The Killing of Olga Klimt E-Book

R.T. Raichev

• Herausgeber: The Mystery Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 329

Beschreibung

Do plots involving exchanged murders still work and who exactly is the victim? Antonia Darcy never imagined that taking her young grandson to his first day at nursery school would embroil her in a most baffling case of mistaken identity and murder. Major Payne, on the other hand, believed that it was their destiny. Olga Klimt played a dangerous game with the affections of the men in love with her, though she knew perfectly well there might be a high price to pay … Among the unlikely murder suspects is a rich young heir to a biscuit fortune, his Aconite-addicted mother, his manservant and the headmistress of a prestigious nursery school. In this, their ninth investigation, husband and wife sleuths, Antonia Darcy and Major Payne, search desperately for answers before the killer strikes again.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR R.T. RAICHEV

‘Fascinating … recalls the best from the Golden Age of Detective Fiction.’

Lady Antonia Fraser

‘I have read all of Raichev’s books. They are very clever. I really am a fan.’

R.L. Stine

‘Most original and intriguing … An England of club and country house, with a delicious shot of bitters!’

Emma Tennant

‘Raichev clearly has a great deal of fun writing the Antonia and Major Payne series, giving these modern stories almost an Edwardian feel, and we’re rewarded with finely drawn characters, clever murder mysteries, and dialogue that sparkles. Best recommended to fans of golden age authors (Christie, Sayers, et al.) who can tolerate a little modernity!’

Booklist

‘A most intriguing yarn of mystery, imagination, observation and splendidly old-fashioned sleuthery which skilfully probes the surface smoothness of clubland and country house. I couldn’t put it down.’

Hugh Massingberd

‘Deftly mixes dark humour and psychological suspense, its genteel surface masking delicious deviancy.’

Kirkus Reviews (Starred Review)

‘Greed, jealousy, rampant emotions and a killer lurk in the wings of this tale that mixes Henry James’ psychological insight with Agatha Christie’s whodunnit plotting skills … a diabolically clever story line.’

Library Journal (Starred Review)

‘An ominous feel, reminiscent of Hitchcock.’

Mystery Morgue

‘Recommended for any mystery fan who likes surprises.’

New Mystery Reader Magazine

‘Murder is fun again! Each chapter parcels out just a bit more of the story, just enough, drawing open the curtain to reveal the picture behind … A mystery that harkens back to the thirties and forties, but pays respect to modernity … Definitely a keeper.’

Suspense Magazine

‘Intricate and inventive … very witty dialogue and a cast of gloriously eccentric characters.’

Francis Wyndham

‘Stylish … deft use of literary allusion and well-drawn characterisation.’

Publishers Weekly

‘The kind of old-school mysteries that fans of Christie and Sayers love … but this will be pleasing to more than traditionalists, because it adds a P.D. Jamesian subtlety to the comfortable formula. Antonia Darcy is a terrific sleuth and Raichev is a very clever writer, indeed.’

Booklist

‘Liberal doses of imagination, experimentation, intelligence and sprinklings of irony, satire and fun … the riveting attention of a game of Cluedo.’

The Hidden Staircase Mystery Books

‘A whodunnit with more twists than a snake in a basket!’

Robert Barnard, CWA Diamond Dagger Winner

‘Superbly plotted … Raichev delivers this classic with the perfect panache one expects from an author who wrote his doctoral dissertation on English crime fiction … Excellent series!’

Toronto Globe & Mail

‘A dazzling tour de force, as ingeniously plotted as anything Agatha Christie ever wrote but wittier and more sophisticated.’

The Denver Post on The Death of Corinne: An Antonia Darcy and Major Payne Investigation

‘Clever … Raichev’s series has attitude, like a mash-up of Evelyn Waugh, P.G. Wodehouse and P.D. James …’

Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel on Murder at the Villa Byzantine: An Antonia Darcy and Major Payne Investigation

‘With plenty of unexpected twists and a good ending, The Murder of Gonzago is pure fun!’

www.gumshoereview.com on Murder of Gonzago: An Antonia Darcy and Major Payne Investigation

‘A grand whodunnit in the great tradition of English crime writing.’

www.crimesquad.com on The Riddle of Sphinx Island: An Antonia Darcy and Major Payne Mystery

‘Another baffling case … A risky romp in pursuit of the truth … Raichev’s page-turner captures the tart elegance of classic cozies but adds an appealing modern edge.’

Kirkus Review

To Nick Hay, aficionado, friend and critic extraordinaire.

Also for Chitra, master of the mot juste!

‘Well, there will be a Victim, of course. And Clues. And Suspects. All rather conventional – you know, the Vamp and the Blackmailer and the Young Lovers and the Sinister Butler and so on …’

Agatha Christie, Dead Man’s Folly

CONTENTS

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

1 Vertigo

2 The Children’s Hour

3 The Kindness of Strangers

4 The Enigma of the Evil Valet

5 True Love

6 An Unquiet Mind

7 The Conversation

8 The Affair of the Luminous Blonde

9 True Lies

10 The Night of the Hunter

11 Heads You Lose

12 Du Côté de chez Collingwood

13 The Perfect Murder (1)

14 The Perfect Murder (2)

15 ‘Philomel Cottage’

16 Call on the Dead

17 The Unnatural Order of Things

18 To Wake the Dead

19 The House of Fear

20 Whose Body?

21 The Anatomy of Murder

22 Journey into Darkness

23 Charlie’s Angel

24 Under Suspicion

25 The Rule of Two

26 Dangerous Knowledge

27 Cabal (1)

28 The Private Wound

29 Cabal (2)

30 Something Happened

31 A Talent to Annoy

32 L’Heure Maliciose

33 Eyes Wide Open

34 Terror by Night

35 The Final Solution

About The Author

Also in the Antonia Darcy and Major Payne Mystery Series

Copyright

1

VERTIGO

If I can’t have her, no one else will.

I imagine this is one of the thoughts passing through Mr Eresby’s mind at this very moment. Mr Eresby, you see, is in the grip of considerable mental turmoil – what I believe alienists term ‘unrelieved anguish’. Mr Eresby’s hands are clenched into fists. He keeps shaking his head. His shoulders are hunched forward. His movement can only be described as ‘jerky’.

I am walking some distance behind him. I have been following Mr Eresby for the past – let me see – ten, no, twelve, minutes.

Left, right, left, right. Though all I am presented with is the back of Mr Eresby’s head, I am sure his expression is still dazed, the corners of his mouth pulled down, his complexion exceedingly pale, his eyes ‘unseeing’. They say exercise has a beneficial effect on the nervous system, but, in my opinion, it is too soon for any tangible changes for the better to have started manifesting themselves.

The situation is incomprehensible and, frankly, quite absurd. Mr Eresby (‘Charlie’ to his intimates) is young, rich and handsome and he can have any girl he wants; yet it is Olga Klimt on whom he has set his heart. No other girl will do. He says he can’t live without her. He says, rather extravagantly, that he’d rather die. I read somewhere that emotional problems of such extreme nature invariably go back to one’s childhood and have something to do with one’s relations with one’s parents. I wonder if that is true.

Mr Eresby’s papa, of Eresby’s Biscuits fame and fortune, has been dead twenty-two years, so Mr Eresby has no recollection of him, though his mama is still very much with us. She is a very interesting woman, ‘unconventional’, perhaps is the best word to describe her, and she cares deeply for Mr Eresby, even if she tends to treat him as though he were a boy of ten. Maybe that’s the problem? Perhaps at this point I should mention that relations between me and the former Mrs Eresby – Lady Collingwood, as she now is – are excellent. Lady Collingwood regards me in a most favourable light. Indeed she thinks, if I may be excused the cliché, the world of me. She is convinced that I am an exceptional, if not unique, human being. Well, she is right. I am unique.

It is thanks to Lady Collingwood that I obtained my position with Mr Eresby. Lady Collingwood telephones me once a week and we have a ‘chat’. She listens carefully to what I have to say. My opinions matter to her. It pains me that Lord Collingwood does not seem to share the high regard in which his wife holds me. Apparently Lord Collingwood has expressed concern about the influence I exercise over her and on two occasions at least has referred to me, somewhat fancifully, as playing Rasputin to Lady Collingwood’s Russian Empress. He has also said I am ‘the sort of fellow who should be tarred and feathered or, failing that, flung over a precipice’.

I would have preferred to have had my specialness confirmed, not deprecated, and having pondered the matter, I have reached the conclusion that Lord Collingwood should be punished. Not at the moment, since I have so many other things on my mind, but at some point in the not too distant future. I am not the kind of person who takes slights and slurs lightly. I do not forget easily either. Tarred and feathered indeed!

Left, right, left, right. My young master needs a haircut. I make a mental note to remind him. His hair is getting too long at the back.

I am sure Mr Eresby knows I am following him but he hasn’t yet acknowledged my presence. I dab at my forehead with my handkerchief. I loosen my tie a quarter of an inch. It is the sixth of September, but it could have been the height of summer. London is ‘blowsy’ with heat.

I see Mr Eresby nod to himself. I observe his fists tighten. He seems to have come to some decision. What decision exactly? To end it all? To kill himself? No, to kill Olga, and then kill himself? This may sound ludicrously melodramatic, but isn’t that what forlorn lovers do?

(Attempting to read Mr Eresby’s mind is something of a hobby of mine, what bobsleighing, collecting Victorian pornography, borzoi-breeding or rearranging the furniture is for some.)

Sloane Square is now behind us. We are walking along the kind of well-bred street my master sometimes professes to despise. Symons Street. We pass by a delicatessen that looks like a mini Fortnum & Mason’s, a post office with two traditional pillar boxes of gleaming red outside, an exclusive florist’s, a small bookshop catering for esoteric tastes. My eye catches some of the titles of books displayed in the window: Carnivorous Butterflies, The Androgynous Virgin, Combating Loneliness via Commercial Transactions.

A chair in the Lowenstein antique-shop window claims my attention. It is upholstered in smooth black velvet; it has high-stepping legs and a noble straight back; it stands alone in arrogant elegance. For a second I halt. It would be perfect for my room, I think.

Left, right, left, right. My master moves like a clockwork toy soldier. I don’t believe he has any definite destination in mind, but he seems determined to keep walking. The heat is becoming quite unbearable. When will this purposeless wandering cease?

Bedaux must be pleased about what happened, Charlie thought. Bedaux didn’t like Olga. Bedaux had never said so, but Charlie had seen him look at her contemptuously. But what did it matter what Bedaux thought? Blast Bedaux. Bedaux could go to blazes.

I can’t live without her, he thought. I love her. I have never loved anyone before. She is the first and she will be the last. I’ll never love again. I can’t imagine not seeing her, not hearing her voice, not holding her in my arms. I can’t imagine not kissing her. I can’t imagine anyone else kissing her. I’ll go mad if I see her kissing someone else. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill her. I’ll kill myself.

The night before Charlie had had a dream. It was after nightfall and he was in some small town which looked Germanic. Looking up he had seen two moons in the sky. A clock moon above a solemn black courthouse and the real moon that was slowly rising in vanilla whiteness from the dark east. He had woken up feeling happy. Never for a moment had it occurred to him that this would turn out to be the most dreadful day of his life.

I am sorry, Charlie, but I am thinking and I decide that we don’t see each other any more. No, I can’t tell you why not. I am sorry. Please, do not call me ever again. I don’t want to see you. I am sorry. It is difficult, I know, but it is all over. I am going. You won’t find me at Philomel Cottage. Don’t start looking for me, because you’ll never find me. It is all over.

That was what Olga had said to him on the phone. She hadn’t given a word of explanation. She hadn’t offered him any reason. Just when he thought nothing could possibly go wrong between them! It had been a shock. He had felt sick. He had felt faint. He had rung back at once, he had kept calling her, but she never answered.

There was somebody else, there must be. That was the obvious reason. The thought had always been there, if he had to be honest, at the back of his mind, the fear. Olga had mentioned a former boyfriend once, someone in Lithuania. Perhaps the former boyfriend had reappeared. The former boyfriend had come to England. Yes. That was it. That’s what must have happened. The former boyfriend had claimed Olga back. Perhaps the former boyfriend was a better lover than he would ever be?

How sordid it all was. Good riddance to bad rubbish. He was a fool to care. She wasn’t worth it.

I hate her, Charles whispered. I detest her. I despise her. Wayward and feckless, fickle beyond belief. Lying whore. Mercenary slut. I hate her.

No, that was not true – he loved her. He felt his eyes filling with tears. He would die if he couldn’t have her …

Bedaux had already suggested that they go away as soon as possible, so that Mr Eresby could forget. Bedaux meant abroad. Bedaux always imagined he had all the answers. Go where exactly, Bedaux? To the Continent, sir. Bedaux had suggested Carlsbad. Bedaux seemed to have a thing about old-world European spas of the statelier kind. Bedaux was particularly keen on Carlsbad, for some reason. But that was ridiculous. No one went to Carlsbad these days, did they?

He hated Bedaux. It was thanks to Bedaux that he had met Olga. It was all Bedaux’s fault. Bedaux was a duplicitous bastard, well apart from being an anachronism and a bloody fake. Bedaux was his own invention. The gentleman’s personal gentleman was an inane absurdity, an idealised nostalgic concept, nothing but a carefully cultivated phantasm. Charlie couldn’t stand the look and sound of him, his carefully brushed hair, his blank crash-dummy face, his voice, which was of the silkily sinister variety and brought to mind a viper slithering through velvet. Bedaux had such an annoying way of saying ‘sir’ – he pronounced it ‘sah’– another deliberate affectation.

Earlier on, at the house, after Olga’s call which had caused Charlie to collapse on the sofa in the large gold-painted barrel-vaulted drawing room, Bedaux had stood gazing at him with a clinical unsympathetic eye, with more than a hint of ironic detachment. Charlie had had the sense of being coldly appraised. He might have been a specimen on a dissecting table. He had started to light a cigarette, to calm his nerves, only the match had jumped from between his shaking fingers and fallen among the sofa cushions. He had made no attempt to retrieve it. He remembered his thoughts. An all-consuming conflagration would be a most welcome development. It would be marvellous if I went up in flames. But then he had heard Bedaux clear his throat.

‘Do not be alarmed, sir. I have been able to locate the fugitive ember. There will be no fiery consequences.’

That Bedaux should have chosen to act the stage butler at a moment like that! Perhaps he should sack him? Yes, why not? A bloody marvellous idea. Mummy wouldn’t like it but Charlie really didn’t care. If Mummy was so frightfully keen on Bedaux, she could offer him employment herself, couldn’t she? Mummy could make Bedaux her butler or something. Mummy had been complaining about not having a butler. No, old Collingwood wouldn’t allow it. Old Collingwood disapproved of Bedaux. He had warned Charlie against Bedaux. His stepfather was an interfering old fool, but he might be right this time …

A sound came from behind. It was Bedaux clearing his throat. Bedaux was reminding him of his presence, in case the young master decided he might need him after all.

Charlie blinked. He had seen the word ‘nursery’ in front of him. There was a sign on his left, saying ‘SYLVIE & BRUNO NURSERY SCHOOL’. How funny. He seemed to know who Sylvie and Bruno were. Of course he knew. Lewis Carroll. Why, at one time he had known ‘The Mad Gardener’s Song’ by heart! Absolute ages ago, but he believed he could still recite it!

Charlie stood gazing at the building. It was made of fine red brick. There was a picture window and framed in it he saw a woman. She was sitting at an important-looking desk and she was talking to someone. She was wearing a perfectly tailored suit amd exuded great authority and confidence. She looked stolid. Not a type he admired. Who was she? The head nanny – if there was such a thing? Supernanny. Charlie had watched a TV programme of that name, all about a super nanny who helped ineffectual parents cope with their difficult ultra-feral offspring.

For some reason Charlie couldn’t tear his eyes from the picture window.

‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said, ‘extinguishes all hope.’

It was the Mad Gardener in Sylvie and Bruno who said that. Extinguish all hope, eh? Charlie laughed. He couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t meant to. He was feeling rather wobbly, actually. A touch of vertigo. More than a touch. Unwise to laugh. It was so terribly hot. Hot and stuffy.

Who was the super nanny talking to? There was someone in the room with her.

Suddenly a little boy appeared at the window. He stood there, looking at Charlie.

Charlie tried waving at the boy but his hand refused to obey him. He frowned. He knew that something was about to happen. Something momentous –

He shouldn’t have laughed – it was wrong to laugh when he felt like weeping – his head felt bad – everything had started whirling around him – turning black – bright spots dancing before his eyes – all the hues of the rainbow – Olga loved dancing –

What was that? The sound of rushing water? Or was it footsteps? Someone – running?

I manage to catch Mr Eresby as he falls.

He feels as light as the proverbial feather. Despite my best efforts, he hasn’t been eating properly.

I hold Mr Eresby in my arms and for a moment time stands still. I imagine we look like that famous picture, Death of Nelson. The heroic admiral, mortally wounded, uttering his last words, ‘Kiss me Hardy.’ Or did he really say, ‘Kismet, Hardy’ – as some claimed?

(Would I kiss Mr Eresby if he asked me to?)

‘Ah, Bedaux. Good man. You caught me, didn’t you? I knew you would. Always there for me, the way you promised Mummy … I think there was someone dancing, wasn’t there? Rushing water. I am thirsty, actually …’ Mr Eresby’s hand creeps up to his forehead. His eyelids flutter. ‘The sound of rushing water – yes – there it is again – can you hear it?’

I look round – I might need help – I might have to call an ambulance – I seem to have left my mobile behind and it doesn’t look as if Mr Eresby’s got his either – what’s that building – a nursery?

‘Look here, Bedaux, I did you an injustice. I thought of you as an anachronism. I apologise. I thought I’d sack you but of course I won’t. I am not myself today. Would you do something for me?’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘On your honour?’

‘On my honour.’

‘You sound as though you are humouring me. Do let’s be serious, shall we? I want you to contact the Home Office.’

‘The Home Office, sir?’

‘That’s what I said. The Home Office … ’

It is clear to me the strain on Mr Eresby’s mind and the emotions have taken their toll. Mr Eresby appears to be losing his grip on reality. I believe he is delirious.

Who would have thought he would take Olga’s rejection so badly?

For a split second I feel a stab of what I imagine is guilt. A glimmer of remorse daintily running along the steel of my conspiratorial dagger. It is a most unaccustomed sensation and I am surprised at myself. I wonder whether to tell him the truth, which of course, will be only part of the truth – namely, that his misery will soon be at an end …

No, I can’t. I mustn’t. Not the truth.

It would mean revealing the plot. Or rather, the Plot.

‘I want you to call the Home Office and tell them she is an illegal alien – that she must be punished – no, deported – tell them that she’s got a false passport. That’s a criminal offence. Actually, no. I’ve changed my mind. Don’t tell them anything. I would probably want to go after her. I am weak, you see. I am emotionally immature. That’s what old Collingwood says. I may be a little crazy too. I am in love with her. I’ll go after her. Then – then the misery will continue –’ Mr Eresby breaks off. ‘I have changed my mind, you see.’

‘Sir?’

‘I might decide to follow her all the way to the Baltic, Bedaux … That’s where she comes from … The Baltic … She said she would take me there … She promised to introduce me to her mother … It hurts so much, Bedaux – here.’ Mr Eresby points to his chest. ‘You can’t imagine how much it hurts. I feel ill. I can’t stand it any longer – the misery.’

‘Shall I call an ambulance, sir?’

‘Actually, I’ve got a better idea. I want her dead, Bedaux. Dead, yes. I mean it. I am not delirious or anything of the sort. I want Olga dead. Stop looking round and listen. I am not afraid of killing her, only if I did kill her, I would be the first to be suspected. Do you see? But if I were to have an alibi …’ Mr Eresby licks his lips. ‘If I were to go away … To Baden-Baden, as you suggested – or to good old anachronistic Carlsbad – but I’ll go on my own – without you.’

‘Without me, sir?’

‘Yes. You will stay in London. I will give you money – a lot of money – any sum you wish to name –’

‘Money?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Eresby grips my hand. ‘You like money, don’t you? I want you to kill her, Bedaux. That’s the only way to stop the pain – stop the misery. Would you do it? Would you kill Olga for me?’

2

THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

‘Are you Sylvie?’ Eddy asked.

‘I am afraid I am not.’

‘Why are you afraid you are not?’

‘Because ‘Sylvie’ is a lovely name and I wish it were mine but it isn’t.’

‘Are you Miss Bruno then?’

‘No –’

‘What is your name?’

‘Stop asking questions, Eddy,’ Antonia said.

‘No, that’s all right, Miss Darcy. We tend to encourage inquisitive minds here. I must say I find his lack of bashfulness refreshing. Most of the children I meet for the first time are too shy and too tongue-tied for my liking. Besides, Eddy does need to know my name since I am going to be his headmistress.’

‘But you know Miss Frayle’s name, Eddy. We told you. We told him.’ Antonia gave an apologetic smile.

‘He must have forgotten,’ Miss Frayle said easily.

Eddy was Antonia’s second grandchild. He was nearly five and it was going to be his first day ‘at school’. A lot had been made of it at home, by both Eddy’s mother and father – Antonia’s son by her first husband. They had reassured Eddy he had nothing to worry about, certainly nothing to fear, that he would enjoy it, that it would be a truly memorable experience. They had frowned and shaken their heads when Hugh had said he had absolutely detested his first day at school. It had been hellish. Hugh had of course meant his prep school – or was it his public school?

‘Miss Frayle,’ Eddy said slowly and for some reason he sighed.

Must tell him it’s ill-mannered to sigh, Antonia thought.

‘Makes me want to sigh too!’ Miss Frayle said with a loud laugh.

She doesn’t look like a Miss Frayle at all, Antonia thought. Nothing frail about her, quite the reverse. Actually, she looks like a Miss Bruno. There was something reassuringly solid and dependable about the name of Bruno. Associations with ‘brawny’ and ‘brunt’ – as in the phrase ‘to bear the brunt’. She must be a very patient woman too, Antonia decided.

Fenella Frayle might have read Antonia’s thoughts for she gave her a nod and a conspiratorial smile then pulled a droll face while at the same time slightly hunching up her shoulders. She exuded a blend of reliability, competence and good humour. Antonia decided she rather liked her.

How old was she? Mid-thirties? Her hair was a glossy brown (brun?) and she had apple cheeks. She appeared to be in glowing health. She had a compact capable body and was clad in a smart dark blue suit, with a little gold-and-diamond brooch on the lapel. Her eyes were aquamarine blue, very bright, slightly exophthalmic, her chin well shaped and determined-looking. Her expression was unflaggingly cheerful.

Eddy will be in safe hands, Antonia thought.

‘Is this your nursery school?’ Eddy asked.

‘It is mine, yes.’ Something like a shadow crossed her face. Antonia saw her frown down at a sheet of paper.

‘The house is called “Jevanny Lodge”. It looks very old,’ Eddy said. ‘The name’s written above the door – “Jevanny Lodge”. I can read, you see. It looks spooky.’

‘The house is very old, you are absolutely right, eighteenth century, a listed building, but it’s completely renovated inside. It cost me a pretty penny to have it done up!’ She laughed – a little ruefully, Antonia thought.

‘Do you live here?’

‘I do. My snuggery is upstairs.’

‘What is “snuggery”?’

‘My quarters.’

‘Why do you call it “snuggery”?’

‘Because it’s terribly snug. I can put up my feet and have a cup of tea.’

‘Do you like putting up your feet?’

‘Eddy,’ Antonia said. Really, the boy should be working for the Spanish Inquisition.

‘Oh very much. I like it awfully. I am often tired, you know.’

‘Can I see your snuggery?’

‘I am afraid children are not allowed there. My quarters are out of bounds. As head mistresses go, I am fairly liberal but I do draw the line somewhere.’ Miss Frayle laughed again. ‘Anyhow. I am sure you will have a jolly good time with us.’

‘Would I “adore” my time with you?’

‘Goodness. You are clever, aren’t you?’

‘We read him your advertisement. That’s how he learnt “adore”,’ Antonia explained.

‘So that’s my word, is it?’

‘Yes, it’s your word. Adore. Adore.’ Eddy yawned.

‘How funny! I’d completely forgotten!’

Must tell him it’s rude to yawn, Antonia thought.

‘I must say I am terribly impressed by you, Eddy.’ Miss Frayle leant forward slightly. ‘You said you could read and write, correct? Did your mummy and daddy teach you?’

‘Granny taught me,’ Eddy said. ‘Granny is a writer.’

‘I know.’ Fenella Frayle gave a solemn nod. She smiled at Antonia. ‘You must be very proud of your granny.’

‘Her books are in all the bookshops,’ Eddy said. ‘In all the bookshops in the world.’

‘No, not in all the bookshops,’ Antonia said. ‘Really, Eddy, I don’t think you –’

‘My granny writes about murders. She is very clever. She notices things no one else notices. In Granny’s books people get killed.’

‘I know. As a matter of fact I have read two of your granny’s books. I enjoyed them very much indeed. I suppose you have read all her books?’ Fenella Frayle said with a twinkle.

‘I haven’t. Granny writes about murders. I am not allowed to read about murders.’

‘When you are a little older, you will,’ Fenella Frayle said comfortably. ‘Well, I must say I don’t get to meet many grannies who write books.’

‘Granny doesn’t look like a granny, does she?’

‘Not in the least.’

‘That’s what my grandfather says – he is not really my grandfather – he is my step-grandfather – he allows me to call him “Hugh” – he says he loves Granny in any and every state she happens to be in – especially when she is annoyed with him – he is very funny – he calls me a “fearful Jesuit”– because mummy is a Catholic, you see – Granny was married twice – Hugh married Granny after –’

‘That’s enough, Eddy.’ Antonia’s manner was brisk.

‘You wrote little boys and girls would adore their time with you,’ Eddy told Miss Frayle. ‘You wrote that they’d love the “home corner”. What is a home corner?’

As Fenella Frayle started explaining, Antonia’s thoughts went back to the Sylvie & Bruno website. The Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School was renowned for its warm and friendly environment. Children were nurtured by well-qualified and caring teachers and enthusiastic assistants. They were taught how to develop coordination, concentration and independence. They were carefully instructed on how to interact positively with a wide range of other children and adults before they were ready to move on to the wider environment of pre-prep.

Jolly impressive, Hugh had conceded – though he was not sure he cared for the sound of ‘pre-prep’.

At our nursery school your child is introduced to the fundamentals of early years education. To create a strong base for future learning, great importance is placed on literacy and numeracy. Children also begin French, music and PE. Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School is exceptionally well resourced. Sand and water play, the art and craft table, a computer corner and a construction area, all have an important part in the structure of our school …

‘So you see, the home corner constantly changes from being a shop to a doctor’s surgery, an estate agent’s, a royal palace, even a jungle,’ Miss Frayle was saying. ‘Something tells me you will like our jungle.’

Eddy frowned. ‘It’s not with real animals, is it?’

‘I am afraid not. Our children love dressing up as bears and zebras and wolves and foxes. We have the most wonderful dressing-up box –’

‘No one dresses up as a zebra.’ Eddy countered. ‘That would be silly.’

‘Eddy,’ Antonia said admonishingly. Fenella Frayle’s face had turned a little red.

He slid down his chair. ‘Can I look out of the window?’ Without waiting for permission, he strode up to the picture window and stood looking out.

‘Eddy –’

‘No, that’s all right, Miss Darcy. Let him. Bored, poor thing. I don’t blame him,’ Fenella Frayle said. ‘My fault, really. I do tend to go on, don’t I?’

‘No, no,’ Antonia protested. ‘Not at all.’

‘Oh, look, Granny! A man fell – another man catched him!’ Eddy pointed excitedly. ‘I think he is dead!’

‘Caught him,’ Antonia said automatically.

‘The man is dead!’

‘I don’t think that’s terribly likely … I’ll be very annoyed if –! Where? You’re making things up, aren’t you?’

‘I am not, Granny – look!’ Eddy pointed again. ‘The man is dead!’

Fenella Frayle joined Eddy and Antonia by the picture window. ‘He’s right. I do believe someone’s fainted in the street. I think they may need our help.’

3

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

Jevanny Lodge was a tall, square, red-brick house, built in the reign of Queen Anne. A stone-pillared porch had been added in the purer classical style of 1790; the windows of the house were many, tall and narrow, with small panes and thick white woodwork. A pediment, pierced with a round window, crowned the front. There were wings to right and left, connected by curious glazed galleries, supported by colonnades.

‘It looks like a fit. We’ll take him upstairs, Miss Thornton,’ Fenella Frayle told the teacher she had called, a freckled young woman whose physique suggested a gym mistress.

‘He is not epileptic, is he?’ Miss Thornton asked.

‘I have no idea. I hope not.’

‘Can I go with them?’ Eddy asked.

‘Certainly not.’ Antonia kept a restraining arm across her grandson’s chest.

‘Why not?’

‘It would be inappropriate.’

‘What does that mean?’ Eddy looked up at her.

‘It means you would be in the way.’

‘Will the man die?’

‘He may, if you go on asking questions.’

She needed to keep an eye on Eddy. He was bored. A minute earlier he had taken advantage of the disturbance; as soon as Miss Frayle had left the room, he had walked up to her desk and started examining the papers that lay on it. Antonia had had to call him back.

Miss Frayle’s office door had been left wide open. Antonia and Eddy stood beside it, looking at the little group in the hall, ranged round the base of the stairs.

‘Are the children OK?’ Fenella Frayle asked.

‘Overexcited,’ Patricia Thornton said. ‘They know something’s happened and they all want to be part of it. I left them in Frostbite’s care. I mean Lilian Frobisher.’

‘Good. Excellent. Poor fellow – can he walk or will we have to give him a piggyback?’

‘I am fine, really.’ Charles Eresby staggered between his manservant and Patricia Thornton. ‘I can walk. I feel a little better. It’s so hot.’

‘You are not epileptic, are you?’ Patricia Thornton asked.

‘I am not.’

‘You may be without knowing it.’

‘I am not.’

‘You haven’t got a dicky heart, have you?’ Fenella Frayle said.

‘No. My heart is fine. It’s broken but otherwise it’s fine.’

‘I’d hate it if you were to keel over and snuff it on the premises,’ Fenella said cheerfully. ‘We’d have to send the children home and the parents wouldn’t like it. You gave poor Eddy a great fright, you know – that clever little boy over there –’ She pointed towards the top of the stairs.

‘He didn’t give me a fright.’ Eddy’s eyes flashed indignantly.

‘He thought you were dead!’

Eddy glanced up at Antonia and mouthed, ‘I don’t like her.’

The dark man in the alpaca coat cleared his throat. ‘I am afraid Mr Eresby is not used to high temperatures.’

‘Oh, you know each other? What a relief. Jolly good. Makes all the difference. I took you for a Good Samaritan. I thought you were a casual passer-by.’

‘I am Mr Eresby’s manservant. My name is Bedaux.’

Antonia gazed at them curiously. Master and servant promenading en plein air? A rare phenomenon these days, surely, even in this part of London? Antonia had imagined that only people like Prince Charles had valets. The master, as far as she could see, was a delicately built young man dressed in a somewhat crumpled white linen suit. His hair was very fair and floppy. He was probably quite good-looking in a young-Anthony-Andrews-as-Lord-Sebastian-Flyte kind of way, but was at the moment deathly pale, and somewhat slack-mouthed … What was it he said? It was something curious … It’s broken … He’d meant his heart, which suggested his fainting fit might not be exclusively due to the heat …

Antonia’s attention shifted to the servant who was a tall dark man with an impassive face, immaculately dressed. A gentleman’s gentleman, eh? Clearly, they did exist … This one seemed to run to type … Was he really one of those chaps whose entire life, like that of the late Queen Mother, was based upon duty, obligation, discretion and restraint? Something monkish about him but the eyes were watchful and – what was it? – calculating? The eyes of a man who enjoys dice games for dangerous stakes … The eyes of a Machiavelli … I mustn’t let my imagination run away with me, Antonia reminded herself.

Beside her Eddy chanted under his breath, something that sounded like, ‘Aunt Clo-Clo must die, Aunt Clo-Clo must die’, but she paid no attention.

‘Are we ready? Let me go first – can Mr Eresby manage the stairs?’ The irrepressible Miss Frayle led the way up. ‘We normally have a resident nurse, but she phoned in sick this morning, now wasn’t that a nuisance? Would you like us to call an ambulance?’

‘It might be a good idea, to be on the safe side,’ Bedaux said.

‘No, thank you. No ambulance. No need. I’ll be all right,’ Charles Eresby countered. ‘I just want to sit down quietly for a bit. I need to clear my head, that’s all … I am frightfully sorry for being a nuisance.’

‘Not a bit of it … Can happen to anyone, even to the best of us … I felt a bit faint myself this morning … Here we are. Journey’s end.’ Fenella pushed open a door. ‘My cubbyhole … I call it my “snuggery” … How about a drop of brandy? Old-fashioned remedies are usually the best … You aren’t a teetotaller, are you? It’s a bit stuffy here … I’ll open the window, shall I?’

‘You are frightfully kind,’ Charlie said. ‘I already feel better.’

But the next moment he was seized with another giddy spell and once more he heard the sound of rushing water … The figures round him started moving in a nightmarish dance … He saw Bedaux and beefy Miss Thornton whirl round, they might have been waltzing … The super nanny in her blue suit and brooch started bobbing up and down like the piston of an old-fashioned steam engine …

Shutting his eyes, he allowed them to lead him to the sofa.

Our hostess is called Fenella Frayle and her sitting room is papered in sunny Georgian yellow – red chintz curtains hang from gilded pelmets at the windows – the large sofa is of a bright cobalt blue. Even on the dullest day, I imagine one would feel uplifted by the cheerful mix of colour and pattern, the sparkle of mirror and glint of glass. The overall effect is most envigorating.

Miss Frayle offers Mr Eresby a glass of sherry, which he accepts. It should have been brandy, but it turns out she has run out of brandy. Mr Eresby takes one tiny sip, then another. His eyes close. He coughs. Mr Eresby is not used to strong drink. He shouldn’t be drinking, really. Miss Frayle raises her eyebrows at me and points to the sherry decanter. I politely decline. I remain standing, my hands behind my back. I preserve a sentry-like stillness. I am gratified to observe Mr Eresby’s cheeks turn a little pink.

‘Eresby, did you say?’ Miss Frayle says. ‘Unusual name. Any connection with Eresby’s Biscuits? Hope you don’t mind my asking? I believe they are defunct now, or are they?’

‘My father. My late father. He sold the company. That was ages ago. I was two at the time.’ Mr Eresby speaks haltingly. ‘I have no recollection of any of it. The biscuits do exist but they are called something else now.’

‘So you are the son of the man himself! How terribly exciting! My aunt used to love Eresby’s biscuits.’ Miss Frayle frowns slightly. I get the impression she doesn’t like her aunt.

Miss Thornton has left the room, but another youngish woman enters, whom Miss Frayle addresses as ‘Miss Cooper’. Miss Cooper appears to be Miss Frayle’s secretary. Miss Frayle asks her to stay with us, she then apologises, says she will be back soon and leaves the room.

Miss Cooper is thin and bespectacled and she is wearing an attractively patterned silk dress. She sits down beside the desk. Her dress rustles.