up in an ancient lift that wheezed and creaked horribly. There was a black, incredibly battered-looking armchair in one corner, which might have served as a prop in a Lucien Freud painting. Payne found himself thinking of the particularly silly denouement of a locked-room mystery he'd read not long ago, in which the killer conceals himself inside an armchair.

They met nobody on the way. The place seemed empty. ‘The brothers like a bit of a rest before dinner, unless they are watching a film in our
salle de ciné
,' the Master explained with an air of proprietary complacency. ‘Extreme horror and tasteful erotica are particular favourites. Not so domestic dramas or anything that smacks of the serious-minded.
Film noir
and sci-fi epics send them to sleep.'

‘In thrall to Eros and Thanatos, eh?'

Solid mahogany doors. Numbers. Name plates. One of the doors—number 35—was open and Payne saw a very old shrunken man in a wheelchair, holding a large magnifying glass and leafing through a book. There was an odd pale greyness about him, as though colour were continually being drained out of him. Payne's eyes went to the portrait on the wall. Was that—?

‘Are you comfortable in your new room, Dr Fairchild?' the Master called out.

‘Yes. Infinitely better. A vast improvement.' The old man gazed across at them through his thick horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I feel reborn. It is a most curious feeling.'

‘Were the croissants to your taste this morning?'

‘Thank you, yes. Exactly as I like them this time. Not hot but with a memory of heat.'

‘Some of the brothers can be a little capricious,' the Master said
sotto voce
as they walked down the corridor. ‘I wouldn't use the word “unreasonable”, but Dr Fairchild's old room was much larger and it had a better view. It was also on the ground floor, which was much more convenient for his wheelchair, but he kept complaining. He said his old room smelled most disagreeably—of cats, if you please. He insisted on being moved to the third floor.'

‘Are there cats at Mayholme Manor?'

‘Of course not. Keeping pets is against the rules. Dr Fairchild is ninety-one. Our oldest brother at the moment. People start getting fancies at that age, I suppose. Somewhat ghoulish back history. Nuremberg in 1946. Dr Fairchild had the unenviable task of ascertaining whether the necks of the convicted Nazi elite had been properly snapped. Or so I have been given to understand.'

‘I believe Sir Seymour's father was also in Nuremberg at the same time. He was a member of the British team that was sent to make sure things were done properly. It seems more than likely that they met,' Payne said thoughtfully.

‘Yes. I wonder if Sir Seymour is aware of the connection …'

They had stopped outside number 33.

‘We shouldn't be bothering him like this, really,' the Master murmured as he knocked on the door. Since no answer came, he tried the door handle.

The door opened.

‘Sir Seymour never locks his door. He sometimes has a pre-parricidal nap. I mean, pre-
prandial
. Ha-ha. I've been steeped in
Oedipus Rex
. Steeped. I belong to a literary circle. Are you familiar with
Oedipus Rex
, Major Stratton?'

‘Payne …
It was my fate to defile my mother's bed
.'

‘I've been haunted by the vision of the distraught Sphinx throwing herself off a cliff. I never imagined Sphinxes were
female
. Conjures up a most disturbing image. Thought they were without a gender.'

But Sir Seymour's bed was empty. The bed sheets were crumpled, the pillow bore an indentation where his head had lain and there was a book with a lurid cover on the floor beside the bed. Of Sir Seymour there was no sign. An oak-panelled room, rather Spartan. It reminded Major Payne of the rooms at the Military Club.

‘Sir Seymour?' the Master called out. ‘Maybe he is having a bath.' He pointed towards the bathroom door indecisively. ‘I would hate to disturb him, really.'

Outside it had started raining and they heard the pattering of desultory raindrops on the window panes.

Pre-parricidal
. Another Freudian slip? Payne wondered. Were relations between the Tradescants,
père
and
fils
, as bad as that? At some subconscious level the Master seemed to believe that Nicholas Tradescant was capable of killing his father. Too fanciful? Freud was a fraud, according to some. There should be a detective story entitled
The Black Box
. The black box would represent somebody's subconscious, which would be central to the plot, but to throw readers off the scent a lacquered black box should be found lying open beside the dead body. Would Antonia think it a good idea?

‘Sir Seymour enjoys taking very hot baths. Dr Henley has warned him against it. Bad for the blood pressure. He's had problems with his blood pressure.' The Master knocked on the bathroom door lightly. ‘Sir Seymour? Are you there? He is a bit deaf. Sir Seymour? Dear me. I do hope he hasn't been taken ill. Shall I …?'

Sir Seymour wasn't in the bathroom either. The bath was empty and contained nothing but a red rubber duck with a cheerful silly face. They stood staring at the duck. Payne caught sight of their faces in the bathroom mirror and thought they looked rather silly themselves.

‘Well, Sir Seymour is clearly somewhere else, which, you will agree, is most reassuring. It shows that he has made a complete recovery,' the Master delivered in clipped tones. ‘I expect he has gone for a walk. Sir Seymour loves the gardens. The gardens are absolutely splendid at this time of year.'

‘It isn't the best time for a walk.' Payne pointed towards the window where the haphazard raindrops were turning into a steady crashing cascade.

‘Perhaps not. Well, Sir Seymour is clearly somewhere else. Um. In the library—or he may be playing billiards. Goodness, what was that?'

They had heard a crack like that made by a bullet.

‘A lightning bolt seems to have struck one of your ancient walls, Master. Some may say it is an omen.'

Back in the bedroom, Payne stood looking at a silver dish containing cuff-links that bore the initials ST, a pair of pearl studs, a ring and a number of loose one pound coins. Tips for the stewards?

It was as they were about to walk out of the room that Major Payne noticed the radiator under the window sill. The radiator was pillar-box red—which was also the colour of sealing wax. Who was it who mentioned sealing wax earlier on? No, not the Master. Why did he think that important? The next moment he remembered.

He said, ‘Are there any other radiators at Mayholme Manor which are that particular shade of red?'

‘No. That is the only one. We are going to have it repainted.' The Master gave a little sigh. ‘For some reason Sir Seymour has taken exception to the colour.'

14

The Captive

Nearly seven o'clock. Captain Jesty parked his car and glanced across at Mayholme Manor. It looked grey and menacing in the twilight, under the sheets of falling rain. He hated ancient buildings. He found them singularly lacking in comfort. This one looked like an ogre's castle. He felt his spirits sinking lower, if that were possible. He should never have come. Of all the pointless journeys! What did it matter if Sir Seymour Tradescant was dead? What did it matter if he was alive? I don't care a hoot if her incredible tale is true or false, Jesty told himself.

Actually, he did care. He needed to find out if she had lied to him. That was why he had driven to Mayholme Manor, though he couldn't bring himself to leave his car now. If the old buffer turned out to have died, Jesty would call the police. He would tell them exactly what he had seen at Claridge's. The capsule-swapping incident. He would get Payne to testify as well. Payne would be a good solid witness. Payne's word would carry weight.

He would make sure the girlie didn't get away. He would make the girlie cry. He would make her suffer. He had the power to ruin her life, he realized. To destroy her. A long jail sentence for the cold-blooded murder of her husband was bound to ravage her beautiful face. Those lovely lips would wither. The eyes would lose their brightness. The clear skin would turn sallow. Nothing would ever be the same again.

He remembered her parting words at Quaglino's. ‘Mayholme Manor is where you will find my husband.' She had handed him a slip of paper with the address. She had thanked him for the lunch. She had spoken with exaggerated politeness. He had been aware of a contemptuous glint in her eye.

He had made the mistake of baring his soul to her, of telling her he was mad about her, of promising to dismantle the moon for her, to present her with a star on a silver salver. Never before had he said things like that to a woman.
Only
as a joke. He had told Penelope he couldn't live without her, that he would do anything for her,
anything
, that he wanted to be her slave. Jesty squirmed at the memory. She, on the other hand, informed him she was flying to the South of France that same evening, or early the next day. She intended to stay in France for some time. Perhaps indefinitely, she said.

After she left, he remained seated at the table. He looked across at her coffee cup, at the slight smudge of lipstick on the brim. He reached out and stroked the starched napkin Penelope Tradescant had used. The moment his fingers touched it, he felt a burning sensation. He might have passed his hand through fire. When he examined his fingers later on, he saw red marks across them. The marks were still there. That was how much he loved her.

No, they were not. What absolute rubbish. Jesty flexed his fingers. He was imagining things. He should have his head examined. He should go and get drunk and forget all about her. She was no good. She was trouble. She was the devil. He cursed the moment he'd set eyes on her. He shouldn't have touched her with a barge pole. Let her go to France
.
Let her stay there indefinitely. That would be fine by him. Out of sight, out of mind.
Je vais te porter disparu.
Yes, quite.
Bon voyage, ma chère
. Goodbye and good riddance.

You'd forget her in no time, the old Captain Jesty went on whispering in his ear. Console yourself with what you've got. It's only injured pride that's making you react like this. Phone Xandra. Phone Christine. Phone Leonora. Phone Petunia Luscombe-Lunt. Your call would make them happy. They would greet you with open arms. They would take your mind off her.

But the very thought of Christine and Xandra made Jesty squirm. He hadn't seen Petunia for a long time, but till a year ago she had been showering him with gifts—she'd kept ringing him at all times of day and night—asking him to go over—making arrangements for holidays together. Petunia
adored
him. She hadn't minded him calling her ‘Pill'—she had taken the nickname as proof of his affection for her. Where
had
Petunia disappeared to? It was unusual for her to be silent for so long—

No, he didn't want Petunia either. He wanted Penelope.
He wanted Penelope.
No one else would do.

Suddenly he had the strong feeling, nay, the absolute certainty, Penelope was sitting beside him in the car …

What a perfect profile she had … He let his fingers encircle her arm just above the elbow. He increased the pressure gently, then drew her to him. He didn't kiss her at once. He watched her lips part—a sensual ungluing marked by a soft sound. Her lips were supple and pliant and rich in colour. Magenta. Blood and mud. When he eventually kissed her, her body felt as taut as a bowstring to start with, but then she grew weak and curiously fluid in his arms. He heard her soft voice.
Do with me as you please
.

He had no idea how much time had passed. When his eyes opened, he felt dazed and disoriented. A sick feeling in his stomach. He was shivering. The passenger seat was empty and it felt cold to his touch. She had never been there. No, of course not. He had become enthralled with her to the point of allowing any form of rational judgement to abandon him. Penelope was on her way to the South of France. She was fleeing, moving out of his orbit. He could find her if he put his mind to it, he supposed; it wouldn't be an unsurmountable problem, but what would be the use if she didn't want him?

Outside the sky was still overcast. The rain appeared to have stopped. It was very quiet. Where
was
he? Why was he sitting in his car? What a terrible building. A monastery? A figure appeared. Somebody coming from the direction of the building. Chap in a bowler hat, swinging a rolled-up brolly? Seemed familiar …

It wasn't Payne, was it? Good grief. It
was
Payne. Jesty couldn't believe his eyes. Payne again! Payne had the knack of turning up when least expected. Payne had started playing at sleuths. Payne was intent on cracking the conundrum of the contaminated capsule. It was all a game to Payne. Annoying sort of chap, Payne. A damned meddler, in fact. Payne had followed the scent—all the way from Claridge's!

Jesty didn't particularly want to see Payne. He watched him covertly through the car window.

Payne was walking rather slowly. He appeared lost in a brown study. Jesty saw him shake his head. Had Payne unearthed something? Had he perhaps seen Sir Seymour's body?

I need to know, Jesty thought. He remembered where he was and why he had come. Payne had stopped beside a car and was patting his pockets. It was Payne's car, of course. Another minute and he'd be gone. Jesty wound down the car window and called out his name. How odd his voice sounded. Not like his voice at all. Hoarse and feeble.

A minute later Payne was peering down at him. ‘My dear fellow. What's happened? You don't look well.'

‘I am shot all to hell, Payne,' Captain Jesty managed to say.

‘I do believe you are in need of a slug of something chilled and remedial. Let's go and have a drink somewhere. We'll find a pub in Dulwich.'