Assassins at Ospreys (7 page)

Lillie-Lysander inserted a cigar into his cigar holder but did not light it. He sat very still. Something like an electric current had run through his body. He had had a powerful sense of déjà vu.
You would have been talking to a multi-millionaire
now.
He had expected Robin to say something like that. Yes. He had the oddest feeling that a curtain had lifted and they were once more on the stage. They were in a play together and he had given Robin a cue . . .

Lillie-Lysander felt the beginnings of a peculiar elation. He went on speaking, but for some reason he found it hard to concentrate. ‘When your uncle recovered, he reminded me that he might die at any moment. He pointed out that careful consideration, as I had put it, would be an extravagant luxury, which he couldn’t afford. He was going to see his solicitor tomorrow morning at eleven; he had already made arrangements. Mr Saunders was coming to Ospreys at eleven in the morning.’

‘I know old Saunders. Of Saunders, Merrick & Bell. Office in New Bond Street. Tomorrow at eleven, did you say?’

‘Tomorrow at eleven.’ Lillie-Lysander nodded. He thought it sounded like the title of a play – a Noel Coward pastiche? More like a Francis Durbridge-style thriller, actually.
Tomorrow at Eleven
. There was a menacing ring to it. Did they still do Durbridge? Mainly rep, he imagined. As a matter of fact he and Robin were a bit like the two main characters in Patrick Hamilton’s
Rope –
Lillie-Lysander had always wanted to play Brandon, the ‘dominant’ one. This scene was crucial; it had to be done in an understated, almost perfunctory fashion – not too perfunctory though – over-acting either way would kill it, Lillie-Lysander had no doubt. Well, Robin seemed to have established the right register. Was that how people talked in real life? Well, this
was
real life. How funny.

‘This is what I would like you to do, Lily. I would like you to be at Ospreys at ten. Or even a couple of minutes before ten, to give yourself enough time.’ Robin put down the coffee cup. ‘Do take off your glasses. You can’t concentrate with your glasses on. Your pupils are like pin-points, incidentally.’

Lillie-Lysander took off his glasses. I do everything he tells me, he thought, fascinated. It was like that silly childish game, Simon Says. There should be a game called Robin Orders.
Robin orders: ‘Take off your glasses.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Lillie-Lysander asked and as he did, he was transported back in time once more, to school, to the day he had rigged up a booby-trap over the classroom door minutes before one of the most popular masters had entered. It had been a carefully premeditated exercise in authority-destruction. The bucket had contained red paint. The master had never managed to enjoy the same degree of popularity afterwards. It was Robin who had put Lillie-Lysander up to it. Robin had managed to persuade him without much difficulty. Neither of them had been caught.

Robin had crossed his legs. A little smile was playing on his lips. Lillie-Lysander was aware that he too was smiling, he couldn’t say why exactly. Robin knows I am an opium-eater, he thought. ‘You won’t be disturbed by Wilkes until half past ten, that’s when she makes you a cup of tea, is that right? Does Wilkes still knit?’

‘I think so. Yes.’ For some reason Lillie-Lysander experienced an unpleasant frisson at the thought of Nurse Wilkes’ knitting needles.

‘I recall the big feather pillows at the foot of my uncle’s bed. Are they still there?’

‘Yes. There are two pillows – no, three.’

‘Have you ever touched them?’

‘Well, yes. Once or twice – without thinking.’

‘How do they feel – soft? Or are they of the somewhat harder, springier variety?’

‘Soft – they are filled with feathers, I think.’ A touch of perversity had entered the dialogue – they must be careful. This was a crucial scene. It had to be played straight, in a matter-of-fact manner. Any suggestion of facetiousness or double entendre would be disastrous.

There was a moment’s pause, then Robin said quietly, ‘You will need to press firmly but make sure you don’t bruise his face. Given Uncle Ralph’s enfeebled state, it would take less than a minute.’

Lillie-Lysander sat very still, staring before him.
Robin
orders, ‘Smother my uncle.’
Had he goaded Robin into this? He had certainly exaggerated when he said that Ralph Renshawe had nearly died as a result of his coughing fit, which he, Lillie-Lysander, had brought about. Had he done it on purpose? Had he planted the idea of murder in Robin’s mind? Had that been his intention . . . all along?

‘. . . take the pillow off his face, plump it up and place it at his feet. Check his wrist. He
will
have expired, but if he hasn’t, you may have to repeat the procedure. Make certain his eyes are closed and not glazed and staring. That accomplished, sit beside him as you normally do. Is the chair by the bed comfortable?’

‘Not in the least. It’s a genuine Empire.’

‘Excellent. No danger of you dozing off then. Well, that’s where Wilkes should find you. In your dog collar, the rosary clicking between your fingers, your head bowed in prayer. As you hear her enter, look up, execute the sign of the cross over my uncle’s body.
Ego te absolvo in nomine
Patris
. That’s what you say, don’t you? Turn to Wilkes –
Mr
Renshawe is at peace now. He must have died in his sleep
.
I have
given him his last rites
. Don’t forget to bring your little leather bag, will you? What does it contain exactly? I have always wondered.’

‘Chalice. Anointing oil. Bible.’

‘It’s highly unlikely that anyone would insist on a postmortem in the case of a gravely ill cancer patient.’ Robin picked up the silver pot and poured himself more coffee. ‘You could stay until Saunders comes at eleven and break the sad tidings to him, if you like. Saunders’ errand would have been fruitless, or bootless. The status quo would undisturbed. There will be no new will and according to the old one, it is Robin Renshawe, nephew of the deceased, who receives the bulk of my uncle’s fortune.’

‘You are confident of success,’ Lillie-Lysander said in an uninflected voice.

‘I don’t see how it could go wrong. You are already an integral part of the Ospreys set-up. You have been per-forming your duties impeccably. You won’t incur a blink of suspicion. Not that anyone would ever consider the possibility of foul play.’ Robin took a sip of coffee. ‘We’ll go halves. That’s a
lot
, Lily. Judith Hartz II was a rich bitch. We are talking millions. At least twenty. She left it all to Uncle Ralph, though by all accounts he was the husband from hell. That was well before he found God. I can put it in writing, if you like. I am sure you trust me?’

Lillie-Lysander remained silent. Did he trust Robin? Well, no, not entirely, but then that was part of the thrill. (Was he a masochist?)

Robin murmured, ‘It wouldn’t be as messy as the fox . . .’

Lillie-Lysander knew at once what he meant. Back at school all those years ago a fox had strayed into the cricket pavilion and he – Lillie-Lysander – had battered it with a cricket bat. Robin had dared him to do it. Robin had suggested Lillie-Lysander was too fastidious, too squeamish, too ‘lily-livered’. Well, he had shown him. They had dis-posed of the fox’s body together, by wrapping it in back numbers of the
Catholic Herald
and the
Tablet
, which they had stolen from the school library, and placing it inside one of the gardener’s green refuse bags.

Robin went on, ‘Just imagine your pockets full of lustrous plastic counters – what you could achieve at the Midas if you had that kind of money . . . You wouldn’t have to go back to St Edmund’s –
ever.
Or any other similar establishment.
’

St Edmund’s was the particularly awful minor public school where Lillie-Lysander had taught English for a year. He had despised and detested St Edmund’s. The boys had been beastly – they had driven him mad. He had told Robin how he had found himself devising ingenious ways of exterminating them one by one, starting with the leaders. It would have been a kind of
Unman, Wittering and
Zigo
in reverse . . .

Robin’s eyes had strayed to the papers on Lillie-Lysander’s desk – they slid over to the letter concerning his friend’s depleted account. Lillie-Lysander looked down at his unlit cigar in its ornate holder. He was experiencing a rather complex sort of feeling, a curious blend of dread-cum-relish. Soon enough he heard a sigh of commiseration he knew was as
faux
as the copy of the ‘original’ Dr Crippen’s diary he had picked up at a book auction a couple of months back.

‘My poor Lily,’ Robin said. ‘Just
think
of the difference this would make to your finances. Think what it would be like to have lots of idle leisure, to pursue a life of pleasure –’

‘“A Shooting-Box in Scotland”.’ Lillie-Lysander looked up. ‘You too heard it?’

‘It was on the radio earlier on. I was in the car. Would you do it?’

In a strange way that was what did it – the fact that they had been listening to the same song at the same time. Not that Lillie-Lysander had ever thought of saying no.
Thou
shall not serve alien gods
. Yes, quite. ‘I will think about it,’ he said.

10
Cul-de-Sac

‘Now, why should she want to make herself look like Beatrice?’

‘Why indeed, my love. These are deep waters. The Bafflement of the Bogus Blonde. The Puzzle of the Peroxide Peruke. More Chesterton than Conan Doyle, wouldn’t you say?’ Major Payne put a thoughtful match to his pipe. ‘I did tell you we always met unhinged people, didn’t I? A prophecy fulfilled.’

‘Do we always meet unhinged people?’

‘We most certainly do. There’s
something
about us. I don’t know what it is. We seem to act as a magnet for mad-men – and madwomen. Think Dufrette, think Eleanor Merchant, think Colonel Mallard –’

Antonia pointed out that they had never actually
met
Colonel Mallard. Colonel Mallard had been dead for sixty years when they first heard about him.

‘But we were told so much about him, we felt we knew him. And now Ingrid Delmar. Glazed of eye, ascending the stairs bizarrely bedecked in a blonde wig, sporting gloves as black as her soul, a moth-eaten mink coat coquettishly draped round her shoulders. A chilling sight.
Out flew the
web and floated wide – the curse has come upon me, cried the
Lady of Shalott
,’ Major Payne recited between puffs. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist it.’

‘Ingrid used to burn herself with steam irons claiming it offered her relief from tension. I can’t believe Beatrice stuck with her for thirty years.’ Antonia shook her head.

‘A prophecy fulfilled . . . Damned good coffee, this. Pour me some more, would you, my love?’

Beatrice had persuaded them to take a thermos flask of black coffee for their journey home – as well as a packet of ham sandwiches wrapped in a moist napkin and two pieces of chocolate orange cake. Beatrice had insisted they needed to keep up their strength. They might have been members of an expedition returning from the North Pole or some such place.

They were sitting inside the car further down the road from Millbrook House. It was a beautiful evening, and a full pale moon glowing in the sky like a silver florin. They had said goodbye to Colville and Beatrice, but for some reason felt reluctant to drive off. It was almost as though they expected something to happen . . .

Antonia kept glancing back towards the house. The light had come on in a first-floor window and she imagined she caught a glimpse of Ingrid’s silhouette outlined momentarily against the curtain. Ingrid appeared to be shaking her head and gesticulating agitatedly. There was something extremely theatrical about the whole set-up, Payne agreed. The unnerved newly-weds downstairs, the loon in the blonde wig upstairs. Beatrice had been strongly opposed to the idea of involving the police . . . Colville didn’t believe Ingrid had heard him when he went out into the hall. Ingrid hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. She had stared straight ahead of her and moved like one in a trance. Surely, that suggested that she had heard Beatrice’s admission of guilt and been stunned by it? What would happen when the shock was over?

‘Beatrice might be in danger. Colville too,’ said Antonia. ‘Ingrid hates them both. She wouldn’t try to slit their throats as they sleep, would she?’

‘Or do a Mrs Danvers, set the house on fire and dance among the flames. Well, let’s hope not.’

‘At what point does a maniac become a homicidal maniac?’

‘Difficult to say, my love. Beatrice’s confession tonight might have managed to unzip Ingrid’s already shaky grip on sanity.’

‘I do think we should inform the police, Hugh.’

‘You heard what Beatrice said.
No police
. Beatrice doesn’t want to “snitch” on Ingrid, silly woman.’

‘Silly woman,’ Antonia agreed with greater emphasis than she intended.

Colville had been confident he could keep the situation under control. Colville said he was capable of taking good care of Beatrice. He said that he wouldn’t hesitate to ring 999 the moment he felt Ingrid might be ‘up to something’. Colville might be besotted with
la bella
Bee, Payne pointed out, but he wouldn’t stand any nonsense from Ingrid. Colville had confided in Payne on parting that he’d be damned if he did.

‘That’s reassuring,’ Antonia said in a doubtful voice. ‘I wouldn’t dream of sleeping under the same roof as Ingrid – would you?’

‘Not for all the tea in China.’

‘Where
does
Ingrid go dressed up as Beatrice?’ Antonia wondered aloud, looking out into the darkness. ‘You heard what Beatrice said. Ingrid’s been slipping out without a word quite often lately.’

‘I don’t imagine she goes for country walks or to the cinema or window-shopping, or merely roams aimlessly.’ Major Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger. ‘I think she goes to . . . Ospreys.’

‘To Ospreys! You mean she knows that Ralph Renshawe lives there?’

‘I think she does, yes.’

‘How did she learn about it? No, don’t tell me.
She read
his letter to Beatrice
. I saw you looking at that envelope.’ Antonia paused. ‘It’s been tampered with, hasn’t it?’

‘Steamed open. There was smearing around the flap and it felt thicker – glue had been used to reseal it,’ Major Payne explained.

He hadn’t mentioned the fact in front of Beatrice. Beatrice had been in a state of near-collapse. She had flapped her hands and babbled about ancient beliefs – wasn’t it said that encountering your double was a prelude to death? Beatrice had felt so faint, she had lain on the sofa, where she had remained, among the silk cushions, rather picturesquely, looking like an odalisque.

‘Here’s a theory.’ Major Payne cleared his throat. ‘Ingrid’s love for Beatrice turns to darkest detestation at the news of her friend’s nuptials. Ingrid accuses Bee of “betrayal”. Renshawe’s fate has already been sealed. Ingrid concocts an ingenious scheme. Kill Renshawe and have Beatrice arrested for the murder.’

‘Double revenge?’

‘Double revenge. Ingrid goes to Ospreys dressed up as Beatrice. Renshawe is delighted. He suspects nothing. It has been thirty years since he saw Beatrice last, besides he is a very ill man, all his faculties greatly diminished. Ingrid lets the nurse and whoever else is at the house take a good look at her. She tells them she is practically a neighbour. She makes sure they learn her name and address –
Beatrice
Ardleigh – Millbrook House
.’

‘Could she really believe she’d be able to get away with it?’

‘I am sure she could. She is crackers. Her brain must be as valuable as a cap full of porridge. She is probably convinced she has been diabolically clever.’

There was a pause. Antonia said, ‘You don’t suppose she has killed Ralph Renshawe yet?’

‘I don’t know. She might have.’ Payne puffed pensively at his pipe. ‘How about checking?’

‘Do you mean we should phone Ralph?’

‘The matter is too complicated for phoning. Um. I suggest we drive to Ospreys.’

Antonia stared at him. ‘
Now?
’

‘Now. Why not? Ospreys is apparently only five miles from here. It will take us twenty minutes at the most.’

‘What shall we say when we get there?’

‘We’ll ask to speak to Renshawe – if he is still alive, we’ll warn him of the danger – we’ll tell him that the Beatrice who’s been visiting him is in fact Ingrid. If he is not well enough to grant us an audience, we’ll have a word with the nurse, the padre or whoever’s taking care of him.’

Antonia said, ‘If Ingrid has been visiting him, but hasn’t killed him yet, it would be interesting to know why . . . Is it possible that she has forgiven him?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought it terribly likely – not from what Beatrice told us, but who could tell?
Anything
is possible. Ingrid might be biding her time. Or she might not have had the chance to be alone with him.’

‘Or she might be getting a kick out of watching him die?’

‘She might indeed. May I have some more coffee? Thank you . . . Of course there’s always the chance that we are making complete asses of ourselves,’ Payne went on, taking a sip of coffee. ‘We might be imagining this whole phantasmagoric imbroglio. Ingrid might turn out to be a fanatical cinephile – she might have been going to the cinema. Or she might have a boyfriend, with whom she holds passionate trysts.’

‘Dressed up as Beatrice?’

‘Well, Beatrice is the more attractive of the two, so Ingrid might be trying to emulate her –’ Payne broke off. ‘No, I don’t really believe that.’

‘You thought Beatrice attractive, didn’t you?’ Antonia said. ‘Good lord. Not in the least. I didn’t do or say anything to suggest I did, did I?’

‘You kept trying to be funny!’

‘My dearest love! I was only breaking the ice.’

‘I don’t think there was much ice to break.’

‘Did I say many funny things?’

‘Personally, I didn’t think so,’ said Antonia, ‘but Bee clearly regarded you as the wag and wit of the party.’

He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t help it if the silly creature rolled round in hysterical merriment at every absurdity I uttered.’

‘She fancied you wildly. She made that abundantly clear. I don’t think her husband liked it.’

‘Golly. I do need to be careful. She’s a nightmare.’ Payne started the car. ‘Though of course not as great a nightmare as Ingrid.’

It took them much longer than they thought to locate Ospreys.

They lost their way twice and had to stop at two pubs to ask for directions. ‘It’s outside Coulston,’ a woman with a pleasant round face, glasses and hair as flat as Cromwell’s told them in mellifluous tones. She was nursing a gin and tonic but now she produced a local map and pointed. ‘Coulston is a small village – the house isn’t marked but it’s here, I think.’ The woman’s husband, a man with an unruly beard, disagreed vehemently. ‘No, no, Kate – Ospreys is
here
– on the other side.’ He stabbed his forefinger at a spot on the map. They were clearly visitors, strangers to these parts.

One of the locals, a very old woman in a woollen hat embroidered with dancing harlequins, had been sipping what looked like brandy and barley water and examining the advertisements section in the local paper through a magnifying glass, but she looked up when Antonia mentioned Ospreys.

‘Ospreys, eh? That house has a bad name . . . Some millionaire from Florida’s dying there now, but it’s never been a happy place. Never. The secret house of death they used to call it. Someone got killed there many years ago –’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. A couple. That was why it remained empty for so long. Most people don’t fancy houses like that. Attract weirdos, places like that. An American actress bought it – Moira Montano. Don’t think anyone remembers her.’ The old woman took a sip of her drink.

‘Moira Montano? The name does ring a bell,’ Payne said. ‘All those cheap horror films in the ’50s?’

‘That’s right. She made oceans of money, heaven knows how, the film were so bad, but that’s what they said. She had a pink conservatory added to the house. She bought masses of exotic plants but then she died suddenly. Then Sir Marcus bought it – Sir Marcus Laud, that is – for his new bride. He married this very young girl, you see, but she ran away after about a month, so it was
the death of love
, I suppose.’ The old woman sniffed. ‘Sir Marcus was heart-broken and he sold the house. One of my nieces was the housekeeper at Ospreys at the time, that’s how I know. Then the American gentleman bought Ospreys and he brought a fat foreign woman with him.’

‘Is his name Ralph Renshawe?’ Antonia asked.

‘Don’t know, dearie. He’s no longer for this world, that’s all I’ve been told. A priest visits him. Also a blonde in a mink coat,’ the old woman continued. ‘Regular as clock-work. People keep seeing her, walking from the bus stop towards the house, talking to herself, laughing and waving her hands in the air.’

‘Do they know who she is?’ Payne said casually.

‘The American gentleman’s old flame, somebody said. Some flame!’

‘See how easily poor Bee could land in the soup if some-thing were to happen to Renshawe?’ Payne said as they left the pub a couple of minutes later.

‘That’s why poor Bee should go to the police and tell them the whole story before it’s too late,’ Antonia pointed out.

It had got colder and they walked quickly towards their car.

Twenty minutes later they reached their destination. The village of Coulston seemed to consist of only one street. Although it was only a quarter to nine, not a single living soul was in sight and they didn’t see lights in any of the windows either. A phantom village? Antonia experienced a mixture of anxiety and desolation. Then, suddenly, they found themselves outside a pair of cast-iron gates with
Ospreys
written across them. The gates were gaping open. They drove through what looked like a park or a small for-est, along a driveway that was unevenly covered in old gravel, potholed and obviously little used.

‘We can’t just barge in on a total stranger,’ Antonia said in a sudden panic.

‘Of course we can. In matters of life and death, social niceties cease to have the slightest importance. In the eighteenth century it was considered terribly impolite if a traveller came across a gentleman’s seat and ignored it.’

‘Do you mean you just drove up to the big house and announced yourself and an upper servant led you to the library and gave you a glass of Madeira and cake?’

‘Absolutely. And, at a pinch, they could provide you with a room for the night, complete with a stack of the
Illustrated London News
and a tin of some superior F&M munchies on the bedside table – all the customary adjuncts of civilized slumber.’

‘Have you ever seen anyone actually reading the
Illustrated London News
? I haven’t,’ said Antonia. ‘Not even at the Military Club. Isn’t that interesting?’

‘You are right. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I don’t think I have even seen it sold anywhere. It’s one of those strange publications that are mentioned a lot in books –’ Payne broke off. ‘Good lord.
Not
Victorian Gothic.’

Ospreys loomed before them in sharp, ink-black silhouette, all turrets and spikes against the dark sky. The lancet windows of armorial stained glass were unlit and the house looked rather eerie in the pale moonlight.

Surely, Antonia reflected, they wouldn’t turn off all the lights when somebody was as gravely ill as Ralph Renshawe, would they? It wasn’t that late either. Had there been a power cut? But, if that were the case, they would use candles or some of the brass-and-wrought-iron gasoliers one associated with this kind of place. Wouldn’t a house like Ospreys have its own electricity generator?