The Sirens Sang of Murder (27 page)
Read The Sirens Sang of Murder Online
Authors: Sarah Caudwell
“Suppose…” said Lilian timidly, “suppose they fell asleep.”
“My dear girl, that really is nonsense, you know. On a hot summer afternoon, perhaps, with a couple of hours to spend out at the rock before they had to come back, I suppose it could happen. But first thing in the morning, knowing they’d only got twenty minutes out there—no, my dear, the idea’s absurd.”
I did not doubt that he was right. And yet the image having once entered my mind would not easily leave it of a dark young man and an auburn-haired woman, asleep as if spellbound on the Sirens’ Rock, while the sea crept in to surround them in its implacable embrace.
The Count rose suddenly from his chair.
“I am sorry, but I can’t bear it, simply to go on sitting here. So many terrible things have happened, and Gabrielle is my wife. How can I sit here and do nothing when she may be in danger? Please, Patrick, I know that you will think me very foolish, but will you drive me out to St. Clement?”
“If that’s what you want, Giovanni, then of course I’ll
drive you there. But I’m sure there’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing in this world.”
“But you see, Patrick,” said the Count sombrely, “I am not sure that it is anything in this world that I am afraid of.”
I have endeavoured throughout my account of the Daffodil affair to present the evidence to my readers in the order in which it became available to me, neither concealing any facts of which I was aware nor anticipating those of which I was as yet ignorant. It would be difficult, however, to understand clearly what occurred during the next half hour without knowing of certain other events which took place outside the range of my observation. I have accordingly thought it right—all the more readily because the contrary decision might perhaps have been attributed to a vulgar and meretricious desire to create what is termed suspense—to interpolate at this point in my narrative a letter, written by Julia, which I did not in fact see until some time later.
SOMEWHERE OVER THE CHANNEL
TUESDAY MORNING
Dearest Selena,
Although it seems far from certain when, if at all, I shall be able to send this to you, or whether, if and when I am, it will represent the most expeditious means of communication, I shall not on that account
deprive myself of the consolation of writing to you and the benefit, if only in fancy, of your always invaluable advice. I am beginning to feel that I may have acted unwisely.
When Cantrip rushed into my room yesterday afternoon, saying that he was obliged to go instantly to Jersey and asking me to stand substitute for him in the arrangements made for the entertainment of his uncle, he gave me little opportunity for reflection or refusal. Taking my compliance for granted, he rushed out again, pausing only to thrust into my hands two telex messages, one from Clementine and one from Gabrielle, which he claimed would enable me to explain everything to Henry. You will have found these enclosed with the note I left for you.
The Colonel’s idea of a real evening out, apparently, is one which begins at about eleven o’clock at night and continues until dawn. I accordingly took the precaution of having two or three hours’ sleep beforehand, and was sufficiently invigorated to share his disappointment when the nightclub which enjoyed our custom decided to close at the absurdly early hour of 4 A.M. I persuaded him to leave, however, without any unduly vigorous protest, and we set forth in search of breakfast.
It is extraordinary how difficult it is to find breakfast in central London at four o’clock in the morning—one would have thought, with all the initiative and enterprise that is supposed to be about nowadays, that the area round Co vent Garden would at that hour be full of charming little cafés eager to offer refreshment to the passing reveller. This proving, however, not to be the case, we were eventually
obliged to walk back to Lincoln’s Inn and make coffee for ourselves in Chambers.
It was thus that I found much earlier than could reasonably have been expected the telex message from Hilary which I also enclosed in my note to you—the one which seemed to imply that if Cantrip went to Jersey he would be in some serious danger. I read it with great anxiety, shared, when I showed it to him, by the Colonel.
We drank some strong coffee to clarify our minds, wondering what we should do, and it occurred to me that it might be helpful to look again at the two other telex messages which Cantrip had given me. It struck me, when I looked more closely at the one purporting to be from Gabrielle, that there was something distinctly odd about it.
Gabrielle, as you know, has spent most of her adult life in the employment of a Swiss bank, and on matters of secrecy and confidentiality she has become, if I may so express it, more Swiss than the Swiss. And yet there, where any Swiss banker I have ever met would have written “in connection with the matter we were speaking of,” was the phrase “in connection with the Daffodil Settlement.”
I told the Colonel that in my opinion the message was spurious, and we were at one in concluding, in the light of the telex from Hilary, that it had been sent for some very sinister purpose.
“Dirty work at the crossroads,” said the Colonel. “We’d better get over there and put a stop to it.”
Left to myself, I am bound to say, I should not have thought of so energetic a course of action, but I would not have liked the Colonel to think—nor indeed would I have wished to think it of myself—
that if Cantrip were in serious danger I would be deterred by mere indolence from doing anything to assist him. I reflected, moreover, that the Colonel, by virtue of his profession, had long experience of what to do when people are trying to kill people, whereas I had the good fortune to have none, and accordingly it was right that I should defer to his judgment. I pointed out, however, that the early morning plane to Jersey, even if we could obtain seats on it, was unlikely to arrive in time for us to play any useful part in whatever dirty work might be in progress.
The Colonel spoke dismissively of aeroplanes and said that what we wanted was a helicopter. I at first found this remark somewhat lacking in realism, since I saw no prospect of our being able to obtain such a thing, still less of our finding anyone to fly it.
“Nonsense, my dear,” said the Colonel, “I was flying choppers before you were born. And I know where to get hold of one easily enough—still got a few contacts from the old days, you know. The problem’s getting to it—pity we’ve got no wheels.”
This observation brought to my mind three facts which taken in conjunction seemed material to our dilemma: (i) that since Timothy went away his motorcar had been parked in Lincoln’s Inn; (ii) that the keys to it were in his desk next door in 62; (iii) that the key which gives me access to your room would also provide access to Timothy’s.
I hope that Timothy will not be unduly vexed about the motorcar. It has suffered no damage, apart from one or two scratches, and is really quite safely parked in a field somewhere about an hour’s
drive south of London. Admittedly I do not know the precise address of the field, but it can be distinguished from other fields in the vicinity by the fact that it has a high wire fence round it and contains a number of helicopters. It also contains a large shedlike structure proclaiming itself to be a heliclub.
Arriving there shortly after daybreak, we found the place deserted, save for an elderly man sitting in a sort of booth or kiosk beside the gateway. He greeted the Colonel with cordiality and deference—I gathered from their exchanges that the Colonel had at some time been his commanding officer—and admitted us to the field. To my surprise the Colonel made no reference to the urgency of our business or to the helicopter which I understood to be available for his use, but implied that our expedition was for the simple purpose of my amusement—a notion to which my still being in evening dress no doubt lent a certain credibility. He enquired what chance there was of my being able to enjoy the spectacle of a helicopter actually taking off, and was told that one of the members of the heliclub would be arriving shortly and flying to Le Touquet.
Evidently pleased by this information, the Colonel led me into the shedlike structure and asked me if I would care to powder my nose. Having acted on this suggestion, I returned from the cloakroom to find him in conversation with a tall man whose face was vaguely familiar to me from the financial pages of the newspapers—his name, if my memory serves me, is frequently mentioned in connection with takeover bids and so forth. The Colonel was showing
a friendly interest in the technical details of his flight to Le Touquet—the amount of fuel he would need and the kind of equipment he was using and matters of that kind—and being unable to make any useful contribution to such questions, I took no part in the conversation. After a few minutes the financier withdrew to the cloakroom and the Colonel followed his example.
The Colonel was the first to reappear, saying briskly, “Time we were on our way, m’dear.” Taking me by the arm, he led me outside and across the field towards one of the helicopters. He assisted me into it with his usual old-fashioned gallantry, and himself then climbed into the pilot’s seat. Various knobs and levers were twiddled and pressed, the blades above us began to rotate at ever-increasing speed, and we rose rapidly into the air.
Turning my head for a last look at the building we had left, I saw the financier waving to us from the window of the cloakroom and thought it courteous to wave back.
The flight so far has been, I suppose, uneventful, save that from time to time the machine gives a sort of hiccough and descends, before recovering itself, to within twenty feet or so of the waters of the Atlantic. I am still attempting, since I know of no other way of coping with the situation, to sustain my imitation of my Aunt Regina, and this precludes any overt display of nervousness; but the phrase “Whoops, sorry, m’dear,” which is the Colonel’s habitual comment on such occasions, does not altogether serve to reassure me. I do not doubt his assertion that he was flying helicopters before I was born; but you will perhaps think that it would have
been prudent to ask him whether he has flown any since that date. It may be, of course, that flying a helicopter is one of those skills, like swimming or riding a bicycle, which when once acquired is never lost; on the other hand, it may be that it isn’t.
My mind is at present anxiously divided between the following questions: (i) is Cantrip really in danger? (ii) does the Colonel know how to land the helicopter? (iii) why did the financier remain so long in the cloakroom? There was something about the way he waved at us which somehow—but surely not even the Colonel…
We are approaching a coastline which the Colonel believes to be that of Jersey—I suppose, therefore, that my doubts on all these matters, if not indeed others of a more eternal nature, will shortly be resolved. In the meantime I remain, dearest Selena,
Yours, as always,
Julia
It would have been sensible, no doubt, if at least one of our number had remained at the Grand Hotel to explain to Cantrip and Gabrielle, should our misgivings prove ill-founded, the reasons for our sudden excursus. Patrick Ardmore’s motorcar, however, was of sufficient size to accommodate five passengers, and none of us, not even Darkside, least of all Lilian, could resist the compulsion which drew us towards St. Clement.
“There are several places that they might have started from,” said Ardmore as we drove eastwards along the coast road out of St. Helier. “I’m afraid we’ll simply have to stop and see if there’s any sign of them at
any of the places one can park a car. I suppose Gabrielle has hired a car? She usually does.”
“She told me on the phone last night that she’d hired a little Fiesta,” said Clementine. “But I don’t know the registration number or even what colour it is.”
“Patrick,” said the Count, “you will go quickly, won’t you?”
“As quickly as I can, Giovanni.”
He continued eastwards, with neat granite houses and colourful gardens to our left and to our right an expanse of damp brown sand, scattered with rocks and seaweed, stretching down to a deceptively smiling sea. Once or twice we stopped at what seemed a possible parking space but found no sign there of those we were seeking.
“Clementine,” I said, struck suddenly by a discrepancy in what I had been told, “didn’t you say earlier that it was Cantrip who had invited the Contessa rather than vice versa?”
“That’s what she told me on the phone last night,” said Clementine. “She said he’d left a message for her at her hotel.”
“But I understand,” I said, “that it was she who invited him—by telex from Monte Carlo.”
Clementine shrugged her shoulders, as at some point of tedious triviality.
The uneasiness which my supposed rationality had hitherto kept at bay laid a chilling hold on my spirits. I had thought of nothing save a direct attack, and it had not occurred to me how easily some soporific might be introduced into a flask of coffee provided for a guest by her hotel.
A little before half past nine, at the beginning of the fourth hour of the tide, we came to a place called Green
Island, a beach between two small headlands, one topped with grass and the other with oak trees. Overlooking it was a little esplanade, showing signs of a modest popularity with the tourist trade: a café, at present closed, and a parking area, at present unoccupied save for a pink Fiesta motorcar.
