R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

‘Is his name Ralph Renshawe?’ Antonia asked.

‘Don’t know, dearie. He’s no longer for this world, that’s all I’ve been told. A priest visits him. Also a blonde in a mink coat,’ the old woman continued. ‘Regular as clock-work. People keep seeing her, walking from the bus stop towards the house, talking to herself, laughing and waving her hands in the air.’

‘Do they know who she is?’ Payne said casually.

‘The American gentleman’s old flame, somebody said. Some flame!’

‘See how easily poor Bee could land in the soup if some-thing were to happen to Renshawe?’ Payne said as they left the pub a couple of minutes later.

‘That’s why poor Bee should go to the police and tell them the whole story before it’s too late,’ Antonia pointed out.

It had got colder and they walked quickly towards their car.

Twenty minutes later they reached their destination. The village of Coulston seemed to consist of only one street. Although it was only a quarter to nine, not a single living soul was in sight and they didn’t see lights in any of the windows either. A phantom village? Antonia experienced a mixture of anxiety and desolation. Then, suddenly, they found themselves outside a pair of cast-iron gates with Ospreys written across them. The gates were gaping open. They drove through what looked like a park or a small for-est, along a driveway that was unevenly covered in old gravel, potholed and obviously little used.

‘We can’t just barge in on a total stranger,’ Antonia said in a sudden panic.

‘Of course we can. In matters of life and death, social niceties cease to have the slightest importance. In the eighteenth century it was considered terribly impolite if a traveller came across a gentleman’s seat and ignored it.’

‘Do you mean you just drove up to the big house and announced yourself and an upper servant led you to the library and gave you a glass of Madeira and cake?’

‘Absolutely. And, at a pinch, they could provide you with a room for the night, complete with a stack of the Illustrated London News and a tin of some superior F amp;M munchies on the bedside table – all the customary adjuncts of civilized slumber.’

‘Have you ever seen anyone actually reading the Illustrated London News? I haven’t,’ said Antonia. ‘Not even at the Military Club. Isn’t that interesting?’

‘You are right. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I don’t think I have even seen it sold anywhere. It’s one of those strange publications that are mentioned a lot in books -’ Payne broke off. ‘Good lord. Not Victorian Gothic.’

Ospreys loomed before them in sharp, ink-black silhouette, all turrets and spikes against the dark sky. The lancet windows of armorial stained glass were unlit and the house looked rather eerie in the pale moonlight.

Surely, Antonia reflected, they wouldn’t turn off all the lights when somebody was as gravely ill as Ralph Renshawe, would they? It wasn’t that late either. Had there been a power cut? But, if that were the case, they would use candles or some of the brass-and-wrought-iron gasoliers one associated with this kind of place. Wouldn’t a house like Ospreys have its own electricity generator?

Antonia got out of the car first and Payne followed, leaving the headlights on. Antonia gave an involuntary shudder at the sight of their distorted shadows dancing across the avenue. There was not a breath of wind. Intense, uncanny quiet. The house was white with hoar frost. They caught a glimpse of frozen fairylike trees on either side of the drive, their skeletal branches pointing upwards.

‘A haunt of ancient peace,’ Payne whispered.

‘There are always legends hanging about these old houses,’ said Antonia as though to give herself courage. ‘They are not difficult to invent and cost nothing.’

Pipe in mouth, Major Payne walked up to the front door and pressed the bell button.

Antonia stood behind him They seemed to be passing through what appeared to be the early stages of a cliche-ridden horror film. (The kind Moira Montano had made?) A time-eaten and grotesque mansion with a dark history, long deserted through superstitious fears, tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate part of Oxfordshire. Gaping gates and gloomy gables. A creepy creaking noise, which was probably caused by the frozen trees, but might prove to be something much more sinister… Would the front door turn out to have been left unlocked?

She didn’t hear the bell ring and no one answered the door. Major Payne pushed the bell button again.

‘Not a single light… What’s happened?’ Antonia said. ‘Where is everybody? They couldn’t have suddenly gone away, just like that, could they?’

‘They might have. Or they might be dead,’ Payne said in a sepulchral voice. ‘You heard what the old biddy said – the secret house of death.’

‘How many people actually live here?’

‘No idea. The letter didn’t say. There are bound to be nurses and people.’ Payne stomped his feet. ‘It’s freezing!’

‘They said it’s going to get warmer tomorrow.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

‘Shall we go?’ Antonia drew back from the door. It was indeed unbearably cold. She had thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. She longed to be back in the safety of the car, sipping hot coffee from the thermos, listening to Vivaldi on the CD player.

She looked up. No stars, only the florin-like moon. No sign of any ospreys flapping their wings… The secret house of death… It might be interesting to find out why it had been given that name – what exactly had taken place – was there any truth in the gruesome story?

Payne pushed the bell once more, then he reached out and rattled the door knocker. He got hold of the door handle -

Antonia said again, ‘Let’s go.’ She felt the beginnings of a sore throat.

‘Good lord,’ she heard her husband whisper. ‘It’s open.’

Antonia blinked. ‘What? The door is open?’

‘Yes… Look… What’s this muck?’ He stood looking down at his hand. ‘The door handle – it’s covered in some-thing sticky – like jelly – urgh!’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Antonia said.

He muttered an oath. ‘I am not joking -’

Antonia experienced a disconcerting sense of unreality. ‘Don’t tell me it’s blood.’

‘I don’t know. Golly. It might be blood… Yes… Looks black… Someone seems to have had an accident…’

‘Hugh, are you serious?’ Her hand had gone up to her heart.

For what seemed a long time he stood as though petrified. Suddenly he laughed. ‘No, I’m not. There’s no blood. The door is not open.’ He turned round and grinned at Antonia. ‘Only joking. There’s nothing.’

She stood staring at him. ‘It isn’t funny, Hugh,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you did this.’

‘Sorry, my love,’ he said.

She turned round and walked silently back towards the car. He followed sheepishly, stroking his jaw. She got into the back seat and slammed the door.

He tried to talk to her, to cajole her to sit beside him, but she remained silent. He put on the Vivaldi concerto. ‘Konzert fur Zwei Violinen, Streichorchester und Basso continuo,’ he announced in comically execrable German as he started the car. He was trying to make her laugh.

She pursed her lips and shut her eyes. She decided she wouldn’t speak to him. Her thoughts went back to the dark forbidding house they were leaving behind. Had any-thing happened? What if – what if Ospreys wasn’t empty? What if there were people inside – Ralph and the nurse – lying dead, their throats slit? What if Ingrid had killed them?

On an impulse, Antonia took out her mobile phone and dialled 999.

When the police phoned her two hours later, Antonia was sitting in bed alone, reading.