The Curious Incident at Claridge's (12 page)

19

Alibi

The holiday season had started and at Heathrow Airport the bustle was quite incredible. They had had to come two hours before the flight—not one, as it had been. Penelope Tradescant looked at her watch: nine o'clock. She could do with some more coffee. She'd got up at some unearthly hour. Needed to check in first. How long the queue was!

Her mobile phone rang. ‘Hold this,' she told her companion and handed him her overnight bag.

She held the phone to her ear. ‘Yes?'

‘Lady Tradescant? Oh dear. This is too dreadful!'

‘Who is this?'

‘I am so sorry. It's Wilfred Cowley-Cowper speaking. From Mayholme Manor—'

‘Who? Oh—Master?'

‘Yes, yes—oh dear—
yes
.'

He sounded extremely flustered.

‘What is it?' Vic whispered.

‘Sorry, can't hear you very well,' she said. ‘Has anything happened? Not Seymour?'

‘Yes! I am so sorry, Lady Tradescant, but I am afraid—it's Sir Seymour—I am so sorry!'

‘Seymour? Is he ill?'

‘I am afraid I am the bearer of terrible tidings, Lady Tradescant. The worst possible news. Sir Seymour died this morning.'

‘
Died?
'

‘What's happened?' Vic asked. ‘Who's died?'

‘He died forty-five minutes ago. I called Dr Henley at once,' the Master explained, ‘but it was too late.'

‘Oh, my God. What—but what happened?'

‘Sir Seymour didn't feel frightfully well last night. He thought his fingers were a bit swollen—this might have nothing to do with it, mind! I suggested calling Dr Henley, but Sir Seymour insisted he was fine. Well, he died this morning. In his bath.'

Penelope gave a little gasp. ‘In his bath!'

‘I am afraid so. It's terrible. That's where Travis—one of the stewards—found him when he brought him his breakfast. I am so sorry. This must be extremely distressing!'

‘It's a shock … My God … Seymour … Was it a heart attack?'

‘Dr Henley is not sure, but he thinks it was a heart attack, yes.'

‘Poor Seymour.' She looked across at the darkly handsome face of her companion. Poor lamb, he looked worried, quite distressed in fact. He had insisted on seeing her off. So sweet. She tried to give him a reassuring smile.

‘Dr Henley kept warning him against taking hot baths. There may be a PM. I don't know. Dr Henley will need to conduct further examinations.' The Master sounded quite choked. ‘It all seems to depend on how conclusive his findings are. He may need to ask for a second opinion, he says. It is all too dreadful for words. I was wondering whether it would be convenient for you to—'

‘Of course. I'll be with you as soon as I can.' She looked at her watch. ‘I shall take a cab. Thank you for letting me know, Master. I am at Heathrow, as it happens. The airport, yes. I was on my way to the South of France—good thing I never got on the plane!'

‘The South of France!' The Master seemed to find this particularly distressing. ‘I am so terribly sorry.'

Poor poppet. He was clearly in a state of shock. Penelope had a soft spot for the Master.

‘Well, Vic,
c'est la vie
. First your mother, now Seymour. It's awful, I know, though I can't pretend I feel sad for either of them.'

It was half an hour later. They were sitting in the back of a cab and he was holding her hand. He said, ‘They'll think it is us, Penelope.
They'll think it's us
.'

‘I don't see why they should. Seymour died of a heart attack. That's what the doctor thinks.'

‘What if he drowned? He was in the bath, wasn't he?'

‘That's a possibility, but I don't see how they could start imagining that we've got anything to do with it. At this point there's no question of anyone suspecting foul play. The fact remains Seymour died shortly after eight o'clock this morning. The Master said so.'

‘Eight o'clock? Are they sure? Thank God!' Vic gave a sigh of relief. ‘At eight o'clock we were in the cab on the way to Heathrow. Neither you nor I could have been at Dulwich, drowning your husband!'

‘Unless one of us managed to be in two places at the same time?' She gave a little smile as she remembered the book of conjuring tricks she had given Seymour. ‘Perhaps I am not me?'

‘What—what do you mean?'

‘Don't look at me like that, silly—of course it's me! I shouldn't be joking, I know, but I can't help feeling very happy. I am free—and I am rich!'

‘Will you marry me?'

‘I am not sure. Actually, my sweet, I don't think that would be an awfully good idea,' Penelope Tradescant said.

‘Why not? You love me, don't you?'

‘I adore you.'

‘It's interesting, the way you smile when you clearly don't feel like smiling. I caught myself in my shaving mirror doing exactly the same thing the other day,' Vic said. ‘It suddenly came to me. We are so similar!'

‘We are, aren't we? Practically alike. That can be dangerous,' Penelope said with mock gravity. ‘All the more reason why we shouldn't get married.'

‘Arise, Sir Nicholas!' It was the dark girl who said it this time and she laid the brush against his left, then against his right shoulder. They were at the same hotel, but the blonde girl wasn't with them.

Nicholas Tradescant went on staring down at his mobile phone. Did he feel sorry—sad? Well, no. He felt—nothing. He felt empty. A bit shaken up, that was all. He'd never loved his father. He had been caned by a servant at his father's orders once. He must have been ten or eleven. He couldn't remember the reason. His father had sat by and watched, while sipping pale sherry. He recalled his father's words. ‘Well, Nicky, if you asked me nicely, the castigation could be cancelled.' There had been a smirk on the servant's face. Nicky had clenched his teeth. He hadn't begged for mercy. He hadn't screamed or sobbed. He had stood the punishment out, bloodied but Spartan in his silence. He had then walked stiffly and painfully to his room. He'd wished his father dead, he remembered.

The dark girl put her arm around his neck. ‘What are you thinking about, Nicky? Aren't you happy?'

‘No.' He frowned. ‘We floated an electronically operated boat on the lake once. Many years ago. I was very excited about it, but my father got angry with me, I can't remember the reason, but he told me to go back to the house. He then spent an hour playing with the boat all by himself.'

‘What a terrible thing to do! Poor Nicky. Well, your father is dead now and you are one of the richest men in England, aren't you?'

He asked the dark girl where the blonde girl was—did she have any idea?

She shrugged. ‘She is a dark horse. Perhaps it was her who went and killed your father. She said she would, didn't she?'

‘Actually it was you who said it.' He gave a faint smile. ‘They don't know the exact cause of death yet, but it looks like a stroke.' He glanced down at his mobile phone. There was a message—from his aunt, of all people. What did it say?
Rejoice! Rejoice!

He shut his eyes. He had started feeling a little queasy.

‘I am pregnant and I am absolutely sure you are the father,' the dark girl was saying.

20

Suspicion

‘Ah, Master. We meet again. This is terribly distressing,' Bettina Tradescant said.

‘Miss Tradescant, my sympathies.' The Master inclined his head in a ceremonious manner. ‘A most tragic occasion—'

‘Indeed it is. But we need to get these things in perspective. My brother was not exactly a young man. You may not be aware, but there was an awful lot that was wrong with him. An awful lot. Anxiety spells, depression, indigestion, insensitivity, general lack of judgement, deafness. His deafness was much worse than he ever admitted, did you realize? Seymour was terribly embarrassed about his deafness. Seymour was a tormented soul. Not at all what you and I would call a “happy man”, so, in a manner of speaking, this is a merciful release.'

‘Sir Seymour always said he found great contentment and peace at Mayholme Manor.'

‘Well, that was certainly the impression he
chose
to give.' She shook her head darkly. ‘You didn't know my brother as well as I did, Master. Seymour believed in sparing the feelings of people he didn't know particularly well.'

How and when she had heard the news, the Master couldn't imagine. Perhaps it was Lady Tradescant who had told her? But he had informed Lady Tradescant about her husband's death only an hour and a half earlier—and Bettina Tradescant was already sitting in his study, wearing profound and rather extravagant mourning, like some Victorian widow! A long black dress with a high collar, black pointed shoes, black hat with two shiny purple feathers, black gloves and two golden crucifixes around the neck. How had she managed it? She must have moved with the speed of lightning. No—impossible!

‘I have an admission to make, Master. I have been here for
ages
. I knew of course what I would find, so I came suitably dressed. I am famous for my sense of occasion. I arrived at the crack of dawn and I sat in my car. I was quiet as a mouse. I drank coffee from my thermos flask and read
Vanity Fair
. The book,
not
the magazine. I have been reading it for the past twenty-five years. I admire Becky Sharp terribly.
Such
enterprise. I must admit I prefer the magazine, always useful to know what my rivals get up to, but I doubt if that would have been appropriate in the circumstances. My brother disapproved of what he termed “the world of fashion”. Incidentally, I had a mishap in your downstairs lavatory earlier on. I am sure your stewards have informed you?'

‘No, they haven't.'

‘They should have. Something needs to be done about all those locks and knobs, otherwise one day you may end up with a fatality,' she warned him. ‘Next time it will be one of your old buffers! I doubt if any of them has my kind of stamina. I do apologize if I strike you as a little brusque, but I had a bad night. I couldn't sleep at all well, in fact not at all. One of my
tangos nocturnes
. When that happens I tend to lose my temper easily. Everything annoys me. I hope you will forgive me. I explained about the chill the last time we met, didn't I?'

‘You did.'

‘I can't function if I've got the chill. I simply can't. When did my brother die exactly?'

‘Between eight and half-past eight this morning.'

‘I locked myself in your downstairs loo at about that time, now isn't that most interesting?' Bettina scowled. ‘You are sure Seymour didn't snuff it
in the small hours of yesterday morning
?'

‘Quite sure,' the Master said patiently. ‘You could ask Dr Henley.' He gestured towards the portly man with the mottled red face, who had been sitting in an armchair beside the window, drinking coffee.

‘It isn't so much a question of trust as of principle,' she said obscurely.

Dr Henley rose to his feet with some difficulty. ‘Miss Tradescant. How do you do.'

Her leathery skin and somewhat darting eyes gave her an inhuman look, almost reptilian. Later on he was to describe her to his wife as a ‘crackling mass of unrelated forces'.

‘How do
you
do. One must observe the forms even when one is confronted with the greatest provocation, I am sure you agree? One must assume the appropriate social mask. Fail in that and chaos follows.' For a moment Bettina seemed transfixed by the vague plume of steam that rose lazily from the doctor's cup.

‘My deepest condolences.' Dr Henley went on to say that Sir Seymour's death would be a great loss to everybody who knew him.

She gave a gracious smile. ‘I don't seriously suspect the Master of deliberately withholding data, it is only that I felt the chill very strongly yesterday. I have had to live with the chill for most of my life. I first became aware of it when I was about four. That doesn't mean I may not have had some sort of prevision. I consulted the Royal Society for Psychical Research about it once, years ago, and they wrote back saying that prevision phenomena happen much more frequently than people imagine. They are awful frauds, mind, still one expects them to offer a competent kind of opinion.'

‘As it happens, I am intrigued by psychic phenomena,' Dr Henley said. ‘If you don't mind me asking, Miss Tradescant, how does the chill manifest itself exactly?'

‘It starts as a painfully persistent thought at the back of my head. Like a drill. It goes the moment I get confirmation. It simply disappears, as though it's never been there, and then I am as right as rain. As light as a feather. The chill can be extremely demanding, almost like a living entity.
Not
a very nice living entity. It has tantrums. It craves attention. It snaps, it growls. No, I made that up.'

‘Fascinating. What will happen to it now?'

‘You mean now that my twin is dead?'

‘Yes. Will it—go away?'

‘I hope so. I have no idea. Only time will show. Strictly
entre nous
, I am sick and tired of talking about the chill in the mysterious and exclusive fashion in which Elijah might have spoken of his ravens. Well, it is refreshing to meet a man of science who is not primarily pig-headed. Doesn't happen often, I assure you.' She blew her nose. ‘Could Seymour have drowned?'

‘I can't say until I have been able to examine the body properly,' Dr Henley said. ‘I suspect a stroke or a heart attack. By the time I arrived, Sir Seymour had been taken out of his bath and one of the stewards had attempted artificial respiration, all in vain, sadly. Sir Seymour had high blood pressure. Those hot baths—I did warn him—'

‘I am sure you did your best, my good man.' She shook her head. ‘I am afraid Seymour was always rather obstinate. Seymour never
listened
to people. He was singularly lacking in what is sometimes called the “imagination of disaster”. No question of a post-mortem then?'

‘I sincerely hope that will not be necessary,' the Master said crisply.

‘It would look bad for you if there were a PM, wouldn't it? I mean bad for the business, Master. It may cause chaps to think twice before they join this so-called “brotherhood”. I understand your fees are obscenely exorbitant. But perhaps there were no suspicious features, that's why you are so damned relaxed about it? No signs of struggle—no bruises—broken nails—odd pigmentation—cracked vertebrae?'

‘My dear Miss Tradescant!' The Master's face had turned vermilion. ‘There is absolutely nothing to suggest that Sir Seymour died of anything but natural causes. Henley, please, would you be kind enough to confirm?'

Dr Henley said, ‘No suspicious features.'

‘I am terribly glad. You see, I have been in the grip of some extremely complex emotions, that
may
account for my lack of restraint. Somebody told me once that I had a first-rate mind,' Bettina went on with a self-deprecating smile. ‘This may sound like an idle compliment, but it isn't. No second-rate mind could have experienced such an intensity of feeling so … purely.' She adjusted her hat. ‘I expect this means, Dr Henley, that your signature on the death certificate is imminent?'

‘I wouldn't say imminent, no.'

‘But it is only a matter of time, yes? Oh, how I wish I'd been there beside Seymour as he lay breathing his last, holding his hand, stroking his forehead, saying the rosary with him …'

The Master frowned. ‘I was not aware that Sir Seymour was a Catholic.'

‘He wasn't. He nearly became one about fifty years ago, only he hated the idea of turning into a priest-ridden puppet.' Bettina sighed deeply. ‘I am in an odd state. I try not to give in to sorrow, you see. It is
such
an appalling waste of energy. You can't get sorrow into shape—you can't build on it, can you, Master?'

‘No.'

‘Gazing back into the past is equally fatal. I despise women who wallow in their woes! It's women like that who bring womanhood into disrepute. But don't let me detain you any longer with blasts from my feeble trumpet! You should have stopped me! I am sure you are a busy man, Master.' She rose. ‘May I see Seymour's body? Would you lead me to it? I want to check something. I will do it very discreetly. I promise I am not going to make a scene. I won't disgrace myself either. I am not in the least squeamish.'

Her large brocade bag stood on the floor beside her feet and she was aware of the Master's eyes fixing on the orange sleeve that stuck out of it. ‘Oh, this is one of the frock-coats your boys wear,' she explained amiably.

‘It's a habit.'

‘Good or bad? Sorry! That was a terrible thing to say. I mean, terrible in the circumstances. The truth is, I simply
had
to have one. I find inspiration for my dresses in the most
unlikely
quarters. My ideas come when I least expect them. Are you by any chance familiar with my latest creation? No? It is a dress that is incredibly soft and limp; it looks almost moist. It brings to mind—rather poignantly—the tongue of a dead kitten. Well! That's
precisely
what gave me the idea.'

The Master tugged at his beard. ‘Where did you find the habit?'

‘I didn't
find
it. A habit isn't a dog or an umbrella or a one-pound coin. For heaven's sake, Master, don't look so disapproving! It creates
such
tension. There were quite a few of them downstairs, hanging on a rack in the small room, off the hall.' Bettina made a vague gesture towards the door. ‘Gathering dust. I was certain you wouldn't mind. To tell you the truth, I didn't really imagine it would be missed.'

Penelope Tradescant stood looking down at the various objects that had been laid on the desk in her late husband's room.

‘Snuff-box, monogrammed handkerchief, pocket watch … Yes … This is all, I believe. Oh, the ring's not here. Where's the ring, do you know? Seymour's diamond ring. I don't think it's on his finger.' She cast a quick glance towards the shrouded form that lay on the bed.

‘The ring?' The Master's hand went up to his beard. ‘I think Sir Seymour had some problem with his ring. For some reason he—um—he couldn't wear it. He thought his fingers had become swollen. He said something to that effect last night. The ring should be inside the little porcelain dish over there—on the bedside table.'

‘It is not in the dish.'

‘How very curious. I am sure it was there last night. Goodness. You are perfectly right. It's not here.'

‘It's an extremely valuable ring.' Penelope looked from the Master to the doctor, then towards the steward in the orange habit standing beside the door.