R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

‘So Nurse Wilkes did knit in Renshawe’s room.’ Major Payne felt the point of the knitting needle with a fore-finger. ‘Ouch! This is sharp. It isn’t the smell of blood that’s attracting the bluebottles, is it?’

‘Oh. You are probably right, sir. The bin-liners are still outside. There is a collection tomorrow. There were a lot of bluebottles in the garden this morning. They seem to be coming from the direction of -’

‘Did you mention the bloodied sheets to the police, Greg?’ Antonia asked.

He blinked. ‘Sorry, ma’am?’

‘The police were here, weren’t they? Earlier today?’

The young man gaped slightly, revealing perfect teeth. ‘How… how did you know? Two policemen did come earlier on. Yes. About an hour ago. Very polite gentlemen. Nothing like South African police. They wanted to know if I knew anything about the Catholic priest who used to visit Mr Renshawe. The priest seems to have disappeared. I told them I didn’t know anything. I told them I was new.’

‘Did they want to know anything else?’

‘They asked whether Miss Beatrice Ardleigh had been to see Mr Renshawe. I said no one has been to the house, not while I’ve been here… Oh, was that the lady who came with you? Your friend?’ Greg looked towards the door.

‘Yes. The very same.’ Payne nodded. Only it wasn’t. How terribly confusing. One kept forgetting. The police had meant Ingrid Delmar, dressed up as Beatrice Ardleigh. The police knew the whole story now.

‘The police also asked for Nurse Wilkes’ address, but I said I didn’t know it,’ Greg went on. ‘I am afraid they didn’t find me very helpful. Then they wanted to speak to Mr Renshawe and they let me stay in the room, but they didn’t get anything out of him either. Mr Renshawe wasn’t himself. Mr Renshawe kept talking about angels and demons and that there was a constant battle in the heavens. Then he started talking about spirals.’ Greg laughed. ‘I saw them exchange looks and shake their heads. They couldn’t get any sense out of him, which was funny because Mr Renshawe recovered the moment they left!’

‘Did he now?’ Payne murmured. He had started walking slowly towards one of the open windows.

‘Yes! That’s when he asked me to make him the creme caramel, sir.’

‘How terribly interesting. Did the police search the premises?’ Payne could hear a buzzing sound – bluebottles?

‘Search the premises?’ Greg looked startled. ‘Oh no, sir. They were very polite, very pleasant. Real gentlemen. They only asked if anyone else lived at Ospreys and I said, no one. Apart from Mr Renshawe and me, that is. I did tell them that Mr Renshawe was a very sick gentleman, but they could see that for themselves. Then they left.’

‘So you didn’t mention the bloodied sheets to them?’ Antonia said.

‘Well, no, I didn’t think it was important. Do you think it is, madam?’

It was Payne who answered – he was now standing by the window, looking out. ‘I think so. Yes… Extremely important.’ He spoke absently. ‘Lots of bluebottles out-side, you are perfectly right. Where are Ralph Renshawe’s windows? I can’t work it out… That monstrosity over there must be Moira Montano’s pink conservatory?’ He pointed.

‘Whose conservatory, sir?’

‘Moira Montano. She was a B-movie actress. Well before your time. I imagine she made films with titles like Stains of Scarlet and The Reek of Dread… Are the bin-liners some-where on this side?’

‘Oh no, sir. On the other side.’ Greg waved his hand towards the door that led to the garden.

‘That’s odd then because the buzzing’s definitely coming from somewhere this side… Are those Renshawe’s french windows?’ Payne pointed again.

‘Yes, sir. Those are Mr Renshawe’s windows.’ Greg had joined Payne beside the kitchen window.

‘And what’s that thing over there in the garden?’ Payne shaded his eyes. ‘Not a well, surely?’

‘It is a well, sir. An ancient wishing well, Mr Renshawe said. That’s where the buzzing is coming from, I guess, sir. I meant to go and investigate.’

‘Let’s go and do it now, shall we?’ Payne turned towards Antonia. ‘The well is in a direct line from Renshawe’s windows.’ Something in his voice made Antonia look sharply at him.

‘Shall I lead the way, sir?’

‘By all means, old boy. Am I right in thinking you’ve been in the army?’

‘Yes, sir. For two years.’

‘What I thought. Good man.’

Antonia and Major Payne followed Greg out of the kitchen door and into the garden. They turned left, then left again…

The garden resembled a jungle, Antonia thought. She was conscious of a rising sense of uneasiness inside her. Yews and birches and, startlingly, tall bedraggled Chinese palms – as well as rose bushes that were as tall as the trees – all interwoven with ivy and various other creepers. And weeds, weeds everywhere. They passed a dilapidated grotto bench with fantastic undersea carvings and a pagoda-like structure, shrouded in ivy. It was the kind of landscape one associated with the Sleeping Beauty’s castle…

Greg had stopped and he raised his hand. ‘Those are Mr Renshawe’s windows.’

Like a bloodhound on the scent, Payne advanced to the steps leading up to the dilapidated terrace. The stone sur-face was invisible under a carpet of dead leaves. The french windows were ajar and Payne caught sight of Beatrice sitting on a straight-backed Empire chair beside the bed in which Ralph Renshawe sat propped up among several pillows.

A toad-like, even Gila-monsterish, face the colour of mouldy old bone, but the eyes struck Payne as bright and animated. Not the eyes of a dying man. Renshawe was wearing an outlandish garb – what appeared to be a Japanese kimono in apricot and black, and across his lap lay a large white feather fan. Major Payne was put in mind of Graham Sutherland’s controversial portrait of the octogenarian Somerset Maugham that had made the grand old man of letters look like the dissolute madam of a Shanghai brothel.

Stationing himself between an empty plant tub made of black marble and an ornate, rusting wire garden chair, Payne took in more details. There was a crucifix on the wall above Renshawe’s head. Renshawe was holding Beatrice’s left hand between the skeletal fingers of both his. He has no idea it’s a different one, Payne thought – or has he? Renshawe was saying something. Beatrice was leaning towards him, nodding her blonde head as though in agreement. She had a very serious expression on her face. They looked like fellow conspirators. Not a word could be heard. Payne wondered what he was saying to her.

A moment later Payne walked back and rejoined Greg and Antonia. Suddenly he didn’t seem to be in a hurry at all. He stood looking at the well. It appeared he was try-ing to estimate the distance between the well and Ralph Renshawe’s windows. ‘You don’t think -?’Antonia began. ‘I don’t know, my love, but it strikes me as a definite possibility. See these rusty stains?’ Payne had kicked at a heap of dead leaves on the ground. Antonia frowned, then nodded. ‘You’d better tighten your tummy. It may not be a pleasant sight.’

Greg was the first to notice the little cloud that hovered above the well. ‘Bluebottles! I thought so! Sir, shall I -?’

‘Go on, old boy. Lead the way.’

Spotting an oblong piece of cardboard in a clump of yellow grass, Payne stooped over and picked it up. No, not an ordinary piece of cardboard. He turned it over. Gilt edges. Somebody’s visiting card. Robin Renshawe, Gentleman of Leisure. The nefarious nephew, eh? He whom Uncle Ralph had disinherited. Had the rogue Robin been here then?

‘Would be remarkable if he really did drop his card, just like that,’ Antonia pointed out. ‘That was blood, wasn’t it?’