‘What are you doing up here?’ she said.
‘Looking for you, of course. Did you find him?’
‘Henry? No, he’s not there any more. Perhaps he went back downstairs.’
‘Probably. Still, let’s have another look, just in case.’
Phoebe led him around the corner, up a small flight of steps, and then along three or four short, gloomy passages.
‘Ssh! Listen!’ said Michael, laying a hand on her arm. ‘I can hear voices.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s only the television.’
She flung open a door upon an empty room, containing only a sofa, a table, and a portable black and white television which was tuned to Newsnight. Unwatched, Jeremy Paxman was interviewing a harassed-looking junior defence minister.
‘See?’ said Phoebe. ‘Nobody here.’
‘It would be wrong to regard the UN deadline simply as a trigger point,’ the minister was saying. ‘Saddam knows that we now have the right to take military action. When – and indeed whether – we choose to exercise that right, is another thing altogether.’
‘But nearly nineteen hours have elapsed since the deadline expired,’ Paxman insisted. ‘Are you saying that you still have noinformation as to when –’
‘Oh my God.’
Michael had noticed something: a stream of blood was running down the side of the sofa and dripping on to the floor. He peered gingerly over the back and saw that Henry was lying face down on the sofa, a carving knife sticking out from between his shoulder blades. Phoebe followed him and gasped. They stared speechlessly at the corpse for some time; until they became aware that a third person had entered the room and was standing between them, looking down with blank indifference at the dead man.
‘Stabbed in the back,’ said Hilary drily. ‘How appropriate. Does this mean that Mrs Thatcher is somewhere in the house?’
CHAPTER FOUR
Carry On Screaming
MICHAEL, Phoebe, Thomas, Hilary, Roddy, Mark and Dorothy stood in a solemn circle and contemplated the body. They had raised Henry into a sitting position, and he now stared back at them with the same outraged, incredulous expression which had been the hallmark of all his public appearances.
‘When do you think it happened?’ asked Roddy.
Nobody answered.
‘We’d better get back downstairs,’ said Hilary. ‘I suggest we find Tabitha and Mr Sloane and all have a good talk about this.’
‘Are we just going to leave him like that?’ asked Thomas, as the others started to leave.
‘I’ll … clean him up a bit, if you like,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ve got some things in my bag.’
‘I’ll stay and help you,’ Dorothy volunteered. ‘I’ve had a bit of experience with carcasses.’
The rest of the party proceeded downstairs in a silent cortège, and convened in the dining room, where Tabitha was once again placidly employed with her knitting, and Mr Sloane sat beside her, a look of the utmost horror drawn on his face.
‘Well,’ said Hilary, when nobody else showed signs of beginning the conversation, ‘Norman seems to have claimed his first victim.’
‘So it would appear.’
‘But then, appearances can be deceptive,’ said Michael.
Thomas rounded on him.
‘What on earth are you blathering on about, man? We know there’s a lunatic on the loose. Are you telling me you don’t think he’s responsible for this?’
‘It’s one of the theories available: that’s all.’
‘I see. Well perhaps you’d be so good as to tell us what the others are, in that case.’
‘Yes, come on, out with it,’ said Mark. ‘Who else could have killed him?’
‘Why, any one of us, of course.’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Thomas. ‘How could any of us have done it, when we were all down here having supper?’
‘Nobody had seen Henry since the will was read,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Between then and supper, we were all of us alone, at one time or another. I don’t rule anybody out.’
‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Mark. ‘He can only have been killed a few minutes ago. You forget that I was watching the television with him, for a while, when you were all down here eating.’
‘Well, that’s your story,’ said Michael coolly.
‘Are you calling me a liar? What else do you suppose I was doing?’
‘You could have been doing anything, for all I know. Perhaps you were on the telephone to your friend Saddam, helping him out with a last-minute order.’
‘You impudent swine! Take that back.’
‘I’m afraid that intriguing hypothesis will have to be discounted,’ said Roddy, who had slipped out into the hall, and now returned carrying a telephone. The cord had been roughly snapped in two. ‘As you can see, the service seems to have been temporarily suspended. I found this out because, unlike the rest of you, I had the sense to think of phoning for the police.’
‘Well, it isn’t too late,’ said Hilary. ‘There’s a telephone in my room as well. Come on – if we hurry, we might still get to it before he does.’
Mark smiled a superior smile after them as they hurried out of the room.
‘I’m amazed that people still rely on these primitive methods of communication,’ he said. ‘You brought your cell-phone up here, didn’t you, Thomas?’
The elderly banker blinked in surprise. ‘That’s right: of course I did. Never without it. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before.’
‘Where did you leave it, can you remember?’
‘Billiard room, I think. Had a few frames with Roddy before you arrived.’
‘I’ll just go and get it. We should have this business wrapped up in no time at all.’
He sauntered out, leaving Michael and Thomas to glower silently at one another. Meanwhile Mr Sloane began to pace the room, and Tabitha carried on with her knitting as if nothing had happened. Before long she was quietly humming a tune to herself – dimly identifiable, after a few bars, as ‘Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines’.
‘Has anyone seen Pyles lately?’ Thomas asked, when he could stand no more of this.
Mr Sloane shook his head.
‘Well, hadn’t someone better find him? He certainly wasn’t with us in the dining room all the time. What do you say, Owen – shall we try to track him down?’
Michael was lost in thought, and didn’t appear to have heard this question.
‘All right then – I’ll go and find the fellow myself.’
‘And now we are three,’ said Tabitha happily, once Thomas had gone. ‘I’ve never known so much running about. What a to-do! Have we started to play sardines?’
Mr Sloane shot her a withering glance.
‘What a long face you’re wearing, Michael!’ she exclaimed, after a little more humming. ‘Not entering into the party spirit? Or perhaps you’re beginning to get a few thoughts about how your book might end?’
‘There was something strange about those suits of armour at the top of the stairs,’ said Michael, taking no notice, and continuing with his own line of thought. ‘Something about them had changed, when we came past them just now. I can’t put my finger on it.’
Without another word, he got up and made his way to the hall. He was about to climb the staircase when he saw Pyles coming from the kitchen, a silver tray balanced precariously on his arm.
‘Enjoying your visit, Mr Owen?’ he asked.
‘Thomas has been looking for you. Did you see him?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Did they tell you what had happened?’
‘Yes. And it’s only the start. I’ve known it all along, you see: this whole house is doomed, and everyone in it!’
Michael patted him on the back. ‘Keep up the good work.’
When he reached the top of the staircase, he examined both suits of armour in detail. They were still in the same positions, and nothing seemed obviously awry. And yet surely, some subtle alteration had been made … Michael had the sense that he was being very obtuse, that he was missing something important which was staring him in the face. He looked again.