R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

‘Well, um, he said you have been a disappointment. He said he hoped you would understand why he was doing this -’

‘Would I?’

‘You were still young and -’

‘Young?’ Robin gave a rueful smile. ‘I will be forty-one soon.’

They were the same age but beside him Robin looked positively boyish, or rather, as the Gallic flavour of his clothes suggested, comme un garcon. Did he like les garcons? Lillie-Lysander wondered. Robin had courted a baronet’s daughter twenty years before, at least that was what he had told him – a girl called Samantha, they had been practically engaged, but she had gone and married someone else who was in politics. Once at the Midas, Lillie-Lysander had seen him arm in arm with two exceptionally good-looking young Spaniards. He had introduced them as his ‘neophytes’. On that particular occasion Robin had been rather drunk. But then Lillie-Lysander had also encountered Robin at the gaming table, holding hands with a stunning-looking black girl. The girl had been long-legged, smooth-skinned and pouted a lot. She looked like a model and Robin appeared quite taken with her. Robin had introduced her as Mascot – or had he called her his mascot? She had certainly brought him luck that night, Lillie-Lysander remembered.

‘Your uncle referred to the money your father left you,’ Lillie-Lysander went on. ‘He said your father had left you extremely well provided for.’

‘My father didn’t leave me well provided for. Or if he did, that was a very long time ago.’

‘Your uncle said that if you’ve frittered away your father’s money, his decision might be an incentive for you to get a job. He said you had no history of lawful employment. He called you an idler and a waster. He said you were leading a parasitic existence.’

‘How well my uncle knows me.’ Robin frowned. ‘A job would be a bore and a bind… So he’s serious about dis-inheriting me?’

‘Yes. He is convinced he has made the right decision. He did ask me for my opinion though.’ Lillie-Lysander paused. ‘I said that this was a very serious matter and he shouldn’t rush things. I told him that he should give the matter careful consideration.’

‘That was kind of you, Lily, but I don’t imagine my uncle was swayed by your views on the subject?’

‘No. Actually it made him laugh. This brought on a coughing fit. It nearly killed him -’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ Lillie-Lysander was watching Robin carefully. ‘Your uncle started gasping – choking. It was ghastly – absolutely ghastly. Nurse Wilkes ran over. Your uncle did look as though he were breathing his last. He recovered eventually, but for a minute or two I was quite worried that I might have killed him.’

Robin loosened his muffler. His face remained expressionless. ‘You were worried that you might have killed him. You realize, don’t you, that if you had – that if my uncle had died there and then, as a result of your perfectly innocent remark – you would have been talking to a multi-millionaire now?’

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 deja 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 amp; 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?’