R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

Lily had promised to send him a message as soon as he had accomplished his assignment, but he hadn’t. Robin didn’t want to ring Ospreys and draw attention to himself. He had rehearsed what he was going to say – the casual tone of voice in which he would ask Wilkes some totally silly question – had she knitted his pullover? And of course, if his uncle was dead, Wilkes would tell him at once. But wouldn’t they have called him anyway if his uncle had died? No one had called him so far, which suggested that all was in order at Ospreys.

Where was Lily? It was half past four now. Six hours! What if Eric had executed the ‘roughing’ task without the finesse it required – a little bit too roughly, perhaps? So far Eric hadn’t contacted him, which suggested that Eric might have killed Lily and was too scared to admit it.

Robin knew in his bones that at some point of the operation something had gone spectacularly wrong. He sat on one of Liy’s heraldic chairs and reflected that the worst scenario would be if his uncle was still alive and it was Lily who had ended up dead.

Robin had phoned Eric at five minutes to ten in the morning. By then he had drunk two thirds of the whisky. Eric of course had been delighted to hear his voice. Eric was like a puppy. Oh Robin, so nice to hear from you. How have you been? Eric was in Coulston, taking care of a Mr Stanley who was an invalid. It was Robin who had got him the job after his uncle had sacked Eric. Robin knew Mr Stanley from the Midas. Mr Stanley had been a regular at the roulette table until he had had his stroke. He could hardly move now. Eric was deeply grateful to Robin for getting him the job.

Yes, Robin. Anything. Anything… I see… You don’t want me to get anywhere near the house? Wait further down the road and watch the gates? A Catholic priest – I’ll recognize him by the collar? Stop his car and tell him I have a message from you? Ask him to follow my car? Take him to the disused quarry? I know the quarry very well, yes. Then you want me to -?

(Robin had wished the slow-witted fool hadn’t repeated everything he said.)

If Eric had killed Lily, what had he done with the body? What had he done with his car?

Then another thought struck Robin. When asked, old Saunders would certainly say that it had been Robin Renshawe who had recommended Father Lillie-Lysander. Well, what if he had? That proved nothing. All he needed to say then was that they had been to school together, that was how he knew Lily. Still – The irony would be if they arrested him, Robin, for Lily’s death. Lily then would have the last laugh from beyond the grave. Robin smiled grimly. Something like that had happened in the play they had written together, The Mortification of Moriarty, hadn’t it?

How prophetic that would be – and how pathetic.

The Hound of Death

Nurse Wilkes sat in the kitchen at Ospreys, lost in a daze, thinking back to what had happened, trying to make sense of things.

The moment she had started walking towards Ralph’s bed, she heard a voice.

His voice. ‘Wilkes -’

She had stopped short and stared. Ralph had stirred – raised his hand – so he wasn’t dead after all!

‘Don’t stand and stare. Clean. Quick.’ Ralph had spoken sparingly, using single words, as though saving his energy. He had stirred and pointed. ‘Blood. Half an hour. Saunders. Get on with it. Clean.’

‘Aren’t you – hurt?’ She had heard herself say.

‘No.’

‘But – the blood? Whose -?’

‘No idea.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t either.’

‘Where’s Father Lillie?’

‘Don’t know. Asleep. When I woke up, he’d gone. Blood all over me. Clean.’

Likely story, she thought. When she didn’t move, he said, ‘Twenty-five minutes. One thousand pounds for each minute. Twenty-five thousand. All yours. Clean. Every-thing spotless. Get pillow off.’ There had been a pillow lying across his stomach. ‘Pyjamas. Change. Sheets – everything.’

She had done as he had asked her. She would always remember those crazy twenty-five minutes – as long as she lived. She had hurried back to the kitchen, placed the tea tray on the table, opened the pantry door and pulled out the box with the bottles of various cleaning liquids in it. Then she had got hold of the mop and several cloths – filled the bucket with water – put on rubber gloves -

She had run back to his room. She had had to clean him first – get rid of his bloody clothes. She had wiped his face clean with wet tissues, then with a sponge – his throat, his neck, his chest – ran out again – brought back fresh under-wear and another pair of pyjamas – as well as a basket for the bloodied things -

He hadn’t said another word, neither had she. He had felt dry and scaly – nothing but skin and bone – disgusting to the touch – but alive. There hadn’t been a scratch on him.

As the clock had ticked away the seconds and the minutes, she had mopped and washed and scrubbed the floor. She had found a bloody hand print on the little white wardrobe where Ralph’s clothes were kept. She couldn’t swear to it but she believed that one of Ralph’s shirts as well as a pullover were missing. She had wiped clean the print. She hadn’t asked Ralph about the missing clothes since she didn’t think he would give her an answer.

She had then wiped clean the bloody trail that led from the bed to the french windows – it looked like some ferocious beast had dragged its prey out. At one point she had felt sick. She had been about to throw up but managed to hold it in. A nightmare, that was what the whole thing felt like. A proper nightmare. No idea, he had said. No idea. He had no idea whose blood it was! She was sure he was lying.

Surely the blood was Father Lillie’s? Couldn’t be any-body else’s, could it?

She’d felt goose-bumps go up and down her spine. Her stomach too had continued to feel funny. There had been drops of blood outside on the steps leading down to the garden and she had wiped those away too, to the best of her ability. She’d expected to hear a growl – she really had – the monstrous beast, having devoured Father Lillie, coming back for more fresh meat – the hound – slobbering jaws – foul breath – fangs like knives -

That had reminded her. Now where was her knitting needle? There had been nothing under the bed. She had started looking round the room, but hadn’t been able to find her knitting needle anywhere. She had found a keyring with keys on it, though. Car keys. The keyring bore a monogram: L-L.

She got rid of the flies and bluebottles and shut the french windows. She had even drawn the curtains across them.

‘Good. Not a word about this. To anyone,’ he had said. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Five to eleven.’

‘And no sign of Saunders yet? Excellent. Well done, Wilkes. My cheque book – the desk.’

He had then proceeded to write her a cheque not for twenty-five thousand but for thirty-five thousand pounds. ‘No questions. Not a word to anyone,’ he had repeated.

She said, ‘Father Lillie’s car is still there, I think.’ And she had shown Ralph the keys. ‘Lillie-Lysander.’

‘His keys, yes. Good thinking, Wilkes. Go and get his car into the garage. Plenty of space. You can drive, can’t you? Be quick about it. Saunders mustn’t see it. Don’t want dis-tractions. The new will. Mustn’t die before I’ve signed the new will. How much did I give you?’ He looked down at the cheque. ‘You deserve better than this.’ He picked up his pen once more.

The killer must have got some blood on him. Was that why he had taken clothes from the wardrobe, to change? Ralph must know who it was. She was sure Father Lillie had been murdered. Ralph must have seen the killer. Or could he have passed out? Who’d want to kill Father Lillie beside Ralph’s bed? Why?