Assassins at Ospreys Read online

  ‘Oh, hello, Beatrice.’ He grimaced at Antonia. ‘Actually, we just read it and were talking about it. Yes, terrible thing to happen . . . I can imagine . . . What? Now? I see. I don’t know – um – Oh, I am sorry. Just a moment. Let me ask Antonia.’ Putting his hand over the receiver, he whispered, ‘She wants us to go to her place. Now. She is in a state. She’s had a row with Colville and he’s dashed out of the house. She’s been abandoned by everybody. She is in floods of tears . . . hysterical.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Antonia glanced down at the salad bowl. ‘I suppose we’d better go.’

  She was not sure whether she said yes out of concern for Beatrice Ardleigh, or because she was curious about the amazing turn of events. The latter, she admitted to herself. A double vanishing was most certainly worth investigating. Beatrice, on the other hand, was perfectly capable of coping on her own. Beneath that vulnerable fluttery exterior Beatrice was actually quite tough, Antonia felt sure. Why indulge her unduly? And it wasn’t as though they were her oldest – or her best – friends . . . Beatrice was after Hugh . . . Beatrice had probably been hoping she would be able to get Hugh on his own . . .

  ‘Doesn’t Poe refer to the Calculus of Probabilities in The Mystery of Marie Celeste?’ Payne said as they were getting into the car.

  ‘You mean The Mystery of Marie Roget.’

  ‘Do I? Oh, of course. Association of ideas. Marie Celeste was the ship from which everybody disappeared mysteriously and without a trace . . .’

  20

  The Scapegoat

  Once again they were at Millbrook House.

  They heard the eerie sound of drumbeats, which should have been incongruous in Oxfordshire but some-how felt appropriate under the blazing sun. The front door opened even before they had rung the bell and Beatrice flung herself on Antonia’s neck. Between sobs and gasps, she managed to say that she had never felt so frightened in her life. Everything had gone wrong. Ingrid had vanished into thin air. The police had been noxious and officious. The police had acted as though she had something to do with Ingrid’s disappearance. Worst of all, Len had left her!

  ‘I am sure you are wrong,’ Payne murmured. ‘Colville worships the ground you walk on.’

  ‘No more,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘No more.’

  ‘What happened?’ Antonia asked.

  Len had been extremely cross with her – Len was a prince among men, but she’d never seen him so furious – he had gone off – she seriously feared he’d never come back. Or that he might do something silly. It would serve her right if he did – she’d been telling fibs – she had been deceiving Len. She didn’t deserve Len. She was responsible for the whole catalogue of misfortunes. She was the architect of the disaster. She had brought all these troubles on her own head. She was terrified. She had always known she’d die alone. And it was less than a month to Christmas!

  What had that got to do with anything? Payne thought. The bloody woman was hysterical. And those drums – enough to drive anybody mad! They were still standing in the hall. Payne strode into the sitting room and turned off the CD player. As he did so, he inadvertently pushed some CDs off a shelf and they spilled on the floor. Damn, he said, but didn’t pick them up. He could hear Beatrice sob-bing uncontrollably in the hall. He went over to the drinks table, poured some brandy into a glass and brought it back to her.

  ‘Thank you, thank you, dear friend,’ Beatrice clutched at his hand. ‘You and Antonia are the only friends I have. My only true friends.’ After this extravagant statement Beatrice gulped down the brandy. It made her splutter and cough, but she clearly felt better for she started examining her face critically in the mirror. She said she looked a ‘fright’. She asked Antonia whether she could borrow her lipstick. ‘I can’t find mine. We use the same colour. I noticed the first time I saw you,’ Beatrice breathed.

  Antonia opened her bag and took out her lipstick, but in the process her diary fell out. She picked it up, not notic-ing the slip of paper that dislodged itself from between the book’s pages and fluttered down to the floor.

  Having painted her lips, Beatrice led the way into the sitting room. Her arm was linked through Antonia’s. ‘What’s your favourite scent?’ she asked.

  Antonia said she didn’t have a favourite scent. It struck her that she probably gave the impression of being rather puritanical. She needed to loosen up. Hugh was bound to start thinking her a nuisance sooner or later.

  ‘Mine is Ce Soir Je T’Aime. My life is incomplete with-out it,’ Beatrice said. She then promised to send Antonia a bottle of Ce Soir Je T’Aime for Christmas.

  Beatrice’s hair had the sheen of Mycenaean gold; she wore preposterously high heels, a rather chic black cocktail dress and a heavy ornate necklace that didn’t really seem to go with the rest of her. (Had she dressed like that to impress Hugh?) On close inspection the necklace turned out to be made of miniature Taj Mahals. Payne had also taken note of the Taj Mahal necklace – he thought it an impossibly kitsch-y artifact – an affront to good taste.

  ‘Len had it specially made for me when we got engaged. He drew the design himself. They’d never had to make anything like it before,’ Beatrice explained. ‘The Taj Mahal was built by some Indian emperor for his beloved wife, wasn’t it? Len’s such a silly romantic. He paid a fortune for it. I don’t wear it often. To tell you the truth,’ Beatrice lowered her voice, ‘I don’t care much for it, but I put it on for Len’s sake. So that when he comes back, he will see that I am wearing his necklace and then he will forgive me. I am an idiot, I know!’

  A novel by Françoise Sagan, A Certain Smile, lay on the coffee table beside an open, rather depleted, box of marrons glacés and a half-full glass of Tia Maria. Beatrice explained she had been trying to comfort herself and urged them to help themselves to marrons – or would they prefer drinks? ‘Do sit down, please!’ She then went into the kitchen and came back several moments later holding before her a tray loaded with cheese straws, smoked almonds and black Kalamata olives.

  Only Beatrice and Major Payne had drinks. She stuck to brandy, which she drank out of an enormous globular glass, he had a whisky and soda. She saw him hold his pipe and insisted that he smoke it. She adored the smell of pipe tobacco. Payne told her, in serio-comical tones, how Antonia had banned him from smoking in their kitchen and Beatrice gasped in mock-horror – ‘No.’

  Something like an easy intimacy was developing between them. Antonia didn’t like it at all. Beatrice leant towards Payne. ‘I don’t suppose you liked the drumbeats? It isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, I know. As a matter of fact that’s the authentic sound of a North African courtship ceremony. Honestly. It was Len’s idea.’ Beatrice’s nerves gave every appearance of having steadied themselves. ‘You’d never believe this, but Len serenaded me with it.’

  Payne was surprised. He’d have thought that something on the lines of ‘Song at Twilight’ would be more Colville’s style. Or ‘Fools Rush In’, he thought unkindly as he watched Beatrice totter across the room on her high heels. Mistaking his look for one of sensual admiration, Antonia said in a voice that sounded over-loud, ‘No news of Ingrid’s whereabouts then? Since you reported her disappearance to the police?’

  ‘No. No. Nothing . . . It was Len who reported it, actu-ally. He has a friend at Scotland Yard. Arthur – Something-or-other?’ Beatrice looked at Payne as though she expected him to know the man’s surname. ‘Len’s already told Arthur about Ingrid, you see,’ she went on. ‘Oh, the police were awful! I was right not to want them told about Ingrid. That was the reason why Len got so very angry with me. The idiotic questions they asked! Was I sure it wasn’t me who’d suggested it to Ingrid to dress up as me, as a sort of lark? Hadn’t it really been my idea that she visit Ralph pretending to be me?’

  ‘It wasn’t your idea, was it?’ Antonia said with a smile. Beatrice stared at her. ‘Shall I tell you something, but you must promise not to breathe a word?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ Payne said in solemn tones and he
gave the Boy Scout salute.

  ‘Well, you see, I did suggest that Ingrid dress up as me once, but that was aeons ago,’ Beatrice said. ‘I thought it might cheer her up. It did make her smile! I helped her with the make-up and everything. I did think it funny. Of course I never thought she’d want to do it again, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Did she look like you?’ Payne asked.

  ‘She did! It was uncanny. Oh, the police were ghastly. They gave me the third degree. All those questions! Hadn’t I had concerns about Ingrid’s state of mind before? Why had I failed to seek medical assistance? What medication had Ingrid been on? I was terribly vague about it and it made them suspicious. It doesn’t take much to make the police suspicious! I couldn’t find any of Ingrid’s prescriptions – all her pills seemed to have vanished from her room. She’s probably thrown them away, wretched thing – she never liked the idea of being considered “loopy”. Oh my God.’ She clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Did you notice? I’m already talking about her in the past tense! I don’t really believe that she is dead. I honestly don’t, but somewhere, at the back of my mind I must be thinking it. Isn’t that awful of me?’

  ‘Did you see her on the morning she disappeared? Two days ago, was it? That was what the paper said.’ Payne relit his pipe. ‘26th November?’

  ‘Yes. No, I didn’t see her, but she –’ Beatrice broke off. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. I didn’t tell Len. I lied to Len, and I lied to the police, but I will tell you. You see, she phoned me – it was the morning of 26th November, that’s correct. Sometime after nine. Len and I were having brekkers.’

  ‘Ingrid phoned you? Where from? Where was she?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘She said she was in Oxford – but she was in her room upstairs, so she must have rung me on her mobile! I didn’t know at the time she was in her room. How do I know she was in her room? Well, apparently, she came down just a few minutes after I’d left. Len told me – he saw her! It never occurred to me to doubt her when she said she was in Oxford – why should I? I suppose I am terribly naive. I told you she went out an awful lot. I was so happy when she said she wanted to see me.’

  ‘Is that what she told you? That she wanted to see you?’ ‘Yes, she said she wanted to talk to me. Urgently. I was so glad. You see, I’d been trying to talk to her for the last month or so, ever since she stopped talking to me – but she wouldn’t. And there she was now, asking me to meet her at a café in Oxford – a place called the Way to Heaven, not far from the Ashmolean Museum. She explained how to find it.’

  ‘You went?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Colville?’ Payne asked.

  ‘Because, Hugh, I knew he’d fuss. He is a terrible fusspot. He’d have been scared Ingrid might do something to me. Len’s too protective. Could be tedious about it. Don’t you see? He’d have tried to stop me. So I lied to him. I told him I was going to the hairdresser’s. That’s why we had the row today, you see. He is convinced I’d gone to meet a man.’ Beatrice looked at Payne fixedly, then rolled up her eyes. ‘It’s perfectly awful. You would never believe it, but Len is jealous.’

  ‘Really?’ Antonia said. Surprise, surprise, she thought.

  ‘Yes. I had no idea. Frightfully jealous.’ Beatrice seemed pleased with her discovery. ‘I was already cross with him, you see – really cross, for spilling the beans about Ingrid. I mean he told the police everything – the whole horror story, about Ralph and the accident and the dead baby and Ingrid coming to the hospital – I mean, everything – from start to finish. Oh, he looked terrible – bug-eyed and red and glistening. I thought he’d have a heart attack. I had no idea he hated her so much. He waved his arms in the air and raved and ranted like – like –’

  ‘Like Lear of the heath?’ Major Payne suggested. At once he put down his glass and cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t be saying things like that.’

  Beatrice giggled. ‘Oh dear, yes. Yes. So apt. Quite impossible!’ Then she became serious. ‘Len let them see all those little girls – he had no right to! I mean the photos in Ingrid’s room. He also showed them that poem Ingrid wrote ages ago – to prove how mad she was. He wasn’t himself. He’s been in a ghastly state these last couple of days. His battery has been discharging faster than it could charge. The police took copious notes. Len exaggerated terribly – that’s what made me angry, you see. He made Ingrid sound like some dangerous lunatic – some homicidal maniac. Well, I was really nasty to him afterwards. I mean – really nasty. I shouted at him and said some very unkind things. I should have been more understanding but I lost my temper. Poor Len’s got an awful lot on his mind. He is terribly worried about his letting business, poor pet.’

  ‘What letting business?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘Len owns property. Several houses in London and in Oxford, which he rents out to people. He’s got tenants,’ Beatrice explained. ‘Sounds a marvellous thing, doesn’t it, being the wife of a rentier. Everybody immediately thinks of the Duke of Westminster. Oh, you’ve got houses – you must be rolling, everybody tells me, but the truth is the poor darling is not terribly good at it. He has had horrendous problems with some of his tenants. He’s been losing pots of money – he’s had three lawsuits in the last two months! I think he’s on the brink of bankruptcy.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Major Payne said.

  ‘I am afraid so. Yes. He doesn’t want me to know, he doesn’t want to upset me, but I’ve looked through his papers. Oh, he is too good, too decent, too unassuming, too gentlemanly.’ Beatrice looked at Payne and lowered her eyes, as though to suggest that she considered him to be of that vanishing breed too.

  ‘What exactly is the problem?’ Antonia asked.

  ‘Well, unscrupulous common people think of Len as a soft touch and they take advantage of him. Everybody has been taking advantage of him – his solicitors, his account-ant, the estate agents – the exorbitant bills they send him! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Quite ridiculous, really. Inflating the already bursting coffers of the legal profession! All right. Len is not terribly enterprising – it’s simply not in his blood. The Colvilles are of the untitled aristoc-racy, you see. I know one shouldn’t say things like that but on the other hand, why not?’

  ‘They are all in the Landed Gentry,’ murmured Payne.

  ‘They are. A fine old yeoman stock. Once the backbone of the empire. The Colvilles go back to the sixteenth century – Henry VIII employed a Colville as his Esquire of the Body. Once upon a time they were frightfully rich and influential, but they have fallen on bad times – one of Len’s cousins is being investigated for tax evasion – an aunt of his is in rehab – she is eighty-seven. Terribly depressing.’

  ‘Tempora mutantur. Or should one say – Sic transit gloria mundi?’ Payne said, putting his forefinger to his cheek – like Rodin’s Le Penseur, Antonia thought. Or rather Le Poseur – if ever there was a statue of Major Hugh Payne, that was the inscription it should bear.

  She said, ‘So Ralph Renshawe’s money will come in quite handy, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh yes, Antonia. Dear me – yes! It will be the kiss of life Len needs – we need. The fairy godfather solution. I will let the poor darling have every penny he needs . . . Would you like another drink, Hugh?’

  ‘No, thank you. Back to your secret assignation,’ Payne went on. ‘I assume Ingrid didn’t turn up?’

  ‘She didn’t. I sat at a table and waited and drank I don’t know how many cups of coffee, but she didn’t come . . . What time did I get to Oxford? Well, at about ten to ten. I drove there in my car. We have two – Len drives a Peugeot. I found the café easily enough and I sat there until twenty past eleven. There was some perfectly dreadful man who sat at a nearby table. He made advances – offered to buy me a drink. He was quite insistent.’

  ‘Did you accept?’ Payne asked.

  ‘Of course not. Hugh!’ Beatrice giggled. ‘Oh, the whole thing was so dreary! I don’t really blame that man. I mean I was suspect – woman on her ow
n, all made up and wearing a hat – he must have taken me for a tart, but then thank God Cressie de Villeneuve turned up – a dear, dear old chum of mine I hadn’t seen for ages, so we went and had lunch together –’ Beatrice broke off. ‘What was the meaning of that phone call? Have you any ideas? I mean – where is Ingrid?’

  There was a pause. Payne asked, ‘Is Colville sure he saw her?’

  ‘Positive. Ingrid was dressed up as me, wig and all. He saw her as she left the house and started walking in the direction of the bus stop – it’s further down the road. The number 19 takes you to Coulston and it stops practically outside Ospreys . . . Len was standing by the window – Oh I’ll show you!’ Beatrice rose to her feet.

  ‘He snapped her.’ ‘Snapped her?’ Antonia echoed.

  ‘I mean, took a photo of her – with the Polaroid.’ Beatrice pointed to the camera lying on the small desk beside the window. ‘He thought of it on the spur of the moment. He had a brainwave. He decided it would be a good idea to show Arthur – his Scotland Yard friend – what Ingrid got up to, in case Arthur didn’t believe him.’

  ‘Did he show the photo to the police?’ Payne asked.

  ‘He certainly did. They took it away with them, but there’s a second photograph. Len took two photos.’ Beatrice opened the top desk drawer and took out a photo-graph. ‘It’s got the date – and the exact time. 26th November, 9.12 a.m . . . Look . . . Frightful, isn’t it?’ For a moment it looked as though Beatrice was going to sit on the arm of Payne’s chair. ‘Poor Ingrid. She does look like me on a bad day. She’s put on weight.’

  ‘She’s wearing a jacket with your monogram on the breast pocket,’ Antonia observed.

  ‘Oh, that suit,’ Beatrice said dismissively. ‘So ’80s. Look at the horrible padded shoulders. To think that was all the rage, remember, Antonia? Power dressing! Always made me look enormous. I’ve only worn it once or twice. She’s welcome to it.’