Assassins at Ospreys

3

A Connoisseur’s Case

It had been a mysterious, rather oppressive kind of after-noon, all the familiar landmarks outside engulfed by an old-fashioned smog, either unrecognizable or completely vanished. Intrigued by the alien look of things, rather like characters out of Chesterton, Antonia and Hugh Payne decided to go for a short walk on Hampstead Heath. They heard the ghostly ringing of a church bell, disembodied yellowish lights flickered in the air and they appeared to be wading knee-deep in candyfloss. But for the unpleasant squishing of wet grass beneath their feet, Major Payne said, they might have been in some abandoned ancient land high above the clouds – in Valhalla itself! Neither of them could see the ground and they had to feel their way with their rolled-up umbrellas held out before them, blind-man fashion.

When they returned home, they sat down to tea and crumpets before a blazing fire. The curtains were drawn across the windows and all the table lamps in the sitting room were on. The Rockingham teapot gleamed.

‘How about a game of Scrabble? And a brandy, I think.’ Major Payne crossed to the sideboard while Antonia took out the Scrabble.

‘No brandy for me, thank you.’ Antonia opened the Scrabble board and shook the green bag of letters.

‘This time,’ he said, ‘I intend to beat you.’

‘I intend to beat you. No Shakespearean words,’ she reminded him.

It was a quarter to six and they had been playing for twenty minutes when the telephone rang.

‘Damn,’ Payne said. ‘Just when -’

‘I will get it.’ Antonia rose.

Major Payne listened with half an ear to her part of the conversation while trying to think of a good word that could be formed with a P, a Q, an O, an I, an A, a G. and an N. He took a sip of brandy. Pin. Pig. Gin. Nip. Gap. He wouldn’t get much, dammit. Such rotten letters. Nog? Pan? Peanuts! Nap? Pang? He pulled at his lower lip. Well, he could have ‘quoin’, he supposed – but he would have to pinch Antonia’s U first. Could he replace it with his P? No – she was bound to notice, she always did. Antonia, like all professional wordsmiths, took Scrabble too seriously. Earlier on they had argued over the meaning of ‘zori’. He thought it meant a skunk-like beast out of Africa while Antonia insisted it was a Japanese straw sandal. The dictionary would have provided a solution, but he had no any idea where the damned thing had gone.

He saw Antonia put down the receiver. There was a puzzled expression on her face. ‘How very odd,’ she said. ‘Do you remember me telling you about that woman in the wheelchair I met last June? In Hay-on-Wye?’

‘I do remember. I had some clever name for her. What was it? Snow White?’

‘Goldilocks. That was her on the phone. Her name is Beatrice Ardleigh.’

Major Payne leant back in his chair. ‘Some rigmarole about whether or not to answer a letter from an old flame of hers? She is on the horns of a dilemma? She needs your advice desperately?’ He welcomed the interruption – he had been losing badly and he was not a particularly gracious loser.

‘She doesn’t need my advice “desperately”. And if the man is an old flame of hers, she didn’t say. It was all rather garbled. She received the letter last month. It was from somebody she used to know a very long time ago. The letter came to her as a shock – um – because of something the man had done to her. Something like that. She’d never expected to hear from him. She’d thought he was dead. She said she didn’t know what to do.’

Payne cocked an eyebrow. ‘And you do? Or would, as soon as you’d read the letter?’

‘Well, she believes I am endowed with perfect knowledge and understanding of human nature. She credits me with one of those laser-sharp criminologist minds – as well as with Ariadne’s penchant for unravelling.’ Antonia gave a little smile.

‘My dear sweet GIRL. If I didn’t know you better, I might have imagined that you were finding this kind of attention flattering.’

‘I am not the least bit flattered. Actually I suspect Beatrice is using this letter as a pretext to get me to visit her – as a kind of bait. She’s been trying to get me to visit her, I’ve told you. She’s probably making the situation sound much more intriguing and mysterious than it is. I think she is bored and lonely. In many ways she is rather irritating. She lives in Wallingford. She said you could come too.’

‘Jolly kind of her. Writers do attract nutcases.’ Payne shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you let her have your phone number.’

‘She gave me tea. It would have been impossibly rude to refuse.’

‘You could have given her a wrong number.’

‘She wore a JacqueS Azagury dress,’ Antonia murmured reminiscently. ‘I would love a dress like that.’

Payne’s eyes had strayed towards the Scrabble board. ‘I don’t suppose you realize that “funeral” is also “real fun”? All you do is rearrange the letters – thus.’

‘What were these things called? Not anagrams?’

‘Antigrams.’

‘United – untied?’

‘Yes… Man’s laughter – manslaughter.’

‘Beatrice said it was a very peculiar letter and that it might give me an idea for a novel,’ Antonia went on. ‘She made it sound like some special treat. It was a perfectly extraordinary, frightfully delicate kind of situation and she was baffled. Honestly, my dear, it’s like the start of one of your fiendish puzzles.’

‘Golly, does she talk like that?’

‘She does. This man – the author of the letter – I think she called him Ralph – Rafe – was at death’s door – his departure from this world was imminent – his last wish was to see her. It was like something out of a book. Quite extraordinary.’ Antonia paused. ‘She was about to tell me more, but then – then a very curious thing happened. She suddenly changed tack. Someone came into the room. I am sure I heard a door open somewhere in the background. Beatrice gave a little gasp – then started talking fast – in a much louder voice. You know, when someone starts putting on an act?’

‘Go on.’

‘She laughed and said, “Actually, my dear, it is all a dreary muddle. I don’t know the man from Adam. I have no idea what he is on about. I think it’s some lunatic.” Or it was all a mistake – he was taking her for someone else – wouldn’t that be tiresome?’

Major Payne frowned. ‘You think she changed her story because of whoever entered the room?’

‘Yes… For some reason Beatrice didn’t want the person who entered the room to know about the exact contents of the letter she had received.’

‘It must have been the girlfriend, don’t you think?’ Payne stroked his jaw with a forefinger. ‘The masterful Matron with the Medusa gaze? She who transfixed you like a butterfly on a board?’

‘She didn’t take to me, true, but I don’t think she was Bee’s girlfriend. I think Bee likes men. Bee kept shooting coy glances at the men while we were having tea. All the presentable-looking men seemed to be with their wives, but that didn’t deter Bee. She kept giving little smiles and lowering her eyelashes. I daresay her attentions were reciprocated.’

‘Some men actually find the idea of a woman in a wheel-chair tremendously exciting – a positive thrill.’

‘Don’t be disgusting, Hugh.’

‘It’s all to do with control, or so I have read. The idea that the woman is entirely at their mercy.’

‘It was probably Ingrid who entered the room, yes… They live by themselves. That was what I was given to understand. At least they did back in June. They are so different. I’ve been trying to imagine what it is like, the two of them living together.’

‘The opposite of sugar and spice? Something – not very nice? Creepy clotted claustrophobia? Perhaps there is no such person as “Ingrid”. Perhaps the “Ingrid” you met was Bee’s husband in drag?’ Major Payne mused, arrang-ing idly the word ‘drag’ with Scrabble letters. ‘Some couples are into role-playing, you know. The purpose would be – in the vulgar parlance – to spice up a casserole that might have become too bland. I bet Ingrid was suspiciously tall, hulking and blue-jawed and smoked cheroots?’

‘She was nothing of the sort. Nobody smokes cheroots nowadays.’

‘A chap at the Military Club does.’

‘Ingrid was dressed in sombre black – black suit and black gloves. There was an air of tragedy hanging about her.’

‘She might have been in mourning for her youth.’ Payne yawned. ‘Like the woman in Chekhov. Some contretemps took place when you went to have tea with them, I think you said?’

‘Oh dear, yes. Ingrid put two lumps of sugar into Beatrice’s tea instead of one and Beatrice refused to drink it. She was sitting beside a potted palm and she poured the tea into it. At which Ingrid threw a tantrum and went and sat at another table, by herself. She rejoined us several minutes later and acted as though nothing had happened. Actually, we managed to have quite an interesting talk about TM – ‘ ‘Ah.’ Payne gave a grave nod. ‘Tsunami madness. One of the most dangerous forms of mental disorder. The most extreme?’

‘Don’t you ever get tired of saying silly things? TM stands for “transcendental meditation”. Beatrice explained that practising TM had enabled her brain to fall deep into a state of rest. TM was the only thing that had succeeded in soothing her tormented soul. Something called “mantra mellow” comes into it. Bee and Ingrid agreed that TM worked, but then – then they had another squabble.’

‘This is becoming addictive.’

‘Beatrice started telling me a story. Apparently not long before her father died, he had what Beatrice called a “second vision”. Her father woke up in the middle of the night and saw his dead wife – Beatrice’s mother – standing beside his bed, looking down at him as though in great disapproval. He told her to go away and stay away. He then went back to sleep. Ingrid said, “Wasn’t that rather unkind?” Bee’s eyes filled with tears and she said, what a horrid thing to say. Her father had been frightfully upset by the experience and he died only three days later. Ingrid pointed out he couldn’t have been frightfully upset – he wouldn’t have been able to go back to sleep if he had been “frightfully upset”. She mimicked Beatrice’s high voice, which only made matters worse.’

‘How fascinating.’ Payne produced his pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘Or do I mean, how ridiculous?’

‘Another curious thing happened earlier on. A woman with a child passed by – the little girl was crying. Ingrid reacted in a rather peculiar way. Her eyes opened wide. She looked startled – shocked. As though – I don’t know.’ ‘As though she felt certain the woman was abducting the child?’ Payne suggested.

‘Yes… But Ingrid also gave the distinct impression that she knew the child. Her eyes were on the little girl. That’s what made the whole thing so odd.’ Antonia paused. ‘She looked very tense. She seemed to want to follow them, but decided against it. Her face was the picture of misery and frustration.’

For a couple of moments Major Payne smoked in silence. Leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling. ‘I think, my love,’ he remarked at last, ‘that of all the cases we have investigated, none is more fantastical than this. It presents us with an irresistible mixture of the absurd, the inexplicable and the menacing. The case is marked by a pervading sense of strangeness.’

‘There is no case as such, Hugh. Nothing’s actually happened.’

‘Nothing that we know of. A lot may have been happening behind the scenes. Well, I think we should avail ourselves of Mistress Ardleigh’s kind invitation and pay her a visit. Ring her up and make her happy.’

As Antonia dialled Beatrice Ardleigh’s phone number, she felt her heart beating fast. What if it was Ingrid who answered? I am afraid of Ingrid, she admitted to herself. I am scared to death by her – those black gloves! Eventually the receiver was lifted – but it was a man’s voice that answered.

‘Bee is having a rest. She’s just put her feet up. Would you like to call again later, or can I take a message?’ Antonia had the fleeting impression of somebody bluff, solid, genial and imperturbably placid. ‘Who? Antonia Darcy? Of course. I am so sorry. Bee was talking to you a moment ago. Yes? Yes? With your husband? But of course. Splendid! I’m terribly glad. It means so much to her. She’d be delighted. She is a great fan of yours. And of course she wants you to see the letter.’ He cleared his throat. ‘When can you come? Saturday? No, not this Saturday… Let me look at the diary… How about next week – Saturday 24th? Splendid. Say, half past three? We’ll give you tea. Splendid. I do look forward to meeting you.’

Putting down the receiver, Antonia turned round. ‘That was a man. He said they would be delighted to have us to tea. He didn’t introduce himself. So Beatrice does have a man in the house.’

‘Her butler?’ Payne suggested. ‘All my aunts have butlers but only one is happy with hers.’

‘The man sounded extremely familiar. He referred to her as “Bee” and kept saying “splendid” – would a butler say “splendid”?’

Payne said that that anything was possible in this egalitarian day and age. Butlers were not what they used to be. Butlers were no longer deferential. This one might even be having an affair with his mistress – that would explain why he was taking liberties with diminutives and was generally acting beyond his station.

‘The man sounded like a husband. Beatrice might have got married, don’t you think?’

‘She might have,’ Payne agreed. He puffed at his pipe. ‘Perhaps the man who spoke to you was none other than the incredible Ingrid en travesti – in her masculine role. Which means that Ingrid has now succeeded in luring us to a house where identities shift and melt and savage punishments are a daily affair -’

‘What have you done with the board?’ Antonia cried. ‘We never finished the game, did we? I realize I could have had “incarnadine”!’

‘We said no Shakespeare words. Blood on your mind already?’ Payne joked.