‘Do correct me if I am wrong, my dear, but you seem to be enhaloing the name La Sorcière with a whole new morbid aura,’ said the former Gerard Fenwick, now the thirteenth Earl Remnant.
‘I am certain they are all involved in some way, the whole Sorcière set. Clarissa and Glover and Miss Tilling and Dr Sylvester-Sale,’ Felicity Fenwick said. ‘And the Hunters. The Sorcière Six, as the press may well dub them one day. On the analogy of the Tapas Seven.’
‘Can’t imagine the Hunters being involved in anything.’
‘They all had a guilty air about them. They looked conspiratorial. They kept exchanging furtive glances. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’ The new Lord Remnant crossed over to the drinks trolley and poured himself a whisky. ‘No one is at their best at funerals. I thought they looked subdued and terribly pale and pinched, but then didn’t we all?’
‘You couldn’t look pale even if you tried.’
It was the kind of cutting remark that made Gerard Fenwick wonder about the state of their marriage. Better pretend he hadn’t heard.
He raised the whisky glass to his lips. ‘That was an embarrassing little scene, wasn’t it? Never imagined Tradewell was an emotional chap. Falling to his knees – praying in that booming voice, with his hands clasped above his head. Sobbing.’
‘I am sure Tradewell was crying for himself. His fate is a bit uncertain now.’
‘Tradewell’s an oxymoron. An emotional butler. But you may be right. Don’t suppose Clarissa cares much for Tradewell. I know he “goes” with the house, but we may not need him either.’
‘We don’t have to live at Remnant, do we?’
‘We’ll be expected to put in an appearance every now and then. Noblesse oblige and all that sort of rot.’
Gerard Fenwick stood beside the window, nursing his drink, gazing at the sky, which was a gash of crimson and orange. His thoughts turned to Renée Glover. The way she had smiled at him – such a sweet smile. Renée was genuinely interested in his writing…
Felicity said, ‘No second thoughts about starting the – what is it you wanted to call it? Dilettanti Drag?’
‘Dilettanti Droug. Was that meant to be funny? It will be a small but rather exclusive press,’ he said stiffly. She doesn’t understand me, he thought. She doesn’t understand me at all.
‘Oh yes. Droug is Russian for “fiend”, I keep forgetting.’
‘It’s Russian for “friend”. There is a difference, you know.’ Felicity was doing it on purpose, he was convinced of it. She was trying to get at him. ‘No, no second thoughts, my dear. No reason why I should have changed my mind, is there?’
‘Clarissa says she’ll move to La Sorcière permanently. Grenadin clearly agrees with her.’
‘Clearly. It doesn’t agree with me. Thank God we only got invited once. So hot – and all those mosquitoes! I don’t suppose we were their sort of people. We don’t seem to scintillate.’
‘I wouldn’t have said the Hunters scintillated exactly. Louise Hunter is so fat. The Hunters lack – what is it they lack? A significant something.’
‘Charm? Unity? An edge?’
‘That’s it. No edge.’ Felicity nodded. ‘I have known beach balls with more edge to them than the Hunters.’
‘I believe they are frightfully mismatched. Louise is dire, I agree, but I don’t think there’s anything really wrong with Hunter.’
‘I don’t suppose I could ever like Louise Hunter, not even if she were to save me from drowning or death by fire.’
‘I feel sorry for Hunter. He is a first-class farmer. I wouldn’t be able to do half the jobs he does. He understands cattle… When was it we saw my brother on the box? Was it last year or the year before?’
‘Last year – you mean that ghastly documentary, don’t you?’
‘Yes. It was ghastly, wasn’t it? Roderick’s teeth didn’t seem to fit and he never for a moment took off that ludicrous hat. He seemed peculiarly rejuvenated, didn’t you think?’
‘People always look different on the box,’ Felicity said dismissively. ‘Would you get me a Scotch, Gerard? With plenty of soda.’ Kicking off her shoes, she sat on the sofa. ‘I am chilled to the bone. Hate funerals. The trawl from Remnant Regis to the crematorium was unbearable. It’s a miracle I survived.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. I feel as stiff as a varnished eel myself.’
‘And that vicar, how he droned on! I didn’t feel a flicker of spiritual devotion, not a flicker, only a vague kind of annoyance. I can’t imagine your brother being in heaven now playing the harp – can you?’
‘I don’t think the vicar said anything about a harp, did he? It would have been unscriptural.’
‘I hate the idea of an afterlife. The shocking insecurity of it all – the spectacular lack of privacy – bumping into people you’d hoped never to see again or wondering why so-and-so was not there! It would be my idea of hell.’
‘Plenty of soda, did you say? Wise girl. Here you are, my dear.’ He handed her a glass. I am not sure I like having drinks with my wife, he thought. I used to, but I no longer do. And she is wrong if she expects me to start discussing my religious beliefs with her. ‘Chin-chin, my dear.’
‘Chin-chin… The moment the coffin disappeared into the furnace, the Sorcière Six all looked immensely relieved. Why did they look so relieved?’
‘Scotch and soda is my favourite drink,’ he said. ‘No question about it. Next to frozen Daiquiris.’
‘Clarissa was wearing all her pearls and all her diamonds, which was certainly de trop, and such a theatrical little hat. To start with, her face was a studied Madonna Dolorosa, but then it began to crumple-’
‘You don’t think Clarissa loved Roderick?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Clarissa is the voguish vamp type. In profile she brings to mind Madame Sarkozy.’
‘Clarissa is so overloaded with sex, it sparkles. She reminds me of one of those golden striped things that roam the jungle… It’s perfectly obvious she’s had an affair with the doctor, which he has now ended.’ Felicity put down her glass. ‘What do we know about your brother’s death, Gerard? How exactly did he die?’
‘You know perfectly well how he died. They told us how he died. He had a heart attack. They were having a fancy-dress party or something, it was terribly hot and it all proved too much for him.’
‘I believe there’s more to it. Much more.’
‘One good thing about funerals,’ Gerard said, ‘is that they bring people together and rekindle old friendships. It was good to see Nellie, wasn’t it? She’s getting on, but seems completely compos. Doesn’t drool or dribble or lurch about. Got rid of Chalfont and bought a house in St John’s Wood. The very best of decisions. That’s what all of us should do.’
‘I’d hate living in St John’s Wood… Nellie’s nephew is a detective.’
‘Don’t think Peverel is a detective.’
‘No, not Peverel. Hugh.’
‘Hugh Payne? I thought Hugh Payne was in the army.’
‘He isn’t a real detective, but one of those amateur ones. I’ve heard some incredible stories. He may be interested in buying the Damascus chest, Nellie says. He’s seen it in my catalogue. She is bringing him over to look at it tomorrow.’
‘That’s splendid, absolutely splendid. I’m afraid I’ll be off at some unearthly hour, so I’m bound to miss them. Good lord, it’s starting to rain again… Rain falling limply in intermittent showers.’ He whistled what sounded vaguely like ‘The Rain in Spain’ between his teeth.
She gazed across at him in an exasperated fashion. ‘Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious about the sinister secret of La Sorcière, Gerard?’
‘I do believe, my dear, that if you ever went to Plato’s cave and were asked about a Form or an Ideal, you wouldn’t talk about Love or Truth or Beauty, but about the sinister secret of La Sorcière. Why, you make it sound as though they all killed my brother and hushed it up!’
‘Perhaps they did. In fact I am sure they did. They looked conspiratorial.’
‘Renée Glover seemed as self-possessed as ever. Her manner was perfectly amicable. She said hello and I am so sorry about your brother and she actually smiled at me.’
‘It is me Glover hates, not you. It was I who dismissed her. Glover adores you. She worships the ground you walk on.’ Until a year ago Renée Glover had worked as Felicity’s secretary. ‘What she did was inexcusable. Outrageous. Poking her nose into my private affairs. Reading my letters.’
‘I am sure you were mistaken, my dear.’
‘I was not mistaken. Oh, I know perfectly well you have a soft spot for her, Gerard. All those cosy little chats in your study. You don’t think I am blind, do you?’
‘No, not at all, my dear. One couldn’t imagine anyone more eagle-eyed than you. Sometimes you even…’
‘Sometimes I even what, Gerard? See things that are not there? Is that what you were going to say?’
Gerard put on his oblique expression. ‘No, no, not at all.’ Felicity’s getting difficult, he thought, fed up with having to change the topic. ‘Such a blessing, never to have been fond of one’s brother. Thank God he arrived in a hermetically sealed coffin and now of course he is in an urn. We are terribly lucky, you know. In Greece and countries like that relatives are expected to kiss the loved one’s corpse as it lies in the coffin, by way of a final adieu.’
‘You should have given that poached egg a wide berth at breakfast,’ Felicity said sullenly. ‘You’re coming out in spots.’
‘This is not an allergy. It’s a nervous thing.’
She said she didn’t believe he had any nerves. ‘Did you hear about Stephan? Apparently he’s been taken back in.’
‘He should never have been allowed out.’ Gerard Fenwick stole a glance at his watch and said he needed to go to his study. ‘Sorry, my dear, but I am, as they say, being possessed by the Muse, which is also known as the divine furor. It would be unwise to ignore the call. The Muse is capricious and wilful and notoriously unpredictable. I may never get another visit.’
‘What are you going to do in your study?’
‘I am going to write.’
‘You are going to write?’
‘Well, yes. You know perfectly well that’s something I do. Do you have to sound so amazed?’ He paused with his hand on the door handle. ‘I am divided between writing an essay on the subject of funeral cortèges and a bitter-sweet story of a chap who realizes he is in love with his wife’s former secretary.’
‘Oh, that’s been done so many times. I think you should write a murder mystery about a suspicious death that takes place on a tropical island.’
‘Murder is something I know nothing about,’ he said. He frowned down at his right hand, at the red blotch, which he knew perfectly well was a mosquito bite. ‘I suppose I could write a one-act comedy about a distinguished middle-aged couple having a desultory and somewhat pointless kind of conversation. One of those fictions that are rooted in reality. L’art égale la vie. It would be fun, I think.’