Death by Sheer Torture Read Online Free

himself.’
    At this point Aunt Kate could not repress another chortle.
    ‘I see. Now, was this something that was generally known—I mean in this house?’
    ‘Oh, yes. We’re a very uncon ven tional family, as you know, Peregrine. We are not censorious: we can encompass human variety. No, give your father his due: he wasn’t like those poor little men who shop furtively in Soho. He never made a grubby little secret of it!’
    I was seized with a conviction that the best thing to do, if you have inclinations like my father’s, was to make a grubby little secret of the fact.
    ‘When you say you all knew,’ I said, trying not to make this sound like a police enquiry and not succeeding very well, ‘what does that mean? Did he invite you all to exhibition performances?’
    ‘You are being a teeny bit vulgar, Peregrine dear. No, he did not. Though I’m quite sure he would not have minded. I would not have thought twice of breaking in on him, if anything important had come up. He talked about it quite openly, even at meals.’
    ‘I watched him through the keyhole once,’ volunteered Aunt Kate. She was going to do a repetition of her pantomime, but thought better of it.
    ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So the whole household would have known. And so what happened?’
    ‘Well, of course, it was just a little unwise, at his age. And I suppose he overdid it . . .’ She averted her eyes. ‘They say a thread snapped, or a pulley broke, or something, and he just . . . couldn’t stop it.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘That’s really all there is. Your poor sister—’ she looked at me conspiratorially, to see whether we mightn’t have a snigger together over my poor sister, but I maintained my professional policeman’s poker face—‘your poor sister woke towards midnight, wanted some water or something; she heard the machine still going, and she went down and . . . found him, poor thing. She had hysterics all over the house. And it’s a big house to have hysterics all over.’
    ‘Poor Cristobel,’ I said. ‘And at the moment the police are in possession of father’s wing, I take it.’
    ‘Exactly. Though why they should have been called I don’t know. Anyway, they’re infesting the entire house.’ A thought transparently crossed her face, and she leaned towards me. ‘Now, Peregrine, dear boy, let me have your candid opinion. What is the best thing for us to do?’
    In a flash I understood that Aunt Syb was on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand there was the aristocratic (well, upper-middle, with oodles of the necessary) instinct, bred into her, that at times of family crisis one sat tight, closed ranks, said nothing, and waited for things to die down. On the other hand there was the newer Trethowan feeling (fostered by her and her siblings) that everything ought to be capitalized on, everything done to the clashing cymbals of publicity. The Trethowan legend, the creation of publicity, had been kept alive by periodic injections of it (including one hideously embarrassing libel action I remember from my adolescence). Now my father’s death could perhaps be the latest in a long line of front-page spreads. She rather nauseated me, did my Aunt Syb.
    ‘Well,’ I said, cautiously and reluctantly, ‘the first thing to say is that, even if it was an accident, it can’t—the strappado business and so on—be kept quiet. There will have to be a coroner’s inquest —’
    At this point my Aunt Kate clapped her hands with happy anticipation and woke Uncle Lawrence, who began to shout: ‘What am I doing here? Gross negligence on somebody’s part! Why haven’t I been put to bed?’
    ‘Take him up, Kate,’ said Sybilla. ‘No, this minute! You brought it on yourself!’ And Kate, dragging her old feet, began the long wheeling of Lawrence’s chair towards the door. I rose to help her, but Sybilla’s arm restrained me.
    ‘No. It does her good. Gives her something to think about. You know she was Not Well last