Assassins at Ospreys Read online

  He saw Antonia put down the receiver. There was a puzzled expression on her face. ‘How very odd,’ she said. ‘Do you remember me telling you about that woman in the wheelchair I met last June? In Hay-on-Wye?’

  ‘I do remember. I had some clever name for her. What was it? Snow White?’

  ‘Goldilocks. That was her on the phone. Her name is Beatrice Ardleigh.’

  Major Payne leant back in his chair. ‘Some rigmarole about whether or not to answer a letter from an old flame of hers? She is on the horns of a dilemma? She needs your advice desperately?’ He welcomed the interruption – he had been losing badly and he was not a particularly gracious loser.

  ‘She doesn’t need my advice “desperately”. And if the man is an old flame of hers, she didn’t say. It was all rather garbled. She received the letter last month. It was from somebody she used to know a very long time ago. The letter came to her as a shock – um – because of something the man had done to her. Something like that. She’d never expected to hear from him. She’d thought he was dead. She said she didn’t know what to do.’

  Payne cocked an eyebrow. ‘And you do? Or would, as soon as you’d read the letter?’

  ‘Well, she believes I am endowed with perfect knowledge and understanding of human nature. She credits me with one of those laser-sharp criminologist minds – as well as with Ariadne’s penchant for unravelling.’ Antonia gave a little smile.

  ‘My dear sweet GIRL. If I didn’t know you better, I might have imagined that you were finding this kind of attention flattering.’

  ‘I am not the least bit flattered. Actually I suspect Beatrice is using this letter as a pretext to get me to visit her – as a kind of bait. She’s been trying to get me to visit her, I’ve told you. She’s probably making the situation sound much more intriguing and mysterious than it is. I think she is bored and lonely. In many ways she is rather irritating. She lives in Wallingford. She said you could come too.’

  ‘Jolly kind of her. Writers do attract nutcases.’ Payne shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you let her have your phone number.’

  ‘She gave me tea. It would have been impossibly rude to refuse.’

  ‘You could have given her a wrong number.’

  ‘She wore a JacqueS Azagury dress,’ Antonia murmured reminiscently. ‘I would love a dress like that.’

  Payne’s eyes had strayed towards the Scrabble board. ‘I don’t suppose you realize that “funeral” is also “real fun”? All you do is rearrange the letters – thus.’

  ‘What were these things called? Not anagrams?’

  ‘Antigrams.’

  ‘United – untied?’

  ‘Yes . . . Man’s laughter – manslaughter.’

  ‘Beatrice said it was a very peculiar letter and that it might give me an idea for a novel,’ Antonia went on. ‘She made it sound like some special treat. It was a perfectly extraordinary, frightfully delicate kind of situation and she was baffled. Honestly, my dear, it’s like the start of one of your fiendish puzzles.’

  ‘Golly, does she talk like that?’

  ‘She does. This man – the author of the letter – I think she called him Ralph – Rafe – was at death’s door – his departure from this world was imminent – his last wish was to see her. It was like something out of a book. Quite extraordinary.’ Antonia paused. ‘She was about to tell me more, but then – then a very curious thing happened. She suddenly changed tack. Someone came into the room. I am sure I heard a door open somewhere in the background. Beatrice gave a little gasp – then started talking fast – in a much louder voice. You know, when someone starts putting on an act?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She laughed and said, “Actually, my dear, it is all a dreary muddle. I don’t know the man from Adam. I have no idea what he is on about. I think it’s some lunatic.” Or it was all a mistake – he was taking her for someone else – wouldn’t that be tiresome?’

  Major Payne frowned. ‘You think she changed her story because of whoever entered the room?’

  ‘Yes . . . For some reason Beatrice didn’t want the person who entered the room to know about the exact contents of the letter she had received.’

  ‘It must have been the girlfriend, don’t you think?’ Payne stroked his jaw with a forefinger. ‘The masterful Matron with the Medusa gaze? She who transfixed you like a butterfly on a board?’

  ‘She didn’t take to me, true, but I don’t think she was Bee’s girlfriend. I think Bee likes men. Bee kept shooting coy glances at the men while we were having tea. All the presentable-looking men seemed to be with their wives, but that didn’t deter Bee. She kept giving little smiles and lowering her eyelashes. I daresay her attentions were reciprocated.’

  ‘Some men actually find the idea of a woman in a wheel-chair tremendously exciting – a positive thrill.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting, Hugh.’

  ‘It’s all to do with control, or so I have read. The idea that the woman is entirely at their mercy.’

  ‘It was probably Ingrid who entered the room, yes . . . They live by themselves. That was what I was given to understand. At least they did back in June. They are so different. I’ve been trying to imagine what it is like, the two of them living together.’

  ‘The opposite of sugar and spice? Something – not very nice? Creepy clotted claustrophobia? Perhaps there is no such person as “Ingrid”. Perhaps the “Ingrid” you met was Bee’s husband in drag?’ Major Payne mused, arrang-ing idly the word ‘drag’ with Scrabble letters. ‘Some couples are into role-playing, you know. The purpose would be – in the vulgar parlance – to spice up a casserole that might have become too bland. I bet Ingrid was suspiciously tall, hulking and blue-jawed and smoked cheroots?’

  ‘She was nothing of the sort. Nobody smokes cheroots nowadays.’

  ‘A chap at the Military Club does.’

  ‘Ingrid was dressed in sombre black – black suit and black gloves. There was an air of tragedy hanging about her.’

  ‘She might have been in mourning for her youth.’ Payne yawned. ‘Like the woman in Chekhov. Some contretemps took place when you went to have tea with them, I think you said?’

  ‘Oh dear, yes. Ingrid put two lumps of sugar into Beatrice’s tea instead of one and Beatrice refused to drink it. She was sitting beside a potted palm and she poured the tea into it. At which Ingrid threw a tantrum and went and sat at another table, by herself. She rejoined us several minutes later and acted as though nothing had happened. Actually, we managed to have quite an interesting talk about TM – ‘ ‘Ah.’ Payne gave a grave nod. ‘Tsunami madness. One of the most dangerous forms of mental disorder. The most extreme?’

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of saying silly things? TM stands for “transcendental meditation”. Beatrice explained that practising TM had enabled her brain to fall deep into a state of rest. TM was the only thing that had succeeded in soothing her tormented soul. Something called “mantra mellow” comes into it. Bee and Ingrid agreed that TM worked, but then – then they had another squabble.’

  ‘This is becoming addictive.’

  ‘Beatrice started telling me a story. Apparently not long before her father died, he had what Beatrice called a “second vision”. Her father woke up in the middle of the night and saw his dead wife – Beatrice’s mother – standing beside his bed, looking down at him as though in great disapproval. He told her to go away and stay away. He then went back to sleep. Ingrid said, “Wasn’t that rather unkind?” Bee’s eyes filled with tears and she said, what a horrid thing to say. Her father had been frightfully upset by the experience and he died only three days later. Ingrid pointed out he couldn’t have been frightfully upset – he wouldn’t have been able to go back to sleep if he had been “frightfully upset”. She mimicked Beatrice’s high voice, which only made matters worse.’

  ‘How fascinating.’ Payne produced his pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘Or do I mean, how ridiculous?’

  ‘Another curious thing happened earlier on.
A woman with a child passed by – the little girl was crying. Ingrid reacted in a rather peculiar way. Her eyes opened wide. She looked startled – shocked. As though – I don’t know.’ ‘As though she felt certain the woman was abducting the child?’ Payne suggested.

  ‘Yes . . . But Ingrid also gave the distinct impression that she knew the child. Her eyes were on the little girl. That’s what made the whole thing so odd.’ Antonia paused. ‘She looked very tense. She seemed to want to follow them, but decided against it. Her face was the picture of misery and frustration.’

  For a couple of moments Major Payne smoked in silence. Leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling. ‘I think, my love,’ he remarked at last, ‘that of all the cases we have investigated, none is more fantastical than this. It presents us with an irresistible mixture of the absurd, the inexplicable and the menacing. The case is marked by a pervading sense of strangeness.’

  ‘There is no case as such, Hugh. Nothing’s actually happened.’

  ‘Nothing that we know of. A lot may have been happening behind the scenes. Well, I think we should avail ourselves of Mistress Ardleigh’s kind invitation and pay her a visit. Ring her up and make her happy.’

  As Antonia dialled Beatrice Ardleigh’s phone number, she felt her heart beating fast. What if it was Ingrid who answered? I am afraid of Ingrid, she admitted to herself. I am scared to death by her – those black gloves! Eventually the receiver was lifted — but it was a man’s voice that answered.

  ‘Bee is having a rest. She’s just put her feet up. Would you like to call again later, or can I take a message?’ Antonia had the fleeting impression of somebody bluff, solid, genial and imperturbably placid. ‘Who? Antonia Darcy? Of course. I am so sorry. Bee was talking to you a moment ago. Yes? Yes? With your husband? But of course. Splendid! I’m terribly glad. It means so much to her. She’d be delighted. She is a great fan of yours. And of course she wants you to see the letter.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When can you come? Saturday? No, not this Saturday . . . Let me look at the diary . . . How about next week – Saturday 24th? Splendid. Say, half past three? We’ll give you tea. Splendid. I do look forward to meeting you.’

  Putting down the receiver, Antonia turned round. ‘That was a man. He said they would be delighted to have us to tea. He didn’t introduce himself. So Beatrice does have a man in the house.’

  ‘Her butler?’ Payne suggested. ‘All my aunts have butlers but only one is happy with hers.’

  ‘The man sounded extremely familiar. He referred to her as “Bee” and kept saying “splendid” – would a butler say “splendid”?’

  Payne said that that anything was possible in this egalitarian day and age. Butlers were not what they used to be. Butlers were no longer deferential. This one might even be having an affair with his mistress – that would explain why he was taking liberties with diminutives and was generally acting beyond his station.

  ‘The man sounded like a husband. Beatrice might have got married, don’t you think?’

  ‘She might have,’ Payne agreed. He puffed at his pipe. ‘Perhaps the man who spoke to you was none other than the incredible Ingrid en travesti – in her masculine role. Which means that Ingrid has now succeeded in luring us to a house where identities shift and melt and savage punishments are a daily affair –’

  ‘What have you done with the board?’ Antonia cried. ‘We never finished the game, did we? I realize I could have had “incarnadine”!’

  ‘We said no Shakespeare words. Blood on your mind already?’ Payne joked.

  4

  Malice Aforethought

  The ground was frozen and crunched under her feet. The sky was a forbidding shade of grey. Rooks, stiff and black, croaked and circled low above the house. For a moment she had imagined they were ospreys – otherwise why call the house Ospreys? People did give country houses silly names. Clouds – Nunspardon – Charleston – Ham House – Owlpen Manor! She stopped, her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her mink coat, the cashmere scarf the colour of crushed raspberries covering her blonde head, and watched the rooks for a couple of moments. They had been perched on the turrets but had heard her coming. Creatures of ill omen, harbingers of doom, or so it had been said – could they really sense death, someone about to die?

  Ralph had bought Ospreys from a Sir Marcus Laud, who had been eager to sell. It was easy to see why. A faint smell, as from a sick animal, emanated from the crumbling plaster. No one in their right mind would want to live in a place like that. The House of Usher, Ralph had called it. Something in that. She could well imagine children com-ing over on Hallowe’en with lighted pumpkins and marching round Ospreys, chanting spells that invoked evil spirits. One whole wall was covered in ivy. Creeping ivy hides the ruin it feeds upon. (Cowper?) There was smoke coming out of only one of the six chimneys. Most of the rooms were not in use, that was what the nurse had told her.

  The walk from the bus stop had taken only five minutes. Thank God for that. It was another bleak, dark, dispiriting day. The air was raw and she felt chilled to the bone. Five minutes if she walked briskly. If she dawdled, ten, even fifteen. She had timed her journey carefully during her very first visit. She had also drawn a plan of Ralph’s part of the house – the french windows – the terrace – and, for good measure, she had added the wishing well too – it was in a direct line from the windows. She didn’t know precisely why she did that. She had been in an odd mood that day. She had made it look like one of those diagrams one found in old-fashioned detective stories.

  X marks the spot. This is where the body was found. Antonia Darcy probably knew all about house plans. Modern detective stories weren’t likely to have house plans in them, but then Antonia Darcy didn’t exactly write ‘modern’ detective stories. Well, writers who did not trust their descriptive powers resorted to diagrams. As a matter of fact she had the sheet with the diagram in her pocket at that very moment. How funny. It wasn’t as though she would ever need it. Sometimes she did do things, she had to admit, which were not entirely rational . . .

  Progress was slow today. So slippery – that damned ice! Her shoes needed new soles, or maybe she needed new shoes? It would have been much faster if she had been driving. Once upon a time, a million years ago, she had been able to drive – she’d had a cherry-red racer – she had enjoyed driving. No longer. The mere thought of getting into a car and sitting behind the steering wheel made her start shaking.

  Again she passed the priest. She looked at her watch: four o’clock. Her coming and his going always seemed to coincide. Today Father Lillie-Lysander was wearing a tall astrakhan hat and was smoking a cigar. His dog collar was invisible under a scarf of some shimmering silver pattern and he wore grey gloves. He was carrying a small black leather bag. He looked prosperous – nothing like a priest – he brought to mind a banker or a rentier. He had a some-what furtive air about him and she wondered as to the reason. (Weren’t priests allowed to smoke cigars?) This time he acknowledged her with a distant nod; for a moment his eyes rested upon her speculatively.

  The front door opened before she reached it. ‘Good afternoon, Beatrice,’ the young nurse greeted her cheer-fully and she gasped at the sight of her breath coming out of her mouth in swirls. ‘So cold, isn’t it? I hadn’t realized. Much colder than yesterday. The ground’s frozen.’ Nurse Wilkes – stating the obvious as usual. ‘That’s a nice scarf . . . Ralph’s expecting you. He kept asking me to look out for you.’

  Pale face, pink lipstick, dark nail varnish, gold stud in the nose. And she was chewing gum. As annoying a habit as the use of the first names. ‘Ralph’ – ‘Beatrice’ – they weren’t exactly Nurse Wilkes’ contemporaries or friends, were they? What was private medical care coming to? Had the stately matron type gone for ever? She was conservative about that sort of thing. Incongruously, Nurse Wilkes was holding what looked like a half-finished jumper and knitting needles.

  ‘Come in, come in. It’s freezing!’ Nurs
e Wilkes cried.

  ‘How is he?’

  Well, Ralph had had a seizure the night before but had recovered. For a man in his condition he was doing remarkably well. Nurse Wilkes spoke with relentless good cheer. She led the way in. ‘He’s been much better since you started coming. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  Ralph’s room was on the ground floor, just across the octagonal marble hall with the armour and the angels. He had been in an upstairs room to start with, but had been moved downstairs because it made things so much easier for her, the nurse said as she pushed the door open.

  She took off her scarf. The nurse spoke in a very loud voice. ‘It’s Beatrice, Ralph. Beatrice is here. I’ll leave you alone now.’

  She looked at the french windows. She could see the flight of crumbling steps and had a clear view of the terribly overgrown lawn. Ralph sat slumped between several pillows. His eyes were shut. He looked worse, she noted with quiet satisfaction, contrary to what the nurse had said – much worse. He blinked several times. ‘What? Who is it?’ His voice was softer and thinner than before. ‘Wilkes?’

  ‘It’s me –’

  ‘Bee? Oh, my dear. You’ve come again.’

  ‘I said I would.’

  She sat on the edge of the chair beside the bed. It was her third visit. She’d come the day before and she hoped to come again tomorrow – and the day after. She felt her spirits soaring. She was enjoying herself so much! She resisted the impulse to rub her hands. She glanced round. If anything the room looked more Spartan than before; it was like a monk’s cell. The crucifix above the bed was slightly askew. Did they dust it? She felt the urge to laugh aloud at the thought of a feather duster being run ticklishly over Our Saviour.

  There was a photograph propped up against one of the medicine bottles on the bedside table, which hadn’t been there before. Ralph and Bee at the Colosseum, April 1975. It was his writing at the bottom, faint and jumbled, as it had been in the letter. He had written it recently. He had been thinking about the past, clearly. In the photograph he looked dashing in a white suit – handsome – not unlike Cary Grant in his prime – nothing like the ragged scare-crow in the bed.