R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

Robin remembered how as a boy he used to read the Norse myths and how he cheered on Loki, the trickster malcontent and shape-shifter, who was doomed to agonized failure in his persistent battles with the Asgard gods… They must have found something… Saunders must have talked, blast him… His uncle must have been saying things. .. Had Eric too talked? Eric tended to want to ‘share’ things with people in the girlie way he had… Would the Asgard gods batter down the door if he didn’t open?

They couldn’t put him in jail – there wouldn’t be enough evidence – but they were capable of making his life distinctly unpleasant for a while. The Mortification of Moriarty. How ironic, Robin Renshawe thought. It was almost as though Lily had known some such thing would happen all those years ago when he had devised the twist at the end of their play.

At her enemy’s mercy…

Who was her enemy? Ingrid was sure she knew. If only her head didn’t hurt so badly, if only so many thoughts didn’t insist on crowding round her brain, it would come to her… The name or the face… So hard to think of one particular enemy, when one had so many! Ralph. The interloper. Bee. Father Lillie-Lysander – no – Father Lillie-Lysander was dead – killed like a pig.

How he had bled!

What was it the handkerchief in her mouth reeked of? It was such a familiar smell. A mixture of tobacco and scent. A smell she associated with someone she had once loved dearly. No, not Claire… Claire didn’t smoke. Claire was too young, completely unspoilt… Her little girl… Lovely lips like a rosebud, clear blue eyes, hair like lint, so fair it hardly made any shadow on her pale forehead. Where was Claire?

Ce Soir Je T’Aime and stale Turkish cigarettes. That was it – the malodorous melange. To think that there had been a time when she hadn’t minded the smell of either, that she had actually liked it since they were both part of Bee… She had been dabbing drops of Ce Soir Je T’Aime behind her ears as part of her impersonation – but it was not something she wanted in her mouth.

For no apparent reason a memory floated into Ingrid’s head. A balmy day in early August. The sun shimmering off the river in bright waves. Bee and she sitting contentedly within a nest of large brocade cushions. A starched tablecloth on the grass. A picnic lunch. Pimms, grilled salmon-trout, sauteed potatoes, green salad, a bottle of white wine, followed by lemon sorbet and, finally, thick black coffee out of exquisite Meissen porcelain cups, which Ingrid had brought over from the house carefully wrapped up in two silk shawls. The summery buzzing of bees in the air. Bluish smoke rising from Bee’s Turkish cigarette. Bee reminiscing once more about the grand hotels in the South of France where she had stayed with her father – vanilla and strawberry palaces in their vastes parcs fleuris, sheltered by parasol pines and fountaining palm trees – sleek-headed bellboys in duck-egg grey uniforms – taps that filled the bath in thirty seconds and caused it to overflow in thirty-five… Then the wild beating of wings – two ducks fighting on the river. How they had laughed! Quack, quack, Bee had said in her droll way. Quack, quack, quack. Ingrid remembered her thoughts. This is too perfect.

Ingrid had reached out for Bee’s left hand, held it palm upwards and compared it with her own. Look, our hands are practically identical. Bee had hastily withdrawn her hand – didn’t Ingrid know it was unlucky to compare hands? Ingrid had told her not to be silly. Ingrid hadn’t really expected anything bad to happen, but had felt a little disconcerted when the following morning at ten a man introducing himself as ‘Leonard Colville’ phoned and asked to speak to Bee. Ingrid had put her hand over the receiver and whispered – Sounds like some pompous fool – hope you won’t be too bored.

Ingrid realized that she was dead already. Her parents had killed her, her boyfriend had killed her, Ralph had killed her, Bee had killed her, the interloper had killed her, the wasted years had killed her. When the heart was dead, all was dead, though the victim might not fully be aware of it for a long time – She tried to scream but all that came from her mouth was a faint moaning sound. What kind of a box was this? As a child she used to be punished by her father by being shut up in a wardrobe or small cupboard, where she had imagined that a small creature was trying to bite off her toes. Had her toes been bitten off -

She was delirious again.

Was the mixture of Parisian scent and Turkish tobacco in her mouth going to make her throw up? If that happened, she would choke on her own vomit and die a slow horrible death. Maybe that was the intention?

No, that was not the intention. Ingrid knew she was going to die a violent death, but she believed there was a purpose as to why she had been kept alive so far. There was a good reason why she hadn’t been killed outright in the garden at Ospreys, the way the priest had been, why the first blow hadn’t been followed by a second, lethal one.

The priest had struggled – that had been his undoing. There had been a spurt of blood – then another. The priest had thrashed about and then had lain on the floor twitching. Yes, she had seen the priest perish. She had stood outside the french windows and watched, fascinated, hypnotized by the sight of the blood…

It was only moments later that she had made her presence known. Hello. The shocked look on his face – those foolish bulging eyes, that gaping mouth, those cheeks the colour of ripe tomatoes! It had made her laugh. He had been dragging the priest like a sack of potatoes across the terrace towards the stone steps that led to the garden.

She had started speaking. The things she had said! She had let all her frustration, all her resentment, all her bitterness, all her hatred spill out, but she had also, in a strange kind of way, enjoyed herself. Oh yes. She smiled at the memory. She had felt extremely powerful and in complete control. The torrent of words unleashed from between her lips had been frightening.

She had let rip.

Do you think you will be allowed to get away with this? Your interloping days are over. You are finished. You’ll spend the rest of your days in jail. You will end up as some big boy’s bitch. I will see to it. They may even kill you. You’ll never be allowed to touch your beloved again. I’ll see to it. But it was when she had started with the more specific taunts – Bee’s got a rat-ing system, you know – she rates all her lovers – if you only knew what she said about you, how she laughed when she said you lacked that significant It in the boudoir department, you wouldn’t want to live! – that the blow had fallen.

Suddenly the lid opened and Ingrid was blinded by light -

An electric torch had been flashed into her face. She moaned – it burnt her eyes. She felt the tape being removed from her mouth, roughly and painfully peeled off, the handkerchief pulled out. Air! She coughed and gasped. Bright spots swam before her eyes. Then, in negative black and white, she saw something familiar. Wasn’t that the holly tree in front of Millbrook, the house she and Beatrice had shared for thirty years? Of course it was. The holly reached up to her bedroom window – why, she had trimmed it only last week!

Then she saw where she was. In the boot of a car – not in a coffin. She opened her mouth wide – not to scream but to breathe. She filled her lungs with air. Had help come? Earlier on she had been praying to Mighty God Rook -

No. Ingrid couldn’t make out the features of the face looking down at her, but she knew very well who it was. It was – him. I will have you for assault and illegal constraint, she wanted to shout but the next moment she smelled bitter almonds. She tried to bite the hateful fingers that were pushing the lump of cyanide into her mouth – how she would have liked to crunch them off! – but failed. She snarled – she felt her chin being pushed upwards. She heard her teeth click. She felt the cyanide gliding down her tongue, like a boat down a sluggish river, sinking deep into her throat. She gasped again – choked – gurgled -