R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

A challenge. Well, she liked a challenge. Nothing like a challenge to set the adrenalin pumping and catapult her into action.

Polaroid

Major Payne said, ‘I am truly sorry and I promise never to do it again. Never.’

‘Why do a silly thing like that?’

‘I don’t know what possessed me. I really don’t. I couldn’t resist it.’

‘You couldn’t resist scaring me?’

‘I mean I thought it would be funny.’

‘It was extremely thoughtless of you. You did scare me. Is that a smirk, Hugh?’

‘No! Of course not,’ he cried. ‘I am just terribly happy that we are on speakers again. I can’t bear you not speaking to me. It’s worse than writing five hundred lines of Latin Georgics!’

‘I should hope so.’

‘I did believe there was blood on the door handle. I did think someone had been killed!’

He kissed her and held her to him and repeated in her ear that he was sorry. He sounded genuinely contrite, so she told him about the phone call she had received from Beatrice Ardleigh. He stared at her. ‘Golly. She went along with the act? I suppose that was the right thing to do in the circumstances. Renshawe is dying – what difference would it make?’

‘None whatever,’ Antonia agreed. ‘It’s not as though she’s been gaining his favour under false colours.’

‘It is funny, when you think about it – dashed ironic – that it should have been Renshawe’s deadliest enemy – mad Ingrid – who managed to win him over!’

The clock started chiming nine. They went into the dining room and sat down to breakfast. The warm weather was continuing and the windows were wide open. They could hear birdsong coming from the garden.

‘Ingrid needs urgent medical attention, if not the attention of the CID,’ said Antonia. ‘I do think we should do something about it, Hugh, since Bee doesn’t want to get “poor” Ingrid into trouble. Bee would hate to be considered a “snitch”. Bee abhors the very idea of “ratting”.’

‘You don’t seem to like Beatrice much,’ said Payne mildly. He dug into his bacon and eggs.

Antonia took a sip of tea. ‘Not much, no.’

‘Well, she’s got a husband to advise her. Colville’s head seems to be screwed on the right way. Besides, he is no fan of Ingrid’s.’ Payne glanced at the clock. ‘What time was Renshawe’s solicitor going to Ospreys?’

‘Eleven.’

‘If Renshawe does manage to change his will, Beatrice will be one fabulously rich lady,’ said Payne thoughtfully. ‘However, if he were to die before he had seen his solicitor, she would get nothing. This is fascinating, don’t you think?’

Antonia agreed it was fascinating.

‘A fortune is at stake and it all depends on the purest of chances. Renshawe is a dying man – he can pop off at any moment. Who do you think inherits by his original will?’ Antonia shrugged and said she had no idea. No one had mentioned any children, so she doubted he had any. Illegitimate children? Chaps like Renshawe always had illegitimate sons, Payne said thoughtfully.

‘He may have nephews – or a niece or two,’ she said after a pause.

‘Imagine their shock if Renshawe does manage to change his will.’ Payne helped himself to toast and Oxford marmalade. ‘Do they know about Uncle Ralph’s intentions? Would they approve?’

‘I don’t see how they could possibly approve.’

Payne looked at her. ‘What do you think will happen next?’

Antonia said. ‘Nothing, I hope.’

Even at the best of times he was prone to mood swings, to descents into the doldrums, to sudden overpowering ‘downers’, as Bee put it. Bee had said it was due to the fact he was born under Saturn, the planet of melancholy, that for those born under Saturn there was no lasting escape from the ‘black dog’. She had spoken like an expert. Woof, woof, she had added. He had managed a laugh – he didn’t want her to say again that he was ‘deficient in the drollery department’ – but the remark had hurt him beyond reason. He had expected greater understanding from her. Well, the truth was Bee had never even tried to enter his feelings.

Leonard Colville sat on the sofa in the sitting room at Millbrook House, leaning against the silk cushions. All the cushions smelled of Bee – of Ce Soir Je T’Aime – her favourite scent. He stroked one particular cushion; there were two golden hairs sticking to it. Then, picking up the cushion, he buried his face in it and inhaled deeply. It didn’t help – if anything, his heart grew heavier. A mood of extreme dejection was overtaking him.

She lied to me, Colville whispered, replaying once more the scene at breakfast.

Bee, in her silver-coloured silk peignoir with rabbit fur trimmings, dipping her spoon in her dish of Fortnum and Mason’s Soya Porage, bringing it up to her mouth, blowing at it gently, parting her lips. It had been a delight watching her. Bee wrinkled her nose and her green eyes narrowed. Colville caught a glimpse of her even pearly teeth and of her tongue the colour of ripe strawberries. He could have sat and watched her like that for eternity.

Then they started talking about the money – what they would do with it if Ralph Renshawe really did leave his fortune to her. That very morning Renshawe’s solicitor was going to Ospreys; a new will was going to be drawn up. Well, darling, Bee said, her voice vibrant with expression, all our financial problems will be resolved once and for all. It was the fairy godfather solution. A cruise – they would go on a cruise, the two of them. A second honey-moon, darling – Bee smiled at him. You would like that, wouldn’t you?

He remembered his thoughts. Never before have I known such bliss – such perfect oceanic peace.

That was only moments before the telephone rang and Bee rushed to it. Colville chided himself for the unworthy thought, but it was almost as though she had expected the phone to ring.

He watched her pick up the receiver. He heard her say hello. He saw her expression change – Bee listened, then gasped, ‘Where are you?’ The colour in her cheeks heightened and she cast a furtive glance in his direction. (He was sure he hadn’t imagined it.) ‘Look here – I -’ She bit her lip. ‘Very well.’

Colville pretended to be absorbed in the Telegraph and rustled it ostentatiously.

‘Oh, thanks for reminding me, sweetie,’ Beatrice said. ‘I am such a chump! I forgot. It completely slipped my mind!’

Bee had spoken these last words in an over-loud voice, shouted almost, for his benefit, clearly. She must have a poor opinion of his intelligence, Colville reflected gloomily. Replacing the receiver, she told him it had been Alessandro, her hairdresser. She had completely forgotten that she had made an appointment at the hairdresser’s for ten! She stood looking at him, like a bold little girl. There was a curl of hair lying across the side of her forehead and touching her left eyebrow, which the bright sunlight turned to filaments of gold. Colville wanted to run to her, put his arms around her, bury his face in her neck, hold her tight and ask her -no, beg her – not to leave him – ever! Bee had gone up to her room, then reappeared, wearing a hat made of shiny black straw and dark glasses that instantly transformed the way she looked, imparting to her the mysterious air of the archetypal beautiful spy of fiction. She had put on a mauve shade of lipstick, not her usual dark-rose red, which further altered her appearance. (She didn’t want to be recognized, clearly.) She then pecked him perfunctorily on the cheek, turned round and was gone. Her hairdresser was in Oxford and she said she was going to drive; she was taking the Mini. She had looked tense and nervous, but also excited.