R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

Well, Ingrid was jealous of him – resentful of his prox-imity to Bee, of his very presence in the house – she had a name for him – ‘the interloper’! He had absolutely refused to believe that Bee had taken lovers, but now he wondered. Yes, he wondered very much… Could the devil speak true?

Suddenly he was eager to know and he felt at once impatient and terrified – rather like Bluebeard’s young bride nerving herself to enter the forbidden chamber. He wanted to go and ransack those old velvet and satin hatboxes Bee kept in her wardrobe – tear them apart. The boxes had belonged to Bee’s mother and seemed to be full of papers. He might find something – love letters – suggestive notes – mementoes – photos -

Photos other men had taken of Bee? Bee wearing outrageous outfits – naked – in suggestive poses – per-forming unspeakable lewd acts -

He passed his hand across his face. He started walking towards the door – halted. No. He needed to attend to other, more important, things first. There was the letter from his solicitor about that damned court case – he needed to write back as soon as possible. A bonfire. He needed to make a bonfire as a matter of some urgency, though he couldn’t remember the exact reason for it. Burn dead leaves? Burn all of Bee’s dresses, as an act of revenge? All those damned expensive Chanels and Balenciagas and Valentinos… No, it was something else he needed to burn – what was it? I am going mad, he whispered.

Had Payne and Bee gone to a hotel? Or were they per-haps at that very moment in the back of Payne’s car? It must be Payne’s car, since her Mini was in the garage. Were they lying on a blanket in the grass in some secluded spot – the obvious thing to do on a warm day like that. He could just see them. Smoking Bee’s Turkish cigarettes – Bee’s golden head on Payne’s chest – discussing their future together – making plans – laughing – wondering about the most tactful and painless way of breaking the news to him.

Colville walked slowly into the hall, he didn’t quite know why, and stood examining his reflection in the mir-ror. He looked distraught – wild-eyed – pouchy. He had aged over the last couple of hours. No woman would want to go with him – unless he paid her. Well, he had employed the services of tarts once or twice – years ago, when his first marriage had started going wrong – he deemed it a most unsatisfactory experience. He didn’t want a tart. He wanted Bee. He wanted Bee.

But perhaps – perhaps everything was not yet lost? Suddenly he felt a surge of optimism, heady and intoxicating – the kind of euphoria he had experienced when Bee said yes to his marriage proposal. Perhaps Bee was merely infatuated with Payne. It might be nothing but a crush. She might already have recovered from it, the way people recovered from bouts of illness. Yes. She might have resisted Payne’s advances. The ultimate might not have taken place yet. Perhaps at that very moment she was saying, ‘I am sorry, Hugh, but this is totally wrong. Please, take your hands off me. I don’t know what possessed me. I must go back to my husband at once.’

Yes… He saw his reflection in the mirror smile back at him. I must go and make that bonfire, he thought. My future happiness depends on it. The next moment he noticed a small folded sheet of paper lying on the floor underneath the mirror. He stooped over and picked it up.

Please, darling, forgive, forgive. I love you. I want you so. Do not be cross. H.

H. for Hugh. Hugh Payne. Major Hugh Payne. Payne had written to her. She had dropped Payne’s note. Not very careful, was she? Or maybe she no longer saw any point in concealing the affair. ‘Forgive’ and ‘Do not be cross’ suggested of course a previous secret meeting. They appeared to have had a tiff. A lovers’ tiff. Well, Bee had clearly forgiven Payne. She had engineered the row with Colville, so that she could get Colville out of the house. She had then phoned Payne and asked him to come over -

It was all over. He had been a fool to imagine otherwise.

I must see to that bonfire, he thought.

Back at Ospreys Major Payne was taking command. ‘I would like you to call the police,’ he told Greg. ‘Say we’ve found the body of Father Lillie-Lysander.’

‘Is that him? The priest who disappeared?’

‘Yes. The blood on the sheets and on Renshawe’s pyjamas is his.’

‘The priest’s blood!’

‘Yes. Nurse Wilkes will have to answer some awkward questions.’

‘Oh, that’s too bad!’ cried the good-natured Greg. ‘Just when she won the lottery -’

‘She didn’t win the lottery. What I think she got was part hush money, part reward. I think Nurse Wilkes was generously remunerated for her cooperation. Where’s that bin-liner exactly? The one with the bloody things?’

‘In the big container.’

‘Better get it back into the house – make sure it is the right one. The police would be jolly interested in the bloody things.’ Payne paused. ‘Lord of the flies.’

‘What’s that?’ Antonia said.

‘Beelzebub… Remember Beelzebub, my love? The priest’s face was covered in flies. An association of ideas,’ Major Payne explained. ‘The Pharisees accused Jesus of performing miracles in the name of Beelzebub, who was a demon – some say Satan himself… I don’t know. Not fair, perhaps, at this early stage. I shouldn’t make precipitate judgements. I may be doing the priest a terrible injustice, but then the cloth does attract some strange individuals. I mean I am assuming he was a bad hat. I’ll tell you what. Let’s have a word with the Master of Ospreys. I want to see him before the police arrive. Come along. It should be jolly interesting. Though I doubt if he’ll tell us the truth. Why should he?’

They saw Greg pick up the phone. When they were in the hall, Antonia asked, ‘What do you think happened?’

‘Well, I may be entirely wrong, but I have an idea that it was Ralph Renshawe’s hand that held the fatal knitting needle that unleashed the gore – which doesn’t necessarily make him into a killer, if you know what I mean.’

Antonia said, ‘He wouldn’t have had the strength for a powerful lethal upward thrust, would he?’

‘No. He wouldn’t have been able to get the body out of the room and drop it in the well either. Someone helped him.’

Le Malade Imaginaire

Ralph Renshawe squeezed her hand. ‘Listen. I’ve worked it all out. It is my nephew who was behind it. Father Lillie-Lysander was Robin’s agent. He was a friend of his, apparently. They were at school together. Saunders told me about it. It slipped out – he didn’t intend to tell me, but he got muddled. The old fool.’

‘You didn’t know they were friends?’

‘I had no idea. Of course not. I am very cross with Saunders for not finding a priest himself. I commissioned him – and he left it all to Robin. To Robin! I am sure the priest was acting on orders from Robin. They were planning to share my fortune. I am sure it was all Robin’s idea. Money, my dear, is the root of all evil.’

‘Money’s horrid. I entirely agree,’ Beatrice breathed. ‘Yes.’

‘I’d have shown Father Lillie-Lysander the door right away,’ Ralph Renshawe went on. ‘I’d have banned this perfidious priest from coming anywhere near the house. To think that I’d been confessing to the Devil! Oh Bee, I will never forget those eyes above me – getting closer – cold, inhuman, the eyes of a beast! There was a smile on his lips – he looked as though he was enjoying himself.’

‘You must tell the police about it, Ralph. Honestly. You must tell them about the connection between your nephew and the priest.’

‘No – for my late sister-in-law’s sake, I won’t. My sister-in-law was a saint.’ Ralph Renshawe picked up the fan. ‘But Saunders will probably tell them. Saunders is scared, shaking in his boots. Well, I intend to sack Saunders. I feel hot, Bee. This seems to be a good sign. I was always cold before.’ He had started fanning himself. ‘Do I look terribly eccentric?’