The Killing of Olga Klimt (14 page)

‘That’s perfectly all right.’

‘Poor Mummy. I’ll get in touch with her as soon as I can. Most remiss of me. There’s been the most diabolical muddle –’ He faltered. He didn’t seem to know what he should say next.

They hadn’t had time to prepare their story, Antonia decided.

‘You told your mother that Olga was dead. That was before you went off the radar.’ Payne smiled.

‘I lost the signal, for some reason. Happens all the time in some parts of London. I haven’t had a chance to call her back.’

‘So Olga is not dead?’ Payne glanced in the direction of the girl. ‘This is excellent news. Your mother thought you said Olga was dead.’

What was it Collingwood had said?
A luminous, shimmering kind of beauty
. Well, yes – the girl matched that description all right – no doubt about it – it was Olga.

Charlie ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. ‘There was a fearful misunderstanding. You see, Olga was taken ill … Um … I panicked when she called me … Idiotic of me, I know, but I have been feeling rather run-down lately. So I – I overreacted a bit.’ He gave a charming self-deprecating smile. ‘She called me and said she thought she was dying – it was something she’d eaten – she’d been violently sick – she passed out, then came to – it made her feel very ill.’

‘She seems to have made a remarkably quick recovery.’

‘Well, yes. She has. Thank God for that! Sometimes Olga tends to dramatise, but I took it seriously, you see. I worked myself up into a state. I love her very much, you see. I love her to distraction. We are planning to get married.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Payne.

‘It’s all terribly embarrassing, but that’s all there is to it, really. I’ll explain everything to Mummy. Awfully decent of you to take so much trouble. I am deeply grateful –’ Charlie now spoke a trifle impatiently. He started moving sideways towards the door. He was clearly desperate to see the back of them.

‘I am terribly glad there’s been no calamity.’ Payne smiled amiably. He steered Antonia towards the door. He saw Charles Eresby relax.

‘Have you come a long way?’ Charlie asked as they walked back into the hall.

‘Hampstead.’

‘How intrepid of you.’

‘We didn’t mind one little bit,’ Antonia said.

‘Mummy is lucky to have such obliging friends.’

‘It was a very pleasant drive. Not much traffic at this time of night.’ said Payne. ‘We do enjoy driving through London, don’t we, my love?’ He stood looking round. ‘This is a cosy little place you’ve got here. Had it long?’

‘A couple of months. It used to belong to old Collingwood. My stepfather, you know,’ Charlie explained. ‘I bought it from him. Had it done up and so on. Took some time, but it was worth it.’

‘I daresay it is wonderfully secluded.’ Payne wondered if Lord Collingwood had used Philomel Cottage as a clandestine love nest himself.

‘You must come again some time. I mean, for a proper visit.’

‘We’d love to. Thank you very much.’

‘For drinks – or tea – or why not dinner?’

Payne inclined his head slightly. ‘You are most kind. Dinner would be splendid. Incidentally, what did you do with the body?’

They heard Olga gasp.

There was a pause, then Charlie spoke. ‘What the hell are you talking about? What body?’ He had turned a livid shade of pale.

‘I believe there was blood, wasn’t there?’ Payne said quietly.

‘It was the body of a girl in her twenties. She looked like Olga – from the back at least.’ Antonia enjoyed the process of reconstructing a crime. ‘She is about the same height – has the same fair hair –’

Charlie put his hands into his dressing-gown pockets, clearly to stop them from shaking. Olga’s hand had gone up to her mouth.

‘There was blood,’ Payne repeated.’ That’s why it was imperative that you should wash the floor.’

‘We have met before, actually.’ Antonia addressed Charlie in conversational tones. She had decided to stop being embarrassed about her hunch and put it to the test instead.

‘I don’t think we have met. I am afraid you are mistaken,’ Charlie said coldly.

‘You clearly don’t remember, but that is hardly surprising since you were quite ill that day. You fainted in the street and were taken into a place called the Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School?’

He stood staring at her. ‘I am sure you are mistaken,’ he said again but with less conviction.

‘I am not mistaken. I happened to be there. We watched you as you climbed the stairs – I was with my grandson – it was his first day at school – we’d gone to meet the headmistress. You, on the other hand, were accompanied by your manservant – what was his name now? – Bedaux?’

Olga gave a little cry.

‘You said you were perfectly capable of going up the stairs; or words to that effect. You
must
remember,’ Antonia went on. ‘Miss Frayle had you taken to her private quarters on the first floor.’

‘Miss Frayle?’

‘Yes. Fenella Frayle – the nursery school’s owner-cum-headmistress. You remember her, don’t you? She took you to her snuggery.’

Suddenly he swayed, as though his feet had turned to clay. He leant his back against the wall.

It looked as though he was about to be sick. So that was the effect Fenella Frayle’s name had on him. Antonia now saw with absolute clarity exactly what had happened, or more precisely, what must have happened and why. The idea had occurred to her earlier on. A very ingenious premise, the crime writer in
her reflected, though of course it had already been used; it had served as the basis for a book and a film …

‘Fenella Frayle wanted her aunt dead,’ she said slowly. ‘Aunt Clo-Clo? You, on the other hand, were unhappy about Olga. Extremely unhappy. If I remember correctly, you described yourself as heartbroken, or something similar, I’m not sure of your exact words. You and Olga had had a tiff – more than a tiff – a serious argument? That was the reason for your terrible state that day, wasn’t it? It wasn’t only the heat. You wanted her – dead?’ She could see from his haunted expression that she was on the right track.

‘I think you are mad,’ Charlie said. His voice was hoarse.

‘I don’t think somehow that the idea came from her, did it? But Miss Frayle is a good listener. She’s got the kind of personality that most people find reassuring. Very important for someone working with young children.’ Antonia paused. It occurred to her that Fenella Frayle was not going to work with children for much longer. They must get Eddy out as soon as they could. Poor Eddy. Well, he had never quite taken to Miss Frayle. ‘Perhaps Miss Frayle meant to help you by encouraging you to tell her your story? There’s a lot to be said for getting a grievance off your chest.’

He remained silent. Olga had snuggled up against him. She continued holding her hand over her mouth. Standing side by side they looked very young.

‘I do believe it was your idea. You detected her fatal weakness somehow. Perhaps she told you about the difficulties she was having with her aunt to show you that you were not the only one with seemingly insoluble problems? It is always reassuring to know you are not the only one with what looks like an insurmountable mountain in your life. Maybe that was her intention, to reassure you? Anyhow, you managed to tease it out of her. Her Aunt Clo-Clo dilemma. I have an idea you
might have sensed the misery and despair that lurked behind the sturdy exterior?’

‘What the hell are you?’ Charles Eresby muttered. ‘A witch? Or some bloody writer? You talk like a book!’

‘The long and the short of it is that you and Miss Frayle exchanged confidences. She told you about her aunt whom she wanted dead. You, on the other hand, told her you wanted Olga dead. As I said, you and Olga had had an argument – it was serious – it seemed terminal – it ended in a break-up?’

‘It was not serious!’ Olga cried. She looked close to tears. ‘I was only pretending! I didn’t want to do it! I didn’t intend to do it!’

‘Shut up, Olga,’ Charlie said.

‘Well, you clearly managed to make Mr Eresby believe it was all over between you,’ Antonia said.

‘Mr Bedaux made me do it!’

Curiouser and curiouser, Antonia thought again. So the monkish Machiavel was involved too!

‘That’s enough, Olga! Not another word.’

‘You told Miss Frayle you wanted Olga dead – in return you were going to kill her aunt. Isn’t that what happened?
You exchanged murders
.’

‘You need to have your head examined,’ Charlie said.

‘He never meant it!’ Olga cried. Tears had started pouring down her face. ‘Charlie, you must tell them you never meant it – I don’t want her to go on – I don’t like it – you are not a murderer – she frightens me – Charlie loves me! – He loves me – always! He was very ill – it was my fault – he didn’t really want me killed – he told me all about it – that Miss Frayle is mad!’

‘I said, not another word, Olga.’ Charlie suddenly sounded very tired.

‘But don’t you see?
Don’t you see
? They can send you to jail for something you didn’t do! Let them go and get that woman
– that Miss Frayle! You must tell the truth, Charlie, please! It – it was crazy to hide the body – we were crazy – please, Charlie. Tell them – I am frightened!’

‘Ah the body. I am glad you mentioned it.’ Payne cleared his throat. ‘I suggest you lead us to it and the sooner the better. It’s the best course of action in the circumstances, I assure you. It would be utter idiocy to try to hide it, you know. What were you planning to do? Bury it in the back garden?’

Charlie suddenly covered his eyes with both his hands.

Olga went up to Antonia and clutched at her arm. ‘Please. I know you will help us. You believe us, don’t you? You have a kind face. I trust you. I’ll show you the body.’

Deirdre Collingwood had read Le Maistre’s delightful little book,
Voyage Autour de Ma Chambre
, at her finishing school and now she resolved to imitate the French author, and find occupation and amusement enough to take her mind off her worries over Charlie and Rupert and her other discoveries and all that had been happening. She intended doing this by making a mental inventory of every article of furniture she could see around her in her drawing room and by following it up with the associations, which a sofa, a chair, a chaise-longue, an occasional table or a lamp might have for her.

Only it didn’t quite work. She was in an anxious, unsettled state of mind and she found it hard to concentrate.

She had had dinner all by herself and she was now sipping black coffee out of one of her tiny fragile-looking Meissen cups extravagantly fashioned like seashells. She was also smoking a purple gold-tipped Sobranie. It was one of her very rare cigarettes. The cup was so tiny, the sip didn’t amount to more than a tongue-dip. Deirdre tried to amuse herself by pretending she was a cat but that didn’t cheer her up much either.

She was sitting on the exceedingly uncomfortable Empire sofa upholstered in maroon and silver, which had once been at Collingwood. The sofa was uncompromisingly hard. She might
have been sitting on a wooden bench – or on two planks put together. Well, sometimes Deirdre wanted to be uncomfortable. It helped her to concentrate. The Buhl desk in the corner, on the other hand, was an object of exquisite beauty. It sported some unusual red tortoiseshell decorations on its lid.

Thank God for Hugh Payne! Hugh Payne had been able to locate Charlie. Charlie had since called her and reassured her that all was well. There had been a mistake, a misunderstanding, which was a relief. She wondered whether to ring Bedaux. She craved a chat with Bedaux. Bedaux
understood
her. There was a special kind of rapport between them, one of those mysterious bonds that were impossible to explain in a rational manner.

She took another tiny sip of coffee. ‘Meow,’ she said. Perhaps one day Bedaux would help her get rid of Rupert?

She had a headache. She should bathe her temples with eau de cologne. And then – an Aconite? Yes. It would be bliss. She was unhappy, oh so terribly unhappy!

As she heard the clock strike ten, her thoughts strayed back to the morning and the discovery she had made.

She had gone up to Rupert’s study and rifled Rupert’s desk. She wasn’t sure what she had hoped to find but she had been convinced that there would be
something
. She had always wondered if the theft of the Reynolds and the Vlaminck from Collingwood the year before hadn’t been staged by Rupert and his mother, so that they could claim the insurance, which they had done … Or perhaps there would be love letters …

Well, she found a letter, not exactly a love letter, and it was linked to the draft of a brand new will. The two were together, inside a slim black folder.

The letter was from Ada de Ravigny, with whom, some twenty-five years ago, Rupert had had an affair. Well, that didn’t come as a particular surprise. Rupert had never denied the
affair. It was an exceedingly short letter, no more than a few lines. The date at the top indicated it had been written a couple of months ago, back in May. Ada informed Rupert that she was dying – and she wanted to tell Rupert something which he needed to know –

Simona snapped her fingers in Mr X’s face and laughed when he blinked, but then she became serious again.

‘I want to see where my friend is, Grandpa, I am very worried, can’t you see I am worried? Are you so insensitive? Can’t you wait a little? Are you a child?’

‘I want us to start. Please.’

‘Are you a child? No, you are not. Of course you are not.’ She spoke with contempt. ‘You are an old man. You are a very old man.’

‘I am not that old.’

‘You are
very
old. You are seventy-two and two months. I saw your passport. That’s very old. In my country that is very old. So you need to be patient.’

‘At my time of life being patient is a luxury I can ill afford. I endeavour to live every moment as though it were my last.’ Mr X stood in his perfectly tailored suit, his silk handkerchief peeping out of his breast pocket, looking piteously at her, the ivory brush held aloft in his hand.

‘Don’t quote the Bible to me! I don’t like the Bible. Religion is the opium of the people, that is what my grandparents were taught at school and I believe that. Shush. I don’t want to know. I am not interested. I don’t want you to speak. I’ve got a headache.’ Simona took out her mobile. ‘I am worried about my friend.’