R Raichev - Assassins at Ospreys

The Maids

The two women sat at the very end of the first row, quite close to the platform, and Antonia couldn’t say precisely which one she had noticed first. She convinced herself that it had been the one with hair like burnished gold because she was the only member of the audience who was in a wheelchair. The woman wore an extremely smart-looking cream and blue silk dress, a diamond necklace and clips, too elegant for such a minor literary event, really, and she clutched Antonia’s latest book in her hands. A bunch of red roses lay across her lap. But it might have been the other, the dark one – on account of the fact that, as far as Antonia could see, she was the only person in the auditorium wearing black gloves. It was a very warm day in early June, the air conditioning in the hall wasn’t working properly, and to wear any kind of gloves, no matter how fine the material, was to draw attention and invite speculation as to the reason. (Didn’t sartorial quirks sometimes hint at deeper eccentricities of character?)

‘Goldilocks and Cerberus’ was how Antonia’s husband dubbed them when she described them to him later, though by the time they paid their first visit to Millbrook House, the two nicknames had been largely forgotten.

The annual literary festival was taking place at Hay-on-Wye. Antonia was on a panel of crime writers who were addressing a small audience of about sixty. For the past twenty minutes they had been talking about various aspects of their trade. Antonia’s eyes kept straying towards the two women.

They were probably in their forties, but the Goldilocks’ vivacious expression, round doll-like eyes and smooth radiant face made her appear much younger. The Cerberus’ hair was closely cropped and she wore a severely cut black suit. She had an air of seniority about her. Her complexion was wax-like and she had a curiously blank stare. Her gloved hands were busy, adjusting and readjusting the blanket across Goldilocks’ knees. She touched Goldilocks’ bare arm with the back of her hand as though to convince herself that her friend was not running a temperature, or was not too hot. She pulled a thermos flask out of her bag and motioned Goldilocks to have a drink. These attentions were accepted as though Goldilocks were used to them, but every now and then she gave the distinct impression she could do without them. Goldilocks’ gaze did not leave the platform and it seemed to be fixed on Antonia. When their eyes eventually met, Goldilocks smiled and nodded and twiddled the fingers of her right hand in greeting. The red roses, Antonia suspected – and in a way rather dreaded – were for her. Goldilocks was clearly an aficionado.

The crime writers discussed subjects such as whether or not they could spot potential criminals, the ethics of employing real life murders as ‘copy’, what happened when good women fell in with crooked men (‘How about vice versa?’ a male member of the audience cried, raising a laugh), murder and class, whether all the strategies of deception had been exhausted, the question of implausible motives, the legacy of Agatha Christie (the ‘Curse of Christie’, the youngest member of the panel, a floppy-haired, truculent-looking Scot, called it), and what exactly constituted ‘cheating’ in detective stories – did readers really care?

It was all very entertaining and light-hearted. A good time seemed to be had by all. At one point the audience were invited to ask questions. The event culminated in a signing session when fans had the opportunity to meet their favourite author.

‘What lovely roses… Thank you very much,’ Antonia said.

‘Your latest book. I would be very happy if you inscribed it for me,’ Goldilocks breathed. ‘I am looking for-ward to reading it terribly… My name is Beatrice. Beatrice Ardleigh.’ Her voice was high, girlish, slightly clipped.

There had been about twelve people waiting for Antonia. Beatrice Ardleigh had appeared last. She had been wheeled up to her table by the taciturn Cerberus, whose name, it turned out, was Ingrid. Beatrice went on to describe Antonia’s previous book as ‘sublime’. The plot had been ‘devilishly clever’, ‘darkly comical’ and ‘stupefyingly ingenious’, the clueing ‘superb’. She had never guessed the murderer. Besides – she adored it when characters dis-played such high levels of literacy and erudition.

‘Thank you very much,’ Antonia said again. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She always felt extremely foolish in the face of extravagant compliments.

‘Ingrid says it’s all a trick – that it can all be done with a dictionary of quotations,’ Beatrice continued. ‘Surely that’s not how you do it? Ingrid hates it when characters swap lines of poetry “like in a game of ping-pong”, but I think it’s such fun… Do you like poetry?’

‘I do.’ Antonia picked up her pen. ‘Shall I write – “To Beatrice”?’

‘“To Bee”… Please. That’s what my best friends call me.’ Antonia wrote obligingly on the flyleaf, To Bee – With my very best wishes. Antonia Darcy.

‘Would you cross out your name and write it in your own hand? The way writers do it? Thank you. It means so much to me.’

‘Thank you very much,’ Antonia said for the third time, with an air of finality, she hoped. She went on smiling but leant back in her chair. She was encouraged to see Ingrid’s grip on the wheelchair handles tighten, but Beatrice Ardleigh said, ‘A moment, darling… Ingrid doesn’t care much for detective stories, I am afraid.’

‘Well, some people don’t.’ Antonia managed a light-hearted shrug.

‘Not the tricksy whodunit type, no,’ Ingrid said. She smiled only with her lips – her eyes remained expressionless, Antonia noticed. ‘All that insufferably cosy amateurish atmosphere of “let’s sit down and puzzle it out”. Denouements that hinge on seemingly irrelevant details placed in Chapter 1.’

‘Darling!’ Beatrice protested. ‘That’s part of the fun! It’s called fair play.’

‘I am sorry, but tricksy whodunits irritate me to screaming point.’ That means she doesn’t like my books, Antonia thought. She saw Beatrice mouth at her, Pay no attention.

‘Same as church music and Dickens’ novels, which I used to love,’ Ingrid went on. ‘I used to have a dog named Pip.’ Both women were terribly well spoken, though Ingrid’s voice was deep and gravelly. They brought to mind Cheltenham Ladies’ College, or even Benenden. There was something almost parodically Pathe-like about their diction. Were they actresses? Speech therapists? Bridge hostesses? (Did bridge hostesses still exist?)

‘Not every crime has a punishment, every mystery a solution and every story an ending,’ Ingrid declared some-what inconsequentially.

‘Ingrid prefers excursions into the – how shall I put it? The darker reaches of the human psyche. Don’t you, my sweet?’ Beatrice said. ‘It’s affected the way she looks at things. Honestly. For example, she says – shall I tell Miss Darcy?’

‘Tell her what?’ Ingrid said absently. Her attention seemed to be distracted by a woman and a little girl and her eyes followed them as they walked across the hall towards the exit.

‘Ingrid says I sometimes do things which I have no recollection of having done. She suggests I have fugues.’

‘I never said you had fugues.’ Ingrid was still looking in the direction of the exit.

‘All right. I did do something.’ Beatrice heaved a histrionic sigh. ‘But it happened only once and that was so silly.’ ‘I like Patricia Highsmith,’ Ingrid said suddenly. ‘Now there’s a highly original writer who never allowed her books to become calcified by cliche.’