R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

‘I think I can. What Renshawe doesn’t realize is that the nurse and the actor have fallen in love,’ suggested Payne. ‘They have guessed about Ingrid and her murderous intentions. The murder takes place quite late in the story. When a body does turn up, it is the real Ralph Renshawe and it looks as though Ingrid has killed him – she seems to have discovered the truth – but as a matter of fact it is the nurse and the actor who are the killers. The actor is in fact Renshawe’s illegitimate son -’

Colville was on the phone, talking to his friend Arthur Manning.

‘Yes, both Bee and I are absolutely sure and we are extremely concerned… For Ralph Renshawe’s safety – as well as for our own. .. For Ingrid too-well, yes. She has tried to commit suicide in the past. No, she hasn’t come back yet. I do believe she went to Ralph Renshawe’s place… Ospreys, yes. That’s the name of the house. It’s outside a village called Coulston. Not far from us… I tried to phone them, warn them, tell them who she is and that they should be careful, but there was no answer… Ingrid’s visited Ralph Renshawe several times already, we know that for a fact… I took a photo of her earlier on – through the window – two photos, actually. I happened to have my Polaroid at hand – she was walking towards the bus stop – there’s a bus that goes to Coulston… No evidence? What are you talking about? Why else dress up like Beatrice, for heaven’s sake?’

Colville listened with pursed lips. ‘Isn’t there a chance of you taking a look at Ingrid? Make up your mind about her? You do have a degree in criminal psychology after all… The doctor who treated her when she had her break-down? I have no idea who he is, but I can ask Bee when she comes back.’

He looked at the clock. Twenty-five past eleven. Where was Bee? ‘Yes. Yes. He might be able to help, you are right. I know you are busy, Arthur, but – Yes, I know. All right. Thank you.’

Colville put down the receiver. His hand was shaking. Well, it was as he had suspected it would be. Arthur did think he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Arthur was too busy tracking down criminals, real criminals.

Colville pressed his fingertips against his temples. He had so much on his mind, so much. He couldn’t think straight. The day so far had had a nightmarish quality about it. For the life of him he couldn’t separate what had happened from what hadn’t. Outside the heat shimmered and the sun, bright as fire, glared on. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Suddenly he started up. As in a dream, or as if he was looking at something in a play, he became aware that Ingrid was standing outside in the garden, her face pressed against the window pane, look-ing in. Ingrid’s eyes were yellow-red and luminous, like a wolf’s, and she was acting like a thing possessed – grim-acing horribly, baring her teeth, mocking him, taunting him. Then she pulled back a little and he distinctly heard her say, ‘Le comte est mort.’ He saw her draw the side of her hand slowly across her throat, then let her tongue hang out obscenely, as though imagining his French might not be good enough – but of course the second he blinked, she was gone.

Ingrid had been nothing but a mirage. Colville’s neck prickled. Their back garden was empty of any human presence; it was smooth as velvet, its herbaceous borders tidied up for winter. There had never been anybody there. He was covered in sweat. ‘I am not well,’ Colville said aloud.

Twenty-seven minutes past eleven. Twenty-eight. Why wasn’t Bee back? Where was she? Then a thought struck him.

Could she have gone to Ospreys?

‘So, apart from various minor provisions, you want Miss Beatrice Ardleigh to be your sole beneficiary. Your decision is final and irreversible?’ Benjamin Saunders said expressionlessly, looking down at the old man who sat propped up between four pillows. He was impressed by their gleaming whiteness, by the fresh smell they exuded.

‘Yes, yes,’ Ralph Renshawe said. ‘Final and irreversible. Good way of putting it.’

Saunders cleared his throat. ‘This is a lot of money -’

‘It’s my money. I am of sound mind. I know perfectly well what I am doing. Get on with it, Saunders.’

He didn’t look too bad – for a dying man. In fact he looked better than the last time Saunders had seen him. He had some colour in his cheeks – his eyes were brighter – and he was in a belligerent mood.

‘According to your current will, it is your nephew, Robin Renshawe who -’

‘No longer. All that’s changed.’ Ralph Renshawe sounded impatient. ‘Robin gets nothing. All for Bee.’

‘Very well. Miss Wilkes. Mrs Brown. Would you come over?’ Saunders made a courtly gesture. ‘Sign here, please… On the dotted line, yes… It doesn’t matter who goes first.’

As Nurse Wilkes signed her name, the solicitor noticed that her hand shook so much that she had to stop and start again. What was wrong with her? He had been wondering. She had said she wanted to talk to him about something… When she opened the front door for him, he was struck by her extreme pallor. As white as one of Ralph Renshawe’s sheets. She hadn’t been her usual chatty self, which was another peculiar thing. She was unaccustomedly subdued. The other woman had noticed it too – Mrs Brown. He saw her shooting puzzled glances at Wilkes. Was Wilkes ill? Had something happened? She looked as though she had received a shock of some kind… Or it could be the heat… He dabbed at his face with his handkerchief… So terribly hot… He didn’t feel too good himself… It seemed incredible that it was the end of November!

Was the job getting to be too demanding for poor Wilkes? Ralph’s room was spotlessly clean, the floor was still slightly damp and it smelled of some superior disinfectant, which suggested that Wilkes had finished cleaning it only moments earlier. Mrs Brown – Linda – was one of the two women who came to clean three times a week, but today wasn’t one of her days, she had said. Which meant that it was Wilkes who, on top of all her other duties, had been scrubbing away in Ralph’s room. She had also changed his sheets – all the linen was crisp and spotless… Had Ralph made a mess earlier on? Saunders had heard such horror stories about cancer patients. His long sensitive nose quivered squeamishly but no, there was nothing – he had to admit that there wasn’t the slightest whiff of any offensive effluvium.

When the new will had been signed, all formalities completed and he was back in the hall, about to take his leave, he asked Nurse Wilkes whether everything was all right.

‘Yes. I am just tired, I suppose.’ She tried to smile. ‘Actually I am getting married.’

‘Getting married? Congratulations. Well done.’ He patted her arm, though he had an immediate sense of fore-boding. ‘I suppose you’d like – um – some time off?’

‘Yes. As from tomorrow, if possible… That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘Of course. As from tomorrow… We’ll need another nurse urgently.’ Saunders pulled at his lower lip. ‘Very well. How many days?’

‘I want to take two – no, three months.’ ‘Three months? That long?’ Saunders was taken aback. Three months! Ralph would have gone by then. That meant adieu to Wilkes, rather than au revoir. From tomorrow too. She was in a hurry. ‘Very well. I’ll see to it… We’ll need to settle your salary first -’

‘No need. Ralph’s already paid me.’

‘He has? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I am sure. It’s all settled.’

Saunders’ eyebrows went up a little. That was unusual. Had something – happened? Wilkes’ manner struck him as odd – strained, furtive – she gave the impression of having been upset by something – she wasn’t meeting his eye.