The Skull Beneath the Skin (22 page)

The lined and heavy brocade curtains were drawn across the windows, but brightness pierced the paper-thin slit between them, and even their heavy folds couldn’t entirely exclude the afternoon sun which seeped through as a gentle diffusion of pinkish light. Clarissa lay, ghostlike, on her crimson bed, both arms gently curved at her sides, the palms upwards, her hair a bright stream over the pillow. The bedclothes had been folded
down and she was lying on her back, uncovered, the pale satin dressing gown drawn up almost to her knees. Lifting her arms to draw back the curtains, Cordelia thought that the subdued light in the room played odd tricks; Clarissa’s shadowed face looked almost as dark as the canopy of the bed, as if her skin had absorbed the rich crimson.

As the folds of the second curtain swung back and the room sprang into light she turned and saw clearly for the first time what it was on the bed. For a second of incredulous time her imagination whirled crazily out of control, spinning its fantastic images: Clarissa had applied a face mask, a darkening, sticky mess which had even seeped into the two eye pads; the canopy was disintegrating, dripping its crimson fibres, obliterating her face with its richness. And then the ridiculous fancies faded and her mind accepted the stark reality of what her eyes had seen. Clarissa no longer had a face. This was no beauty mask. This pulp was Clarissa’s flesh, Clarissa’s blood, darkening and clotting and oozing serum, spiked with the brittle fragments of smashed bones.

She stood at the side of the bed, shaking. The room was full of noise, a regular drumming which filled her ears and pounded against her ribs. She thought: I must get someone, I must get help. But there was no help. Clarissa was dead. And she found that her limbs were rooted, only her eyes could move. But they saw things clearly, too clearly. Slowly she turned them from the horror on the bed and fixed them on the bedside chest. Something was missing, the silver jewel casket. But the small round tray of tea was still there. She saw the shallow cup, delicately painted with roses, the pale dregs of tea with two floating leaves, the smear of lipstick on the rim. And beside the tray there was something new: the marble limb, thick with blood, resting on top of a sheet of white paper,
the chubby blood-stained fingers seeming to pin it to the polished wood. The blood had seeped over the paper, almost obliterating the familiar skull and crossbones, but the typed message had escaped that insidious stream and she could read it clearly:

And then it happened. The alarm clock on the other bedside cabinet rang, making her leap with terror. Her limbs were galvanized into life. She dashed round the bed and tried to silence it, grabbing it with hands so shaking that the clock clattered on the polished wood. Oh God! Oh God! Would nothing stop it? Then her fingers found the button. The room was silent again, and in the echo of that dreadful ringing she could hear once again the thudding of her heart. She found herself looking at the thing on the bed as if terrified that the din had woken it, that Clarissa would suddenly jerk up stiff as a marionette and confront her with that faceless horror.

She was calmer now. There were things she must do. She must tell Ambrose. Ambrose would have to ring the police. And nothing must be touched until the police arrived. She found herself looking round the room, noticing all the details with great intensity: the balls of cotton wool smeared with makeup on the dressing table, the bottle of eye lotion still unstoppered, Clarissa’s embroidered slippers neatly placed on the hearth-rug, her makeup box open on a fireside chair, her copy of the script fallen by the bed.

As she turned to the door it opened and she saw Ambrose with Sir George behind him, his binoculars still round his
neck. They stared at each other. No one spoke. Then Sir George pushed past Ambrose and moved up to the bed. Still without a word he stood gazing down at his wife, his back rigid. Then he turned. His face was taut, all its restlessness stilled, the skin almost green. Then he swallowed and put his hand to his throat as if he were about to retch. Cordelia made an instinctive movement towards him and cried: “I’m sorry! I’m so very sorry!”

The words in all their futile banality appalled her as soon as she had uttered them. And then she saw his face, a mask of astonished horror. She thought: Oh, God, he thinks I’m confessing! He thinks I killed her.

She cried: “You employed me to look after her. I was here to keep her safe. I should never have left her.”

She watched the horror drain from his face. He said calmly, almost crisply: “You couldn’t have known. I didn’t believe she was in any danger, no one did. And she wouldn’t have let you stay with her, you or anyone. Don’t blame yourself.”

“But I knew that the marble had been taken! I should have warned her.”

“Against what? You couldn’t have expected this.” He said again, sharply as if he were giving a command: “Don’t blame yourself, Cordelia.”

It was the first time he had used her Christian name.

Ambrose was still at the door. He said: “Is she dead?”

“See for yourself.”

He moved up to the bed and looked down at the body. His face flushed a deep red. Watching him, Cordelia thought that he looked more embarrassed than shocked. Then he turned away.

He said: “But this is incredible!” Then he whispered. “Horrible! Horrible!”

Suddenly he darted to the communicating door and turned
the knob. It was unlocked. They followed him into Cordelia’s room and through into the bathroom. The window to the fire escape was open as she had left it. Sir George said: “He could have got out this way and down the fire escape. We’d better organize a search of the island. The castle too, of course. How many men can we muster including those in the play?”

Ambrose made a rapid calculation.

“About twenty-five of the players and six of us including Oldfield. I don’t know whether Whittingham will be much use.”

“That’s enough for four search parties, one for the castle, three to cover the island. It needs to be systematic. You’d better ring the police at once. I’ll get the men organized.”

Cordelia could imagine the disruption that thirty or more people tramping over the house and island would cause. She said: “We mustn’t touch anything. Both these rooms must be locked. It’s a pity that you handled the door knob. And we’d better prevent the audience from landing. About the search, mightn’t it be better to wait for the police?”

Ambrose looked uncertain. Sir George said: “I’m not prepared to wait. That’s not possible. It’s not possible, Gorringe!”

His voice was fierce. His eyes looked almost wild. Ambrose said soothingly: “No, of course not.”

Sir George asked: “Where’s Oldfield?”

“In his cottage, I imagine. The stable block.”

“I’ll get him to take out the launch and patrol the Channel between here and Speymouth. That’ll block any escape by sea. And then I’ll join you in the theatre. Better warn the men that I’ll be wanting them.”

He was gone. Ambrose said: “It’s best that he has something to do to keep him busy. And I don’t suppose they’ll do any harm.”

Cordelia wondered what Oldfield was supposed to do if he did intercept a boat leaving the island. Board it and tackle
a murderer single-handed? And did either Ambrose or Sir George seriously expect to find an intruder on Courcy? Surely the significance of that bloody hand couldn’t have escaped them.

Together they checked the door in Cordelia’s room leading to the corridor. It was locked from the inside with the key still in place. So the murderer couldn’t have left by that route. Next they closed and locked the communicating door. Finally they locked Clarissa’s room behind them and Ambrose pocketed the key. Cordelia said: “Are there any duplicate keys?”

“No, none. The spare bedroom keys were missing when I inherited and I’ve never bothered to have others made. It wouldn’t have been easy, anyway. The locks are complicated; these are the original keys.”

As they turned from the door they heard footsteps and Tolly appeared round the corner of the gallery. Acknowledging them with only a nod she went up to Clarissa’s door and knocked. Cordelia’s heart thumped. She looked at Ambrose, but he seemed bereft of speech. Tolly knocked again, this time more loudly. Then she turned to Cordelia.

“I thought you were supposed to call her at two-forty-five. She should have left it to me.”

Cordelia said, through lips which were so dry and swollen that she thought they would crack: “You can’t go in. She’s dead. Murdered.”

Tolly turned and knocked again.

“She’s going to be late. I have to go to her. She always needs me before a performance.”

Ambrose took a step forward. For a moment Cordelia thought that he was going to lay a hand on Tolly’s shoulder. Then his arm dropped. He said in a voice which seemed unnaturally harsh: “There isn’t going to be a performance.
Miss Lisle is dead. She’s been murdered. I’m just about to ring the police. Until they arrive no one can go into that room.”

This time she understood. She turned and faced him, her face expressionless but so white that Cordelia, thinking she would faint, put out a hand and grasped her arm. She felt Tolly shudder, a small spasm of rejection, almost of revulsion which was unmistakable, as shocking as a blow in the face. Quickly she withdrew her hand. Tolly said: “The boy. Does the boy know?”

“Simon? Not yet. No one knows except Sir George. We’ve only just discovered the body.”

His voice held a trace of aggrieved impatience, like an overworked servant. Cordelia almost expected him to protest that he couldn’t see to everything at once. Tolly still fixed her eyes on him. She said: “You’ll break it gently, sir. It will be a shock to him.”

Ambrose said curtly: “It’s a shock for us all.”

“Not for one of us, sir.”

She turned and left them without another word.

Ambrose said: “Extraordinary woman! I’ve never understood her. I doubt whether Clarissa did. And why this sudden concern for Simon? She’s never shown any particular interest in the boy. Oh well, we’d better get on with telephoning the police.”

They made their way down the stairs and through the great hall. Here preparations for the buffet supper were already under way. The long refectory table was covered with a cloth and rows of wine glasses were ranked at one end. The door to the dining room was open and Cordelia could see Munter pulling the chairs from the table and putting them in line, presumably before carrying them into the hall. Ambrose said: “Wait here a moment, will you.”

A minute later he was back. He said: “I’ve told Munter. He’ll get down to the quay and prevent the launches from tying up.”

They went together into the business room. Ambrose said: “If Cottringham were here, he’d probably insist on speaking to the Chief Constable personally. But I suppose the Speymouth police are the ones to ring. Ought I to ask for the C.I.D.?”

“I should just ring the Speymouth station and leave it to them. They’ll know the procedure.”

She looked up the number for him and waited while he got through. He gave the facts succinctly and without emotion, mentioning that Lady Ralston’s jewel box was missing. Cordelia was interested that he had noticed its absence; nothing had been said while they were in the bedroom. There was a certain amount of delay from the other end of the line and then the crackle of a voice. She heard Ambrose say: “Yes, we’ve already done that,” and, later: “That is what I propose doing as soon as I get off the line.” Shortly afterwards he put down the receiver and said: “Much as you expected. Lock the rooms. Don’t touch anything. Keep people together. Don’t let anyone land. They’re sending a Chief Inspector Grogan.”

In the theatre the house lights were already on. A door to the left of the proscenium led backstage. From the open doors of the two main dressing rooms came laughter and a confusion of voices. Most of the cast had already changed and were now making up with a great deal of giggling advice from their friends. The atmosphere was reminiscent of an end-of-term frolic. Ambrose knocked on the closed doors of the two rooms reserved for the principals, then called out loudly: “Will you all come on stage please, immediately.”

They tumbled out in an unruly bunch, some clutching their clothes around them. But one glance at his face silenced them
and they trooped on to the stage subdued and expectant. Partly costumed and half made-up as they were, their faces white except for the garish patches of rouge, they looked, thought Cordelia, like the clients and inmates of some Victorian bawdy-house pulled out by the police for interrogation.

Ambrose said: “I’m afraid I have some very shocking news for you. Miss Lisle is dead. It looks very much like murder. I’ve telephoned the police and they’ll be here shortly. In the meantime, they’ve asked that you all stay together here in the theatre. Munter and his wife will bring you all some tea and coffee and anything else you need. Perhaps, Cottringham, you’d take charge here. There are still people I have to tell.”

One of the women, a blonde, pert-faced girl dressed as a parlour maid in a frilled apron and goffered cap with long streamers, said: “But what about the play?”

It was a question born of shock which Cordelia thought she would probably remember with shame all her life. Someone gasped, and she blushed scarlet. Ambrose said curtly: “The performance is cancelled.”

Then he turned on his heel and left. Cordelia followed. She said: “What about the search parties?”

“I’ll leave that to Ralston and Cottringham to sort out. I’ve told the cast to stay together. I can’t cope with trying to enforce police instructions against the determination of the bereaved husband to demonstrate his competence. Where, do you suppose, are the rest of the party?”

He sounded almost peevish. Cordelia said: “I suppose Simon is swimming. Roma was in the library, but she’s probably dressing by now. I imagine that Ivo is in his room, resting.”

“See them, will you, and break the news. I’ll go and find Simon. Then we’d better stay together until the police arrive. I suppose it would be courteous if I kept company with my
guests in the theatre but I’m not in the mood to cope with a gaggle of agitated women all hurling questions at me.”