Assassins at Ospreys (4 page)

5
Portrait of a Marriage

‘Conundrums, conundrums. How boring life would be without them. Why did the parsley sink into the butter?’ Major Payne murmured. ‘Do you remember that Sherlock Holmes story? Was it something to do with the
depth
? What is your favourite conundrum?’

‘What name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women.’

‘You aren’t by any chance thinking about the mystery man at Millbrook House?’

Antonia frowned. ‘I probably am . . .’

It was the following week, Saturday afternoon, as arranged, and they were driving across Berkshire in the direction of Wallingford. The day was bright and clear, but extremely cold. The countryside stretched out on either side of the road – it had been bronze and copper and lemon and greenish-white, also gold, but there had been several frosts and the colours were fading fast.

Payne went on to say he didn’t know of many writers who allowed themselves to be befriended by their fans.

‘Some writers actually marry their fans,’ said Antonia.

‘No, they don’t.’

‘They do. Daphne du Maurier married Commander Browning after he wrote to her a fan letter concerning
The
Loving Spirit
. And didn’t you marry me soon after you told me how much you admired my first novel?’

‘Golly, so I did.
Touché
!’

The Thames Valley. Must be pleasant in spring and summer, but in autumn and winter it was cold and dank. Beatrice Ardleigh’s house – Millbrook – was right on the road at the end of the town. It was a Queen Anne house in excellent condition. Payne nodded with approval as he took off his driving gloves. He wondered aloud how Beatrice and Ingrid – or for that matter the mystery man – could put up with the traffic right on the road. Earlier on in the car he had speculated as to the possibility of them walking in on some extraordinary
ménage à trois
. Was the man perhaps married to
both
women? Did Antonia know what ‘troilism’ meant? Perhaps the man would turn out to be a polygamous Mussulman?

‘There’s hardly any traffic here,’ Antonia observed and she then pointed to the slightly sinister holly trees that grew up to the top windows and shielded most of the front. ‘I am sure these muffle any noise there might be.’

‘This could work either way . . .’ Major Payne lowered his voice. ‘No one would hear screams for help coming from inside the house. Just a thought.’

He rang the doorbell.

The man who opened the front door didn’t look like anybody’s idea of a polygamous Mussulman – nor was he Ingrid in drag. Introducing himself as Leonard Colville, he shook hands with them and invited them in. He was middle-aged, with grizzled hair sleeked back; early or mid-fifties, at a guess. He was broad and heavily built, with intensely blue eyes and a cheerful, round, somewhat comic pink face. He might have been a not particularly effectual Tory cabinet minister of the better class, of the kind one last saw in the early ’90s – or a Father Christmas in mufti, Payne decided. He looked as though he had just taken off his beard and was taking it easy with a glass of port. He was wearing an ancient tweed jacket with leather patches, a silk scarf around his neck, twill trousers and highly polished brogues.

He stood beaming at them. ‘Delighted to meet you. I am Bee’s husband. We got married only last month.’

‘Congratulations,’ Payne said.

‘Haven’t got used to my new status yet. Bee calls it my “promotion”. Ha-ha. We were talking about it just now. This way. Bee is thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. Your visit means a lot to her.’

The room which they entered was at the back and the french windows looked out on the garden and the flat water-meadows beyond, sloping down to where presumably the river lay. It was an extremely comfortable room, cosy in an old-fashioned kind of way, and at the moment it was flooded by the wine-coloured autumn sun. Quiet air of genteel well-being.
Gemütlichkeit
. Major Payne couldn’t quite explain why he had thought of the German word. There were large billowing armchairs, an equally large sofa covered in white quilted chintz, bowls of chrysan-themums, a faded tapestry on one of the walls. A cedar-wood fire crackled under the mahogany chimneypiece. The
Telegraph
, with a half-completed crossword, lay on the low coffee table, next to a Polaroid camera and a pack of cards. They had been playing Patience Poker, Colville said in a low voice, making it sound rather daring.

Beatrice Ardleigh sat in an armchair beside the fireplace, her legs invisible underneath a blanket of a tartan design. Her hands were clasped on her lap and she was biting her lower lip. If anything she looked younger than when Antonia had first seen her five months before. Her face glowed. Her golden hair seemed freshly coiffed and it shimmered each time sparks flew upwards. Her eyes were open wide. She had the innocent look Antonia remembered – untouched by experience, absurdly virginal. She brought to mind a little girl who was about to receive a long-awaited present.

‘Here they are,’ Beatrice’s husband announced, having opened the door with something of a theatrical flourish.

Antonia glanced nervously about but there was no sign of Ingrid.

Beatrice started hoisting herself up, but Colville raised his hand. She assumed an expression of comic deprecation as though to say,
fuss
,
fuss
, then, leaning back, she silently held her hands out towards Antonia who was compelled to bend over and kiss her. Beatrice’s face was flawless like luminous china, her eyelashes were lightly mascara-ed and she wore pendant earrings and a necklace of some Oriental design. She had a fine cashmere shawl around her shoulders. Antonia saw copies of her two books on the small table by Beatrice’s side.

‘I can’t tell you how happy I am. I’d given up hope. Honestly,’ Beatrice whispered, clutching at the tips of Antonia’s fingers, and for an emotional moment it looked as though she was going to burst into tears. ‘Is that really you?’

‘Yes, it’s me,’ Antonia said, feeling a little foolish.

‘I can’t believe it. Antonia Darcy, here, at my house! I thought you were avoiding me. I convinced myself you hated me.’

‘Not a bit of it,’ Antonia said in light-hearted tones. ‘I’ve been extremely busy with my new novel. I don’t think it’s turning out at all well.’

‘I refuse to believe that,’ Beatrice Ardleigh declared firmly.

‘This is my husband Hugh.’

‘How do you do.
Wonderful
meeting you,’ Beatrice Ardleigh breathed, and she proffered her hand in a some-what affected gesture, as though she expected him to raise it to his lips. ‘Have you been married long? Oh dear – do forgive me! Not the done thing, asking questions like that. I have marriage on my mind. Len and I got married only last month.’

‘So we heard. Congratulations,’ Antonia said. She didn’t like the way Beatrice was looking at Hugh.

‘We haven’t been married long ourselves,’ Payne said.

‘
Really?
’ Beatrice Ardleigh tilted her head a little to the left. ‘You too? What a coincidence. Did you hear that, Len? Newly-weds, like us!’

She was flirting with Hugh, Antonia thought.

‘Not exactly newly-weds. For both of us it’s our second.’ ‘I’ve never been married before. Nobody believes me when I tell them. It seems I look the much-married type. Do sit down – please! The sofa – it’s more comfortable than it looks. So cold, isn’t it? Or is it just me?’ Beatrice shivered and pulled the shawl around her shoulders. ‘Len darling – feel my hands!’ She stretched them towards Colville in a helpless gesture.

He gripped her fingers and frowned. ‘That’s not right.’ He crossed purposefully over to the fireplace. He had given his wife a glance of such ardour and devotion that Antonia wouldn’t have been surprised if, instead of merely fortifying it with an extra log, he had walked straight into the fire and allowed himself to be consumed by flames, burnt as an offering of warmth to his beloved.

Beatrice Ardleigh gave a blissful sigh. A moment later Colville was sitting on a stool by her side – he brought to mind a friendly, rather civilized sort of bear – and once more they held hands. He was clearly in the throes of post-nuptial euphoria. His face was turned up towards his wife’s and it had become crimson. Marrying Bee, he said, was the best thing that had happened to him. He had known her all his life – he had been secretly in love with her ever since he had been a boy of seventeen and she a girl of fourteen. He had been too shy, too gauche – a great lumbering fool – while she – she had been perfection personified – a young goddess – ‘Stop talking rot!’ Beatrice slapped his cheek playfully. ‘I was nothing of the kind. All right, I was extremely pretty,’ she conceded with a self-deprecating moue. ‘I sup-pose I had this wayward appeal. Men went instantly crazy for me. Could be an awful bore. You know the type of girl that emerges from a birthday cake at a bachelor party? The bunny girl, yes! Well
, that’s
what I looked like.’

‘Very nice,’ Payne murmured.

He had worshipped Bee in secret, Colville went on – he had dreamt about Bee – he had lost his appetite over her – he had become obsessed with her – as a matter of fact, he had stalked her and taken secret photos of her as she had walked in the street –

‘Darling! Honestly! This is too terrible. What would these good people think? I have married my stalker!’ Beatrice shuddered in mock-horror. She kept trying to catch Payne’s eye, or so Antonia imagined.

Colville had never dared ask her out – he had thought he would die if she refused him. When he had finally mustered up enough courage, it had been too late – she had said there was somebody else. Well, he had then married a woman he hadn’t loved. He had grown-up children. He and his wife had separated two years before. As soon as his divorce was made absolute, he got in touch with Beatrice. She had been sweet and kind and understanding. He had felt so encouraged that later that same day, he had proposed – and been accepted.

‘Len can’t get enough of me now,’ Beatrice said with the air of one sharing some great secret. ‘He’s like a giddy teenager. He always carries one of my handkerchiefs. Next to his heart. It’s drenched in my favourite scent.’

Payne arched a brow. (A fetish? By Jove, she keeps staring at me.)

‘Ce Soir Je T’Aime,’ Colville murmured, holding his wife’s hand to his lips. That, Antonia decided, must be the name of the scent and not an extravagant declaration of love.

‘
Such
an old silly . . . Len’s been taking photos of me too.’ Beatrice pointed to the Polaroid camera and for some reason giggled and lowered her eyes.

Antonia looked towards the fire. (Do we want to know all this?)

Payne drew his forefinger along his jaw. (Naughty pictures?)

‘Photography is something of a hobby of mine.’ Colville cleared his throat. He looked embarrassed.

‘I don’t deserve such devotion. I honestly don’t. Thirty years ago I treated Len appallingly. I was terrible. I was spoilt, you see. Daddy was possessed of plentiful capital. That was the trouble. Inherited wealth,’ Beatrice mouthed. ‘It’s a curse.’

‘Nothing wrong with being used to the best things in life,’ Colville said – somewhat fatuously, Antonia thought. Beatrice, she felt sure now, was making sheep’s eyes at Hugh.

‘Daddy talked about his “bankers” the way other people talk about their bank manager,’ Beatrice went on. ‘Daddy gave me
everything
I wanted. I remember succumbing to the unholy attractions of hand-stitched shoes and Italian hand-bags! Once I said I wanted a Venus dress –’

‘What
is
a Venus dress?’ Payne asked with a twinkle.

Did he really want to know? And why did he have to twinkle? Antonia was suddenly very annoyed.

‘A dress the colour of burnt crimson, Hugh. I had seen a picture of the planet Venus, you see – in a magazine. Have you seen the planet Venus?’

‘No,’ he admitted.

‘I adored the colour. Well, Daddy got the dress specially made. Oh, I was an acquisitive, beastly creature.’ Beatrice shook her head. ‘I got my Cartier diamond-encrusted watch when I was fourteen. I lost it in St Moritz. We went skiing to all those places. Salzburg-Innsbruck-Villach-Graz. I can still recite these in my sleep, like the names of saints. We always stayed at the best hotels – the kind that charges like – like –’

‘Like the Light Brigade?’ Payne suggested.

Antonia gave him a sidelong glance. Beatrice laughed exuberantly, then turned to Colville. ‘Darling, did you hear that?’

Their host gave a strained, dutiful kind of smile. Antonia imagined she saw a shadow of annoyance pass across his face – or was she projecting her own feelings on him?

‘The
luxe
– I have always had an agonized craving for the
luxe
.’ Beatrice sighed. ‘Daddy adored me. Daddy spoilt me. Well, my mother died when I was five, you see, so I remained his little girl. Oh well. I still love expensive baubles. I tend to spend like a drunken sailor. I bought a Lulu Guinness bag only the other day, would you believe it?
In the shape of a flowerpot
. I won’t say how much I gave for it. I am a terrible person. Of course I was
much
worse when I was young.’

‘You are being too hard on yourself,’ Colville grumbled.

‘No, darling, I am not.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘I am
not
. I was insensitive, wilful, demanding, selfish and deceitful.’

Beatrice had spoken with great relish, as though such self-flagellation was giving her inordinate pleasure. Something American about her crucifying candour. What a manipulative bitch, Antonia thought. She seemed to say things like that so that she could be contradicted. She was looking at Hugh again! Really, Antonia thought, feeling ridiculously upset, we shouldn’t have come.

‘Well, I was punished for it.’ Beatrice glanced down at her knees. ‘Nearly thirty years of unmitigated misery. I do believe in divine retribution.’

‘Don’t say that.’ Colville reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘
Don’t you ever say that
.’

‘Darling Len. I don’t deserve you.’ For a moment they sat gazing into each other’s eyes, then Beatrice gave a laugh and pulled her hand away.