R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

‘I expected something of the sort,’ Robin sounded almost casual. ‘Who or what will be getting the Hartz millions?’

‘You will never guess.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s you, Lily. That might mean I’d have to marry you.’

‘No such luck, I fear. I will get my rewards in heaven.’ Lillie-Lysander giggled.

‘Not Wilkes? I’d definitely marry Wilkes.’

‘Not Nurse Wilkes either. I said you’d never guess. Well, he has decided to leave all his money to Beatrice Ardleigh.’ Lillie-Lysander paused, expecting an interruption, but there wasn’t any. ‘Your uncle’s solicitor is coming tomorrow morning.’

‘Who the fuck is Beatrice Ardleigh?’

‘A woman your uncle nearly married thirty years ago. They were in an accident and she lost the power of her legs. She’s been calling on him -’

‘Good lord. That woman. I have heard the story of course. Bee Ardleigh, is how Uncle Ralph refers to her.’ course. Bee Ardleigh, ‘That’s correct.’

‘You don’t mean she’s been perambulating herself to Ospreys in her wheelchair? Are you sure she is not a mere chimera? Perhaps she only exists in my uncle’s imagination. I bet my uncle is delusional. That frequently happens to those about to depart.’ Robin continued to sound extremely composed. Lillie-Lysander would have preferred him to sigh, groan, even utter some unprintable oath.

‘She is real enough, Robin. I did meet her. She seems to have made a complete recovery. She is in fine shape. Her legs are perfectly steady. The only oddity about her, if you’d call it that, was that she wears a wig.’

‘You couldn’t have misunderstood about the will? Uncle Ralph is less than lucid these days; you said so yourself.’

‘He was extremely lucid. He talked about his decision at some length. He still feels guilty about Beatrice Ardleigh and is determined to do something by way of compensating her for the torment and misery he has caused her. His solicitor is coming tomorrow at eleven.’

‘I think we should meet. I am coming over.’

‘Actually, Robin, I am not feeling very well at the moment. I have a bit of a headache. Can’t we meet tomorrow morning?’

‘Make some coffee. One of your superior brews. I’ll be with you in about forty-five minutes.’

Lillie-Lysander lived at Athlone Place in Charterhouse Square while Robin had a tiny flat in Knightsbridge.

Lillie-Lysander started saying something but realized that Robin had rung off. He shook his head and smiled, a slightly twisted smile. I am coming over. Robin hadn’t asked whether it would be convenient. He had shown scant regard for Lillie-Lysander’s headache. Well, Robin always saw things exclusively from his own point of view. It was remarkable how Robin always managed to get his way. Lillie-Lysander’s resentment was mixed with admiration. He had intended to go back to bed and read from Don Tarquinio, a book which he knew by heart and whose author, the enigmatic Baron Corvo, was one of his heroes, but he went to the kitchen instead.

‘Bearing armorials on their tabards, displayed at the prow the double-cross and the high Estense gonfalon,’ Lillie-Lysander quoted aloud, articulating as carefully as he could while at the same time speaking fast and making it sound like a tongue-twister. He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t really lisping. Robin had a sharp ear and was bound to tease him about it.

His kitchen was a Vermeer oasis of pewter and glass. He put coffee in the percolator. Coffee from the Himalayan Hills. The packet bore the Harrods label. Well, he simply had to have the best. Some of his smart acquaintances were boycotting Harrods, but he personally didn’t disapprove of Mr Al Fayed. Lillie-Lysander couldn’t help having affinity with people who did outrageous things and defied the Establishment.

As he turned on the radio, he peered at the clock – not eight yet? It was still dark outside and the lights in the kitchen were on. Was there a storm coming? No, he didn’t feel like listening to the radio. It was exactly twelve minutes to eight. Thought For The Day would start any second, and that was the last thing he wanted. He had an aversion to high-minded bores. Liberated ex-nuns and suchlike. The next moment, remembering that it was eight in the evening, not in the morning, he laughed, a somewhat high-pitched giggle.

He was getting confused. Papaver somniferum was turn-ing out to be more powerful than he expected, but oh the joy and ecstasy supreme before oblivion had taken over! He reached out for the radio once more and found Jazz FM. It was a little-known Cole Porter song they were playing. ‘A Shooting-Box in Scotland’. Lillie-Lysander hummed along with the singer: ‘Having lots of idle leisure,

I pursue a life of pleasure -’

Actually that wasn’t true. He didn’t have lots of idle leisure. He did work. He listened to the incredibly boring confessions of mortally ill elderly gentlemen. He then reported to the elderly gentlemen’s scapegrace nephews. He could actually run that as a regular service, he supposed. A double-crossing father confessor seeks employment. Would under-take most delicate and unusual of tasks. No religious scruples -

Lillie-Lysander felt so light-headed, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started soaring up to the ceiling. The Times lay on the kitchen table. He hadn’t been able to so much as glance at it. He put on his reading glasses but the next moment he started recalling how he had pinched the ampoule from Ralph Renshawe’s bedside table. He had been tempted. He had always wondered what it would feel like.

The wicked flourish like a green bay tree. Well, yes. Quite. He was in excellent health and brimming with ideas.

Lillie-Lysander kept his eye on the clock, imagining that Robin, true to his inconsiderate nature, would be either late or early, but Robin was as good as his word. Forty-six minutes later his friend was lounging on the sofa, his legs stretched out before him. Robin had taken off his long charcoal-grey coat but left his white muffler fluttering rakishly at his throat. He wore a black Dior jacket, a cashmere roll-neck and slim polished boots. He looked smart in a French, nouvelle vague kind of way.

Lillie-Lysander put the small tray with the silver coffee-pot and two cups on the round malachite table between them. Robin’s foxy face looked merely blank but he must feel far from happy. Well, it had been Robin’s intention to spend Christmas in the Seychelles. It was his uncle’s money that he had felt sure would pay for it since his uncle would be dead by the end of November, early December at the latest. Robin had probably been envisioning himself bouncing around in speedboats feeding caviar to the fish. Now of course he would have to review his plans.

‘All his money?’ Robin sipped coffee from the delicate eggshell cup with the gold border, which Lillie-Lysander had handed him. ‘Surely not all his money?’

‘Every penny of it,’ Lillie-Lysander said with ill-concealed relish. ‘Those were his exact words.’

‘He’s lost his mind. Do sit down, Lily. It puts me on edge seeing you hovering about. And would you stop rustling that newspaper?’ For the first time Robin was showing signs of emotion.

Lillie-Lysander balanced himself gingerly on one of his little flat-seated heraldic chairs and took a sip of coffee. The chair was part of a set, which he had bought at Christie’s. He had been enthralled by the elaborate armorial painting on the chairs’ backs. ‘You can always contest the will,’ he said.

‘And who’s going to foot my legal bills? Would you? Incidentally, does the lucky slut know about his intentions?’ ‘No. He hasn’t told her yet. He hasn’t said so, but I think he intends it to be a surprise.’

‘A surprise… What precisely did he say about me?’