R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

‘Not in the least. It’s a genuine Empire.’

‘Excellent. No danger of you dozing off then. Well, that’s where Wilkes should find you. In your dog collar, the rosary clicking between your fingers, your head bowed in prayer. As you hear her enter, look up, execute the sign of the cross over my uncle’s body. Ego te absolvo in nomine Patris. That’s what you say, don’t you? Turn to Wilkes – Mr Renshawe is at peace now. He must have died in his sleep. I have given him his last rites. Don’t forget to bring your little leather bag, will you? What does it contain exactly? I have always wondered.’

‘Chalice. Anointing oil. Bible.’

‘It’s highly unlikely that anyone would insist on a postmortem in the case of a gravely ill cancer patient.’ Robin picked up the silver pot and poured himself more coffee. ‘You could stay until Saunders comes at eleven and break the sad tidings to him, if you like. Saunders’ errand would have been fruitless, or bootless. The status quo would undisturbed. There will be no new will and according to the old one, it is Robin Renshawe, nephew of the deceased, who receives the bulk of my uncle’s fortune.’

‘You are confident of success,’ Lillie-Lysander said in an uninflected voice.

‘I don’t see how it could go wrong. You are already an integral part of the Ospreys set-up. You have been per-forming your duties impeccably. You won’t incur a blink of suspicion. Not that anyone would ever consider the possibility of foul play.’ Robin took a sip of coffee. ‘We’ll go halves. That’s a lot, Lily. Judith Hartz II was a rich bitch. We are talking millions. At least twenty. She left it all to Uncle Ralph, though by all accounts he was the husband from hell. That was well before he found God. I can put it in writing, if you like. I am sure you trust me?’

Lillie-Lysander remained silent. Did he trust Robin? Well, no, not entirely, but then that was part of the thrill. (Was he a masochist?)

Robin murmured, ‘It wouldn’t be as messy as the fox…’

Lillie-Lysander knew at once what he meant. Back at school all those years ago a fox had strayed into the cricket pavilion and he – Lillie-Lysander – had battered it with a cricket bat. Robin had dared him to do it. Robin had suggested Lillie-Lysander was too fastidious, too squeamish, too ‘lily-livered’. Well, he had shown him. They had dis-posed of the fox’s body together, by wrapping it in back numbers of the Catholic Herald and the Tablet, which they had stolen from the school library, and placing it inside one of the gardener’s green refuse bags.

Robin went on, ‘Just imagine your pockets full of lustrous plastic counters – what you could achieve at the Midas if you had that kind of money… You wouldn’t have to go back to St Edmund’s – ever. Or any other similar establishment.’

St Edmund’s was the particularly awful minor public school where Lillie-Lysander had taught English for a year. He had despised and detested St Edmund’s. The boys had been beastly – they had driven him mad. He had told Robin how he had found himself devising ingenious ways of exterminating them one by one, starting with the leaders. It would have been a kind of Unman, Wittering and Zigo in reverse…

Robin’s eyes had strayed to the papers on Lillie-Lysander’s desk – they slid over to the letter concerning his friend’s depleted account. Lillie-Lysander looked down at his unlit cigar in its ornate holder. He was experiencing a rather complex sort of feeling, a curious blend of dread-cum-relish. Soon enough he heard a sigh of commiseration he knew was as faux as the copy of the ‘original’ Dr Crippen’s diary he had picked up at a book auction a couple of months back.

‘My poor Lily,’ Robin said. ‘Just think of the difference this would make to your finances. Think what it would be like to have lots of idle leisure, to pursue a life of pleasure -’

‘“A Shooting-Box in Scotland”.’ Lillie-Lysander looked up. ‘You too heard it?’

‘It was on the radio earlier on. I was in the car. Would you do it?’

In a strange way that was what did it – the fact that they had been listening to the same song at the same time. Not that Lillie-Lysander had ever thought of saying no. Thou shall not serve alien gods. Yes, quite. ‘I will think about it,’ he said.

Cul-de-Sac

‘Now, why should she want to make herself look like Beatrice?’

‘Why indeed, my love. These are deep waters. The Bafflement of the Bogus Blonde. The Puzzle of the Peroxide Peruke. More Chesterton than Conan Doyle, wouldn’t you say?’ Major Payne put a thoughtful match to his pipe. ‘I did tell you we always met unhinged people, didn’t I? A prophecy fulfilled.’

‘Do we always meet unhinged people?’

‘We most certainly do. There’s something about us. I don’t know what it is. We seem to act as a magnet for mad-men – and madwomen. Think Dufrette, think Eleanor Merchant, think Colonel Mallard -’

Antonia pointed out that they had never actually met Colonel Mallard. Colonel Mallard had been dead for sixty years when they first heard about him.

‘But we were told so much about him, we felt we knew him. And now Ingrid Delmar. Glazed of eye, ascending the stairs bizarrely bedecked in a blonde wig, sporting gloves as black as her soul, a moth-eaten mink coat coquettishly draped round her shoulders. A chilling sight. Out flew the web and floated wide – the curse has come upon me, cried the Lady of Shalott,’ Major Payne recited between puffs. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist it.’

‘Ingrid used to burn herself with steam irons claiming it offered her relief from tension. I can’t believe Beatrice stuck with her for thirty years.’ Antonia shook her head.

‘A prophecy fulfilled… Damned good coffee, this. Pour me some more, would you, my love?’

Beatrice had persuaded them to take a thermos flask of black coffee for their journey home – as well as a packet of ham sandwiches wrapped in a moist napkin and two pieces of chocolate orange cake. Beatrice had insisted they needed to keep up their strength. They might have been members of an expedition returning from the North Pole or some such place.

They were sitting inside the car further down the road from Millbrook House. It was a beautiful evening, and a full pale moon glowing in the sky like a silver florin. They had said goodbye to Colville and Beatrice, but for some reason felt reluctant to drive off. It was almost as though they expected something to happen…

Antonia kept glancing back towards the house. The light had come on in a first-floor window and she imagined she caught a glimpse of Ingrid’s silhouette outlined momentarily against the curtain. Ingrid appeared to be shaking her head and gesticulating agitatedly. There was something extremely theatrical about the whole set-up, Payne agreed. The unnerved newly-weds downstairs, the loon in the blonde wig upstairs. Beatrice had been strongly opposed to the idea of involving the police… Colville didn’t believe Ingrid had heard him when he went out into the hall. Ingrid hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. She had stared straight ahead of her and moved like one in a trance. Surely, that suggested that she had heard Beatrice’s admission of guilt and been stunned by it? What would happen when the shock was over?

‘Beatrice might be in danger. Colville too,’ said Antonia. ‘Ingrid hates them both. She wouldn’t try to slit their throats as they sleep, would she?’

‘Or do a Mrs Danvers, set the house on fire and dance among the flames. Well, let’s hope not.’

‘At what point does a maniac become a homicidal maniac?’

‘Difficult to say, my love. Beatrice’s confession tonight might have managed to unzip Ingrid’s already shaky grip on sanity.’