Assassins at Ospreys (17 page)

25
Le Malade Imaginaire

Ralph Renshawe squeezed her hand. ‘
Listen
. I’ve worked it all out. It is my nephew who was behind it. Father Lillie-Lysander was Robin’s agent. He was a friend of his, apparently. They were at school together. Saunders told me about it. It slipped out – he didn’t intend to tell me, but he got muddled. The old fool.’

‘You didn’t know they were friends?’

‘I had no idea. Of course not. I am very cross with Saunders for not finding a priest himself. I commissioned him – and he left it all to Robin. To Robin! I am sure the priest was acting on orders from Robin. They were planning to share my fortune. I am sure it was all Robin’s idea. Money, my dear, is the root of all evil.’

‘Money’s horrid. I entirely agree,’ Beatrice breathed. ‘
Yes.’

‘I’d have shown Father Lillie-Lysander the door right away,’ Ralph Renshawe went on. ‘I’d have banned this perfidious priest from coming anywhere near the house. To think that I’d been confessing to the Devil! Oh Bee, I will never forget those eyes above me – getting closer – cold, inhuman, the eyes of a beast! There was a smile on his lips –
he looked as though he was enjoying himself
.’

‘You must tell the police about it, Ralph. Honestly. You must tell them about the connection between your nephew and the priest.’

‘No – for my late sister-in-law’s sake, I won’t. My sister-in-law was a saint.’ Ralph Renshawe picked up the fan. ‘But Saunders will probably tell them. Saunders is scared, shaking in his boots. Well, I intend to sack Saunders. I feel hot, Bee. This seems to be a good sign. I was always cold before.’ He had started fanning himself. ‘Do I look terribly eccentric?’

Bee giggled. ‘You do, rather.’

He pressed her hand again. ‘I hope to see more of you in future, my dear. You will come again, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘Won’t your husband mind?’

‘He doesn’t need to know.’

‘Wicked girl,’ he said. ‘Would you give me a kiss, or am I too repugnant?’

‘No, of course not, my sweet. Here.’ She bent over and kissed his forehead. ‘When you do feel better, Ralph, we can go to Baudolino’s, for a symbolic drink – to exorcize the past,’ she whispered. ‘Or would that be in poor taste?’ The door opened and Antonia and Major Payne appeared.

‘Who are these people?’ Ralph Renshawe asked.

‘Dear friends of mine. Hugh and Antonia Payne. They brought me here.’

‘Sorry for barging in like that. I was wondering whether I might have a word with Mr Renshawe,’ Major Payne was at his most clipped.

Ralph Renshawe had dropped the fan and slumped down between the pillows. ‘With me? What about?’

Antonia stared at the lipstick mark on his forehead. Can’t be dying, she thought.

Payne cleared his throat. ‘The police will be here any moment –’

‘They’ve already been here, ‘ Ralph Renshawe said. ‘The police don’t scare me. They are looking for Father Lillie-Lysander. Well, I can’t help them. I know nothing about his whereabouts. Nothing at all.’

‘He’s turned up, actually.’ Major Payne paused. ‘In a short while Father Lillie-Lysander will be in the capable hands of the scene-of-crime fellows.’

Beatrice gave a little gasp. ‘What do you mean, Hugh?’

‘I should have said his body. He is dead. He’s been murdered.’

Ralph Renshawe’s pale tongue flicked across the lips. ‘You found his body? Where?
’

‘In the garden.’ Payne waved towards the windows. ‘The priest’s in the hole. I mean the well.’

‘In the wishing well!’ Beatrice clutched at her throat.

‘That is where the body was dropped. Somebody clearly wished him dead.’ Payne paused but Ralph Renshawe said nothing. ‘Father Lillie-Lysander was stabbed with one of Nurse Wilkes’ knitting needles. It was on your bedside table, wasn’t it, Renshawe?’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘I think you do. The needle pierced the priest’s jugular. There was blood. Father Lillie-Lysander bled over your bed. You made Nurse Wilkes clean it up. You paid her handsomely to keep her mouth shut. It happened on the morning of the 26th. Two days ago. Your solicitor was coming at eleven o’clock. Father Lillie-Lysander died at least half an hour before that – the question is why? Why did he have to die?’

Ralph Renshawe looked at him. ‘
Who are you?
’

‘I have a theory. The padre was about to bump you off – no, not with the knitting needle – by some other ingenious means.’ Payne frowned thoughtfully at the pillows at the foot of the bed. ‘However, the murderous attempt was foiled.’ Payne raised his eyebrows at Beatrice who had stifled a cry. ‘I do believe someone popped in through the french windows and rescued you.’

‘You sound like one of those vacuous army majors.’

‘I am a major, but I am far from vacuous.’

‘Bee, my dear, would you tell your friends to go away? I am afraid I am awfully tired.’ Ralph Renshawe shut his eyes.

‘It had something to do with your will, hadn’t it?’

‘I know nothing about it, Hugh,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘I didn’t mean you –’

Ralph Renshawe murmured, ‘Why should I tell you anything?’

The sound of a siren came from outside.

‘The police,’ said Antonia.

Beatrice had kept her hand at her throat. She was tugging at her pearls as though they were choking her. And then it suddenly came to Antonia, what it was she had seen at Millbrook that was of importance.

Of course
. It was the Polaroid photograph of Ingrid dressed up as Beatrice. The photograph held the clue.

That ridiculous necklace with the Taj Mahals – Ingrid was wearing it in the photo – the photo had been taken on the morning of the 26th – two days ago. That was when Ingrid had disappeared. Well, Ingrid hadn’t been found yet – but when Antonia and Hugh arrived at Millbrook House earlier in the afternoon, the necklace – the unique Taj Mahal necklace – had been adorning Bee’s neck . . .

That, Antonia reflected, could mean only one thing.

‘I haven’t the foggiest what happened. I must have fallen asleep. I could hear the clacking of his rosary beads. It was a hypnotic kind of sound. Then – nothing. Total oblivion,’ Ralph Renshawe told Inspector Hopper. His head lay on the pillow and he spoke in a halting, breathless voice, quite different from the voice in which he had spoken to Beatrice Ardleigh earlier on.

‘Please try to remember. It is extremely important.’

‘I had a rather frightening sort of dream. A nightmare, you may say. I often have nightmares. Only moments ago I imagined I heard the Grim Reaper sharpening his scythe. I am a very ill man.’ Renshawe’s eyes were half-closed, but he was watching his interlocutor covertly. ‘When I woke up, I saw I was covered in blood. I
smelled
it first. A metal-lic kind of smell, slightly fishy. At first I thought I was still dreaming – that it was part of the nightmare, but then I touched it and realized the blood was real.’

‘And Father Lillie-Lysander?’

‘Gone. Vanished. He wasn’t in the room any longer. His rosary was on my bedside table.’

Inspector Hopper leant forward. ‘Father Lillie-Lysander’s car was found in your garage, Mr Renshawe. We believe he died in this room. Your sheets were covered in his blood. We found bloodstains on the terrace outside and on the garden path. Father Lillie-Lysander’s body was dragged out of here through the french windows, down the terrace steps, across the garden and pushed into the well.’

The old man cackled. ‘You don’t think it was me who did the dragging? I mean – look at me.’

‘I never for a moment thought it was you. Somebody else dragged him out.’ Inspector Hopper took out the card Major Payne had given him. ‘Robin Renshawe. That’s your nephew, isn’t it? Was it your nephew who helped you?’

‘Robin wouldn’t try to help me.
Quite
the reverse.’ Ralph Renshawe shut his eyes. ‘You keep getting things wrong. Please, go away.’

‘Was it your nurse? The woman who left your employ so hurriedly – Nurse Wilkes?’ No answer came. ‘Who helped you?’ Hopper persisted. ‘Whoever it was, you must have seen him.’

There was a pause. Ralph Renshawe’s eyes remained shut but he started speaking deliriously. ‘Who helped me? You want to know who helped me? I do know who helped me. Oh yes. It’s all coming back to me. I’d never seen my saviour before, but you see, I recognized my saviour at once.’

The inspector leant forward, pen poised over notebook. ‘Who was it? Would you describe him, sir?’

‘
Him?
Oh no, it wasn’t a man.’

‘A woman? Who was she?’

‘What a literal mind you have.’ Ralph Renshawe sighed. ‘They have no gender.’

Hopper blinked. ‘No –?’

‘I thought you knew. Don’t you read your Bible?’

‘What’s the Bible got to do with it?’ Hopper frowned. Was Ralph Renshawe really off his rocker or was he playing games with him?

‘It’s all in the Bible,’ Ralph Renshawe said. ‘You want to know who my saviour was? It was an angel, inspector –’ ‘An angel!’

Ralph Renshawe drew back a little, a pained expression on his face. ‘Be kind enough to moderate your voice, inspector. Yes, an angel – but not a common or garden one. Oh no. It was
my guardian angel
. My guardian angel came to me in my hour of need.’

‘What need?’

‘Sorry – didn’t I say? Do forgive me. I keep falling prey to fugues and fancies. The monstrous monsignor attempted to murder me.’

‘Father Lillie-Lysander tried to kill you?’

‘Is that a better way of saying it?’ Ralph Renshawe frowned in a puzzled manner. ‘Well, I prayed for help and my prayer was answered. I was helped in my hour of need, inspector,
exactly
as the Bible promises. You want me to describe my guardian angel? Smooth-faced, seemingly delicate but in fact exceptionally strong, with golden hair and golden crown and golden wings, bran-dishing a sword, exuding goodness and mercy, but also breathing fire –’

26
Strong Poison

The discovery of Father Lillie-Lysander’s body in the grounds of Ospreys was announced later that evening on the ten o’clock news. He had been murdered – stabbed to death. The camera lingered on the theatrically Gothic pile with its absurd gables and turrets, then swept across the wildly overgrown garden, parts of which looked distinctly un-English due to the late Moira Montano’s now dilapidated pink conservatory, ragged palms, fantastical grotto benches and clumps of bamboo; it all brought to mind a decayed Mediterranean film set.

The camera came to rest on a rook perched on the edge of the seventeenth-century wishing well. The rook – rather a large specimen – gazed straight at the camera, flapped its wings and crowed. There was no perceptible change in the newscaster’s voice when he said that the priest’s body had been at the bottom of the well. It had been a particularly brutal attack. At the time of discovery, the body had been in the early stages of decomposition. The perpetrator was unknown and the motive for the crime remained unclear. The police were conducting an investigation and they were anxious to speak to Miss Ingrid Delmar.

‘Good lord, that’s not Ospreys, is it?’ Sir Marcus Laud said, peering at the TV screen.

‘It is Ospreys,’ Lady Laud said.

She was thirty years younger than her husband and his fourth wife. She had reappeared soon after he had got rid of Ospreys and since then they had been leading a life of unadulterated bliss in South Kensington. Sitting on the floor beside his chair, resting her auburn head against his knee, the fourth Lady Laud – who had read English at Oxford and was something of an expert on Kipling – sighed and once more she told the story of what had made her run away that day.

She had been aware of a little grey shadow, as it might have been a snowflake against the light, floating at an immense distance in the background of her brain. She had then been plunged into overwhelming gloom. Her amazed soul, she said, dropped gulf by gulf into that horror of great darkness which is spoken of in the Bible, and which, as auctioneers say, must be experienced to be appreciated. Despair upon despair, misery upon misery, fear after fear, until she found herself in a state of absolute panic. She hadn’t seen any ghosts or heard any voices – nothing like that, but, nevertheless, she had felt the overpowering urge to be as far away from Ospreys as possible. And again Sir Marcus – who had never read Kipling’s story ‘The House Surgeon’ – said comfortably that he wasn’t the least bit surprised. It was that sort of place.

(The truth was of course quite different and much more prosaic, and it had something to do with an unexpected phone call from a past lover who had suggested that they have one last month of passion in the Caribbean.)

The conversation then turned to Moira Montano.

‘In one of her films she comes out of a lake on a freezing cold night and hovers above the surface,’ Sir Marcus said. ‘There’s a chap in a boat and for some reason he’s got stuck in the middle of the lake. She is beautiful as a dream. Golden hair, enormous green eyes, a wide red mouth, but when she smiles at the chap, her teeth show white and pointed, sharp as needles – as many teeth as a strange fish.’

In Knightsbridge, reclining so far back in his chair that he was horizontal in front of his TV set, his arms crossed behind his head, Robin Renshawe too watched the broad-cast. A glass and a whisky bottle stood on the table before him. He had started by mixing himself whisky sours with grenadine, fresh lime and crushed ice, but had ended up drinking it neat. The ice cubes in the bucket had all melted. He was rather drunk; he was on the point of reaching that highly desirable state in which relaxation and irresponsibility mingle.

‘Who the fuck is Ingrid Delmar?’ Robin asked aloud. There hadn’t been much regret in his reaction to Lily’s demise. He had always regarded Lily as expendable. As disposable as a cocktail stick.
Requiescat in pace
, he had murmured and he had raised his glass. He had then wondered if it would be worth the trouble of sneaking into Lily’s flat and collecting the marble bust of Cicero or whoever that was. It seemed to have caught his fancy, oddly enough.
No
. That wishing well might have been swarming with flies, but Lily’s flat would be much worse – it would be swarming with
les flics
. Robin laughed at his joke, but his heart was far from light.

Another of his lieutenants gone. A couple of minutes earlier he had received a call from Eric at long last. Eric had told him he
hadn’t
been able to do what Robin had asked him.
I am very sorry, Robin
. The silly ass had given the most
pathetic
reason imaginable for failing to go to Ospreys on the morning of the 26th. Eric had been most apologetic in that absurd lisping voice of his. That famous saying
, Looks like Tarzan, speaks like Jane
, might have been invented with Eric in mind. Robin should have known better.

‘Why do I always associate with people like that?’ Robin murmured. ‘Why?
Why?
’ He shut his eyes.

Golden . . . golden . . . hair and eyes . . . and paradise
. The words of a song floated through the open window in the warm night. Some people, it seemed, were managing to have a good time.

Everything had gone wrong. Lily was dead while his uncle was alive. Robin had been on the phone to Saunders, trying to pump him for information about the will. He had wanted confirmation –
was
there a new will? Saunders, however, had been terribly tight-lipped about it. Saunders had given him the cold shoulder. Saunders had been much nicer to him in the past, but then of course Robin had been his uncle’s main legatee. Now Saunders treated him like a leper. All solicitors were bastards. Profiteering hypocritical bastards. Robin had then called Wilkes. It was she who had told him about the new will, which she had witnessed – together with one of the cleaners. Well, she had confirmed what he had known all along. Everything to Beatrice fucking Ardleigh! Christ. The whole Judith Hartz fortune. Wilkes had commiserated with him. She had been on her way to the airport, apparently, off to get married or something.

‘Why Ingrid Delmar? Who is this Ingrid Delmar? ‘ Robin cried. ‘It is to Beatrice Ardleigh you should be speaking! You fucking ineffectual
flics
. It was Beatrice who killed Lily – must have done! Who else?’

His front doorbell rang. He remained seated. He yawned. He stretched his arms. He was not at home. The doorbell rang again. A manservant would have been able to deal with the matter in a smoothish kind of way.
Mr
Renshawe is not at home. May I take a message?
Well, he couldn’t afford a manservant, unless he asked Eric to do it for free? Eric would look jolly presentable in a black alpaca coat and striped trousers. No, not Eric –he was finished with Eric – not even if Eric, like his famous namesake in the book, learnt to do things properly,
little by little
.

What the fuck was that? Robin couldn’t believe his ears. Someone was forgetting this was Knightsbridge and not fucking Redbridge. Manners,
please
. Fists had started banging on his front door. A voice shouted: ‘Mr Renshawe? We know you are there! Open up. Police!’

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
mélange
. 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, sautéed 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.