Assassins at Ospreys Read online

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She left early this morning. As usual, we heard her but didn’t see her. I have no idea where she went. Incidentally, we did barricade our bedroom door last night as Hugh suggested.’ Beatrice Ardleigh giggled. ‘That made things so difficult for poor Len each time he needed to go out. He kept falling over things. Oh dear, I shouldn’t be laughing! Sorry. I am hysterical.’ She paused. ‘How is Hugh?’

  Wouldn’t you like to know? Antonia thought, pursing her lips slightly. She wasn’t going to tell Beatrice Ardleigh that Hugh was in disgrace on account of something very silly he did the night before and that she had asked him to sleep on the sitting-room sofa. That was the kind of story Beatrice would relish. Antonia was damned if she was going to make the conversation more personal than it needed to be!

  ‘He is all right. He’s in the garden,’ she said in neutral tones. ‘He’s cutting the grass.’

  ‘I adore the smell of freshly mown grass. It’s such a lovely morning, isn’t it? I adore hot weather.’

  Antonia looked out of the open window and saw her husband in his shirtsleeves, leaning against the ancient mower, grimacing piteously at her. Catching her eye, Major Payne brought his palms together as though in prayer. It looked as though he were about to fall to his knees. Earlier on he had scribbled a note, wrapped it around a pebble and thrown it into the room. Please, darling, forgive, forgive. I love you. I want you so. Do not be cross. H.

  What a clown, Antonia thought, biting her lower lip in an attempt to remain serious. She had smoothed out the note and placed it carefully inside her diary. For future reference, she had thought. If he does something silly again. She endeavoured to maintain her stern expression.

  ‘Oh Antonia, I must tell you – something did happen.’ Beatrice had lowered her voice. ‘No, nothing bad. Au contraire. Nothing to do with Ingrid. Oh, you’d never believe this! It’s something – extraordinary – something stupendous. The kind of thing that happens in books – in fairy tales!’

  ‘What is it?’ Antonia heard Beatrice take a deep breath.

  ‘I received a phone call from Ralph this morning. From Ralph, yes. Honestly! I nearly dropped the phone – had to sit down. I mean – Ralph! After all these years.’

  ‘Was he – at Ospreys?’ Antonia remembered the dark empty-looking house.

  ‘No, no. Ralph was in some hospital in Oxford. He said he felt he simply had to speak to me. He nearly died last night, apparently, but he is all right now. He said – you’ll never guess what he said – it’s quite incredible – staggering – I am still in a state of shock – honestly.’

  ‘Go on. Tell me.’

  ‘He wanted me to know. He wanted to tell me person-ally and not when the time came, from his solicitor. He also wanted to hear my voice, in case he was going to die before he saw me again. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Sorry – what did he want you to know?’

  ‘That he was leaving me all his money. All his money. I mean – his late wife’s fortune. By way of compensation. Horrid word. I don’t want compensation. He kept apologizing for the suffering he’d caused me. I was – stunned. Of course I said I couldn’t possibly accept, but he said he’d made up his mind and nothing could sway him. He’s seeing his solicitor tomorrow at eleven.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ Antonia said.

  ‘You think I should accept? Well, I’ve already accepted – what else could I do? Poor Ralph! We are talking about an awful lot of money, Antonia. Len did some research – found information about Judith Hartz on the internet. He estimated that it would be nearly – oh, never mind – some fantastic figure. Len is as excited as I am, but he is a bit sceptical. He thinks Ralph might change his mind. Well, both of us are in a state of shock. Ralph said he’d got my phone number from the card I had left – that does mean Ingrid has been going to Ospreys, pretending to be me, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘But that’s incredible! I really don’t understand it . . . Ralph also said he would be very happy if I shared the money with that other unfortunate woman, he clearly meant Ingrid, and I said I would. He asked if I knew where she lived and so on, and I said I did. I didn’t go into details –’

  ‘You didn’t tell him it wasn’t you who had been visiting him?’ Antonia interrupted.

  ‘I am afraid I didn’t. I should have, shouldn’t I? I couldn’t think straight, Antonia. The shock. Honestly. Then – then he rang off. I still wonder whether I might not have dreamt the whole thing!’

  ‘That’s very good news indeed . . . Well, now you know for a fact that Ingrid has been to see him passing herself off as you.’

  ‘Yes. But she hasn’t killed him, or harmed him in any way. Maybe she too has forgiven him? But why pretend to be me? I can’t understand it. Len thinks we should call the police and tell them, but I can’t possibly rat on Ingrid – not after all the years she devoted to me! Not after all she’s had to suffer on my account! It would be dreadful – apocalyptic! Can you imagine? Me shopping Ingrid? I already feel so terribly guilty about her. At any rate she’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t she wear a blonde wig and one of my mink coats? It isn’t a crime.’ Beatrice paused. ‘If only she’d speak to me, I am sure we could work things out. Do you think that’s a bit too optimistic? I can’t help feeling optimistic on a morning like this – I mean, we are talking about more than twenty million pounds! I still – I still can’t believe it. Do you think I’ll be spoilt, having so much money?’

  Stupid bitch, Father Lillie-Lysander murmured. He panted as he perambulated round the house. His progress was slow, impeded by his lack of physical fitness and the rough terrain, which comprised a completely overgrown expanse of mature trees and long grass.

  He caught sight of ancient statuary, rusting garden chairs, a tumble-down disused fountain and what must have been a conservatory painted shocking pink once, its glazed roof and sides smashed intermittently – he thought he saw a murky concrete pond inside, overshadowed by clumps of bamboo run wild. Eventually he reached the french windows that led to Ralph Renshawe’s room. He was holding his mobile phone to his ear and talking into it. ‘Yes, Nurse – I have just checked the last one . . . Sorry, a bit out of breath . . . Everything’s locked. You left in a rush? I don’t know if you set the alarm systems – one can’t tell, unless one breaks in – you don’t want me to do that , do you? Ha-ha. Oh, that’s all right, Nurse. Pleasure. Um. I had business in Oxford, but finished early, so I decided to pop in,’ he improvised. ‘No, it isn’t my usual “slot”, ha-ha – you are absolutely right . . . When I didn’t find anyone and the front door locked, I got terribly worried, that’s why I phoned you. When are you coming back? Later today? I am so glad Ralph is feeling better. That’s excellent news. God is merciful. And when is Mr Saunders coming?’ Lillie-Lysander asked this casually. ‘Tomorrow at eleven . . . Yes, Ralph did tell me about it . . . I don’t know about “everything”. He tells me what his conscience dictates him to . . . One’s conscience operates as a warning bell – if you stop hearing it, there must be something wrong with the mechanism.’

  He looked at his watch impatiently. ‘We could talk about it some other time perhaps? How it works? I am not sure that’s the right word when one talks about God – God is not a conjurer, but do let’s talk about it later, shall we? Yes, tomorrow. I’ll come in the morning, at about ten, if that’s all right, since I’ll be in Oxford again. It will be more convenient than in the afternoon, yes. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Goodbye.’

  He wished she didn’t keep calling him Father Lillie. Speaking in that arch voice. He hoped she didn’t fancy him. The mere idea of it filled him with revulsion.

  He was covered in sweat. He wasn’t used to physical exertion. Robin had told him he needed exercise. Robin went to a gym regularly, it seemed. Some gyms were notorious pick-up points, or so he had heard. Was that where Robin found – his neophytes? Lillie-Lysander mopped his br
ow and neck with his silk handkerchief. His shoes were covered in some ghastly yellow mud. That stupid bitch – well, he needed to be on the right side of Nurse Wilkes, in the light of what he was planning to do.

  He dialled Robin’s number but found it busy. He looked across the overgrown lawn, shading his eyes with his hand. There was the wishing well, by the beech tree. It dated back to the late 1600s, apparently. He wished this whole business was over. He wished he could give himself another shot of Papaver somniferum. He hoped Robin wouldn’t think he had got cold feet. So hot. Freak weather –

  ‘Fair is foul and foul is fair,’ he said and in a funny way he felt comforted.

  He dialled Robin’s number again. This time his call was answered at once.

  ‘Oh Robin – it’s me. I am at Ospreys, yes. No, I didn’t do it. No, I didn’t funk it. No, I didn’t get cold feet. Your uncle is not here –’ Lillie-Lysander imagined he heard a noise coming from the rose bushes – the snapping of a twig? Probably a bird or a squirrel. Greedy little beasts, squirrels – should be exterminated. Who so smites with the sword shall perish by the sword, he thought inconsequentially.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Robin said. Robin sounded exasperated.

  ‘Nothing. Sorry. Thought I heard something. Um. Your uncle was taken to hospital last night – sudden deterioration – apparently he passed out –’

  ‘He didn’t die?’

  ‘I am afraid not. It must be terribly frustrating for you. He will be back at Ospreys later today. I don’t know when exactly. He is much better, Nurse Wilkes said. It was touch and go, apparently, but he is out of danger now. It’ll have to be done tomorrow. Why do I sound squeaky? I don’t think I sound squeaky at all. No, I am not in a state of blue funkdom –’ That was a phrase they had used at school. ‘I would do it. I said I would. I’ll use the largest pillow, don’t you worry. I’ll come again tomorrow, at ten . . . He will be here . . . You don’t believe me? Well, wait until tomorrow and you will see. By ten past ten your uncle will be dead. You have my word, Robin –’

  Hidden behind the rose bushes Ingrid crouched and lis-tened. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. At first she scowled ferociously but then her lips curved up slowly into a smile. An interesting complication. A second murderer, eh? It seemed the priest was intent on stealing her thunder.

  A challenge. Well, she liked a challenge. Nothing like a challenge to set the adrenalin pumping and catapult her into action.

  13

  Polaroid

  Major Payne said, ‘I am truly sorry and I promise never to do it again. Never.’

  ‘Why do a silly thing like that?’

  ‘I don’t know what possessed me. I really don’t. I couldn’t resist it.’

  ‘You couldn’t resist scaring me?’

  ‘I mean I thought it would be funny.’

  ‘It was extremely thoughtless of you. You did scare me. Is that a smirk, Hugh?’

  ‘No! Of course not,’ he cried. ‘I am just terribly happy that we are on speakers again. I can’t bear you not speaking to me. It’s worse than writing five hundred lines of Latin Georgics!’

  ‘I should hope so.’

  ‘I did believe there was blood on the door handle. I did think someone had been killed!’

  He kissed her and held her to him and repeated in her ear that he was sorry. He sounded genuinely contrite, so she told him about the phone call she had received from Beatrice Ardleigh. He stared at her. ‘Golly. She went along with the act? I suppose that was the right thing to do in the circumstances. Renshawe is dying – what difference would it make?’

  ‘None whatever,’ Antonia agreed. ‘It’s not as though she’s been gaining his favour under false colours.’

  ‘It is funny, when you think about it – dashed ironic – that it should have been Renshawe’s deadliest enemy – mad Ingrid – who managed to win him over!’

  The clock started chiming nine. They went into the dining room and sat down to breakfast. The warm weather was continuing and the windows were wide open. They could hear birdsong coming from the garden.

  ‘Ingrid needs urgent medical attention, if not the attention of the CID,’ said Antonia. ‘I do think we should do something about it, Hugh, since Bee doesn’t want to get “poor” Ingrid into trouble. Bee would hate to be considered a “snitch”. Bee abhors the very idea of “ratting”.’

  ‘You don’t seem to like Beatrice much,’ said Payne mildly. He dug into his bacon and eggs.

  Antonia took a sip of tea. ‘Not much, no.’

  ‘Well, she’s got a husband to advise her. Colville’s head seems to be screwed on the right way. Besides, he is no fan of Ingrid’s.’ Payne glanced at the clock. ‘What time was Renshawe’s solicitor going to Ospreys?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘If Renshawe does manage to change his will, Beatrice will be one fabulously rich lady,’ said Payne thoughtfully. ‘However, if he were to die before he had seen his solicitor, she would get nothing. This is fascinating, don’t you think?’

  Antonia agreed it was fascinating.

  ‘A fortune is at stake and it all depends on the purest of chances. Renshawe is a dying man – he can pop off at any moment. Who do you think inherits by his original will?’ Antonia shrugged and said she had no idea. No one had mentioned any children, so she doubted he had any. Illegitimate children? Chaps like Renshawe always had illegitimate sons, Payne said thoughtfully.

  ‘He may have nephews – or a niece or two,’ she said after a pause.

  ‘Imagine their shock if Renshawe does manage to change his will.’ Payne helped himself to toast and Oxford marmalade. ‘Do they know about Uncle Ralph’s intentions? Would they approve?’

  ‘I don’t see how they could possibly approve.’

  Payne looked at her. ‘What do you think will happen next?’

  Antonia said. ‘Nothing, I hope.’

  Even at the best of times he was prone to mood swings, to descents into the doldrums, to sudden overpowering ‘downers’, as Bee put it. Bee had said it was due to the fact he was born under Saturn, the planet of melancholy, that for those born under Saturn there was no lasting escape from the ‘black dog’. She had spoken like an expert. Woof, woof, she had added. He had managed a laugh – he didn’t want her to say again that he was ‘deficient in the drollery department’ – but the remark had hurt him beyond reason. He had expected greater understanding from her. Well, the truth was Bee had never even tried to enter his feelings.

  Leonard Colville sat on the sofa in the sitting room at Millbrook House, leaning against the silk cushions. All the cushions smelled of Bee – of Ce Soir Je T’Aime – her favourite scent. He stroked one particular cushion; there were two golden hairs sticking to it. Then, picking up the cushion, he buried his face in it and inhaled deeply. It didn’t help – if anything, his heart grew heavier. A mood of extreme dejection was overtaking him.

  She lied to me, Colville whispered, replaying once more the scene at breakfast.

  Bee, in her silver-coloured silk peignoir with rabbit fur trimmings, dipping her spoon in her dish of Fortnum and Mason’s Soya Porage, bringing it up to her mouth, blowing at it gently, parting her lips. It had been a delight watching her. Bee wrinkled her nose and her green eyes narrowed. Colville caught a glimpse of her even pearly teeth and of her tongue the colour of ripe strawberries. He could have sat and watched her like that for eternity.

  Then they started talking about the money – what they would do with it if Ralph Renshawe really did leave his fortune to her. That very morning Renshawe’s solicitor was going to Ospreys; a new will was going to be drawn up. Well, darling, Bee said, her voice vibrant with expression, all our financial problems will be resolved once and for all. It was the fairy godfather solution. A cruise – they would go on a cruise, the two of them. A second honey-moon, darling – Bee smiled at him. You would like that, wouldn’t you?

  He remembered his thoughts. Never before have I known such bliss – such perfect oceanic peace.r />
  That was only moments before the telephone rang and Bee rushed to it. Colville chided himself for the unworthy thought, but it was almost as though she had expected the phone to ring.

  He watched her pick up the receiver. He heard her say hello. He saw her expression change – Bee listened, then gasped, ‘Where are you?’ The colour in her cheeks heightened and she cast a furtive glance in his direction. (He was sure he hadn’t imagined it.) ‘Look here – I –’ She bit her lip. ‘Very well.’

  Colville pretended to be absorbed in the Telegraph and rustled it ostentatiously.

  ‘Oh, thanks for reminding me, sweetie,’ Beatrice said. ‘I am such a chump! I forgot. It completely slipped my mind!’

  Bee had spoken these last words in an over-loud voice, shouted almost, for his benefit, clearly. She must have a poor opinion of his intelligence, Colville reflected gloomily. Replacing the receiver, she told him it had been Alessandro, her hairdresser. She had completely forgotten that she had made an appointment at the hairdresser’s for ten! She stood looking at him, like a bold little girl. There was a curl of hair lying across the side of her forehead and touching her left eyebrow, which the bright sunlight turned to filaments of gold. Colville wanted to run to her, put his arms around her, bury his face in her neck, hold her tight and ask her –no, beg her – not to leave him – ever! Bee had gone up to her room, then reappeared, wearing a hat made of shiny black straw and dark glasses that instantly transformed the way she looked, imparting to her the mysterious air of the archetypal beautiful spy of fiction. She had put on a mauve shade of lipstick, not her usual dark-rose red, which further altered her appearance. (She didn’t want to be recognized, clearly.) She then pecked him perfunctorily on the cheek, turned round and was gone. Her hairdresser was in Oxford and she said she was going to drive; she was taking the Mini. She had looked tense and nervous, but also excited.