Jemima Shore at the Sunny Grave (12 page)

But it’s no good Bella claiming credit for everything. The weed-killer was entirely my idea. Not that I handled a drop of it myself: far too dangerous. Besides, where was the need to handle the poison personally when I had all the resources of psychology at my command? The way I handled that old couple, once the fatal bet was struck, made me rather fancy myself as a kind of latter-day Iago. The gentle art was to make each of them believe the other had already done the fatal deed. So that neither of them was responsible for actually
starting
it. The poisoning, that is. Though it was never put into so many words. Certainly not by me.

You see that was quite an important notion with the Colonel and Lady Sissy. Who started the argument. Or whatever. Something childish there too, of course. How they would go on about it.

“You started it, Lionel.”

“No, Sissy. This time you definitely started it.”

Bella used to get quite weary with it all. But I listened all right: you never know when you can learn something helpful, where psychology is concerned. And so it proved.

I went to the Colonel, very much man to man, or rather soldier to his commanding officer. Pretty puzzled I was, about the behaviour of the memsahib. Couldn’t help reporting what I’d seen, it didn’t make any sense but
thought he ought to know. Exactly the same approach with Lady Sissy, except of course in this case I was her humble servant, it was the bended knee stuff, if you like, rather than man to man. Same old honest bewilderment did for both, more or less the same imaginary details too. It was the timing which was tricky. Even Bella had to admire that. I brought it off to perfection.

And do you know, both of them said more or less the same thing, allowing for a few extra ripe words from the Colonel which would never have passed Lady Sissy’s delicate lips.

“By God, he”—or she—“started it! I’ll have you know, Henry, he”—or she—“started it.”

As I was saying, Iago couldn’t have done better. I tried that one on Bella but she only sniffed. It’s possible of course that Bella doesn’t know who Iago is, since Bella, for all her sharpness, has never really bothered to improve her mind. I sometimes wonder—

“All the same, Henry, we’re a good team,” said Bella suddenly, just as I was thinking about her lack of culture. Bella can be quite a mind-reader at times, even if she lacks culture. “That detective, Tomlinson, told me that it did him good to come across a proper working marriage like ours, a proper partnership. So we have to stick together, don’t we? Just like the Colonel and Lady Sissy. We don’t want to disappoint Tomlinson.”

And Bella began sipping her pre-prandial drink—it was a sherry, as a matter of fact, a newly acquired habit with our new prosperity—with a delicate gesture that reminded me of Lady Sissy. If only Bella didn’t make little sucking noises! (Lady Sissy never made any noise at all when she drank.) Ah well—

“House Poison,” says I, pouring myself some of the Colonel’s whisky.

T
he moment the door was shut behind her, the man put the security chain across it. Then he ordered Jemima Shore to take her clothes off. All of her clothes.

“But you can leave your shoes on, if you like. They’re pretty.”

Jemima found that the sheer unreality of the situation prevented her from taking in what he was saying. She could hear the words all right, the man was standing right beside her, his breath on her cheek—although he was not in fact breathing particularly heavily. They were about the same height: his eyes, very widely set, the colour of glossy chestnuts, were level with hers.

The man’s hair was dark, very thick and quite long; they were so close that she could see one or two silver threads in the shaggy mass. He had a moustache, sideburns, and soft dark down on his cheeks; it was that which gave him a Mediterranean look. His accent, however, faint but discernible, she could not place. He wore a clean white T-shirt
with some kind of logo on it, and jeans. The broad shoulders and the heavy arms revealed by the contours of the T-shirt gave an impression of considerable physical strength, in spite of his calm breathing. Jemima was aware that he was sweating slightly.

She was carrying a large green Chanel-type handbag of quilted leather slung over her shoulder by two gilt chains. The man took the bag from her and put it carefully on the king-sized bed which dominated the hotel room. The curtains were drawn and the lamp by the bed was lit, although it was in fact only eleven o’clock in the morning.

The man repeated his command. “Take off your clothes.” He added, “I want to get to know you.”

It was idiotic, thought Jemima: the previous television programme she had worked on had actually been about rape. During that period, she had spoken to at least a dozen victims—of widely differing ages—on the subject. The words she had heard most frequently went something like this: “You just don’t understand what it’s like … Helplessness … If it’s never happened to you … Until it’s happened to you …”

Naturally, she had never sought to argue the point. Her intention, as an investigative television reporter, had been to present her evidence as sympathetically but candidly as possible in order to illustrate just that gulf: between sufferers and the rest, however well intentioned. The programme about rape had been the last in a series of which the overall title had been “Twice Punished”: it had concentrated on the tragic social after-effects of certain crimes.

“Helplessness … You just don’t understand … Until it happens to you.” Now it seemed Jemima was going to find out for herself the truth of those sad, despairing cries. Rather too late for her programme. Ironically enough. And she had a feeling she was going to need all the sense of irony (or
detachment) she could hang on to in the present situation. And then something more.

“Take off your clothes,” repeated the man for the third time. “I want to get to know you.” He was still not hurried or breathing heavily; only the slight perspiration on his upper lip betrayed any kind of agitation. Jemima now guessed him to be Moroccan or Algerian, maybe even Turkish; his actual use of English was more or less perfect.

“Who are you? And where is Clemency Vane? I have come to interview Clemency Vane.” Jemima decided the best course was to ignore the ludicrous, frightening command altogether and attempt in some way to gain a mastery of the situation. She was glad to find that her own voice was absolutely steady even if she, unlike the man himself, was panting a little. She found that she was also able to manage a small, sweet, composed smile, the one the viewers loved, because Jemima generally went on to demolish the recipient of that sweet smile—some pompous political leader perhaps—politely but totally.

“Clemm-ie”—he accented the last syllable just slightly—“is not here. I have come instead. Now you will take off your clothes please. Or”—he paused as if to consider the situation in a rational manner—“I could perhaps take them off for you. But you would probably prefer to do it yourself.”

The man bent forward and undid the loose drawstring tie at the neck of Jemima’s cream-coloured jersey dress. His hands, like his shoulders, were large and muscular: they were covered with dark hair; the nails, Jemima noticed automatically, were very clean, as if newly scrubbed, and well-kept. He undid the first pearl button and made as if to touch the second; then he drew back.

“This is where I scream,” thought Jemima. “Argument stops here. There must be somebody in earshot in this damn barn of an hotel.”

“Don’t touch me, please,” she said aloud. “And I must tell you that, whoever you are, my camera crew are due to arrive in this room in exactly one minute; they took the next lift.”

“Oh, don’t be frightened.” The man ignored her remark about the camera crew, which was in itself a worrying sign—since it was in fact quite untrue. Jemima doubted whether at this precise moment anyone in the world knew exactly where she was, not even Cherry, her faithful PA at Megalith Television.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Even if you scream”—he had clearly read her mind—“I shall not hurt you, only silence you with this.” For the first time Jemima realized the man was carrying a large white scarf or cloth on his arm. “But please do not scream. There would be no point, I think, since both the rooms near us are empty, and the maid is far away.”

The man hesitated, then he led Jemima quite gently but firmly in the direction of the large bed. They both sat down. That brought her—possibly—within reach of her green handbag; but what kind of weapon was a soft, quilted-leather handbag, however large? The man gazed at her earnestly with those wide-apart brown eyes.

“I have seen you on television, Jemima, I think you’re very beautiful and you’re intelligent too. I like that very much. You’ll find I really appreciate your intelligence when we get to know each other better. Women should cultivate their intelligence so as to be of interest to men, how can a stupid woman be of any interest to a man … Education is very important for women. In order to help their man.”

Now that the man was talking, almost rattling along, poking his face close to hers, talking at manic speed but not attempting otherwise to touch her or her clothing in any way, the best plan seemed to be to keep him at it.

The education of women! A bizarre subject to discuss, perhaps, under the present circumstances, but one on which Jemima did at least have strong views (if not precisely these views).

“You’re absolutely right,” she agreed, her tone still resolutely equable, resisting the temptation to adjust the loose tie and button of her dress.

On the subject of education, would it be a good plan or a very bad plan to reintroduce the subject of Clemency Vane? Her captor—for such he was—either knew her or knew of her. As it was, one could indeed fruitfully talk about the education of Clemency Vane, and at some length, in view of what had happened to her following that education. Had the missing Clemency been actually present in the hotel room where she promised to be, Jemima herself would have shot off some pertinent questions on the subject: even if she would have recorded the answers in her own well-trained memory (and not as yet with a camera crew). Clemency had asked for her to take no notes and certainly not use a tape recorder at these preliminary interviews. And Jemima, who at this stage was committed to nothing, Clemency having made all the running herself, had nothing to lose by agreeing to her terms.

Clemency Vane was a convicted criminal who had recently been released from prison where she had spent something over five years on a charge of drug-dealing. It was an odd case. Nobody seemed to know quite where all the money had gone: some really large sums had vanished. Jemima remembered that the original sentence had been for eight years and that Clemency had been released for good behaviour: it had certainly been a strong sentence for a first offender. On the other hand the proven details of Clemency Vane’s drug-dealing were pretty strong too. And it was undeniably dealing: no question of a desperate addict
merely trying to service her own expensive habit. Quite apart from the fact that she had pleaded guilty.

The oddness lay in the hint of political background to it all, a hint which mysteriously and totally disappeared when the case came to be tried and the “guilty” plea was entered. What was the country concerned? Jemima tried to remember. Red Clemmie? Blue Clemmie?
Green
Clemmie? Not the latter presumably, in view of the drug-dealing. Since none of this had finally been proffered by the defence at her trial, temporarily the name of the country eluded her: which was ridiculous. But she would have reminded herself of all the details of the case beforehand if Clemency Vane’s summons to an interview in the anonymous barn of a West London hotel had not come so peremptorily to her this morning. That had altered their previous more long-term arrangement.

“No, it can’t wait. I thought it could when I spoke to you originally. But now it can’t.”

Santangela. That was it. Santangela: one of those little states, whose precise connection with drug traffic, anti-drug traffic measures, nationalism and anti-imperialism was so difficult to establish even for those who were keenly interested. Which most Britons, and Jemima was no exception, frankly were not. That was the hint of political background which had come and then mysteriously gone away. After all, shortly after Clemency Vane had been imprisoned, there had been a successful revolution in Santangela in any case; so the whole situation had changed. Santangela: where exactly was the place? Latin America? Central America? South America? It was ridiculous to be so ignorant about sheer geography, which was after all a matter of fact. But then that was Europe-centred Britain—including Jemima Shore—for you.