‘How did he make his enemies?’ Antonia tapped the pen against her teeth.
‘When he lived in Calgary and later in America he man-aged to get involved in various dubious deals. He cheated and double-crossed a great number of people.’
‘Perhaps he even ventured into the territory of organized crime? Yes. It was fear that drove him away.’
‘He had been getting death threats –’
‘Ralph Renshawe chose Ospreys very carefully,’ said Antonia. ‘Ospreys’ main attraction lay in the fact that it was isolated and hard to find. Remember how long it took us to get there?’
‘Indeed I do. That was a matter of desperate necessity. Renshawe settled down at Ospreys – but the fear didn’t leave him. Night after night he lay in bed, thinking about his enemies. He then hit on an ingenious plan –’
‘By pretending to be mortally ill, indeed, dying,’ Antonia said slowly, ‘Ralph Renshawe hopes to discourage his enemies from bumping him off . . . But if the cancer is fictitious, the resident nurse would know it, surely?’
Payne waved his hand. ‘Squared. Part of the set-up.’
‘The doctor –’
‘Ditto.’
‘Ralph Renshawe – the real Ralph Renshawe – is also at Ospreys. He occupies a secret attic room. He has been monitoring the situation from above. He’s had CCTV cam-eras installed and everything. What he doesn’t realize –’ Antonia broke off. ‘Can you think of a final twist?’
‘I think I can. What Renshawe doesn’t realize is that the nurse and the actor have fallen in love,’ suggested Payne. ‘They have guessed about Ingrid and her murderous intentions. The murder takes place quite late in the story. When a body does turn up, it is the real Ralph Renshawe and it looks as though Ingrid has killed him – she seems to have discovered the truth – but as a matter of fact it is the nurse and the actor who are the killers. The actor is in fact Renshawe’s illegitimate son –’
Colville was on the phone, talking to his friend Arthur Manning.
‘Yes, both Bee and I are absolutely sure and we are extremely concerned . . . For Ralph Renshawe’s safety – as well as for our own . . . For Ingrid too—well, yes. She has tried to commit suicide in the past. No, she hasn’t come back yet. I do believe she went to Ralph Renshawe’s place . . . Ospreys, yes. That’s the name of the house. It’s outside a village called Coulston. Not far from us . . . I tried to phone them, warn them, tell them who she is and that they should be careful, but there was no answer . . . Ingrid’s visited Ralph Renshawe several times already, we know that for a fact . . . I took a photo of her earlier on – through the window – two photos, actually. I happened to have my Polaroid at hand – she was walking towards the bus stop – there’s a bus that goes to Coulston . . . No evidence? What are you talking about? Why else dress up like Beatrice, for heaven’s sake?’
Colville listened with pursed lips. ‘Isn’t there a chance of you taking a look at Ingrid? Make up your mind about her? You do have a degree in criminal psychology after all . . . The doctor who treated her when she had her break-down? I have no idea who he is, but I can ask Bee when she comes back.’
He looked at the clock. Twenty-five past eleven. Where was Bee? ‘Yes. Yes. He might be able to help, you are right. I know you are busy, Arthur, but – Yes, I know. All right. Thank you.’
Colville put down the receiver. His hand was shaking. Well, it was as he had suspected it would be. Arthur did think he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Arthur was too busy tracking down criminals, real criminals.
Colville pressed his fingertips against his temples. He had so much on his mind, so much. He couldn’t think straight. The day so far had had a nightmarish quality about it. For the life of him he couldn’t separate what had happened from what hadn’t. Outside the heat shimmered and the sun, bright as fire, glared on. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Suddenly he started up. As in a dream, or as if he was looking at something in a play, he became aware that Ingrid was standing outside in the garden, her face pressed against the window pane, look-ing in. Ingrid’s eyes were yellow-red and luminous, like a wolf’s, and she was acting like a thing possessed – grim-acing horribly, baring her teeth, mocking him, taunting him. Then she pulled back a little and he distinctly heard her say, ‘Le comte est mort.’ He saw her draw the side of her hand slowly across her throat, then let her tongue hang out obscenely, as though imagining his French might not be good enough – but of course the second he blinked, she was gone.
Ingrid had been nothing but a mirage. Colville’s neck prickled. Their back garden was empty of any human presence; it was smooth as velvet, its herbaceous borders tidied up for winter. There had never been anybody there. He was covered in sweat. ‘I am not well,’ Colville said aloud.
Twenty-seven minutes past eleven. Twenty-eight. Why wasn’t Bee back? Where was she? Then a thought struck him.
Could she have gone to Ospreys?
‘So, apart from various minor provisions, you want Miss Beatrice Ardleigh to be your sole beneficiary. Your decision is final and irreversible?’ Benjamin Saunders said expressionlessly, looking down at the old man who sat propped up between four pillows. He was impressed by their gleaming whiteness, by the fresh smell they exuded.
‘Yes, yes,’ Ralph Renshawe said. ‘Final and irreversible. Good way of putting it.’
Saunders cleared his throat. ‘This is a lot of money –’
‘It’s my money. I am of sound mind. I know perfectly well what I am doing. Get on with it, Saunders.’
He didn’t look too bad – for a dying man. In fact he looked better than the last time Saunders had seen him. He had some colour in his cheeks – his eyes were brighter – and he was in a belligerent mood.
‘According to your current will, it is your nephew, Robin Renshawe who –’
‘No longer. All that’s changed.’ Ralph Renshawe sounded impatient. ‘Robin gets nothing. All for Bee.’
‘Very well. Miss Wilkes. Mrs Brown. Would you come over?’ Saunders made a courtly gesture. ‘Sign here, please . . . On the dotted line, yes . . . It doesn’t matter who goes first.’
As Nurse Wilkes signed her name, the solicitor noticed that her hand shook so much that she had to stop and start again. What was wrong with her? He had been wondering. She had said she wanted to talk to him about something . . . When she opened the front door for him, he was struck by her extreme pallor. As white as one of Ralph Renshawe’s sheets. She hadn’t been her usual chatty self, which was another peculiar thing. She was unaccustomedly subdued. The other woman had noticed it too – Mrs Brown. He saw her shooting puzzled glances at Wilkes. Was Wilkes ill? Had something happened? She looked as though she had received a shock of some kind . . . Or it could be the heat . . . He dabbed at his face with his handkerchief . . . So terribly hot . . . He didn’t feel too good himself . . . It seemed incredible that it was the end of November!
Was the job getting to be too demanding for poor Wilkes? Ralph’s room was spotlessly clean, the floor was still slightly damp and it smelled of some superior disinfectant, which suggested that Wilkes had finished cleaning it only moments earlier. Mrs Brown – Linda – was one of the two women who came to clean three times a week, but today wasn’t one of her days, she had said. Which meant that it was Wilkes who, on top of all her other duties, had been scrubbing away in Ralph’s room. She had also changed his sheets – all the linen was crisp and spotless . . . Had Ralph made a mess earlier on? Saunders had heard such horror stories about cancer patients. His long sensitive nose quivered squeamishly but no, there was nothing – he had to admit that there wasn’t the slightest whiff of any offensive effluvium.
When the new will had been signed, all formalities completed and he was back in the hall, about to take his leave, he asked Nurse Wilkes whether everything was all right.
‘Yes. I am just tired, I suppose.’ She tried to smile. ‘Actually I am getting married.’
‘Getting married? Congratulations. Well done.’ He patted
her arm, though he had an immediate sense of fore-boding. ‘I suppose you’d like – um – some time off?’
‘Yes. As from tomorrow, if possible . . . That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Of course. As from tomorrow . . . We’ll need another nurse urgently.’ Saunders pulled at his lower lip. ‘Very well. How many days?’
‘I want to take two – no, three months.’ ‘Three months? That long?’ Saunders was taken aback. Three months! Ralph would have gone by then. That meant adieu to Wilkes, rather than au revoir. From tomorrow too. She was in a hurry. ‘Very well. I’ll see to it . . . We’ll need to settle your salary first –’
‘No need. Ralph’s already paid me.’
‘He has? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am sure. It’s all settled.’
Saunders’ eyebrows went up a little. That was unusual. Had something – happened? Wilkes’ manner struck him as odd – strained, furtive – she gave the impression of having been upset by something – she wasn’t meeting his eye.
Had Ralph perhaps made a pass at her? Saunders remembered the luscious Madame Niratpattanasai and the trouble they had had ejecting her from the house. It had taken four uniformed policemen. How she had screamed! Wilkes was a completely different physical type, still Ralph’s Catholicism might extend to his tastes in women . . . He mustn’t be flippant . . . No, no – out of the question – a man in his condition! So long as Wilkes was happy, he didn’t need to worry his head about what might have happened.
‘We need to have that doorbell repaired,’ he murmured and soon after he left.
‘What’s the matter with you today?’ Linda nudged her. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Nurse Wilkes said.
‘Don’t give me that. You look like something horrible has happened. As though – I don’t know. You are not your-self. What’s up? Has Ralph been giving you aggro?’
‘No. No. I’m knackered. The heat, I suppose . . .’
17
The Mortification of Moriarty
At four in the afternoon Robin Renshawe drove to Athlone Place. He rang the bell twice and waited several moments before pushing his hand into his pocket. He didn’t really expect Lily to be lurking inside.
The lock was a rather ordinary one and it took him exactly thirty-five seconds to pick it with the special piece of wire he had brought with him. He let himself into the flat. He shut the door behind him and stood beside an ornate hall lamp, which dangled from the arm of a marble caryatid. Nobody had seen him, not even the concierge. He had managed to slip by his desk in the hall. The concierge was some ancient duffer, a hearing aid sticking out of his left ear, and he been engrossed in a book. If all crimes were to be made that easy!
Robin hadn’t taken off his gloves. They were tan-coloured and made of the finest thin leather and fitted his hands like another skin. He pulled all the curtains across the windows and turned on a table lamp. He stood looking round Lily’s sitting room. Everything in pristine order, rather like in a museum. What an absurd setting Lily had created for himself. A cross between the Brompton Oratory, the Savoy and the Athenaeum – with more than a hint of a fin de siècle bordello! An Aubusson carpet. A Turkish cabinet. Two palms in Japanese-style porcelain pots. Intricately carved bookshelves. Two marble busts of unidentifiable ancient sages –or were they Roman emperors? A divan upholstered in red velvet – candelabras – two gruesome religious paintings on the walls, also some framed Max Beerbohm caricatures, authentic, he bet – silk and satin cushions – a polished Sheraton bureau – Robin looked at the books that lay on the bureau. Hadrian the Seventh by Frederick Rolfe. De Quincey’s Opium Eater and Murder as a Fine Art. No surprises there. The Leopold and Loeb Case Revisited. How curious. Robin opened the book – turned a page. Had Lily seen a parallel between himself and Robin and those two? They were nothing like them. Leopold and Loeb had killed one of their fellow students solely for aesthetic kicks. Besides, they had had an affair – and Robin couldn’t imagine any-thing more ghastly than having an affair with Lily, not even for a bet.
He opened a drawer, then another, examining their con-tents. A photo of a very old woman, strabismic, wearing small round glasses. Gwen Ffrangcon-Davies’ last appearance in ‘The Master Blackmailer’. What freakish tastes Lily had, Robin had forgotten.
More photos. Aportly man with a bald head and the lips of a highly disciplined voluptuary. Lily’s papa, the prosperous banker – there was a resemblance. Another photo, of a rather forbidding woman with a Roman nose. Mrs Lillie-Lysander, née Lushington. Lily’s mamma. She was wearing an elaborate hat, which suggested a wedding or a garden party. Robin remembered meeting them once – they had come to Antlers in a Daimler. They had been extremely formal with Lily – a handshake and a pat on the shoulder – no kisses – Lily’s mother hadn’t even taken off her gloves. She had known exactly how many sons of Catholic Dukes there were at the school at the moment.
Papers. Bills . . . Bills . . . Bills . . . Lily must have been desperate . . . Loans from three banks. Catalogues from sales – Christie’s – Sotheby’s. A gilt-edged card with the Midas club address and phone number. He had several of those himself. A book: Unbreakable Systems. Lily seemed to have taken roulette rather seriously. Another book: Satan’s Seraglio. Had Lily been planning selling his soul to Satan or had he already done so? A mahogany humidor filled with cigars. Expensive tastes. A Masonic tie-pin. Nothing of a remotely personal nature. No suspicious-looking brown envelopes.
Robin found himself thinking back to the scandal of Father Canteloupe – everybody had been talking about it – it had happened in their second year at school – there had been rumours that the school might be closed down. Father Canteloupe had committed suicide the same day the police had raided his study and discovered hundreds of what the press called ‘disturbing images’. Father Canteloupe had been found hanging in the cricket pavilion – as though the cricket pavilion hadn’t seen enough horrors already.
No, no dirty pictures of any kind. Robin had been hoping for something esoteric – something recherché. How terribly disappointing. I don’t believe that he ever experienced what one might call a stirring in the undergrowth for anyone – man, woman or child. That was what Nico, the least screwed-up of the five doomed Llewellyn Davies brothers and the last to die, had said about his ‘Uncle Jim’ Barrie. Lily, Robin imagined, was very much in the same category. Yes, Lily seemed to be one of those astonishing asexuals who went through life without any of the destructive passions known to man. Apart from gambling, that was.
It was for anything that could connect him, Robin, with Lily that he was looking. Well, there was a school group photo. There he was – had his hair really been that long? Well, that had been in 1979. Apart from the hair, he had changed little, he thought. He had the same dashingly chiselled cheekbones. Where was Lily? The overfed cherub on his right? Good lord. Yes. They weren’t standing side by side, Lily and he – there were no names written on the photograph. Still, Robin put it into his pocket – better play it safe . . .
He picked up a booklet bound in maroon leather. It looked familiar somehow. The Mortification of Moriarty. As he read the title, his heart missed a beat. Of course. It was the one-act play he and Lily had written together, though they had never got to perform it. Robin was going to play Moriarty – Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis. What was it all about? Robin leafed through it. He had forgotten. Something about Moriarty falling victim to one of his own cunning schemes? Pulling strings – getting people to commit all sorts of crimes for him, but not realizing – what? For the life of him Robin couldn’t recall the twist. Holmes didn’t appear at all, but it was all rather clever and had this terribly ironic denouement –
Putting the play into his pocket, Robin opened the last drawer.
No, nothing. Nothing at all.
Had he given Lily any of his joke cards? Robin Renshawe, Gentleman of Leisure. Robin’s address and phone number were printed on it. Where was the card? Lily had placed it inside his wallet – i
t all came back to Robin now . . . Well, Robin had instructed Eric not only to rough Lily up but to remove every scrap of paper from his pockets as well. He had also asked him to dispose of Lily’s mobile, which would have a record of all the calls Robin had made to him. The idea was that there should be nothing to connect Lily with Robin. Then, even if Lily became difficult and unpleasant and, say, attempted to blackmail him in some way, he would not be able to prove that he had been acting under Robin’s edict . . .
Lily had promised to send him a message as soon as he had accomplished his assignment, but he hadn’t. Robin didn’t want to ring Ospreys and draw attention to himself. He had rehearsed what he was going to say – the casual tone of voice in which he would ask Wilkes some totally silly question – had she knitted his pullover? And of course, if his uncle was dead, Wilkes would tell him at once. But wouldn’t they have called him anyway if his uncle had died? No one had called him so far, which suggested that all was in order at Ospreys.
Where was Lily? It was half past four now. Six hours! What if Eric had executed the ‘roughing’ task without the finesse it required – a little bit too roughly, perhaps? So far Eric hadn’t contacted him, which suggested that Eric might have killed Lily and was too scared to admit it.
Robin knew in his bones that at some point of the operation something had gone spectacularly wrong. He sat on one of Liy’s heraldic chairs and reflected that the worst scenario would be if his uncle was still alive and it was Lily who had ended up dead.
Robin had phoned Eric at five minutes to ten in the morning. By then he had drunk two thirds of the whisky. Eric of course had been delighted to hear his voice. Eric was like a puppy. Oh Robin, so nice to hear from you. How have you been? Eric was in Coulston, taking care of a Mr Stanley who was an invalid. It was Robin who had got him the job after his uncle had sacked Eric. Robin knew Mr Stanley from the Midas. Mr Stanley had been a regular at the roulette table until he had had his stroke. He could hardly move now. Eric was deeply grateful to Robin for getting him the job.
Assassins at Ospreys Page 13