R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

‘I smoke nothing but Turkish. One can only get them at a little place in New Bond Street,’ Beatrice said. ‘They are a treat, really – I smoke only rarely and I don’t inhale.’

Antonia was seething. What was Beatrice giving herself a treat for? For succeeding in vamping Hugh? Why had she dolled herself up, if not for Hugh’s delectation? What a bitch, she thought. She didn’t trust her one little bit. She wouldn’t be surprised if Beatrice turned out to have killed both Ingrid and the priest. Well, a fabulous fortune was at stake – and Beatrice had admitted to an agonized craving for the luxe.

Who will rid me of this turbulent priest? Antonia didn’t think Father Lillie-Lysander was anything like Thomas a Becket. Now, why would Beatrice want to kill the priest? She might want to kill Ingrid to prevent her from killing Ralph and thus make it possible for him to sign his new will – but why kill the priest? Unless the priest was another assassin? Assassins at Ospreys. How ridiculous.

Antonia knew she was being irrational. Well, she was jealous. Extremely jealous. Terrible thing, jealousy. It made her feel insecure. Hugh had denied being attracted to Beatrice – did he tell the truth? That was how things had started with her first husband – it had been the beginning of the end -

Soon after, they reached Ospreys.

Ingrid came to, slowly. She tried to rise and a sharp pain pierced her head – she had banged it against some hard surface. The left side of her face was numb. She felt con-fused and disoriented. She could smell petrol and oil. She wondered if she had been in an accident. Or was it a dream? Was she dreaming about the accident? She some-times did, though not recently… Where was she?

Her hands – something had happened to her hands. She couldn’t feel her hands! Had they gone? No – her hands were behind her back – tied – they had gone numb, that’s why she didn’t feel them.

How dark it was. She seemed to be in a box of some kind. For some reason she thought of a closet or a small wardrobe. No, she was horizontal, not vertical. A coffin, she thought. I am in a coffin. Not only bound but gagged. She could hardly breathe because there was a rag of some sort in her mouth and some kind of sticky tape across the lower part of her face. The rag – was it a handkerchief? – reeked of something, a smell she knew well. She could only breathe through her nose, just about.

Her head hurt badly, where the blow had fallen. She believed she had bled from the side of her head. She could smell blood. She could taste it too. Her lip had burst. Well, she was no stranger to blood. Years ago she had used to cut her arms and thighs. The sight of blood had excited her. She hadn’t minded the pain one little bit. Each time she made a cut, she wanted to see how deep she could go…

Ingrid’s legs were numb too. She tried stretching them and failed. She tried wriggling her toes but couldn’t do that either. She had lost all feeling. Pinpricks sparkled faintly through her calves… She was bound and gagged. She was incarcerated. She was at her enemy’s mercy -

Her enemy. Who was her enemy? If only she could think more clearly

…

Minutes passed… Hours… Ingrid had no idea how many. She must have passed out and then come to. She made an effort to remember what exactly had happened. She tried to trace the exact sequence of events that had led her being placed inside this… coffin? Was she really in a coffin? Had she been buried alive? Apremature burial, like in Poe… Well, she remembered being dragged across the garden – someone pulling her by the shoulders… She also remembered the knife glistening in the sun… That had been earlier on.

Ingrid had got on a bus – then – then she had arrived at Ospreys. She had walked up the drive. There had been rooks again, circling above her head, shrieking. Yes. She remembered the rooks. She had known at once there was something wrong. The rooks were her friends and they had been trying to warn her. She had started running…

She had arrived late, not at the time she intended. And the reason? Something had distracted her. She had seen a little girl on the bus – for a moment she had thought this was her daughter, her little Claire, but of course that was impossible. If her daughter had lived, Ingrid reasoned, she would have been thirty now. Ingrid had stood gazing at the girl, listening to her prattle to her little brother. She had wanted to reach out and stroke her fair curls – pinch her cheek. She wanted to pick her up and give her a kiss – She had missed her stop, that was it! She’d had to walk back. That was why she had had to run… Yes… Across the garden… How the rooks had screeched and flapped their wings! Catching sight of the well, she made a wish. Please, Mighty God Rook, let me be the first to get to Ralph.

She had opened her bag and taken out the knife. She had wondered whether the priest would be there already. Her thoughts came back to her. I’ll be damned if I let him kill Ralph. With a soft pillow? An easy death? Oh no. That is not the death Ralph deserves. She had heard the priest talk about using a pillow into his mobile the day before – she had been concealed among the rose bushes in that overgrown garden.

The priest had been talking to Ralph’s nephew. What was the nephew’s name? Robin? Yes. Ralph didn’t trust Robin – well, with good reason! How funny that there should have been a second plot to kill Ralph – the kind of thing Antonia Darcy might have dreamt up. Assassins at Ospreys – some such ridiculous title.

So she had been right about the priest. She knew that he was a dodgy one the moment she laid eyes on him, though a less likely hired killer one could not possibly imagine. Who would get to Ralph first? She had liked the challenge. She’d relished the adrenalin rush. She had been convinced she’d beat the podgy padre to it, oh yes, she had no doubt.

As Ingrid came round the corner of the terrace, however, she heard the priest’s voice coming from inside Ralph’s room. Father Lillie-Lysander was speaking in conversational tones. Did you say your solicitor was coming at eleven? You are definitely leaving all your money to Miss Ardleigh? No change of heart? She realized at once the french windows of Ralph’s room were open. Exactly as she’d anticipated them to be on a warm day like that. The priest had beaten her to it! Well, no – not quite. Not yet. Ralph was still alive. There was time. She had halted and now she looked down at the knife in her hand. The blade caught the sun and for a moment she had been dazzled. She remembered her thoughts: Now I will have to kill the priest as well.

She had started walking across the terrace but the next moment had stopped short.

She had stood and stared.

She hadn’t been able to believe her eyes -

Lord of the Flies

‘Good afternoon,’ Beatrice said with her most winning smile, removing her dark glasses and revealing her bright green eyes. ‘I’d like to see Ralph – Mr Renshawe, that is. I’ve been to see him several times before. Would you tell him that it is Beatrice? My name is Beatrice Ardleigh. He knows me very well, yes.’

She was a born liar. Despite herself, Antonia found her-self admiring Beatrice’s chutzpah. What poise – what sangfroid – what confidence! Bee hadn’t batted an eyelid. Or was that unfair? Well, she was Beatrice Ardleigh – but she had never been to Ospreys before.

They had had to knock hard – the doorbell still didn’t work. The young man who had opened the door wore spotless white overalls. He was fair-haired and had a pleasant face. He was the gentle giant type and spoke with a South African accent. He had I Love Cape tattooed on his muscular right forearm. Antonia saw Beatrice shoot him an appreciative look. He was smiling broadly. A male nurse? Antonia had expected a woman. Ralph had mentioned a woman called Wilkes, Beatrice told them.