The Skull Beneath the Skin (36 page)

“But she’d know that I must have told them! What would she think of me? I don’t think I could face her after that.”

“You might not have to. I don’t suppose she’ll stay on now that Clarissa’s dead.”

“So you would tell if you were me?”

Cordelia’s patience snapped. It had been a long day ending in the trauma of Munter’s dramatic appearance and she was weary in spirit as well as body. And it was difficult to sympathize with Simon’s obsessive self-concern.

“I’ve told you. I wouldn’t tell. But I’m not you. It’s your responsibility and you can’t force it on anyone else. Surely there’s something you’re capable of deciding for yourself.”

She regretted the unkindness almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She turned her eyes from his scarlet face and stricken, dog-like eyes and said: “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I suppose we’re all on edge. Wasn’t there a third thing you wanted to ask?”

He whispered, his mouth trembling: “No. There’s nothing else. Thank you.”

He got up and closed the piano. He added quietly and with some attempt at dignity: “If anyone asks about me, I’ve gone to bed.”

Unexpectedly, Cordelia found that she, too, was close to tears. Torn between irritation and pity and despising her own weakness she decided to follow Simon’s example. The day had gone on long enough. She went out on the terrace to say goodnight. The three black-clad figures were standing apart, silhouetted against the iridescence of the sea, motionless as bronze statues. At her approach they simultaneously turned and she could feel the concentrated gaze of three pairs of eyes. No one moved or spoke. The moment of moonlit silence seemed to her protracted, almost ominous, and as she said her goodnights the thought that for the past twenty-four hours she had tried to suppress surfaced in all its stark and frightening logic. “We are here together, ten of us on this small and lonely island. And one of us is a murderer.”

Cordelia fell asleep almost as soon as she had closed her book and put out the bedside light. But her awakening was as sudden. She lay for a moment confused and then put out her hand and found the switch. Her wristwatch, curled on the bedside table, showed her that it was just after three-thirty, far too early, surely, for her to have woken naturally. She thought that her sleep had been pierced by some sound, perhaps the shriek of a night bird. The moonlight streamed through the half-drawn curtains cutting a swath of light over the ceiling and walls. The silence was absolute except for the pulse of the plangent sea, louder now than in the stir of the daylight hours. Her mind, still drugged with sleep, took hold of the tag end of a dream. She had been back in Kingly Street and Miss Maudsley had been showing her with pride a newly rescued kitten. As is the way of dreams, she found it unsurprising that the kitten should be sleeping in a carved cradle with a red canopy and side curtains, a miniature of Clarissa’s bed, or that, when she peered into the cot and pulled aside the shawl she should see, not a kitten but a baby and should know that this was Miss Maudsley’s
illegitimate child and that she must be very tactful and not betray that she knew. She smiled at the memory, put out the light and tried to relax into sleep.

But this time it was elusive. Once woken, she was restless. Her mind busied itself again with the mystery and horror of Clarissa’s death. Image succeeded image, unsought but insistent, disconnected in time but horribly clear: Clarissa’s satin-clad body gleaming pale under the crimson canopy; Clarissa gazing down into the swirl of water at the Devil’s Kettle; Clarissa’s slim figure passing to and fro on the terrace, pale as a ghost; Clarissa standing on the pier and stretching her arms bat-winged in welcome; Clarissa removing her makeup, turning on Cordelia one naked and diminished eye in a freakish, strange and discordant gaze which seemed now to hold a look of sad reproach.

Her mind held that last picture as if unwilling to let it fade. Something about it was significant, something that she ought to have known or remembered. And then the realization came. She saw again the dressing table, the balls of cotton wool smeared with makeup, the smaller pads shifting across the mahogany, blackened with mascara. Clarissa had used a special lotion to cleanse her eyes. But those pads hadn’t been on the dressing table when her body was discovered. Perhaps she hadn’t troubled to remove her eye makeup. Was that something which the forensic pathologist would be able to detect even beneath that shattered and swollen flesh? But why should she take off her powder and foundation and leave her eyes under a weight of shadow and mascara, particularly as she proposed to rest them under the moistened pads. But wasn’t there another possibility, that she had kept on all her makeup because she was expecting a visitor and that it had been the visitor who had wiped her face clean before smashing it to pulp? And that implied a man. A man was surely the most likely secret visitor.
Clarissa was too obsessed with her appearance to meet even a woman with a naked face. But wouldn’t a woman be more likely to realize that she must use the special pads to remove the eye makeup? Tolly would have known it certainly. But Roma? Roma’s eyes were devoid of mascara and in the urgency and terror of the moment she would be unlikely to make a close inventory of the bottles on the dressing table. A man was still the most likely to make such a mistake, except perhaps Ivo with his knowledge of theatrical makeup. But the strangest part of it all was surely Tolly’s silence. The police must have questioned her about the makeup, must have asked her if everything on the dressing-table looked normal. And that meant that Tolly had held her tongue. Why and for whom?

It was impossible now to will herself to sleep. But she must have dozed at last if only fitfully for it was nearly four when she next awoke. She was too hot. The bedclothes lay heavily on her like a weight of failure and she knew that there would be no more sleep that night. The sea was louder than ever, the air itself seeming to throb. She had a vision of the tide rising inexorably over the terrace, sweeping into the dining room, floating the heavy table and the carved chairs, rising to cover the Orpens and the stuccoed ceiling, creeping up the stairs until the whole island was covered except for the slender tower rising like a lighthouse above the waves. She lay rigidly, longing for the first flush of day. It would be Monday, a working day in Speymouth. She would be able to get away from the island, if only for a few hours, visiting the local newspaper office, trying to trace the cutting about Clarissa’s Jubilee performance. She had to do something positive however unlikely it was to prove successful and significant. It would be good to feel free, free of Ambrose’s ironic, half-secret smile, Simon’s misery, Ivo’s gaunt fortitude; free most of all from the eyes of the
police. She had no doubt that they would be back. But, short of arresting her, there was nothing they could do to prevent her spending a day on shore.

Now it seemed that the morning would never come. She gave up the attempt at sleeping and got out of bed. Pulling on her jeans and Guernsey she went to the window and drew back the curtains. Below her lay the rose garden, the last overblown heads drooping on their spiky branches, bleached pale by the moon. The water in the pond looked as solid as beaten silver and she could see clearly the smudge of lily leaves, the gleam of their blossoms. But there was something else on the surface, something black and hairy, an immense spider crawling half submerged, spreading and waving its innumerable hairy legs under the shimmering water. She gazed in fascinated disbelief. And then she knew what it was and her blood ran cold.

She wasn’t aware of her flight down to the door which led from the passage to the garden. She must have banged on bedroom doors as she ran, indiscriminately, aware only that she might need help, not waiting for a response. But others must have been sleeping lightly. By the time she had reached the door into the garden and was straining upwards to shoot back the top bolt, she was aware of muffled footsteps padding down the passageway, a confused murmur of voices. And then she was standing at the edge of the pool with Simon, Sir George and Roma beside her and viewed clearly for the first time what it was she knew that she had seen: Munter’s wig.

It was Simon who threw off his dressing gown and waded into the pool. The water came up to his thrashing arms. He gulped then dived. The rest of them watched and waited. The water had scarcely steadied after the flurry of his disappearance when his head shot up, sleek as a seal’s. He called: “He’s here.
He’s caught on some wire netting where the lilies are rooted. Don’t come in. I think I can free him.” He disappeared again. Almost at once they saw two black shapes surfacing. Munter’s bald head, face upwards, looked as swollen as if it had been in the water for weeks. Simon pushed the body towards the side of the pool, and Cordelia and Roma bent and tugged at the sodden sleeves. Cordelia knew that it would be easier to take his hands, but the bloated fingers, yellow as udders, repelled her. She bent over his face and shifted her grasp to his shoulders. The eyes were open and glazed, the skin as smooth as latex. It was like pulling a dummy from the water, some discarded manikin with a stuffed-sawdust body, waterlogged and inert in its ridiculous formal coat. The clown’s mask with its sagging jaw seemed to be gazing into hers with a look of piteous inquiry. She could imagine that she smelt his breath, stinking with drink. She was suddenly ashamed of the repugnance which had rejected the sad remnant of his humanity, and in a spasm of pity she grasped his left hand. It felt like a taut bladder, fleshless and cold. And it was in that moment of touch that she knew he was dead.

They tugged him on to the grass. Simon pulled himself out of the water. He folded his dressing gown under Munter’s head, forced back his neck and felt in the gaping mouth for dentures. There were none. Then he fastened his mouth over the thick lips and began the kiss of life. They watched silently. No one spoke even when Ambrose and Ivo came up quietly and stood among them. There was no sound but the squelch of sodden clothes as Simon bent to his task and the regular gasp of his intaken breath. Cordelia glanced at Sir George, wondering a little at his silence. He was gazing down at the bloated inverted face, at the half-shut and unseeing eyes with a look of great intensity, almost of incredulous recognition.
And in that moment, Cordelia’s heart jolted. Her eyes met his and she thought they flashed a warning. Neither spoke but she wondered whether he had shared her revelation. There came into her mind an old incongruous picture: the music room at the Convent, Sister Hildegarde stretching wide her mouth and eyes in an anticipatory mime, raising the white baton. “And now my children, the Schumann. Happy, happy! Mouths wide.
Ein munteres Lied.”

She dragged her mind back to the present. There was no time to think about her discovery or to explore its implications. She forced herself to look again at the sodden lump of flesh on which Simon was so desperately working. He was close to exhaustion when Ambrose bent and felt for the pulse at Munter’s wrist. He said: “It’s no good. He’s dead. And he’s icy cold. He’s probably been in the water for hours.”

Simon didn’t reply. He went on mechanically pumping breath into the inert body as if performing some indecent and esoteric rite. Roma said: “Ought we to give up? I thought you were supposed to go on for hours.”

“Not when the pulse has gone and the body’s cold.”

But Simon took no notice. The rhythm of his harsh, indrawn breath and the antics of his crouched body seemed to have become more frantic. It was then that they heard Mrs. Munter’s voice, low but harsh: “Leave him be. He’s dead. Can’t you see that he’s dead?”

Simon heard her. He stood up and began to shiver violently. Cordelia took his dressing gown from under Munter’s head and wrapped it round his shoulders. Ambrose turned to Mrs. Munter.

“I’m so very sorry. When did it happen, do you know?”

“How can I tell?” She paused, then added, “sir. I don’t sleep with him when he’s drunk.”

“But you must have heard him go out. He can’t have walked steadily or quietly.”

“He left his room just before three-thirty.”

Ambrose said: “I wish you had let me know.”

Cordelia thought: He sounds as peevish as if she’s proposing to take a week’s holiday without consulting him.

“I thought you paid us to protect you from trouble and inconvenience. He’d made enough for one night.”

There seemed to be nothing to say. Then Sir George came forward and beckoned to Simon.

“Better get him indoors.”

There was a new note in Mrs. Munter’s voice. She said quickly: “Don’t bring him into the servants’ flat, sir.”

Ambrose said soothingly: “Of course not, if that’s how you feel.”

“That’s how I feel.”

She turned and walked away. The rest of the party looked after her.

Then Cordelia ran and caught her up.

“Please let me come with you. I don’t think you should be alone.”

She was surprised that the eyes lifted to hers could hold so much dislike.

“I want to be alone. There’s nothing the likes of you can do. Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill myself.” She nodded towards Ambrose. “You can tell him that.”

Cordelia returned to the group. She said: “She doesn’t want anyone with her. She says to tell you that she’ll be all right.”

No one answered. They were still standing in a circle looking down on the body. Dressing-gowned as they were, their feet muffled by slippers, they loomed over the corpse like a group of oddly clad mourners: Sir George in shabby checked
wool, Ivo’s dark-green silk through which his shoulders stuck like wire hangers, Ambrose’s sombre blue, faced with satin, Roma’s padded and flowered nylon, Simon’s brown bathrobe. Watching the circle of bent heads Cordelia half expected them to rise in concert and wail a threnody in the thin air. Then Sir George roused himself and turned to Simon: “Shall we get on with it?”

Ivo had wandered a little way along the edge of the pool and was contemplating the remnants of the water lilies as if they were some rare marine vegetation in which he had a scientific interest. He looked up and said: “But ought you to move him? Isn’t it usual not to disturb the body until the police arrive?”