The Word Is Murder(41)

The path bent round and brought us to the main entrance: a door with four pillars facing north. There was a small crowd making its way inside. Nobody was speaking to each other, instead keeping their heads down as if they were embarrassed to be there. It felt odd joining them when I had never met Diana Cowper. I had never even heard of her until a week ago. As a rule, I don’t go to funerals. I find them too horrible and upsetting and the older I get, of course, the more invitations I receive. As a favour to my friends, I’ll make sure that none of them are told the date of mine.

I recognised quite a few of the people who had turned up to this one. Andrea Kluvánek had decided to come to say goodbye to her old employer and was just disappearing in through the door as we turned the corner. Raymond Clunes was also there, wearing a brand-new black cashmere coat that he might have bought specially for the occasion. He had brought a younger, bearded man with him, quite possibly his partner. I glanced nervously at Hawthorne, who was watching them with narrow, guarded eyes. Fortunately, at least for the time being, he was saying nothing.

Clunes was also being observed by a second, very elegant man, possibly Hong Kong Chinese, with long black hair curling down to his shoulders. He was immaculately dressed in a suit and white silk shirt fastened with one of those Dr. No collars, and black shoes that had been polished until they dazzled. Curiously, I had met him once before. His name was Bruno Wang and, like Clunes, he was a major theatre producer. He was also a well-known philanthropist, on first-name terms with various members of the royal family, and had given large sums to the arts. He often came to first nights at the Old Vic theatre – where I was on the board. From the way he was looking at Clunes, I could tell at once that the two men were definitely not friends.

We found ourselves next to him at the door and I greeted him. ‘Did you know Diana Cowper?’ I asked.

‘She was a dear, dear friend,’ Wang replied. He spoke softly, always considering his next words, as if he was about to recite a poem. ‘A woman of great kindness and spirituality. I was devastated to hear the news of her passing and it almost breaks my heart to be here today.’

‘Was she one of your investors?’ I asked.

‘Sadly not. I had invited her many times. She had exceptional taste. Unfortunately, her judgement could sometimes be found wanting. If she had one fault, it was that she had too kind a heart. She was too trusting. I did speak to her. Only a few weeks ago, I tried to warn her …’

‘What did you warn her about?’ Hawthorne asked. He had effortlessly stepped into the forefront, pushing me aside.

Wang looked around. We were on our own. Everyone else had gone into the chapel ahead of us. ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn.’

‘Why don’t you give it a try?’

‘I don’t think we’ve met!’ Wang had been put on the defensive and frankly I wasn’t surprised. Hawthorne’s brand of low-key menace – the pale skin, the haunted eyes – was off-putting at the best of times. In a cemetery it was positively sinister. If a vampire had decided to turn up for the funeral it might have been less unnerving.

‘This is Daniel Hawthorne,’ I said. ‘He’s a police investigator looking into what happened.’

‘You know Raymond Clunes?’ Hawthorne asked. He had also noticed Wang examining the other man just a few moments before.

‘I can’t say I know him. But we’ve met.’

‘And …?’

‘I don’t like to speak unkindly about another human being,’ Wang said in his carefully measured way. ‘And particularly not in a place such as this. In my view, there’s already too much unkindness in the world. However …’ He drew a breath. ‘You will find, I think, that Raymond Clunes is being investigated by the authorities. He made certain claims with respect to his last production which turned out to be, to say the least, exaggerated.’

‘Are you talking about Moroccan Nights?’ I asked.

‘I did tell dear Diana, just a few weeks before the tragedy that took her from us. She was fully intending to take action which, in my view, she had every right to do.’

‘But then she got strangled,’ Hawthorne said, flatly.

Wang stared at him, making the connection for the first time. ‘I understood that it was a burglary.’

‘I don’t think it was a burglary.’

‘In that case, I’ve probably said too much. I don’t think Diana had invested a great deal of money. I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything … untoward.’ He spread his hands. ‘Excuse me. I don’t want to miss the service.’ He hurried inside.

We were left alone.

‘So that’s interesting,’ Hawthorne said, as much to himself as to me. ‘She finds out Clunes has been stiffing her. She plans to have it out with him. And before you know it, she’s a stiff herself.’

‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’

‘That’s my pleasure. You can use it.’

There were a couple of men loitering a short distance away with cameras. I only noticed them when one of them snapped a photograph.

‘Fucking journalists,’ Hawthorne muttered.

It was true. They must have come here to catch a shot of Damian Cowper.

‘What have you got against journalists?’ I asked, thinking I might have to add them to the list.