R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

No loose ends. It would be like one of those meticulously worked-out endings Antonia Darcy specialized in. Ingrid had read Antonia Darcy’s first novel, at Bee’s recommendation, and had hated it. Ingenious yes, work of genius, most decidedly no. Ingrid had no doubt that each one of Antonia Darcy’s books was a mere commercially motivated replica of its predecessor. Variations on a tried, if tired, lucrative theme. Well-bred characters sitting beside cosy fires, drinking tea, deliberating who-dunit ad nauseam.

The rook was still there, perched on the well’s edge, looking at her, his head tilted to one side. Mighty God Rook, she whispered and she gave a slight bow. She had no doubt Mighty God Rook knew what was going on in her head. Mighty God Rook approved of what she was about to do.

Ingrid felt filled with superhuman strength and energy, with the kind of ‘fuel’ that sent rockets blasting across the stratosphere. She started walking fast – broke into a run. She raised her arms a little, like the wings of a bird poised for flight.

Ospreys’ steeply pitched roof, the gables and pointed arches danced before her eyes. The sun above seemed to grow larger – an enormous orange of tawny gold. She was heading for the back of the house, for the french windows that led into Ralph’s room. She wouldn’t have minded entering the normal way, through the front door, but wanted to avoid any possible opposition from the nurse who might say that Ralph was too ill to see her. Well, Ingrid could easily deal with ten nurses if she had to, but she didn’t want to waste another minute – The next moment she stopped short in her tracks. ‘Fair is foul and foul is fair,’ she heard someone say.

What a relief it was that he didn’t have to go to Ospreys after all. Even in normal circumstances Benjamin Saunders was averse to leaving London and his well-established routine. He had never been able to understand his wife’s passion for the country, let alone share it. Most of his wife’s smart friends seemed to live in the country. All the husbands seemed to play golf. Annabel had been talking admiringly about somebody’s husband ‘fitting in ten holes between tea and dinner’. Annabel had been trying to persuade him to take up golf. How little she knew him! Still, Ralph Renshawe was a highly valued client and it would-n’t have done to displease him – even though he was dying, his word was a command. If the appointment hadn’t been cancelled, Saunders would have gone to Ospreys without fail.

He was sitting at his desk, writing with a silver-topped pen. He was a tall distinguished-looking man of sixty-three, with a long straight nose, prim mouth and a lugubrious expression, wearing an immaculate striped suit and silk tie of a restrained pattern. He had loosened his top shirt button, his only concession to the heat wave. On the wall behind him hung framed traditional cartoons by ‘Spy’ of Victorian legal panjandrums. As one of his clients had observed, Saunders wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Spy cartoon himself.

The phone call had been received at eight o’clock that morning, just as he had been making reluctant preparations to leave for Oxford. It had been Nurse Wilkes, Ralph Renshawe’s nurse. Ralph wouldn’t be able to see him this morning and would Mr Saunders mind not coming to Ospreys? She was phoning from a hospital in Oxford. There had been a crisis the night before, but everything was under control now. Ralph had suddenly taken a turn for the worse and she had had to call an ambulance.

She had been sure Ralph wouldn’t make it, but it had proved a false alarm, Nurse Wilkes went on cheerfully. Ralph was in his hospital bed, on a drip – but he was making a super recovery. Ralph was in good spirits too, revived by the vitamin injections they had given him. He had been allowed to sit up for a bit and the first thing he insisted on doing was make a phone call to Beatrice, that was Miss Beatrice Ardleigh, Ralph’s lady friend – wasn’t that nice? Well, the way things were going, she thought they would be back at Ospreys later that afternoon and could Mr Saunders come to Ospreys with the papers tomorrow morning at eleven?

Benjamin Saunders frowned. Miss Beatrice Ardleigh – who was she? Someone from Ralph Renshawe’s mysterious past? He had the feeling that the reason Ralph Renshawe wanted to see him was something to do with her… Another woman… Would she be as much trouble as Madame Niratpattanasai?

The Heiress

‘Is – is that Antonia?’

‘Oh! Bee! How are you? Is – is everything OK?’ Antonia felt genuine relief to hear Beatrice Ardleigh’s voice.

‘Yes, everything is fine. Nothing happened.’

‘I am so glad!’

‘Well, we didn’t sleep awfully well, but that was my fault entirely – my nerves. I am sensitive as an oyster. Poor Len was up and down, all through the night, bringing me pills and drinks and things. No, we haven’t seen Ingrid. We heard her crying in her room – it was about two in the morning, I think. Broke my heart! But Len didn’t let me speak to her. He can be extremely difficult. I did want to go and give her a hug. I honestly did.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She left early this morning. As usual, we heard her but didn’t see her. I have no idea where she went. Incidentally, we did barricade our bedroom door last night as Hugh suggested.’ Beatrice Ardleigh giggled. ‘That made things so difficult for poor Len each time he needed to go out. He kept falling over things. Oh dear, I shouldn’t be laughing! Sorry. I am hysterical.’ She paused. ‘How is Hugh?’

Wouldn’t you like to know? Antonia thought, pursing her lips slightly. She wasn’t going to tell Beatrice Ardleigh that Hugh was in disgrace on account of something very silly he did the night before and that she had asked him to sleep on the sitting-room sofa. That was the kind of story Beatrice would relish. Antonia was damned if she was going to make the conversation more personal than it needed to be!

‘He is all right. He’s in the garden,’ she said in neutral tones. ‘He’s cutting the grass.’

‘I adore the smell of freshly mown grass. It’s such a lovely morning, isn’t it? I adore hot weather.’

Antonia looked out of the open window and saw her husband in his shirtsleeves, leaning against the ancient mower, grimacing piteously at her. Catching her eye, Major Payne brought his palms together as though in prayer. It looked as though he were about to fall to his knees. Earlier on he had scribbled a note, wrapped it around a pebble and thrown it into the room. Please, darling, forgive, forgive. I love you. I want you so. Do not be cross. H.

What a clown, Antonia thought, biting her lower lip in an attempt to remain serious. She had smoothed out the note and placed it carefully inside her diary. For future reference, she had thought. If he does something silly again. She endeavoured to maintain her stern expression.

‘Oh Antonia, I must tell you – something did happen.’ Beatrice had lowered her voice. ‘No, nothing bad. Au contraire. Nothing to do with Ingrid. Oh, you’d never believe this! It’s something – extraordinary – something stupendous. The kind of thing that happens in books – in fairy tales!’

‘What is it?’ Antonia heard Beatrice take a deep breath.

‘I received a phone call from Ralph this morning. From Ralph, yes. Honestly! I nearly dropped the phone – had to sit down. I mean – Ralph! After all these years.’

‘Was he – at Ospreys?’ Antonia remembered the dark empty-looking house.

‘No, no. Ralph was in some hospital in Oxford. He said he felt he simply had to speak to me. He nearly died last night, apparently, but he is all right now. He said – you’ll never guess what he said – it’s quite incredible – staggering – I am still in a state of shock – honestly.’