R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

Then, in the couple of seconds she had to live, Ingrid saw why she had been kept alive so far and brought to Millbrook House. It was one of those instant flashes of intuition.

The plan was that her death be made to look like suicide. It was her cyanide, she knew. The cyanide she kept in a phial in her room. Her cupboard had been raided. Suicide – wasn’t that what loopy people like her did when they reached the end of the line? The police were meant to assume that it was she who had killed the priest – that he had tried to protect Ralph, that they had had a fight – and she had stabbed him. No doubt they would discover the fruit knife in her pocket – it would be suitably smeared in the priest’s blood. They would assume she had panicked and bolted – that she had been hiding. She would be found stretched out on her bed beside her daughter’s photos -

One last gasp – one last convulsion – and she was still.

Esquire of the Body

Ingrid’s face was fiercely distorted. One eye, large and staring, moved slightly to the left as if it had become unmoored. The other remained fixed on her killer.

Ingrid’s body was dragged through the front door of the house and up the stairs, to the room which she had once occupied. There were a lot of photographs in silver frames on the bedside table. Several showed the two dogs Ingrid had once loved but had eventually had put down – these had black ribbons across the left corner. The majority of the photos were of similar-looking little girls. About six or seven years old – smiling faces – dimpled chins – blonde curls. That was what her daughter would have been like, Ingrid had felt certain. Six photographs showed the same girl in a playground; that had been her best Claire; Ingrid had found her after hours of searching, and taken photos of her without the mother noticing. She had seriously considered abducting the girl and bringing her up as her own – but there had been too many people around.

The body was laid on the bed. The hands and the feet were unbound. An open phial which contained traces of cyanide was placed between the fingers of her right hand. For a moment the killer hesitated – she was right-handed, wasn’t she? The blonde wig was still on Ingrid’s head but it was a rag now, covered in congealed mud; blades of grass and dead leaves stuck out of it. Ingrid’s face was badly bruised – it was black and blue and no longer looked anything like Beatrice’s, he was pleased to note. The nose seemed broken, one of the eyes terribly swollen. The lips too. Well, the police would assume that Ingrid Delmar had sustained her injuries in her fight with the priest. The fruit knife, covered in the priest’s blood, would be discovered in her pocket.

He stood looking round the room. Sea-green walls, very faded, bordered with a pattern of roses on a black back-ground. On the dressing table, beside a bowl of dead flowers, so black it was impossible to say what they had been when fresh, lay a book. He picked it up and held it in his gloved hand. George Trevelyan. On Reincarnation and Other Psychic Matters. He leafed through it. A sort of erudite madness, from what he could see. The book was covered in dust, like the rest of the dressing table. What was it Ingrid had wanted to believe? That her unborn daughter might have come back as some other little girl? He wiped his gloves with his handkerchief.

A musty smell hung on the air. Heaven knew when the room had been cleaned and aired last… Was there any-thing else he needed to do? He had already disposed of the knitting needle. The police would never find it… Earlier on he had managed to burn his bloodied clothes as well as the shirt and jumper he had taken from Ralph Renshawe’s wardrobe. He had done it in the back yard. He had made sure the clothes had been reduced to ashes, then scattered the ashes over the river… He remembered Ralph’s eyes following him as he had walked across the room. Ralph – his former rival in love! Of course Ralph had had no idea as to who he was. Ralph had nodded and mouthed his thanks. Not a word had passed between them. At one point both of them had looked at the clock. They had had the same thought in mind, the same purpose – that nothing should interfere with the signing of the will.

He had dropped Robin Renshawe’s card in the garden; he had found it in the priest’s wallet. The more false leads the police had to follow, the more hares to chase after, the better. Though of course, inevitably, it was all going to culminate here, in this room. That was how it had to be. He didn’t turn off the light. Casting one final glance at Ingrid’s body, he left the room.

He descended the stairs and went out of the house with-out locking the front door.

He got back into his car.

He sat trying to collect his thoughts. Suddenly he felt empty – anticlimactic.

It would be up to Beatrice to discover the body and inform the police. Whenever she and Payne came back. If they came back… They were bound to notice the light in Ingrid’s room… It might be quite late – midnight or even in the small hours of the morning… Would they come back? They might decide to spend the night at an hotel – or at Payne’s pied-a-terre. Fellows like Payne always kept a pieds-a-terre… Payne’s wife clearly had no idea of what was going on, preoccupied as she was with her writing, inventing murders and victims and alibis. Shouldn’t he write to Antonia Darcy and apprise her of her husband’s infidelity? Anonymously – signed ‘Well-wisher’? No – what would be the point? It wouldn’t change a thing – too late.

He stared in front of him into the gathering darkness. He had prepared an alibi for himself. Now what was it? He frowned. He needed to concentrate. He gripped the wheel between his gloved hands and shut his eyes. No, he didn’t need an alibi. No one would ever suspect him. Why should they? He would need to clean the boot though – dispose of the handkerchief and the paper with the house plan -

Colville groaned. He had felt the beginnings of a depression, the powerful daemon he had never been able to understand, counter or control. It started as usual with the familiar sinking sensation – thoughts of futility and pointlessness – a nameless dread nagging at his mind, like some ancient curse. What had Bee said the last time he had complained? By no means let the black dog pounce! It’s all a question of silly biochemistry, darling – one of those rogue enzymes. Bee hadn’t been exactly helpful. The truth was she had never understood him – she hadn’t even tried.

What good would all this money be to him without Bee’s love? Even if she stayed with him, for appearances’ sake, she’d continue to sneak out to meet Payne. Of course she would. Colville clearly lacked that significant It in the boudoir department… Love trysts… Secret and not so-secret assignations… Bee would expect him to condone her ways – she regarded him as a mere blind, doting dullard. .. He took Payne’s pouch out of his pocket and stared down at it.

Then another thought struck him. If Bee did leave him for Payne, which she probably would do in the end, he’d get nothing… not a penny. He could never tell Bee what he had done… All his efforts – to keep Bee and Payne in state! He examined his bruised knuckles. The risks he had taken – the danger he had put himself in – so that those two could enjoy a life of plutocratic leisure -

He started the car. He had no idea where he was going.

‘Oh, but you must come in and have a bite to eat,’ Beatrice said when they delivered her at Millbrook House shortly after ten that evening. ‘Please… I feel a wreck. I look a wreck, don’t I?’ Opening her eyes wide, she turned to Antonia. ‘Don’t I?’

‘Not really,’ Antonia said.