R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

‘Who’s they? If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘My husband,’ she said. ‘I am married now.’

‘Married? I am so glad… I didn’t mean to pry… I feared I – I might have ruined your life.’ His breathing was again becoming extremely laboured.

He feared he might have ruined her life. She remained silent and still, but her hands clenched into fists. Fury rose inside her – the sudden urge to attack him – to batter at his face with her fists. She wanted to push him off the bed and kick him till she smashed every bone in his body. Suddenly she felt extremely hot. She broke out into a sweat. She took off her gloves.

You don’t understand. You did ruin my life. You destroyed me. That’s why I am here.

‘You have forgiven me, haven’t you, Bee?’ His voice was barely audible. He was peering at her. He sounded extremely anxious. ‘Really forgiven me?’ He looked like an ancient tortoise – the way he pushed his head forward. He was only – what? Sixty – sixty-one? The illness had made him look a hundred.

She stared down at her hands. I haven’t forgiven you. You fool. You think you know me but you don’t. You don’t under-stand a thing. I could tear you apart with my bare hands. The only reason you are still alive is because it gives me such great joy to watch you die.

Suddenly Ralph Renshawe’s eyes grew wider with incredulity and fear. He had seen something. A memory had stirred at the back of his mind and that was followed by a shocking realization. His eyes darted towards the buzzer. Then something equally curious happened. He gave a little sigh; he sank back and a tight little smile appeared on his bluish lips.

She was not aware of the changes in his expression; she had been looking at the crucifix on the wall once more, at the pathetic, broken figure of the Christ. Stick-like arms and legs, tiny cache-sex, dolorous, rolled-up eyes, agonized mouth. Her lip curled scornfully. Orthodox religions filled her with contempt. Christianity she deemed particularly bogus. How could anyone accept the idea of a benign all-loving, all-caring, all-powerful Creator?

An all-loving Creator wouldn’t have allowed her little girl to perish.

Portrait of a Marriage

‘Conundrums, conundrums. How boring life would be without them. Why did the parsley sink into the butter?’ Major Payne murmured. ‘Do you remember that Sherlock Holmes story? Was it something to do with the depth? What is your favourite conundrum?’

‘What name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women.’

‘You aren’t by any chance thinking about the mystery man at Millbrook House?’

Antonia frowned. ‘I probably am…’

It was the following week, Saturday afternoon, as arranged, and they were driving across Berkshire in the direction of Wallingford. The day was bright and clear, but extremely cold. The countryside stretched out on either side of the road – it had been bronze and copper and lemon and greenish-white, also gold, but there had been several frosts and the colours were fading fast.

Payne went on to say he didn’t know of many writers who allowed themselves to be befriended by their fans.

‘Some writers actually marry their fans,’ said Antonia.

‘No, they don’t.’

‘They do. Daphne du Maurier married Commander Browning after he wrote to her a fan letter concerning The Loving Spirit. And didn’t you marry me soon after you told me how much you admired my first novel?’

‘Golly, so I did. Touche!’

The Thames Valley. Must be pleasant in spring and summer, but in autumn and winter it was cold and dank. Beatrice Ardleigh’s house – Millbrook – was right on the road at the end of the town. It was a Queen Anne house in excellent condition. Payne nodded with approval as he took off his driving gloves. He wondered aloud how Beatrice and Ingrid – or for that matter the mystery man – could put up with the traffic right on the road. Earlier on in the car he had speculated as to the possibility of them walking in on some extraordinary menage a trois. Was the man perhaps married to both women? Did Antonia know what ‘troilism’ meant? Perhaps the man would turn out to be a polygamous Mussulman?

‘There’s hardly any traffic here,’ Antonia observed and she then pointed to the slightly sinister holly trees that grew up to the top windows and shielded most of the front. ‘I am sure these muffle any noise there might be.’

‘This could work either way…’ Major Payne lowered his voice. ‘No one would hear screams for help coming from inside the house. Just a thought.’

He rang the doorbell.

The man who opened the front door didn’t look like anybody’s idea of a polygamous Mussulman – nor was he Ingrid in drag. Introducing himself as Leonard Colville, he shook hands with them and invited them in. He was middle-aged, with grizzled hair sleeked back; early or mid-fifties, at a guess. He was broad and heavily built, with intensely blue eyes and a cheerful, round, somewhat comic pink face. He might have been a not particularly effectual Tory cabinet minister of the better class, of the kind one last saw in the early ’90s – or a Father Christmas in mufti, Payne decided. He looked as though he had just taken off his beard and was taking it easy with a glass of port. He was wearing an ancient tweed jacket with leather patches, a silk scarf around his neck, twill trousers and highly polished brogues.

He stood beaming at them. ‘Delighted to meet you. I am Bee’s husband. We got married only last month.’

‘Congratulations,’ Payne said.

‘Haven’t got used to my new status yet. Bee calls it my “promotion”. Ha-ha. We were talking about it just now. This way. Bee is thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. Your visit means a lot to her.’

The room which they entered was at the back and the french windows looked out on the garden and the flat water-meadows beyond, sloping down to where presumably the river lay. It was an extremely comfortable room, cosy in an old-fashioned kind of way, and at the moment it was flooded by the wine-coloured autumn sun. Quiet air of genteel well-being. Gemutlichkeit. Major Payne couldn’t quite explain why he had thought of the German word. There were large billowing armchairs, an equally large sofa covered in white quilted chintz, bowls of chrysan-themums, a faded tapestry on one of the walls. A cedar-wood fire crackled under the mahogany chimneypiece. The Telegraph, with a half-completed crossword, lay on the low coffee table, next to a Polaroid camera and a pack of cards. They had been playing Patience Poker, Colville said in a low voice, making it sound rather daring.

Beatrice Ardleigh sat in an armchair beside the fireplace, her legs invisible underneath a blanket of a tartan design. Her hands were clasped on her lap and she was biting her lower lip. If anything she looked younger than when Antonia had first seen her five months before. Her face glowed. Her golden hair seemed freshly coiffed and it shimmered each time sparks flew upwards. Her eyes were open wide. She had the innocent look Antonia remembered – untouched by experience, absurdly virginal. She brought to mind a little girl who was about to receive a long-awaited present.

‘Here they are,’ Beatrice’s husband announced, having opened the door with something of a theatrical flourish.

Antonia glanced nervously about but there was no sign of Ingrid.

Beatrice started hoisting herself up, but Colville raised his hand. She assumed an expression of comic deprecation as though to say, fuss, fuss, then, leaning back, she silently held her hands out towards Antonia who was compelled to bend over and kiss her. Beatrice’s face was flawless like luminous china, her eyelashes were lightly mascara-ed and she wore pendant earrings and a necklace of some Oriental design. She had a fine cashmere shawl around her shoulders. Antonia saw copies of her two books on the small table by Beatrice’s side.