The Killing of Olga Klimt (23 page)

Joan Selwyn was killed because she was not a real blonde. She had dyed her hair blonde in order to infiltrate a sinister secret society that consisted exclusively of blondes. Some bizarre ring
of fanatical neo-Aryans? Yes. The solution to the affair would turn out to be one of those rather outlandish sub-Dan-Brown ones … The luminous league … The band of blondes … The fair hair affair …

All very silly, yes, but people did cause harm to others for the oddest of reasons imaginable sometimes. Like the old chap in the news who had laced his wife’s tea with mercury – he wanted to make her ill, so that he could nurse her back to health – he hadn’t meant her to die – he had seen it as a way of winning back her love and affection – or so he claimed – they’d been at loggerheads over something – he described her death as a ‘tragic accident’ – he swore that he never meant to kill her –

Payne’s eyes remained fixed on Joan Selwyn’s mobile. Once more he was aware of something stirring at the back of his mind. What was it? The mobile shouldn’t be here, he suddenly thought, though he didn’t quite know what he meant by that. And then another thought floated into his mind. It was a thought he’d had earlier on: lies. Rather, one particular lie …

He asked, ‘Were there any messages on Joan’s mobile?’

‘Yes, several, but I am afraid they were deleted.’ Billy seemed to regret the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. If there had been such an invention as a ‘word-eraser’, he would have applied it at once, of that Major Payne was certain. Billy went very red. ‘It was an accident.’

‘You deleted Joan’s messages by accident?’

‘Well, actually –’

‘There is a disapproving glint in your eye, Major Payne, and I don’t blame you. You clearly think that one or more of the deleted messages contained some kind of clue to Joan’s murder, am I right?’ The young man called Mortimer had re-entered the sitting room. He was holding a small tray with two glasses, one of which he handed to Payne, the other he kept
for himself. ‘In fact, it wasn’t Selkirk who deleted the messages. I did.
Mea culpa
. No sinister reason for it, I assure you. I was fooling around.’

‘Fooling around?’

‘Yes. Fooling around. I was fooling around. I always do when I try to relieve my
taedium vitae
. Stop looking so bloody sheepish, Selkirk. One might be excused for thinking you’d been caught cartwheeling on the grounds of Buckingham Palace or some such inexcusable transgression. Fooling, yes. Fooling with other people’s mobiles is to me what cocaine and the violin were to Sherlock Holmes. Incidentally, I am a great aficionado of the Sherlock Holmes stories – are you?’

‘Didn’t you think Joan would mind?’ Payne asked.

‘It was unprincipled of me, I admit. I partly did it to annoy her, I think. I didn’t really like her.’

‘So it wasn’t an accident. You deleted the messages on purpose. To annoy her.’

‘She deserved it, you know. She never laughed at my jokes. Besides, I didn’t really approve of her association with Selkirk. She reciprocated by disapproving of my association with Selkirk. That’s often the way, isn’t it? She actually had the gall to tell Selkirk that I was a phase. How would you feel if someone described you as a phase? What a life, ye screeching cockatoos, what a life!’ Mortimer threw up his hands. ‘No point saying sorry to
you
, is there, Major Payne? I would have most certainly apologised to her but I can’t as she is dead.’

‘Did you by any chance listen to her messages before you deleted them?’

Sieg Mortimer assumed an expression of thoughtful concentration. ‘You don’t think Conan Doyle ever meant to kill Sherlock Holmes off at the Reichenbach Falls, do you? The fact that no body is ever recovered at the end of
The Final Problem
is extremely suggestive, I always thought. No dead body, as every
self-respecting aficionado of the genre knows, means one thing only –
no murder
.’

‘You are probably right,’ Payne conceded. ‘But I asked you a question –’

‘Honestly and truly, I don’t believe Holmes’ miraculous escape idea was the afterthought it was taken to be later on. It was a ruse. I am sure that all along old Doyle intended to resurrect his lucrative creation, which he eventually did do, to the delight of millions. Oh how I wish I could have been able to see all those gentlemen sporting black armbands, marching in the Strand, swinging their brollies and clamouring for Sherlock Holmes’ return!’

‘Did you by any chance listen to the messages on Joan’s phone before deleting them?’ Payne asked patiently. It wouldn’t do for him to show irritation. Neither of the two young men, he reminded himself, was under any obligation to answer his questions.

‘Did I listen to the messages? As a matter of fact I did. Yes. I was fooling around, I told you. It was part of the fooling.’

‘Weren’t you afraid she might mind your deleting her messages?’

‘No, not really. I am never afraid. I told you I wanted to annoy her. I was rather hoping she would blame Selkirk for it. I was hoping it might cause a rift between them … Sorry, Selkirk. I thought I was acting for the best.’

‘You couldn’t have known she was dead when you deleted her messages, could you?’ Payne said.

‘No, of course not. I have the feeling you are trying to catch me out. You do pride yourself on solving puzzles, don’t you, Major Payne? No, no use denying it. I have heard stories about you.’

‘What were the messages about? Do you remember?’

‘How good are you, really? I mean, at solving puzzles? I hope
you don’t mind being put to the test? Please listen carefully – I’ve got a puzzle for you … A man goes into a restaurant and orders an albatross. He cuts it with his knife and fork, takes a mouthful, then another, then another. A couple of moments later he produces a gun and shoots himself.
Why
?’

‘They don’t serve albatross at restaurants,’ Billy pointed out.

‘In Fiji and such-like barbaric places they do, Selkirk. Kindly do not interrupt. Well, Major Payne? Why did the man shoot himself?’

Losing his temper with these annoying young men would be fatal, Major Payne reminded himself. If he wanted to learn more about the messages on Joan Selwyn’s Blackberry, he might as well accept Mortimer’s terms and play along. For some reason he was convinced now that Joan Selwyn’s mobile phone was central to the solution of her murder.

‘Why did the man shoot himself? Well, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ Payne gave a little smile. ‘He loved his wife too much and couldn’t imagine life without her. You see, he had found his wife’s wedding ring among the bird’s
dejecta membra
. He realised that his wife – who had been mountaineering in the Himalayas – had been killed in an accident and that nobody was aware of it yet. He had worked out that an albatross had pecked at his wife’s flesh and swallowed her ring – before being caught, killed, sent to the restaurant, grilled and served?’

‘Not at all bad, Major Payne. Not at all bad.’ Mortimer nodded. ‘Your answer is gruesome enough for my taste, though perhaps not as gruesome as the official solution.’

‘I have a solution,’ Billy Selkirk said. ‘The man suddenly realises that this is his pet albatross, which he reared from a chick and that he released into the wild only a couple of days before. He has recognised the ring on the albatross’s leg, which he himself put there. He loved his pet albatross more than
anything in the world, he can’t imagine life without his beloved bird, so he shoots himself.’

‘Too damned feeble, Selkirk! Too damned feeble! Beloved bird indeed. We need to do work on your lateral thinking. Now don’t interrupt and listen to the official solution.’ Mortimer paused. ‘The man, his wife and a second man were shipwrecked on a desert island. The man’s wife died in the wreck. The two men went looking for food but couldn’t find anything edible, but then the second man went searching on his own and he brought what he said was an albatross but was in actual fact – can you guess?’

‘A part of the dead wife,’ Payne murmured.

‘Yes! So they made a fire by rubbing together two dry sticks, grilled the piece of meat and ate it. Later they were rescued; life returns to normal and, at some point, the bereaved husband decides to order albatross at a restaurant. Of course it tastes nothing like what he was told was albatross on the island, which makes him realise that what he had eaten was his dead wife. The shock is too great for him, consequently he suffers a form of derangement and shoots himself!’

‘Ingenious,’ Payne nodded. ‘Though a bit on the elaborate side. You see, my wife maintains – and I tend to agree with her – that the less explanation a denouement involves, the more effective it is. My wife writes detective stories,’ Payne explained.

‘I read a French detective novel once where all the clues were given in italics,’ Billy Selkirk said.

‘Your wife writes detective stories? How terribly interesting,’ Mortimer said. ‘She is not beaten or done, I hope?’

‘Beaten or done? What on earth do you mean? Oh. No, no, no, no – she is not Beaton or Dunn, no! I am married to Antonia Darcy.’

‘I am very glad to hear it. I’m no fan of those two. I’ve heard of Antonia Darcy but so far I haven’t read any of her books.
Does Antonia Darcy produce
textes de désir
or
textes de plaisir
?’ Mortimer raised the glass of whisky to his lips.

‘Let me see. If I remember correctly,’ said Payne, ‘in
textes de désir
what matters is the reader’s desire to reach the denouement and discover whodunit, correct? In
textes de plaisir
, on the other hand, it is wit, style and interesting characters that matter?’

‘That is correct, Major Payne. So which one is it?
Désir
or
plaisir
?’

‘Wouldn’t it be wrong to separate
désir
from
plaisir
?’ Billy said. ‘They always go together, don’t they?’

‘In our experience, Selkirk, they do, invariably, you are quite right, but it is detective stories we are talking about,’ Mortimer said. ‘Well, Major Payne?’

‘I would describe Antonia’s books as a blend of both … I am biased of course … But I believe you were about to tell me about Joan Selwyn’s phone messages, weren’t you?’

‘I was about to do no such thing. Why do you keep harping on those messages? They weren’t of the slightest interest or importance, I assure you. They were extremely boring. The first one was from one of Joan’s flatmates, a girl called Minerva – Selkirk admires her immensely – something about an unpaid electricity bill, to which Joan was expected to contribute. Another message was from Joan’s MP boss – something about completing a research task he’d set her, I think. He sounds a severe taskmaster. I told you they were boring. I did warn you, didn’t I?’

‘Were those the only messages?’

‘Yes. There were only two. Sorry to disappoint you.’

Major Payne took his leave soon after.

As he drove away from Shepherds Market, Payne found himself wondering about Lord Collingwood’s mysterious friend and
his connection with Olga Klimt. Lord Collingwood did say Joan had been helping him with something but why didn’t he ever mention the fact that it was to do with Olga and Philomel Cottage? How very odd … Who
was
the mysterious friend?

On an impulse he took out his mobile and rang Lord Collingwood’s home number.

‘Ah, good to hear from you, Payne. Any progress with the untangling? As a matter of fact I got a call from Mortimer only a minute ago. He asked me whether you’d been acting on my behalf. I said no. That was naughty of you, you know, quizzing those boys under false colours! What’s that? What friend? My friend? But I have no friends, Payne. Not a single one. All Deirdre’s fault, I fear … Oh you mean that old fool and Olga? Oh yes, yes. But I wouldn’t call him a
friend
. I’ll explain everything, though not now, if you don’t mind frightfully.’ Lord Collingwood lowered his voice. ‘Deirdre has come back home, I can hear her and I suspect she is up to something. I’ll have to ring off now. Au revoir.’

Outside it had begun to drizzle. Payne turned on the wipers.

Suddenly he had the absolute certainty that he had been presented with every fact necessary for the solving of Joan Selwyn’s murder. All he needed to do was produce one of those brilliant pieces of sustained explication for which he was famous –

Only he couldn’t. His mind had gone blank!

Certainty my foot, he murmured. As a matter of fact, he had absolutely no idea who killed Joan Selwyn – or why. No idea at all.

No, that wasn’t true –

That mobile phone … Yes … It held the key to the mystery …

Lord Collingwood was having another harrowing dream, only this time it was mainly aural.

He heard his wife's voice say, ‘Unless God performed some kind of miracle, your darling mama would be unable to bear any more children. Her womb must be entirely shrivelled up by now. And if a miracle happened and she did procreate, it is God,
via
the Holy Spirit, who will be the child's father,
not
a Collingwood. That's good news for civilisation, isn't it?'

To which Lord Collingwood said, ‘Turgid carp, tail-walking like a sketch by Tenniel.'

He woke up with a start. He was sitting in the swivel chair at his desk. He heard the chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs.

Midnight?

Lord Collingwood rose. He was wearing his smoking jacket. He felt as stiff as a board and a little nauseous. For some reason he remembered the time when he had eaten a dog biscuit by accident and how ill it had made him feel. The funny thing was that he had rather enjoyed it and felt ill only
after
he realised it had been a dog biscuit and not one fit for human
consumption, which showed what an infernal machine the human mind was.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. As a matter of fact he had been urging himself to stay awake.

If one had to have dreams, why couldn't they be of pleasanter things, such as of glitter, for example? Lord Collingwood liked glitter. There was nothing like the glitter of a military parade, compounded of frosted brocade, blades of ceremonial swords, bright buttons and decorations on uniformed chests …