Assassins at Ospreys
Read Assassins at Ospreys Online
Authors: R. T. Raichev
Assassins at Ospreys
Also by R. T. Raichev
The Hunt for Sonya Dufrette
The Death of Corinne
ASSASSINS AT OSPREYS
R. T. Raichev
Constable • London
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2007
Copyright © R. T. Raichev 2007
The right of R. T. Raichev to be identified as the author
of this work has been identified by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,
hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-84529-•••-•
Printed and bound in the EU
For Elizabeth
who introduced me to Ce Soir Je T’Aime
Also
for Kate,
who let me read the letter.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. All the characters are imaginary and bear no relation to any living person.
R. T. R.
Contents
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 cliché.’
‘Some of them are very good,’ Antonia agreed. ‘Not the later ones though.’
‘As a matter of fact I
particularly
like the later ones.’
That she was saying this only to be awkward, Antonia had no doubt. How could anyone like ponderous, plotless confections like
Found in the Street
? Calcified by cliché. That was not a bad phrase. Mysteries without a solution, stories without an end. Was Ingrid a mighty metaphysician, obsessively searching for meaning, solace and peace in the wake of some dreadful personal tragedy? Did she write poetry of the more obscure kind?
Conventions shield
us from the shivering void –
Really, Antonia thought, the silly ideas that come into my head.
Beatrice was speaking. ‘Patricia Highsmith always wrote about psychotic aesthetes and alternative lives, didn’t she? About people assuming different identities and doing all sorts of truly appalling things to other people, like – like smashing their skulls with ashtrays and forcing lethal doses of sleeping pills down their throats and – and holding their heads under water?’
‘There is
much
more to Patricia Highsmith than that, Bee,’ Ingrid said. ‘And when you say “psychotic aesthetes”, you mean Ripley, right? Well, he is the only one.’ ‘I am sure he isn’t the only one,’ Beatrice said stubbornly.
How intensely tedious this was becoming. Antonia stole a glance at her watch.
‘One must be very unhappy to want to be somebody else, don’t you think?’ Beatrice appealed to Antonia.
‘Well, yes – I suppose so.’
‘Or very disturbed.’ Ingrid gave a short laugh. She put her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.
‘There are people apparently who suffer from a multiple personality disorder without being aware of it! Isn’t that fascinating? I have tried to imagine what it must be like –’
‘Shall we go, Bee?’
The way Ingrid kept saying ‘Bee’ – somehow it ceased to be a woman’s nickname or a diminutive; it didn’t bring to mind the insect either, rather it became an incantation – a sorceress’s formula. At once Antonia castigated herself for her fanciful thoughts. The lack of air, she decided. She wanted to leave the hall, stretch her legs, have tea, phone Hugh. She glanced towards her bag. She hadn’t left her mobile at home again, had she?
‘Now don’t laugh at me, but I thought about writing a story about someone who is in fact
two people
– I am sure it’s been done hundreds of times! Dear me. The way I go on. We have lived in such isolation, Miss Darcy – we have become a bit peculiar. A little – cracked?’ Beatrice Ardleigh laughed, a tinkling girlish laugh, as though to indicate this was not to be taken too seriously. ‘I realize it each time we go out and meet people. I do hope you aren’t finding us too objectionable? We have the silliest and pettiest of spats sometimes. I bet people think us quite mad!’
Antonia gave another polite smile. She was wondering what to do. Shouldn’t she simply rise, apologize and say she had an important engagement? ‘Where do you live?’ she heard herself ask instead.
‘Oxfordshire. Wallingford. It’s a pleasant enough place but quite dreary. It’s our first visit to Hay-on-Wye and I am loving every moment of it. I find the smell of new books intoxicating!’ Beatrice shut and opened her eyes in a show of ecstasy. Her bosom rose and fell. The finest perfumes of Arabia might have been paraded for her inspection. Everything about her was heightened, exaggerated – dress, words, gestures. ‘
Is
that Kinky Friedman? Over there – look!’ She pointed excitedly. ‘The tall man with the drooping moustache and the desert boots? Or is it one of the Village People? I heard they were here – they have written a joint memoir, haven’t they?’
‘I am afraid I have no idea,’ Antonia said.
‘Apparently –’ Beatrice went on in a loud whisper, choking with silent laughter, ‘Apparently, Kinky Friedman thought Hay-on-Wye a
sandwich
, when he first heard about it! I’ve read two of his books.
Not
my cup of tea at all, but I read all the time. I would read
anything
. I suppose I am what you’d call “chronically literary” – the kind of person who, when the rhododendrons are in bloom, will amble round Kew Gardens reading the labels on the trees!’ Suddenly she became serious. ‘Reading is my life. I used to feel quite apocalyptic about things, human existence in general, but books saved my life. My sanity. If I didn’t read, I might have turned into a monster. Honestly.’
For some reason Ingrid looked extremely tense now, very much on edge – just as a cat is supposed to be minutes before a devastating earthquake, Antonia thought. Was Ingrid afraid that Beatrice was saying too much – giving away too much? Beatrice was voluble in a way that suggested a degree of instability. Was her interest in multiple personality disorder of any significance? The two women seemed totally incompatible in terms of sociability, but then Beatrice hinted at things one shouldn’t really be talking about in front of total strangers.
Aloud Antonia said, ‘Yes. Reading is the most wonderful of panaceas.’
Did people think of their favourite authors as of close friends? Antonia admired a number of writers but, if she ever were to meet them, she wouldn’t dream of talking to them about, say, her failed first marriage and how she nearly suffered a nervous breakdown as a result, or how she left her librarian job at the Military Club to do full-time writing, or about her second husband selling his Sussex farm and moving in with her in Hampstead. Certainly not on first meeting them!
‘There’s a speculative glint in your eye.’ Beatrice leant forward. ‘Shall I tell you what I think? I think you are going to put us in your next book.’
‘I never do that kind of thing,’ Antonia said with a smile, not entirely truthfully, because, somewhere at the back of her mind, she had already been considering the two women from a writer’s point of view, as potential characters.
Beatrice, she had decided, looked like some rich man’s wife, spoilt, affected, annoyingly child-like, and yes, a little cracked, the result no doubt of long years spent in a wheelchair, but there was no evidence of a Mr Ardleigh – none of her rings was a wedding one. Ingrid too was peculiar, even a bit creepy, with her garb of woe, black gloves that brought to mind Victorian undertakers, and mother-hen solicitousness, yet, it was not taken separately, but collectively
, as an ensemble piece
, in relation to one another, that the two women became really interesting. They appealed to her sense of anomaly. They stimulated her Gothic imagination. (For some time Antonia had wanted to write a detective story with Gothic overtones.) Some kind of strange symbiosis seemed to have been at work.
Les bonnes
, or the maids – as Antonia whimsically dubbed them in her mind – couldn’t have been more different, yet there was an odd likeness between them – it was something subtle, elusive, indefinable – blink and it was gone. That was what happened when two people had lived together a long time. Antonia had observed the phenomenon with husbands and wives.