The Millionaires' Death Club Read online

  ‘Do you agree with Francis Bacon that it’s the task of the artist to return the onlooker to life more violently?’ Marcus asked.

  I shrugged and looked again at the painting. ‘Why do you think she likes it so much?’

  Marcus seemed to hesitate. ‘Bacchus is the god of intoxication.’ There was a curious look in his eye. ‘He makes people go mad.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’ve said too much already.’

  ‘What about your two friends, Lawrence and Chloe? Did they kill themselves? Why so dramatic? Why the unopened champagne bottles?’

  I think I saw a flicker of doubt – or regret – cross Marcus’s face, but it quickly passed. ‘Everyone needs a drink on their final journey, don’t they? Did you know that Chekhov’s doctor prescribed him champagne on his deathbed?’

  I frowned. All I knew about Chekhov was that he was a dead Russian who wrote plays.

  ‘Chekhov smiled,’ Marcus went on, ‘drained the glass and said, “It’s been a long time since I last had champagne.” Then he died. The perfect way to take your leave of this world, don’t you think?’

  ‘So Lawrence and Chloe’s champagne was deathbed champagne?’

  ‘Only the best will do for us. Zara bought a caseload recovered by divers from a sunken ship in the Baltic. It dates back to the early 1800s.’

  Already, I knew that was a ‘Zara’ thing to do. Always a touch of the dramatic.

  As we made our way towards the exit, Marcus mentioned that his favourite painter was Caravaggio. ‘I love the way he handles light and dark. He had a dramatic private life that Bacon described as a “gilded gutter life”. What an epitaph, huh?’ There was a far-away look in his eyes. ‘The Raising of Lazarus,’ he said. ‘That’s his masterpiece. It’s so appropriate.’

  ‘For what?’

  No answer.

  ‘Do you think Sam Lincoln has the nerve to play the game?’ he asked eventually. ‘Zara says he’ll surprise us.’

  ‘You haven’t told me what the game is yet.’

  Marcus glanced at his watch. ‘It’s been interesting chatting to you, Sophie.’ He gazed down at me. ‘I doubt we’ll meet again. Goodbye.’

  Chapter 18: The Great Gatsby

  My blouse was clinging to me thanks to the sweat rolling down my back. I think my make-up had begun to melt. The afternoon had turned into the hottest day of the year. I made my way back to the Sargasso, convinced it was no accident Marcus had found me in the gallery. Was I supposed to go running back to Sam and let him know Zara was royalty? And what did Marcus mean by that final comment of his? Was he suggesting one of us wouldn’t be around for much longer? I wondered if I should go to Captain Toper Records and try to get John Adams to explain about the contract, but he’d probably deny all knowledge of it. Or had I swallowed too many paranoia pills?

  I was furious that a bunch of arrogant Oxford students were having a laugh at our expense. They wanted to humiliate Hollywood’s brightest stars, with me as collateral damage. Even worse, we were actively helping them.

  When I reached the hotel, I went straight to Sam’s room, knocked and said it was me. The door opened, and I heard Sam saying I could come in, but I couldn’t see him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked when I realised he was standing behind the door.

  When he stepped out, I gasped. Wearing an immaculate cream suit, a pale pink shirt and silver silk tie, he was Jay Gatsby reincarnated. His shoes were covered with stylish black and white spats. My eyes tracked back to his gorgeous face. I stood there opened-mouthed, sucking in every feature.

  ‘Wow, you look fabulous.’ Having seen him dressed so casually so often, I was almost orgasmic seeing him like this.

  ‘You like?’

  ‘I like,’ I purred, attempting to sexily sashay closer. ‘If you’re all dressed up you must be going somewhere.’

  ‘I’ve worked it all out. It’s simple, really,’ he said, excitedly.

  Ah, not for me then; all for the witch’s benefit. My body sagged. I felt like Frumpelstiltskin.

  ‘Here’s how it works,’ he said. ‘If you want to join the Top Table you have to go through an initiation ceremony. You recreate a scene from a movie. Those guys with the cakes – my guess is that was in some old English movie. As for the Clockwork Orange girls, we’ve all seen the film. So, my idea is to do a scene from The Great Gatsby.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Only one person is initiated at a time. Two others have to be witnesses. That’s why we saw three people each time and why only one of them got the cheers at the mansion.’

  It made sense, I suppose. ‘Who are your witnesses going to be?’

  ‘I was just getting ready to make the arrangements when you knocked.’ Sam smiled and held up the card he’d swiped from Lawrence Maybury. ‘Remember this?’ He pointed at the phone number on the card. ‘I’ll ring this and ask for two witnesses to come along and watch me do my stuff.’ He picked up his mobile phone from the table and tapped in the number. ‘You know who this is,’ he said firmly after a moment. ‘I’ll be at the south side of Green Park at eight o’clock tonight. I want my two witnesses ready and waiting.’ He winked at me and put the mobile down.

  ‘Result,’ he said then went to the window and stared out. ‘Those bastards thought I was a no-brain jackass. Who’s laughing now, motherfuckers?’

  He snatched up a grey fedora hat and a pair of old-style sunglasses from a side-table. ‘I have to go and collect something. I’ll see you later.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Don’t forget, eight pm – you can watch all the fun.’

  I wanted to tell him what Marcus had revealed about Zara, but he obviously wasn’t in a listening mood.

  ‘I’ll show her,’ he said. ‘There’s only one class act in this town and that’s me.’

  ‘She’s got under your skin, hasn’t she?’

  ‘That bitch thinks she’s “A No.1” with that fat ass of hers.’

  I smiled feebly, but if Zara’s ass was fat, what did that make mine? I wanted to shake Sam and make him tell me exactly what he was thinking about Zara. Was he angry with her because he was in love with her? Or was she just an überconquest, with no real purpose except to help him prove he was better than Jez?

  ‘What about Jez?’ I asked. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him. Don’t need him.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll win Alphabet Love?’

  ‘That rich ho can’t get enough of me. I’ll fuck her right up that posh English ass of hers, the bitch.’

  I was shocked by how crude Sam had become.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. ‘Boy, are you looking good, my friend.’ He grabbed some breath freshener and sprayed it into his mouth then pointed me towards the door. ‘Let’s rock and roll.’

  Watching him step out of the room, all I could think of was what had happened to Jay Gatsby at the end of The Great Gatsby. I pictured Gatsby floating face down, dead, in his swimming pool, destroyed by the fatally alluring woman he loved so much. Don’t go near any swimming pools, Sam, I mouthed as I followed him out.

  Chapter 19: Old Sport

  He was signalling to me. I squinted across the park and tried to work out who it was; my eyesight isn’t the greatest. Seconds later, he was close enough for me to recognise him: Marcus Gorman. He’d changed into white jeans and a black T-shirt. The man beside him wore the exact opposite: black jeans and white T-shirt. I realised the second man was the other obnoxious student we’d met at the mansion, the Byron wannabe. I figured that if anyone could hope to match Zara, he was the one. He had that same super-arrogant vibe, and he even looked quite similar. With their blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, those two would be invited right to the front of the queue of the Aryan Master Race.

  ‘I thought you said we wouldn’t be seeing each other again,’ I said as Marcus approached.

  ‘That call from your Mr Lincoln…it changed things.’

  ‘We weren’t introduced yesterday,’ Marcus’s companion said. ‘I’m Charles L
eddington.’ He nodded with cold politeness.

  I shook his hand and felt myself recoiling at the clammy touch. I hadn’t liked him yesterday and not a thing had changed.

  ‘So, is Mr Hollywood going through with this?’ Leddington asked. ‘Zara said he would, but I can’t believe he’s that dumb.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are some games you should play only if you know what’s at stake.’

  ‘And what is?’

  ‘That’s him now.’ Marcus pointed at a fabulous old car motoring along the road. It was the Franklin coupe from our day at Royal Ascot.

  ‘Nice car,’ Leddington said grudgingly.

  We watched as the car made its way towards us, with Sam in the passenger seat waving at all the passers-by and tourists gawping at the car.

  ‘Neat, huh?’ he shouted at me through the open window as the chauffeur parked. He jumped out and strolled over with supreme Hollywood cool.

  ‘So, it’s you two again.’ He shook hands with Marcus and Leddington. ‘How am I doing so far?’

  Leddington said nothing but Marcus nodded. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘That’s just swell, old sport,’ Sam said in a mock Oxford University accent. He went back to the car and grabbed something from the back seat: a stack of beautiful silk shirts in various colours. Leddington scowled at Marcus.

  Sam approached some of the people standing around his car and offered them a free shirt. Most accepted while a few politely declined. With two shirts left, he tried his luck with two pretty girls sitting in bikinis on deck chairs at the edge of the park, absorbing the last of the day’s sunshine.

  ‘Help me out here, dolls.’ He handed a shirt to each of them. ‘Give these to your boyfriends.

  The two girls giggled and one of them said, ‘Is this one of those hidden camera things?’

  ‘This is a free shirt,’ Sam responded, deadpan. ‘Just a gift from a Yank, that’s all.’

  One of the girls nudged the other and squinted at Sam. ‘You’re a dead ringer for Sam Lincoln.’

  ‘I get that all the time,’ Sam said, winking, ‘but I’m much better looking.’

  The girls giggled, accepted the shirts and watched curiously as Sam returned to the car.

  After a whispered conversation between Sam and the chauffeur, the car drove off. Sam rejoined us, carrying a book he’d retrieved from the glove compartment. In pristine condition, it looked like a collector’s book, maybe a first edition.

  ‘This is a fake,’ Leddington said when Sam gave it to him.

  Sam smirked. ‘And?’

  Marcus snatched the book from Leddington. ‘Look, you can tell no one has ever opened it. It’s perfect.’

  I smiled as I realised how clever Sam had been. In The Great Gatsby, Gatsby possessed dozens of beautiful silk shirts that he never wore. He had a library of expensive books that he never read; they were all untouched, the pages never opened. They might as well have been fake for all the use they were.

  ‘Do I pass the test?’ Sam asked as Leddington flicked through the blank pages of the phoney book.

  Leddington hesitated for a moment then reluctantly nodded.

  Marcus slapped Sam on the back. ‘Well done, old sport.’

  That was something Gatsby liked to say, claiming to have picked it up when he was studying at Oxford University of all places. How appropriate.

  ‘I’m not surprised you chose Gatsby,’ Leddington remarked. ‘After all, he was a conman, a bootlegger, and a scammer.’ He sniggered. ‘Let’s see now – an opportunist fake, living in a counterfeit world. I guess Gatsby’s life reminded you of Hollywood, a bad simulation of reality?’

  ‘Brideshead, actually,’ Sam shot back.

  Marcus burst out laughing. ‘Touché.’ He gave Leddington a nudge.

  ‘You must agree that Gatsby was a curious man,’ Leddington rasped. ‘He threw parties he never attended. He watched from a distance, hoping a certain beautiful woman would show up.’ He practically snarled his next remark. ‘Are you waiting for a certain beautiful woman, Mr Lincoln?’

  Sam’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  ‘Gatsby’s beautiful woman destroyed him in the end,’ Leddington said. ‘She drove a fatal yellow car.’ He gestured towards where Sam’s antique car had been parked. ‘We’re all making fatal journeys, aren’t we?’

  When we reached the mansion, Leddington rudely stopped me at the gate. Then he ushered Sam towards the great black door and told him to knock.

  I glumly watched from behind the iron railings as the door opened and the strange honour parade took place once more. Sam received the usual applause and cheers, but I could tell he was desperately searching for Zara. There was no sign of her. A deliberate snub? Sam didn’t seem at all euphoric; subdued, if anything. He trudged inside and the door slammed shut.

  I stood there on my own, fighting back tears. I felt so lonely. Did this mean it was over? I turned and walked away. I couldn’t help thinking that the last two people who had enjoyed that honour parade were now dead, but surely Sam couldn’t be in danger. Not a Hollywood superstar. Surely. I felt sick and fanned my face.

  I had only taken a few steps when the door opened again and I heard Marcus’s voice.

  ‘Sophie, where do you think you’re going?’

  Chapter 20: The Toast

  I couldn’t believe I was inside. We’d spent so much time working out how to do it that it was absurd that, finally, I’d simply been invited in.

  Outside, it was warm and bright, but in here the opposite. I shivered. Every object in the entrance hall cast long, creepy shadows. Marcus seemed to be studying me as I stood there. I was unsure what to do with myself. Everyone else had disappeared and I had the ridiculous idea they were playing hide-and-seek with me.

  ‘I suppose you’d like the guided tour,’ Marcus said with a smile, his voice transformed into a baritone by the hall’s acoustics. He started by showing me the ground-floor rooms. Each one had a small plaque describing its function: Morning Room, Library, Ante Room, Palm Room, Painted Room, Dining Room and so on. The Music Room was dominated by a magnificent grand piano. Each room looked as elegant as any in England’s finest stately homes. The furniture and décor were mostly based, so Marcus told me, on the designs of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. ‘He championed the Art Nouveau style, of course,’ Marcus said. ‘It works fantastically well, don’t you think?’

  I nodded politely. I loved Mackintosh’s famous chairs, but I wasn’t sure if he was also the inventor of the waterproof raincoat, or if I’d got completely the wrong person. I felt too embarrassed to ask.

  I gave a feeble smile then scuttled away, hoping to drag Marcus to the Great Hall, the room I most wanted to see. When I reached the door, he stopped me.

  ‘Later.’ He put his hand against the small of my back and steered me towards the grand staircase. ‘The mansion has one forbidden room,’ he announced, leading me up the steps to the upper floor.

  When I asked which one, he shook his head.

  Upstairs, all of the main rooms were magnificently grand bedrooms, all ensuite and with sumptuous four-poster beds. Each room contained a large painting showing a scene from the notorious adventures of the Hell-fire Club. When Jane and I got drunk at Roedean one night – our first contact with alcohol, actually – we fantasised about setting up a girls-only version of the club. We knew all about Sir Francis Dashwood and the obscene ceremonies his club conducted at Medmenham Abbey. The Top Table’s paintings, full of ravishing nudes and rakish men, showed all the debauchery in graphic detail. I suspected the Top Table had provided the models for the figures in the paintings.

  The only room I wasn’t shown was the one in the far left-hand corner. From its position, it clearly commanded a superb view over Green Park. I was desperate to find out what was in there.

  ‘At least, tell me why it’s forbidden,’ I asked as Marcus attempted to lead me the opposite way.

  He gazed at me, the light from a stained-glass window layi
ng oblongs of colour over his face, making him resemble a jigsaw man. Beckoning me to follow, he strode towards the prohibited room, halting outside its black-varnished door. It had a small silver plaque on it, engraved with a Latin motto: Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt.

  Immediately, I remembered that odd phrase from Lawrence’s suicide note.

  ‘It’s a quotation from Virgil’s Aeneid,’ Marcus explained. Speaking almost in a whisper, he translated. ‘These are the tears of things, and the stuff of our mortality cuts us to the heart.’

  ‘This is Zara’s room, isn’t it?’

  ‘You can feel it, can’t you?’ Marcus said.

  ‘Feel what?’

  He slapped his hand onto my arm. ‘Don’t worry, those words get to everyone.’

  ‘Is that why Zara chose them?’

  ‘It’s her bedroom. No one’s allowed in, unless she invites them.’ I noticed that his hand was trembling. ‘It’s time to get ready,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’

  He smiled and took me to a small room that appeared to be a cloakroom. Reaching into a wardrobe, he handed me several items: a dark suit, a white shirt, white waistcoat and white silk tie. It seemed it was a requirement of Top Table events that everyone had to wear this ‘uniform’.

  Marcus stood there watching me, the nerves he’d shown outside Zara’s door gone. Did he expect me to strip in front of him? He seemed to read my mind and pointed at a two-fold Japanese screen.

  I went behind it and started changing. I was distractedly gazing at the beautiful designs on the screen when I started to squint and saw that they formed part of a bigger picture. When I peered hard, I thought I could make out the faint image of a butcher chopping sausages. Slowly I realised what it really was: a Samurai warrior disembowelling himself.

  I hastily finished dressing and queasily stepped away from the screen.

  ‘What do you think?’ Marcus directed me towards an antique, full-length mirror.