The Skull Beneath the Skin Page 14

  Who must despatch me?

  I account this world a tedious theatre

  For I must play a part in’t ’gainst my will.

  Cordelia said: “Not very appropriate. He must be getting to the end of suitable quotations.”

  Clarissa tugged off her hairband. In the glass, her reflection gazed back at them both, a ghost face, hung about with pale dishevelled hair, the huge eyes troubled under their heavy lids.

  “Perhaps he knows that he won’t need many more. There’s only tomorrow. Perhaps he knows—who better?—that tomorrow will be the end.”

  BOOK THREE

  BLOOD FLIES UPWARDS

  1

  Cordelia slept more deeply and for longer than she had expected. She was awoken by a quiet knock at the door. Instantly she was fully conscious and, throwing her dressing-gown round her shoulders, she went to open it. It was Mrs. Munter with her early-morning tea. Cordelia had meant to be up well before she arrived. It was embarrassing to be discovered sleeping behind a locked door as if she were confusing Courcy Castle with a hotel. But if Mrs. Munter was surprised at this eccentricity she gave no sign but placed the tray on the bedside table with a quiet “Good morning, Miss,” and left as unobtrusively as she had arrived.

  It was half-past seven. The room was filled with the smudged half-light of dawn. Going to the window, Cordelia saw that the eastern sky was just beginning to streak into brightness and that a low mist hung over the lawn and curled like smoke between the tree tops. It was going to be another lovely day. There was no sign of any bonfire, yet the air held the smoky wood-fire smell of autumn and the great mass of the sea heaved, grey and silver, as if it exuded its own mysterious light.

  She crept to the communicating door and opened it very gently. It was heavy, but it swung open without a creak. The curtains were drawn across the windows but there was enough light from her own room to show her Clarissa, still sleeping, one white arm curved round her pillow. Cordelia tiptoed up to the bed and stood very still listening to the quiet breathing. She felt a sense of relief without knowing exactly why. She had never believed that there was a real threat to Clarissa’s life. And their precautions against mischief had been thorough. Both the doors to the corridor had been locked with the keys left in the locks. Even if someone had a duplicate there was no way in which he could have got in. But she needed the reassurance of Clarissa’s untroubled breathing.

  And then she saw the paper, a pale oblong gleaming against the carpet. Another message had been delivered, pushed under the door. So whoever was responsible was here, on the island. She felt her heart jolt. Then she took hold of herself, angry that she hadn’t thought of the possibility of a missive under the door, resenting her own fear. She crept across to pick up the paper and took it into her own room, shutting the door behind her.

  It was another passage from The Duchess of Malfi, eleven short words surmounted by a skull.

  Thus it lightens into action,

  I am come to kill thee.

  The form was the same, but the paper was different. This message was typed on the back of an old woodcut headed “The Gt Meffenger of Mortality.” Beneath the title was the crude figure of death bearing an hourglass and arrow followed by four stanzas of verse.

  She gulped down her tea, pulled on her trousers and shirt and went in search of Ambrose. She had hardly hoped to find him so early but he was already in the breakfast room, coffee cup in hand, gazing out over the lawn. It was one of the rooms which she had seen on Friday’s quick tour of the castle, the furniture and fittings all designed by Godwin. There was a simple refectory table with a set of fretwork-backed chairs while one long wall was entirely covered by a set of cupboards and open shelves, charmingly carved in light wood and surmounted by a tiled frieze in which orange trees in bright blue pots alternated with highly romanticized scenes from the legend of King Arthur and the Round Table. At the time Cordelia had thought it an interesting example of the architect’s move towards the simplicities of the Aesthetic Movement, but now its self-conscious charm was lost on her.

  Ambrose turned at her entrance and smiled.

  “Good morning. It looks as if we’re going to be lucky in the weather. The guests should arrive in sunshine and get back without risk of parting with their supper. The crossing can be treacherous in bad weather. Is our leading lady awake?”

  “Not yet.”

  Cordelia made a sudden resolution. It could do no harm to tell him. The woodcut almost certainly came from his house. Clarissa had told her that he already knew about the poison-pen messages. And Clarissa was his guest. Above all, she wanted to see his reaction to the paper. She held it out and said: “I found this pushed under Clarissa’s door this morning. Does it belong to you? If so, someone has mutilated it for you. Look on the back.”

  He studied it briefly, then turned it over. For a moment he was silent. Then he said: “So the messages are still coming. I did wonder. Has she seen this?”

  There was no need to ask whom he meant.

  “No. And she won’t.”

  “Very wise of you. I take it that weeding out this kind of nuisance is one of your duties as secretary-companion?”

  “One of them. But does it belong to you?”

  “No. It’s interesting, but not my period.”

  “But this is your house. And Miss Lisle is your guest.”

  He smiled and wandered over to the sideboard.

  “Will you have coffee?” She watched while he went over to the hotplate, poured her cup and refilled his own. Then he said: “I accept the implied criticism. One’s guests certainly have the right not to be harassed or menaced while under one’s roof. But what do you suggest I can do? I’m not a policeman. I can hardly interrogate my other house guests. That, apart from its certain lack of success, would only result in six aggrieved persons instead of one. I doubt whether Clarissa would thank me. And, forgive me, aren’t you taking this a little too seriously? I admit that it’s a practical joke in poor taste. But is it any more than a joke? And surely the best response to this kind of nonsense is a dignified silence, even a certain amused contempt. Clarissa is an actress. She should be able to simulate one response or the other. If there is someone on the island who is trying to spoil her performance he—or more likely she—will soon give up if Clarissa demonstrates a total unconcern.”

  “That’s what she will do, at least until after the play. She won’t see this. I can trust you not to tell her?”

  “Of course. I have a strong interest in Clarissa’s success, remember. You didn’t put the thing there yourself by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. Forgive my asking, but you see my difficulty. If it wasn’t you, it was presumably her husband—except that he isn’t here at the moment—her stepson, her cousin, her faithful dresser, or one of her oldest friends. Who am I to start probing these family and long-standing relationships? Incidentally, that woodcut belongs to Roma.”

  “To Roma! How do you know?”

  “You do sound fierce, quite like a schoolmistress. Roma used to teach, you know. Geography and games, Clarissa tells me. A strange combination. I can’t quite picture Roma, whistle at the lip, panting down the hockey field exhorting the girls to greater efforts or plunging into the deep end of the swimming pool. Well, perhaps I can believe that. She has aggressively muscular shoulders.”

  Cordelia said: “But the woodcut?”

  “She told me that she found it in a second-hand book and thought I might be interested in seeing it. She showed it to me yesterday, just before the rehearsal, and I left it on the blotter on my desk in the business room.”

  “Where anyone could have seen and taken it?”

  “You sound like a detective. As you say, where anyone could have seen and taken it. It looks, incidentally, as if the message were typed on my machine. That, too, is kept in the business room.”

  The typesetting, at least, would be easy enough to check. She might as well do it now. But before she could make
the suggestion Ambrose said: “And there’s another thing. Forgive me if I find it rather more annoying than Clarissa’s poison pen. Someone has broken the lock of the display cabinet outside the business room and taken the marble arm. If, during your duties as secretary-companion you should happen to learn who it is, I’d be grateful if you would suggest that he or she put it back. I admit that the marble’s not to everyone’s taste but I have a fondness for it.”

  Cordelia said: “The arm of the Princess Royal? When did you notice that it had gone?”

  “Munter tells me that it was in the display case when he locked up last night. That was at ten minutes past midnight. He unlocked this morning shortly after six but didn’t look at the display case although he thinks that he might have noticed if the arm had gone. But he can’t be sure. I myself saw that it was missing, and that the lock had been forced, when I went to the kitchen to make tea just before seven.”

  Cordelia said: “It couldn’t have been Clarissa. She was asleep when I got up this morning. And I doubt whether she’d have the strength to break a lock.”

  “Not much strength was required. A strong paper knife would have done the trick. And, conveniently enough, there was a strong paper knife on the desk in the business room.”

  Cordelia asked: “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing, at least until after the play. I can’t see how it affects Clarissa. It’s my loss, not hers. But I take it you would prefer her not to know?”

  “I think it’s vital that she doesn’t know. The least thing could upset her. We’ll just have to hope no one else notices that the arm has gone.”

  He said: “If they do, I suppose I can say that I’ve removed it since Clarissa found it so displeasing. It’s humiliating to have to lie when there’s no need, but if you think it important that Clarissa isn’t told …”

  “I do. Very important. I’d be grateful if you’d say and do nothing until after the play.”

  It was then they heard the footsteps, firm, quick, clanging on the tiled floor. Both turned simultaneously and gazed at the door. Sir George Ralston appeared, tweed-coated and holding a grip. He said: “I got through the meeting late yesterday. Drove most of the night and slept in a lay-by. Thought Clarissa would like me to put in an appearance if I could make it.”

  Ambrose said: “But how did you get to the island? I didn’t hear a launch.”

  “Found a couple of early fishermen. They put me ashore in the small bay. Got my feet wet but nothing worse. I’ve been on the island a couple of hours. Didn’t like to disturb you. Is that coffee?”

  A jumble of thoughts ran through Cordelia’s mind. Was she still wanted? She could hardly ask Sir George directly with Ambrose present. She was supposed to be on the island as Clarissa’s secretary, a job that was unlikely to be affected by his sudden appearance. And what about her room? Presumably he would wish to move next door to his wife. She was uncomfortably aware that she must look less than pleased to see him and that Ambrose was glancing at her with a sardonic, wryly amused look which recognized her discomfiture. Murmuring an excuse she slipped away.

  Clarissa was stirring although Tolly hadn’t yet brought in the early tray. Cordelia drew back the curtains and unlocked the door. She stood by the bed until Clarissa opened her eyes, then said: “Your husband has just arrived. Apparently the meeting ended sooner than he expected.”

  Clarissa heaved herself up from her pillows.

  “George? But that’s ridiculous! He isn’t expected until late tonight at the earliest.”

  “Well, he’s here.”

  Cordelia thought that it was as well she had warned Clarissa. Sir George could hardly have been gratified at her reception of the news. She sat up and stared straight ahead, her face expressionless. Then she said: “Tug on that bell-rope, will you? The one by the fireplace. It’s time Tolly brought in my tea.”

  Cordelia said: “I wondered whether you’ll still want me.”

  Clarissa’s voice was sharp, almost frightened.

  “Of course I still want you! What possible difference does this make? You know what you’re here to do. If someone’s out to get me, they aren’t going to stop because George has arrived.”

  “I could move out of the next-door room if you like.”

  Clarissa swung her legs out of bed and made for the bathroom.

  “Oh, don’t be so bloody naive, Cordelia! Stay where you are. And tell George I’m awake if he wants to see me.”

  She disappeared. Cordelia decided to wait in the bedroom until Tolly arrived with the tea. If she could help it, there would be no time between now and the rise of the curtain when Clarissa would be left unguarded.

  Clarissa returned from the bathroom and climbed back into bed.

  Cordelia said: “Before Miss Tolgarth arrives, could you tell me what the programme is today?”

  “Oh, don’t you know? I thought I’d explained it all. The curtain is due to rise at three-thirty. Ambrose is arranging an early lunch, about midday, and I shall rest up here alone from one until two-forty-five. I don’t like to spend too long in my dressing-room before a performance. You can call me at two-forty-five and we’ll decide what, if anything, I want you to do during the play. The launch will fetch the Cottringham party from Speymouth. They should arrive at two-thirty or shortly afterwards. There is a larger hired launch for the guests and that is due at three. We have tea in the interval at four-thirty, set out under the arcade if it’s warm enough, and supper at seven-thirty in the great hall. The launches are ordered for nine.”

  Cordelia said: “And this morning? What is planned for the three hours between breakfast and luncheon? I think we should try to stay together.”

  “We shall all stay together. Ambrose has suggested that we might like a trip round the island in Shearwater but I’ve told him that we’re not a party of his five-pounds-a-day summer trippers. I’ve thought of a better plan. There are sights on Courcy that he hasn’t shown us yet. I don’t think you need worry about being bored. We’ll start with a visit to the skulls of Courcy.”

  Cordelia said: “The skulls of Courcy? Do you mean real skulls, here in the castle?”

  Clarissa laughed.

  “Oh, they’re real enough. In the crypt of the Church. Ambrose will recite the famous legend. They should put us all nicely in the mood for the horrors of Amalfi.”

  Tolly with the tea tray and Sir George arrived simultaneously. He was received very prettily. Clarissa held out a languid arm. He raised her hand to his lips then bent with a stiff, graceless movement and briefly laid his face against hers. She cried, her voice high and brittle: “Darling, how lovely! And how clever of you to find someone to bring you across.”

  He didn’t look at Cordelia. He said gruffly: “You’re all right?”

  “Darling, of course. Did you think I wasn’t? How touching! But, as you see, here I am, Duchess of Malfi still.”

  Cordelia left them. She wondered whether Sir George would find an opportunity of speaking to her privately and, if so, whether she should tell him about the woodcut pushed under the door. It was, after all, he who had employed her. But it was Clarissa who had sent for her, Clarissa who was her client, Clarissa she was paid to protect. Some instinct urged her to keep her counsel, at least until after the play. And then she remembered the missing marble. In the surprise of Sir George’s arrival it had slipped from the front of her mind. But now its pale image gleamed in her imagination with all the sinister force of an omen. Ought she at least to warn Sir George that it was missing? But warn him against what? It was only the carved replica of a baby’s limb, the limb of a long-dead princess. How could it harm anyone? Why should it hold in its chubby fingers such a weight of portentous power? She couldn’t even explain to herself why she thought it so important that Clarissa wasn’t told about the loss, except that the marble had repelled her and that any mention of it would be upsetting. Surely she had been right in asking Ambrose to say nothing, at least until after the play? So why tell Sir George? He hadn’
t even seen the limb. It would be time enough for them all to be told when Ambrose started inquiring and looking for it after the play. And that would be this evening. There was only today to be got through.

  She was aware that she wasn’t thinking very clearly. And one thought in particular surprised and fretted her. Surely the presence of Clarissa’s husband on Courcy Island ought to make her job easier? She should be feeling relieved at a sharing of responsibility. Why then should she see this unexpected arrival as a new and unwelcome complication? Why should she feel for the first time that she was caught in a charade in which she stumbled blindfolded, while unseen hands spun her round, pushed and pulled at her, in which an unknown intelligence watched, waited and directed the play?

  2

  Breakfast was a long-drawn-out meal to which the members of the house party came singly, ate at leisure and seemed reluctant to finish. The food would have done justice to Herbert Gorringe’s Victorian notions of a proper start to the day. As the lids of the silver dishes were raised, the discordant smells of eggs and bacon, sausages, kidneys and haddock filled the breakfast room, stifling appetite. Despite the early promise of another warm day, Cordelia sensed that the party was ill at ease and that she wasn’t the only one present who was mentally counting the hours to nightfall. There seemed to be an unspoken conspiracy not to upset Clarissa, and when she announced her plan to visit the Church and the crypt the murmur of agreement was suspiciously unanimous. If anyone would have preferred a trip round the island or a solitary walk no one admitted it. Probably they were well aware how precarious was her control before a performance and no one wanted to risk being held responsible if that control broke. As they walked in a group along the arcade, past the theatre and under the shadow of the trees which led to the Church, it seemed to Cordelia that Clarissa was surrounded by the solicitous care afforded to an invalid or—and the thought was disagreeable—to a predestined victim.