Assassins at Ospreys

10

Cul-de-Sac

‘Now, why should she want to make herself look like Beatrice?’

‘Why indeed, my love. These are deep waters. The Bafflement of the Bogus Blonde. The Puzzle of the Peroxide Peruke. More Chesterton than Conan Doyle, wouldn’t you say?’ Major Payne put a thoughtful match to his pipe. ‘I did tell you we always met unhinged people, didn’t I? A prophecy fulfilled.’

‘Do we always meet unhinged people?’

‘We most certainly do. There’s something about us. I don’t know what it is. We seem to act as a magnet for mad-men – and madwomen. Think Dufrette, think Eleanor Merchant, think Colonel Mallard -’

Antonia pointed out that they had never actually met Colonel Mallard. Colonel Mallard had been dead for sixty years when they first heard about him.

‘But we were told so much about him, we felt we knew him. And now Ingrid Delmar. Glazed of eye, ascending the stairs bizarrely bedecked in a blonde wig, sporting gloves as black as her soul, a moth-eaten mink coat coquettishly draped round her shoulders. A chilling sight. Out flew the web and floated wide – the curse has come upon me, cried the Lady of Shalott,’ Major Payne recited between puffs. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist it.’

‘Ingrid used to burn herself with steam irons claiming it offered her relief from tension. I can’t believe Beatrice stuck with her for thirty years.’ Antonia shook her head.

‘A prophecy fulfilled… Damned good coffee, this. Pour me some more, would you, my love?’

Beatrice had persuaded them to take a thermos flask of black coffee for their journey home – as well as a packet of ham sandwiches wrapped in a moist napkin and two pieces of chocolate orange cake. Beatrice had insisted they needed to keep up their strength. They might have been members of an expedition returning from the North Pole or some such place.

They were sitting inside the car further down the road from Millbrook House. It was a beautiful evening, and a full pale moon glowing in the sky like a silver florin. They had said goodbye to Colville and Beatrice, but for some reason felt reluctant to drive off. It was almost as though they expected something to happen…

Antonia kept glancing back towards the house. The light had come on in a first-floor window and she imagined she caught a glimpse of Ingrid’s silhouette outlined momentarily against the curtain. Ingrid appeared to be shaking her head and gesticulating agitatedly. There was something extremely theatrical about the whole set-up, Payne agreed. The unnerved newly-weds downstairs, the loon in the blonde wig upstairs. Beatrice had been strongly opposed to the idea of involving the police… Colville didn’t believe Ingrid had heard him when he went out into the hall. Ingrid hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. She had stared straight ahead of her and moved like one in a trance. Surely, that suggested that she had heard Beatrice’s admission of guilt and been stunned by it? What would happen when the shock was over?

‘Beatrice might be in danger. Colville too,’ said Antonia. ‘Ingrid hates them both. She wouldn’t try to slit their throats as they sleep, would she?’

‘Or do a Mrs Danvers, set the house on fire and dance among the flames. Well, let’s hope not.’

‘At what point does a maniac become a homicidal maniac?’

‘Difficult to say, my love. Beatrice’s confession tonight might have managed to unzip Ingrid’s already shaky grip on sanity.’

‘I do think we should inform the police, Hugh.’

‘You heard what Beatrice said. No police. Beatrice doesn’t want to “snitch” on Ingrid, silly woman.’

‘Silly woman,’ Antonia agreed with greater emphasis than she intended.

Colville had been confident he could keep the situation under control. Colville said he was capable of taking good care of Beatrice. He said that he wouldn’t hesitate to ring 999 the moment he felt Ingrid might be ‘up to something’. Colville might be besotted with la bella Bee, Payne pointed out, but he wouldn’t stand any nonsense from Ingrid. Colville had confided in Payne on parting that he’d be damned if he did.

‘That’s reassuring,’ Antonia said in a doubtful voice. ‘I wouldn’t dream of sleeping under the same roof as Ingrid – would you?’

‘Not for all the tea in China.’

‘Where does Ingrid go dressed up as Beatrice?’ Antonia wondered aloud, looking out into the darkness. ‘You heard what Beatrice said. Ingrid’s been slipping out without a word quite often lately.’

‘I don’t imagine she goes for country walks or to the cinema or window-shopping, or merely roams aimlessly.’ Major Payne stroked his jaw with his forefinger. ‘I think she goes to… Ospreys.’

‘To Ospreys! You mean she knows that Ralph Renshawe lives there?’

‘I think she does, yes.’

‘How did she learn about it? No, don’t tell me. She read his letter to Beatrice. I saw you looking at that envelope.’ Antonia paused. ‘It’s been tampered with, hasn’t it?’

‘Steamed open. There was smearing around the flap and it felt thicker – glue had been used to reseal it,’ Major Payne explained.

He hadn’t mentioned the fact in front of Beatrice. Beatrice had been in a state of near-collapse. She had flapped her hands and babbled about ancient beliefs – wasn’t it said that encountering your double was a prelude to death? Beatrice had felt so faint, she had lain on the sofa, where she had remained, among the silk cushions, rather picturesquely, looking like an odalisque.

‘Here’s a theory.’ Major Payne cleared his throat. ‘Ingrid’s love for Beatrice turns to darkest detestation at the news of her friend’s nuptials. Ingrid accuses Bee of “betrayal”. Renshawe’s fate has already been sealed. Ingrid concocts an ingenious scheme. Kill Renshawe and have Beatrice arrested for the murder.’

‘Double revenge?’

‘Double revenge. Ingrid goes to Ospreys dressed up as Beatrice. Renshawe is delighted. He suspects nothing. It has been thirty years since he saw Beatrice last, besides he is a very ill man, all his faculties greatly diminished. Ingrid lets the nurse and whoever else is at the house take a good look at her. She tells them she is practically a neighbour. She makes sure they learn her name and address – Beatrice Ardleigh – Millbrook House.’

‘Could she really believe she’d be able to get away with it?’

‘I am sure she could. She is crackers. Her brain must be as valuable as a cap full of porridge. She is probably convinced she has been diabolically clever.’

There was a pause. Antonia said, ‘You don’t suppose she has killed Ralph Renshawe yet?’

‘I don’t know. She might have.’ Payne puffed pensively at his pipe. ‘How about checking?’

‘Do you mean we should phone Ralph?’

‘The matter is too complicated for phoning. Um. I suggest we drive to Ospreys.’

Antonia stared at him. ‘Now?’

‘Now. Why not? Ospreys is apparently only five miles from here. It will take us twenty minutes at the most.’

‘What shall we say when we get there?’

‘We’ll ask to speak to Renshawe – if he is still alive, we’ll warn him of the danger – we’ll tell him that the Beatrice who’s been visiting him is in fact Ingrid. If he is not well enough to grant us an audience, we’ll have a word with the nurse, the padre or whoever’s taking care of him.’

Antonia said, ‘If Ingrid has been visiting him, but hasn’t killed him yet, it would be interesting to know why… Is it possible that she has forgiven him?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought it terribly likely – not from what Beatrice told us, but who could tell? Anything is possible. Ingrid might be biding her time. Or she might not have had the chance to be alone with him.’

‘Or she might be getting a kick out of watching him die?’

‘She might indeed. May I have some more coffee? Thank you… Of course there’s always the chance that we are making complete asses of ourselves,’ Payne went on, taking a sip of coffee. ‘We might be imagining this whole phantasmagoric imbroglio. Ingrid might turn out to be a fanatical cinephile – she might have been going to the cinema. Or she might have a boyfriend, with whom she holds passionate trysts.’

‘Dressed up as Beatrice?’

‘Well, Beatrice is the more attractive of the two, so Ingrid might be trying to emulate her -’ Payne broke off. ‘No, I don’t really believe that.’

‘You thought Beatrice attractive, didn’t you?’ Antonia said. ‘Good lord. Not in the least. I didn’t do or say anything to suggest I did, did I?’

‘You kept trying to be funny!’

‘My dearest love! I was only breaking the ice.’

‘I don’t think there was much ice to break.’

‘Did I say many funny things?’

‘Personally, I didn’t think so,’ said Antonia, ‘but Bee clearly regarded you as the wag and wit of the party.’

He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t help it if the silly creature rolled round in hysterical merriment at every absurdity I uttered.’

‘She fancied you wildly. She made that abundantly clear. I don’t think her husband liked it.’

‘Golly. I do need to be careful. She’s a nightmare.’ Payne started the car. ‘Though of course not as great a nightmare as Ingrid.’

It took them much longer than they thought to locate Ospreys.

They lost their way twice and had to stop at two pubs to ask for directions. ‘It’s outside Coulston,’ a woman with a pleasant round face, glasses and hair as flat as Cromwell’s told them in mellifluous tones. She was nursing a gin and tonic but now she produced a local map and pointed. ‘Coulston is a small village – the house isn’t marked but it’s here, I think.’ The woman’s husband, a man with an unruly beard, disagreed vehemently. ‘No, no, Kate – Ospreys is here – on the other side.’ He stabbed his forefinger at a spot on the map. They were clearly visitors, strangers to these parts.

One of the locals, a very old woman in a woollen hat embroidered with dancing harlequins, had been sipping what looked like brandy and barley water and examining the advertisements section in the local paper through a magnifying glass, but she looked up when Antonia mentioned Ospreys.

‘Ospreys, eh? That house has a bad name… Some millionaire from Florida’s dying there now, but it’s never been a happy place. Never. The secret house of death they used to call it. Someone got killed there many years ago -’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. A couple. That was why it remained empty for so long. Most people don’t fancy houses like that. Attract weirdos, places like that. An American actress bought it – Moira Montano. Don’t think anyone remembers her.’ The old woman took a sip of her drink.

‘Moira Montano? The name does ring a bell,’ Payne said. ‘All those cheap horror films in the ’50s?’

‘That’s right. She made oceans of money, heaven knows how, the film were so bad, but that’s what they said. She had a pink conservatory added to the house. She bought masses of exotic plants but then she died suddenly. Then Sir Marcus bought it – Sir Marcus Laud, that is – for his new bride. He married this very young girl, you see, but she ran away after about a month, so it was the death of love, I suppose.’ The old woman sniffed. ‘Sir Marcus was heart-broken and he sold the house. One of my nieces was the housekeeper at Ospreys at the time, that’s how I know. Then the American gentleman bought Ospreys and he brought a fat foreign woman with him.’

‘Is his name Ralph Renshawe?’ Antonia asked.

‘Don’t know, dearie. He’s no longer for this world, that’s all I’ve been told. A priest visits him. Also a blonde in a mink coat,’ the old woman continued. ‘Regular as clock-work. People keep seeing her, walking from the bus stop towards the house, talking to herself, laughing and waving her hands in the air.’

‘Do they know who she is?’ Payne said casually.

‘The American gentleman’s old flame, somebody said. Some flame!’

‘See how easily poor Bee could land in the soup if some-thing were to happen to Renshawe?’ Payne said as they left the pub a couple of minutes later.

‘That’s why poor Bee should go to the police and tell them the whole story before it’s too late,’ Antonia pointed out.

It had got colder and they walked quickly towards their car.

Twenty minutes later they reached their destination. The village of Coulston seemed to consist of only one street. Although it was only a quarter to nine, not a single living soul was in sight and they didn’t see lights in any of the windows either. A phantom village? Antonia experienced a mixture of anxiety and desolation. Then, suddenly, they found themselves outside a pair of cast-iron gates with Ospreys written across them. The gates were gaping open. They drove through what looked like a park or a small for-est, along a driveway that was unevenly covered in old gravel, potholed and obviously little used.

‘We can’t just barge in on a total stranger,’ Antonia said in a sudden panic.

‘Of course we can. In matters of life and death, social niceties cease to have the slightest importance. In the eighteenth century it was considered terribly impolite if a traveller came across a gentleman’s seat and ignored it.’

‘Do you mean you just drove up to the big house and announced yourself and an upper servant led you to the library and gave you a glass of Madeira and cake?’

‘Absolutely. And, at a pinch, they could provide you with a room for the night, complete with a stack of the Illustrated London News and a tin of some superior F amp;M munchies on the bedside table – all the customary adjuncts of civilized slumber.’

‘Have you ever seen anyone actually reading the Illustrated London News? I haven’t,’ said Antonia. ‘Not even at the Military Club. Isn’t that interesting?’

‘You are right. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I don’t think I have even seen it sold anywhere. It’s one of those strange publications that are mentioned a lot in books -’ Payne broke off. ‘Good lord. Not Victorian Gothic.’

Ospreys loomed before them in sharp, ink-black silhouette, all turrets and spikes against the dark sky. The lancet windows of armorial stained glass were unlit and the house looked rather eerie in the pale moonlight.

Surely, Antonia reflected, they wouldn’t turn off all the lights when somebody was as gravely ill as Ralph Renshawe, would they? It wasn’t that late either. Had there been a power cut? But, if that were the case, they would use candles or some of the brass-and-wrought-iron gasoliers one associated with this kind of place. Wouldn’t a house like Ospreys have its own electricity generator?

Antonia got out of the car first and Payne followed, leaving the headlights on. Antonia gave an involuntary shudder at the sight of their distorted shadows dancing across the avenue. There was not a breath of wind. Intense, uncanny quiet. The house was white with hoar frost. They caught a glimpse of frozen fairylike trees on either side of the drive, their skeletal branches pointing upwards.

‘A haunt of ancient peace,’ Payne whispered.

‘There are always legends hanging about these old houses,’ said Antonia as though to give herself courage. ‘They are not difficult to invent and cost nothing.’

Pipe in mouth, Major Payne walked up to the front door and pressed the bell button.

Antonia stood behind him They seemed to be passing through what appeared to be the early stages of a cliche-ridden horror film. (The kind Moira Montano had made?) A time-eaten and grotesque mansion with a dark history, long deserted through superstitious fears, tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate part of Oxfordshire. Gaping gates and gloomy gables. A creepy creaking noise, which was probably caused by the frozen trees, but might prove to be something much more sinister… Would the front door turn out to have been left unlocked?

She didn’t hear the bell ring and no one answered the door. Major Payne pushed the bell button again.

‘Not a single light… What’s happened?’ Antonia said. ‘Where is everybody? They couldn’t have suddenly gone away, just like that, could they?’

‘They might have. Or they might be dead,’ Payne said in a sepulchral voice. ‘You heard what the old biddy said – the secret house of death.’

‘How many people actually live here?’

‘No idea. The letter didn’t say. There are bound to be nurses and people.’ Payne stomped his feet. ‘It’s freezing!’

‘They said it’s going to get warmer tomorrow.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

‘Shall we go?’ Antonia drew back from the door. It was indeed unbearably cold. She had thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. She longed to be back in the safety of the car, sipping hot coffee from the thermos, listening to Vivaldi on the CD player.

She looked up. No stars, only the florin-like moon. No sign of any ospreys flapping their wings… The secret house of death… It might be interesting to find out why it had been given that name – what exactly had taken place – was there any truth in the gruesome story?

Payne pushed the bell once more, then he reached out and rattled the door knocker. He got hold of the door handle -

Antonia said again, ‘Let’s go.’ She felt the beginnings of a sore throat.

‘Good lord,’ she heard her husband whisper. ‘It’s open.’

Antonia blinked. ‘What? The door is open?’

‘Yes… Look… What’s this muck?’ He stood looking down at his hand. ‘The door handle – it’s covered in some-thing sticky – like jelly – urgh!’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Antonia said.

He muttered an oath. ‘I am not joking -’

Antonia experienced a disconcerting sense of unreality. ‘Don’t tell me it’s blood.’

‘I don’t know. Golly. It might be blood… Yes… Looks black… Someone seems to have had an accident…’

‘Hugh, are you serious?’ Her hand had gone up to her heart.

For what seemed a long time he stood as though petrified. Suddenly he laughed. ‘No, I’m not. There’s no blood. The door is not open.’ He turned round and grinned at Antonia. ‘Only joking. There’s nothing.’

She stood staring at him. ‘It isn’t funny, Hugh,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you did this.’

‘Sorry, my love,’ he said.

She turned round and walked silently back towards the car. He followed sheepishly, stroking his jaw. She got into the back seat and slammed the door.

He tried to talk to her, to cajole her to sit beside him, but she remained silent. He put on the Vivaldi concerto. ‘Konzert fur Zwei Violinen, Streichorchester und Basso continuo,’ he announced in comically execrable German as he started the car. He was trying to make her laugh.

She pursed her lips and shut her eyes. She decided she wouldn’t speak to him. Her thoughts went back to the dark forbidding house they were leaving behind. Had any-thing happened? What if – what if Ospreys wasn’t empty? What if there were people inside – Ralph and the nurse – lying dead, their throats slit? What if Ingrid had killed them?

On an impulse, Antonia took out her mobile phone and dialled 999.

When the police phoned her two hours later, Antonia was sitting in bed alone, reading.

‘Yes, madam. We did gain access into the house and checked all the rooms. There is nothing suspicious. Nothing’s been disturbed. There is no one in the house. We did check very carefully, yes. Perhaps the people have gone away. We do realize that Mr Renshawe is a very sick man, yes… We’ll check the hospitals… Thanks for call-ing us.’

Though nothing in the policeman’s voice suggested it, Antonia couldn’t help feeling a little foolish… Well, better safe than sorry.

Where had Ralph and the nurse gone?