What a Carve Up! (52 page)

Several of her relatives snorted at this point.

‘Incidentally, you know, you mightn’t be far wrong,’ Michael remarked, turning towards Hilary. ‘I don’t know about Norman Bates, but of course there
are
films where this sort of thing happens.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, like
The Cat and the Canary
, for instance. Did anybody see that?’

‘I know it,’ said Thomas. ‘Bob Hope and Paulette Goddard.’

‘That’s right. All the members of a family are summoned to an isolated old house for the reading of a will. There’s a terrible storm. And a police officer turns up to warn them that there’s a killer in the area.’

‘And what happens to the members of this family?’ asked Phoebe, looking directly at Michael for the first time.

‘They’re murdered,’ he said calmly. ‘One by one.’

The crash of thunder which followed this statement was louder than ever. It was succeeded by a long pause. Michael’s words seemed to have had a powerful effect: only Hilary remained determinedly unimpressed.

‘Well, to be honest, I don’t see what we’ve got to be worried about,’ she said. ‘After all, you’re the only one who’s been attacked so far.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Michael. ‘We all know that that was an accident. Surely you’re not suggesting –’

‘Do you mind?’ Roddy now broke in abruptly. ‘I’m beginning to find the tenor of this conversation almost as tasteless as this confounded Stilton.’

He pushed his plate away in disgust.

‘And you know all there is to know about
taste
, of course,’ said Phoebe.

This remark was accompanied by a very meaningful look, which provoked him to point a finger at her and stammer furiously: ‘You’ve got a damned nerve, you know, being here at all. One weekend, you spent up here, but it was still long enough for you to get your claws into my father. How much money did you squeeze out of him, that’s what I want to know? And more to the point, what’s he supposed to have died of, anyway? Nobody seems to be talking about that.’

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Phoebe, on the defensive. ‘I was away when it happened.’

‘Look, we’re wasting time here,’ said Dorothy. ‘Somebody should fetch Henry and let him know what’s going on.’

This struck everyone as a very sensible idea.

‘Where is he, though?’

‘Up in Nurse Gannet’s old room, watching television.’

‘Well where on earth’s that? Does anyone know their way around this blasted house?’

‘I do,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ll go and get him myself.’

Michael was slow to oppose this course of action, because he had been confused and intrigued by the sudden display of animosity between Roddy and Phoebe, and was beginning to wonder if it had any sort of history behind it. But as soon as he realized that she had departed on what might well be a dangerous errand, he turned to reproach the others.

‘She shouldn’t be wandering around by herself,’ he protested. ‘You heard what the sergeant said. There might be a killer in the house.’

‘What nonsense,’ scoffed Dorothy. ‘We’re not in a film now, you know.’

‘That’s what you think,’ said Michael, and ran off in pursuit.

But once again he had occasion to curse the fiendishly convoluted architecture of the building. Reaching the top of the Great Staircase, he found that he had no idea which direction to take, and wasted several breathless minutes tearing up and down the winding, intersecting corridors until all at once he turned a corner and ran straight into Phoebe herself.

‘What are you doing up here?’ she said.

‘Looking for you, of course. Did you find him?’

‘Henry? No, he’s not there any more. Perhaps he went back downstairs.’

‘Probably. Still, let’s have another look, just in case.’

Phoebe led him around the corner, up a small flight of steps, and then along three or four short, gloomy passages.

‘Ssh! Listen!’ said Michael, laying a hand on her arm. ‘I can hear voices.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s only the television.’

She flung open a door upon an empty room, containing only a sofa, a table, and a portable black and white television which was tuned to
Newsnight.
Unwatched, Jeremy Paxman was interviewing a harassed-looking junior defence minister.

‘See?’ said Phoebe. ‘Nobody here.’

‘It would be wrong to regard the UN deadline simply as a trigger point,’ the minister was saying. ‘Saddam knows that we now have the
right
to take military action. When – and indeed whether – we choose to
exercise
that right, is another thing altogether.’

‘But nearly nineteen hours have elapsed since the deadline expired,’ Paxman insisted. ‘Are you saying that you still have
no
information as to when –’

‘Oh my God.’

Michael had noticed something: a stream of blood was running down the side of the sofa and dripping on to the floor. He peered gingerly over the back and saw that Henry was lying face down on the sofa, a carving knife sticking out from between his shoulder blades. Phoebe followed him and gasped. They stared speechlessly at the corpse for some time; until they became aware that a third person had entered the room and was standing between them, looking down with blank indifference at the dead man.

‘Stabbed in the back,’ said Hilary drily. ‘How appropriate. Does this mean that Mrs Thatcher is somewhere in the house?’

CHAPTER FOUR

Carry On Screaming

MICHAEL, Phoebe, Thomas, Hilary, Roddy, Mark and Dorothy stood in a solemn circle and contemplated the body. They had raised Henry into a sitting position, and he now stared back at them with the same outraged, incredulous expression which had been the hallmark of all his public appearances.

‘When do you think it happened?’ asked Roddy.

Nobody answered.

‘We’d better get back downstairs,’ said Hilary. ‘I suggest we find Tabitha and Mr Sloane and all have a good talk about this.’

‘Are we just going to leave him like that?’ asked Thomas, as the others started to leave.

‘I’ll … clean him up a bit, if you like,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ve got some things in my bag.’

‘I’ll stay and help you,’ Dorothy volunteered. ‘I’ve had a bit of experience with carcasses.’

The rest of the party proceeded downstairs in a silent cortège, and convened in the dining room, where Tabitha was once again placidly employed with her knitting, and Mr Sloane sat beside her, a look of the utmost horror drawn on his face.

‘Well,’ said Hilary, when nobody else showed signs of beginning the conversation, ‘Norman seems to have claimed his first victim.’

‘So it would appear.’

‘But then, appearances can be deceptive,’ said Michael.

Thomas rounded on him.

‘What on earth are you blathering on about, man? We know there’s a lunatic on the loose. Are you telling me you don’t think he’s responsible for this?’

‘It’s one of the theories available: that’s all.’

‘I see. Well perhaps you’d be so good as to tell us what the others are, in that case.’

‘Yes, come on, out with it,’ said Mark. ‘Who else could have killed him?’

‘Why, any one of us, of course.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Thomas. ‘How could any of
us
have done it, when we were all down here having supper?’

‘Nobody had seen Henry since the will was read,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Between then and supper, we were all of us alone, at one time or another. I don’t rule anybody out.’

‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Mark. ‘He can only have been killed a few minutes ago. You forget that I was watching the television with him, for a while, when you were all down here eating.’

‘Well, that’s
your
story,’ said Michael coolly.

‘Are you calling me a liar? What else do you suppose I was doing?’

‘You could have been doing anything, for all I know. Perhaps you were on the telephone to your friend Saddam, helping him out with a last-minute order.’

‘You impudent swine! Take that back.’

‘I’m afraid that intriguing hypothesis will have to be discounted,’ said Roddy, who had slipped out into the hall, and now returned carrying a telephone. The cord had been roughly snapped in two. ‘As you can see, the service seems to have been temporarily suspended. I found this out because, unlike the rest of you, I had the sense to think of phoning for the police.’

‘Well, it isn’t too late,’ said Hilary. ‘There’s a telephone in my room as well. Come on – if we hurry, we might still get to it before he does.’

Mark smiled a superior smile after them as they hurried out of the room.

‘I’m amazed that people still rely on these primitive methods of communication,’ he said. ‘You brought your cell-phone up here, didn’t you, Thomas?’

The elderly banker blinked in surprise. ‘That’s right: of course I did. Never without it. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before.’

‘Where did you leave it, can you remember?’

‘Billiard room, I think. Had a few frames with Roddy before you arrived.’

‘I’ll just go and get it. We should have this business wrapped up in no time at all.’

He sauntered out, leaving Michael and Thomas to glower silently at one another. Meanwhile Mr Sloane began to pace the room, and Tabitha carried on with her knitting as if nothing had happened. Before long she was quietly humming a tune to herself – dimly identifiable, after a few bars, as ‘Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines’.

‘Has anyone seen Pyles lately?’ Thomas asked, when he could stand no more of this.

Mr Sloane shook his head.

‘Well, hadn’t someone better find him? He certainly wasn’t with us in the dining room all the time. What do you say, Owen – shall we try to track him down?’

Michael was lost in thought, and didn’t appear to have heard this question.

‘All right then – I’ll go and find the fellow myself.’

‘And now we are three,’ said Tabitha happily, once Thomas had gone. ‘I’ve never known so much running about. What a to-do! Have we started to play sardines?’

Mr Sloane shot her a withering glance.

‘What a long face you’re wearing, Michael!’ she exclaimed, after a little more humming. ‘Not entering into the party spirit? Or perhaps you’re beginning to get a few thoughts about how your book might end?’

‘There was something strange about those suits of armour at the top of the stairs,’ said Michael, taking no notice, and continuing with his own line of thought. ‘Something about them had changed, when we came past them just now. I can’t put my finger on it.’

Without another word, he got up and made his way to the hall. He was about to climb the staircase when he saw Pyles coming from the kitchen, a silver tray balanced precariously on his arm.

‘Enjoying your visit, Mr Owen?’ he asked.

‘Thomas has been looking for you. Did you see him?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Did they tell you what had happened?’

‘Yes. And it’s only the start. I’ve known it all along, you see: this whole house is doomed, and everyone in it!’

Michael patted him on the back. ‘Keep up the good work.’

When he reached the top of the staircase, he examined both suits of armour in detail. They were still in the same positions, and nothing seemed obviously awry. And yet surely, some subtle alteration had been made … Michael had the sense that he was being very obtuse, that he was missing something important which was staring him in the face. He looked again.

And then he saw it. At once a dreadful suspicion stole over him.

There was a loud crash from the direction of the billiard room. Michael ran down the stairs and almost collided with Mr Sloane in the hall. Together they ran towards the noise and burst in to discover Pyles collapsed in a chair, having dropped his tray to the floor.

‘I came in to collect the empty glasses,’ he said. ‘And then I saw –’

Their eyes followed his trembling finger. Mark Winshaw was slumped against the wall. At first Michael thought that his hands had been tied behind his back: then he realized that the body had been horribly mutilated. The missing axe from the suit of armour, its blade red and sticky, had been left on top of the billiard table; and protruding hideously from the two pockets at the baulk end were Mark’s severed limbs. To complete the macabre joke, a message had been scrawled in blood on the wall.

It said: A FAREWELL TO ARMS!

CHAPTER FIVE

A Lady Mislaid

‘Now the important thing,’ said Thomas, ‘is that we all remain calm, and civilized.’

They were gathered in the dining room again, sitting amidst the debris of their supper. Their faces, for the most part, were chalky and haggard. Tabitha alone was blissfully unmindful of the latest shocking turn of events, while Pyles, who had now joined them at the table, wore a crooked, fatalistic smile, having already delivered himself of the helpful opinion that ‘There’ll be more to come, before the night is out! Many more!’ The only (living) member of the family not in attendance was Dorothy, who for the time being was nowhere to be found. Out of doors, there seemed little promise of an end to the storm.

‘I suggest that we proceed on the assumption,’ Thomas continued, ‘that a madman is loose in the house, bent on the random slaughter of anyone with whom he comes into contact.’

Michael sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

The others looked to him for explication.

‘There’s been nothing random about these killings so far,’ he said.

‘Would you care to explain yourself?’

He turned towards Hilary. ‘All right then: what were your first words when you saw that Henry had been stabbed in the back?’

‘I can’t remember,’ said Hilary, shrugging carelessly.

‘They were “How appropriate”. They struck me as rather curious, even at the time. What did you mean by them, exactly?’

‘Well …’ Hilary gave a guilty laugh. ‘We all know that personal loyalty wasn’t the most obvious distinguishing feature of Henry’s political career. And certainly not towards the end.’

‘Quite. He was a turncoat, and, indeed, a backstabber. Can we all agree on that?’

From the ensuing silence, it appeared that they could.

‘And as for Mark, I don’t think we need have any illusions about what he was up to in the Middle East. Hence, I suppose, the message written on the wall above his body.’

‘Your theory, insofar as I understand it,’ said Roddy, ‘seems to be that each of us is on the point not only of being killed, but of being killed in a manner … appropriate, as it were, to our professional activities.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Well, it’s a ridiculous theory, if you don’t mind my saying so. It smacks of the scenario to a third-rate horror film.’

‘Interesting that you should say that,’ said Michael. ‘Perhaps some of you saw a film called
Theatre of Blood
, made in 1973?’

Mr Sloane tutted reprovingly. ‘Really, I think we’re getting a long way from the point here.’

‘Not at all. Vincent Price plays a veteran actor who decides to revenge himself on his critics, and murders each of them using methods inspired by some of the grisliest scenes from Shakespearian tragedies.’

Roddy stood up. ‘Boredom, if nothing else, compels me to suggest that we abandon this wearisome line of inquiry and take some practical course of action. I’m worried about Dorothy. I think we should split up and go looking for her.’

‘Just one moment,’ said Thomas. ‘I’d like to play our film expert at his own game, if I may.’ He settled back in his chair and looked at Michael with the light of challenge in his eye. ‘Isn’t there a film where some crackpot – he turns out to be a judge – invites a lot of people to a remote house and does ’em all in: the point being that they all have guilty secrets to hide, and he sees himself as their executioner – a sort of angel of justice?’

‘The plot is from Agatha Christie’s
Ten Little Niggers.
There are three different film versions. Which did you have in mind?’

‘The one I saw was set in the Austrian Alps. Wilfrid Hyde-White was in it, and Dennis Price.’

‘That’s right. And Shirley Eaton, I seem to remember.’

Michael glanced at Phoebe as he said this; and noticed, in passing, that Roddy was now looking at her too.

‘Well,’ said Thomas, ‘doesn’t that little set-up seem remarkably close to what appears to be going on here tonight?’

‘I suppose that it does, yes.’

‘Fine. Now listen to this: what was the name of the fellow who did the killing? The one who organized the whole shindig? Can’t remember? Well I’ll tell you.’

He leaned forward across the table.

‘He called himself Owen. Mr U. N. Owen.’ Thomas paused triumphantly. ‘Now: what do you say to that?’

Michael was taken aback. ‘Are you accusing me?’

‘Damn right I am. We’ve all seen parts of that nasty little book of yours. We all know exactly what you think of us. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve lured us all here as part of some insane scheme of your own.’

‘Lured you here? How would I have done that? You’re not accusing me of organizing Mortimer’s death as well, surely?’

Thomas narrowed his eyes and turned towards Phoebe. ‘Well, perhaps that’s where Miss Barton comes in.’

Phoebe laughed angrily and said: ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘It makes sense to me,’ said Roddy. ‘I know for a fact she has a grudge against the family. And look at it this way: she and Owen go upstairs to look for Henry together – five minutes later, he’s dead. That makes them the prime suspects, in my book. What do you think, Hilary?’

‘I agree entirely. Apart from anything else, have you noticed the way they’ve been looking at each other all evening? Lots of little meaningful glances have been passing back and forth. I don’t think this is the first time they’ve met at all. I think they’ve known each other all along.’

‘Well, is this true?’ said Thomas. ‘Have you two met before?’

Phoebe gazed at Michael helplessly, before admitting: ‘Well, yes … We did meet once. Years and years ago. But that doesn’t mean —’

‘Ha! So now it’s all coming out!’

‘I’ll tell you another thing,’ said Roddy. ‘Owen’s already condemned himself out of his own mouth. Hilary and I were both upstairs when Mark was found: so was Dorothy, and so were you, Thomas – looking for Pyles. Now, Owen says that he was standing at the top of the staircase looking at the suits of armour all this time. So if any of
us
had tried to leave the billiard room and get past him, he would have seen us, wouldn’t he? But he says that nobody came by!’

Thomas rubbed his hands. ‘All right,’ he said to Michael. ‘Talk your way out of
that
!’

‘There’s a perfectly simple explanation,’ he answered. ‘The murderer didn’t enter
or
leave the billiard room by the door. There’s a passage from that room. It leads to one of the bedrooms upstairs.’

‘What the
devil
are you talking about, man?’ Thomas thundered.

‘It’s true. Ask Tabitha: she knows. She knows because Lawrence used to use it, during the war.’

‘What tommyrot.’ He turned to his aunt, who had been listening to this conversation with every appearance of enjoyment. ‘Did you hear that, Aunt Tabitha?’

‘Oh yes. Yes, I heard it all.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I think it was Colonel Mustard, in the kitchen, with the candlestick.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Hilary. ‘We’re wasting valuable time. Dorothy hasn’t been down for half an hour or more: we must try to find her.’

‘All right,’ said Thomas, getting up. ‘But these two aren’t coming with us.’

The curtains in the dining room could only be opened and closed by means of a thick cotton rope. Thomas cut off two lengths from this and lashed Michael and Phoebe securely to their chairs. Care of the prisoners was left to Mr Sloane (and Tabitha, for what she was worth), while Roddy, Hilary, Thomas and Pyles set off to search the house, agreeing to meet back in the dining room in twenty minutes’ time.

Hilary was the first to return, followed shortly by the butler.

‘Any luck?’ she asked him.

Pyles shook his head. ‘You won’t be seeing her again,’ he said, in his most lugubrious tone. ‘Not on this side of the grave.’

Roddy arrived with more bad news.

‘I went out to look in the garages. I thought she might have driven off without telling us.’

‘And?’

‘Well, her car’s still there, but it wouldn’t be any use to her in any case. One of those huge beech trees has blown right over, and the driveway’s completely blocked. So now we’re all well and truly stuck.’

Michael laughed. ‘What did you expect?’ he said. He was still tied to his chair, and not in the best of tempers. ‘We psychopaths think of everything, you know.’

Roddy ignored him. ‘I’ve had a thought, though, sis: what about your plane? Could we get away in that?’

‘Well, I can’t fly the thing,’ said Hilary. ‘And my pilot’s staying in the village tonight. He won’t be round till the morning.’

‘Do you mean Conrad?’ asked Phoebe mischievously. ‘I should like to meet him again.’

Hilary gave her a furious look, and Roddy couldn’t resist explaining, with a smirk: ‘Conrad got the push a few months ago – on Sir Peter’s orders. His replacement isn’t quite in the same league.’

‘Do you think he could
possibly
take me for a ride, when he comes round tomorrow?’ cried Tabitha, her eyes alight with anticipation. ‘I love aeroplanes, you know. What sort is it?’

‘A Buccaneer,’ said Hilary.

‘The Lake LA-4-200, I suppose? With the four-cylinder Avco Lycoming engine?’

‘Oh, shut up, you old fool.’

Hilary picked a grape from the fruit bowl and began tossing it nervously between her hands.

‘Now there’s no need to get bad tempered, you naughty girl,’ said Tabitha. ‘A kind word and a happy smile don’t cost much, do they? Always look on the bright side, I say. Things could easily be so much worse.’

‘Aunty,’ said Hilary slowly. ‘We’re trapped in an isolated house, with a homicidal maniac, in the middle of a thunderstorm. All the phone lines have been cut off, we have no means of escape, two of us have been killed and another has gone missing. How could things possibly be worse?’

At that moment, the lights went out and the house was plunged into darkness.

‘Oh God,’ said Roddy. ‘What’s happened?’

The blackness to which they had been consigned was absolute. The heavy dining-room curtains were closed, and it was impossible to see even an inch or two ahead in such thick, impenetrable gloom. To add to the eeriness of the situation, it seemed to all of the company that the sounds of the raging weather outside had increased tenfold as soon as their powers of vision were taken away.

‘It must be a fuse,’ said Pyles. ‘The fuse box is in the cellar. I’ll see to it at once.’

‘Good man,’ said Roddy.

Whether he would succeed on this mission seemed open to doubt, for his progress towards the door was marked by any number of thuds, crashes, smashes and tinkles as he collided heavily with various objects of furniture scattered around the room. But finally he made it: the door creaked open and shut, and they could hear his receding footsteps echoing faintly as he made his halting way across the stone-flagged hall.

Then the clicking of Tabitha’s needles resumed, and she started humming another tune. This time it was ‘The Dambusters’ March’.

‘For God’s sake, Aunty,’ said Roddy. ‘How on earth can you do any knitting in Ulis dark? And would you kindly desist from singing those infuriating songs?’

‘I must say, Mr Owen, your ingenuity compels admiration,’ said Hilary; and her brother could recognize in her voice a forced, brittle cheerfulness – a sure sign that her spirits were violently agitated. ‘I can’t help wondering what sort of fate you had in mind for the rest of us.’

‘I hadn’t really thought, to be honest,’ said Michael. ‘I was more or less improvising the whole thing, you see.’

‘Yes, but surely you must have had a few ideas. Henry’s back; Mark’s arms. What about Thomas? What part of
his
anatomy were you intending to go for?’

‘Where is Thomas, anyway?’ said Roddy. ‘He should have been here ages ago. The last I saw of him he –’

‘Ssh!’ It was Hilary who cut him short. The atmosphere in the room grew suddenly tense. ‘Who’s that moving about?’

They all strained to listen. Was that a footstep they had just heard? Was there someone (or something), in the room with them, a furtive, watchful presence, creeping through the inky shadows – and now very close at hand? Was that the sound of something on the table itself – where they were all sitting, rigid with expectation – being very quietly, very stealthily moved?

‘Who’s there?’ said Hilary. ‘Come on, speak up.’

Nobody breathed.

‘You were imagining it,’ said Roddy, after about a minute.

‘I don’t
imagine
things,’ Hilary answered, indignantly. But the tension had gone.

‘Well, fear can play strange tricks,’ said her brother.

‘Look: I am
not
afraid.’

He laughed scornfully. ‘Afraid? You’re scared witless, old girl.’

‘I don’t know what gives you that idea.’

‘After all these years, darling, I can read you like a book. Anyone can tell when you’re upset. You start messing around with the grapes.’

‘The grapes? What are you on about?’

‘You start playing around with them. Peeling them. Taking the skins off. You’ve done it since you were a kid.’

‘I may have done it since I was a kid but I’m not doing it tonight, I can assure you.’

‘Oh, come off it. I’ve got one of them in my hands right now.’

Roddy stroked the fruit between finger and thumb – it felt smooth and oily without its skin – and then popped it into his mouth. He closed his teeth upon it, but instead of the expected release of fresh, tangy syrup upon his tongue, he felt only a rubbery squelch, and his mouth was filled with an appalling taste, the nameless virulence of which he had never known before.

‘Jesus Christ!’ he shouted, and spat it out. He began to retch violently.

Just then, the lights came back on. Squinting in the sudden brightness, it took him a few seconds to identify the object he had just coughed up, which was now lying on the table in front of him. It was a half-chewed eyeball. Its fellow stared balefully at him from the fruit bowl: the bloodshot eye of Thomas Winshaw, fixed for ever in its last, unblinking, lifeless gaze.