‘And what’s that thing over there in the garden?’ Payne shaded his eyes. ‘Not a well, surely?’
‘It is a well, sir. An ancient wishing well, Mr Renshawe said. That’s where the buzzing is coming from, I guess, sir. I meant to go and investigate.’
‘Let’s go and do it now, shall we?’ Payne turned towards Antonia. ‘The well is in a direct line from Renshawe’s windows.’ Something in his voice made Antonia look sharply at him.
‘Shall I lead the way, sir?’
‘By all means, old boy. Am I right in thinking you’ve been in the army?’
‘Yes, sir. For two years.’
‘What I thought. Good man.’
Antonia and Major Payne followed Greg out of the kitchen door and into the garden. They turned left, then left again . . .
The garden resembled a jungle, Antonia thought. She was conscious of a rising sense of uneasiness inside her. Yews and birches and, startlingly, tall bedraggled Chinese palms – as well as rose bushes that were as tall as the trees – all interwoven with ivy and various other creepers. And weeds, weeds everywhere. They passed a dilapidated grotto bench with fantastic undersea carvings and a pagoda-like structure, shrouded in ivy. It was the kind of landscape one associated with the Sleeping Beauty’s castle . . .
Greg had stopped and he raised his hand. ‘Those are Mr Renshawe’s windows.’
Like a bloodhound on the scent, Payne advanced to the steps leading up to the dilapidated terrace. The stone sur-face was invisible under a carpet of dead leaves. The french windows were ajar and Payne caught sight of Beatrice sitting on a straight-backed Empire chair beside the bed in which Ralph Renshawe sat propped up among several pillows.
A toad-like, even Gila-monsterish, face the colour of mouldy old bone, but the eyes struck Payne as bright and animated. Not the eyes of a dying man. Renshawe was wearing an outlandish garb – what appeared to be a Japanese kimono in apricot and black, and across his lap lay a large white feather fan. Major Payne was put in mind of Graham Sutherland’s controversial portrait of the octogenarian Somerset Maugham that had made the grand old man of letters look like the dissolute madam of a Shanghai brothel.
Stationing himself between an empty plant tub made of black marble and an ornate, rusting wire garden chair, Payne took in more details. There was a crucifix on the wall above Renshawe’s head. Renshawe was holding Beatrice’s left hand between the skeletal fingers of both his. He has no idea it’s a different one, Payne thought – or has he? Renshawe was saying something. Beatrice was leaning towards him, nodding her blonde head as though in agreement. She had a very serious expression on her face. They looked like fellow conspirators. Not a word could be heard. Payne wondered what he was saying to her.
A moment later Payne walked back and rejoined Greg and Antonia. Suddenly he didn’t seem to be in a hurry at all. He stood looking at the well. It appeared he was try-ing to estimate the distance between the well and Ralph Renshawe’s windows. ‘You don’t think –?’Antonia began. ‘I don’t know, my love, but it strikes me as a definite possibility. See these rusty stains?’ Payne had kicked at a heap of dead leaves on the ground. Antonia frowned, then nodded. ‘You’d better tighten your tummy. It may not be a pleasant sight.’
Greg was the first to notice the little cloud that hovered above the well. ‘Bluebottles! I thought so! Sir, shall I –?’
‘Go on, old boy. Lead the way.’
Spotting an oblong piece of cardboard in a clump of yellow grass, Payne stooped over and picked it up. No, not an ordinary piece of cardboard. He turned it over. Gilt edges. Somebody’s visiting card. Robin Renshawe, Gentleman of Leisure. The nefarious nephew, eh? He whom Uncle Ralph had disinherited. Had the rogue Robin been here then?
‘Would be remarkable if he really did drop his card, just like that,’ Antonia pointed out. ‘That was blood, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so. Let’s follow the buzzing trail.’
Above them the rooks screamed and flapped their wings. The silly things appeared to be in quite a state. Antonia stopped for a moment and gazed up. As the three of them drew nearer to the well, the ferocious buzzing increased . . . The cloud moved slightly to one side but didn’t disperse entirely – not even when Greg waved his arms at it.
Antonia gasped as a fresh swarm of flies burst out of the well the moment they stood beside it. Furious at the disruption of their unspeakable feast, she thought. For a moment she feared she might disgrace herself and be sick.
‘This wouldn’t have happened if the weather had been cooler,’ said Payne.
‘Some animal must have fallen into the well, I guess.’
‘Animal . . . I imagine you’ve seen a great many terrible things in the veldt?’
Greg looked at him with a frown. ‘You don’t think it’s something else, do you, sir?’
‘As a matter of fact, old boy, I do think it’s something else.’
Greg leant over the edge of the well and looked inside. He kept brushing away at the flies with his right hand. ‘There’s something inside. I can see it –’
‘What is it?’
‘Something black, ma’am. No, white – round – covered in flies!’ The next moment Greg swore. ‘What the devil’s that?’
He had drawn back as though he’d been stung by some-thing. ‘It’s – it’s a face, sir! A human face! I swear. There’s a face down there – somebody inside – looking up! I saw the eyes – the mouth too, gaping open. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman but they are dead – covered in flies – must be dead!’
24
Unholy Dying
She had been deceiving him. She had been carrying on outrageously behind his back. She’d been having an affair. She had set all discretion at defiance and thrown every caution to the winds – She had had her lover in the house.
Dazed and dismayed, Colville stood in the middle of the sitting room, staring down at the tobacco pouch in his hand. He was overcome with violent giddiness and feared he might collapse. Earlier on he had managed to persuade himself that he was wrong, that he had been imagining it all, that there was an innocent explanation for things. He was a fool! Well, here was the proof now – the absolute, irrefutable proof of Bee’s perfidy.
An arch betrayer of true love. That had been said about Marie Antoinette but the description fitted Bee perfectly. Bee was like one of those shiny apples which you bite into, only to spit out the brown rotten flesh. A Jezebel of a woman. Nothing but a two-faced whore.
He had already phoned Alessandro’s, Bee’s hair-dresser’s in Oxford. No, they hadn’t had a power cut. They never had power cuts. The woman who answered Colville’s call had sounded extremely surprised. Was the gentleman by any chance from the Health and Safety department? Colville put down the receiver. No. Of course there had been no power cut. He had always known that was a lie. He had then rung Tiddly Dolls, the absurdly named restaurant, and asked the manageress – a Mrs Derwent-Delahaye – if a golden-haired woman with green eyes had had lunch there two days before in the company of a military-looking man. He would have liked to say that Mrs Derwent-Delahaye sounded like a tiddly doll herself, but she had spoken with the intimidating gravitas of some superior schoolmarm.
What an extraordinary query, Mrs Derwent-Delahaye had said repressively; she feared that it would be difficult and time-wasting to ascertain whether a couple of that description had had lunch at her establishment – besides, it wasn’t within their practice to divulge information regarding their patrons – unless there was a serious reason for it? ‘She stole your menu!’ Colville shouted into the phone before slamming it down. He had been shaking. Knowing full well that he had made a fool of himself, he sat with his face buried in his hands.
The pouch was made of fine black leather, was zip-operated and had the initials H.P. on it. Hugh Payne. Major Payne. Antonia Darcy’s husband. Colville had found it on the small table beside one of the armchairs. He had been right. He had suspected Payne from the very start. He had been right.
> The sitting room reeked of Payne’s tobacco. Payne had been smoking his pipe. Payne had made himself at home, clearly. Payne had had drinks with Bee. His glass was on the little table beside his pouch. Colville picked it up and sniffed at it. Whisky. Bee had drunk brandy; her glass was smeared with her dark-rose lipstick. No third glass – there had been only the two of them. Antonia Darcy, he was sure, had no idea. Of course not. So much for the famous intuition of women. So much for crime writers’ much vaunted powers of observation! He gave a mirthless laugh, but tears were already rolling down his face. Bee must have called Payne as soon as he, Colville, had left the house. Perhaps Bee had initiated the row with that aim in view? It was Payne she had been to see the other day when she said she’d been to the hairdresser’s!
There were CDs strewn around on the floor. ‘The Way You Look Tonight’. ‘Moonlight Becomes You’. ‘Unforgettable’. ‘Fools Rush In’. These, as it happened, were some of his favourite songs. He picked them up and replaced them automatically on the shelf. Things seemed to have got . . . passionate . . . rough . . . Perhaps that was how Bee liked things. He swallowed. Yes. Payne had pushed Bee against the shelves and started kissing her throat –
Falling down on all fours, Colville started examining the carpet. Crumpled – closer to the door than it had been before – the fringe disarranged. One didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that Bee and Payne had been dancing. Yes. Smooching. Pressed together, shamelessly close. Colville saw them very clearly in his mind’s eye. Payne’s arms around Bee’s body, Bee’s golden head on Payne’s shoulder, her fingers linked behind his neck . . . Whispering in each other’s ears – laughing . . . People often danced as a prelude to greater intimacies.
Colville swallowed. He was remembering how Bee managed to get rid of her clothes – it was a trick she had – she did a sort of shrug and everything slithered to the ground – it was as though skirt, blouse and pants were all a bit of a piece. What a revelation that had been. It had left him breathless. It had happened on the first day of their honeymoon in Java. He recalled the double bed with the silk sheets – the green window shutters – the hot tropical afternoon pulsing outside . . . It all felt like a dream now . . .
Colville felt sure Payne was a marvellous dancer. Payne had carried Bee along with sinuous and effortless grace. Colville could hear Bee’s laughter, her exclamations of delight, her gasps as she clung to her lover. She might even have wept, the way women did when they were in the throes of ecstasy.
He gripped the back of a chair. Everything was crumbling round him. His mind felt as though it was going to explode. His greatest fear was that he might be going mad. Become like Ingrid –
An hour earlier he had given himself a fatuous injunction: Nil desperandum. Well, he had convinced himself that all would be well after he had discussed matters with Bee. He had returned intent on reconciliation. He had been going to say sorry. He had meant to ask for forgiveness. Fall to his knees, if necessary. He’d have done anything for her smile – for her touch – for the lightest of her kisses – anything!
He was a fool. No fool like an old fool. So Ingrid had been right when she said all those ghastly, those truly shocking things about Bee when he had first moved into the house. Ingrid had regaled him with lurid tales of Bee seducing strangers, of trying to persuade Ingrid to procure for her – even while she had still been wheelchair-bound and then after her recovery – and of how, on two occasions, Ingrid had succumbed. Ingrid called Bee a ‘voracious bird’. She claimed that Bee had even had an affair with her doctor, Dr Aylard, who must be at least sixty . . . Colville had been convinced Ingrid was trying to poison his mind against Bee.
Well, Ingrid was jealous of him – resentful of his prox-imity to Bee, of his very presence in the house – she had a name for him – ‘the interloper’! He had absolutely refused to believe that Bee had taken lovers, but now he wondered. Yes, he wondered very much . . . Could the devil speak true?
Suddenly he was eager to know and he felt at once impatient and terrified – rather like Bluebeard’s young bride nerving herself to enter the forbidden chamber. He wanted to go and ransack those old velvet and satin hatboxes Bee kept in her wardrobe – tear them apart. The boxes had belonged to Bee’s mother and seemed to be full of papers. He might find something – love letters – suggestive notes – mementoes – photos –
Photos other men had taken of Bee? Bee wearing outrageous outfits – naked – in suggestive poses – per-forming unspeakable lewd acts –
He passed his hand across his face. He started walking towards the door – halted. No. He needed to attend to other, more important, things first. There was the letter from his solicitor about that damned court case – he needed to write back as soon as possible. A bonfire. He needed to make a bonfire as a matter of some urgency, though he couldn’t remember the exact reason for it. Burn dead leaves? Burn all of Bee’s dresses, as an act of revenge? All those damned expensive Chanels and Balenciagas and Valentinos . . . No, it was something else he needed to burn – what was it? I am going mad, he whispered.
Had Payne and Bee gone to a hotel? Or were they per-haps at that very moment in the back of Payne’s car? It must be Payne’s car, since her Mini was in the garage. Were they lying on a blanket in the grass in some secluded spot – the obvious thing to do on a warm day like that. He could just see them. Smoking Bee’s Turkish cigarettes – Bee’s golden head on Payne’s chest – discussing their future together – making plans – laughing – wondering about the most tactful and painless way of breaking the news to him.
Colville walked slowly into the hall, he didn’t quite know why, and stood examining his reflection in the mir-ror. He looked distraught – wild-eyed – pouchy. He had aged over the last couple of hours. No woman would want to go with him – unless he paid her. Well, he had employed the services of tarts once or twice – years ago, when his first marriage had started going wrong – he deemed it a most unsatisfactory experience. He didn’t want a tart. He wanted Bee. He wanted Bee.
But perhaps – perhaps everything was not yet lost? Suddenly he felt a surge of optimism, heady and intoxicating – the kind of euphoria he had experienced when Bee said yes to his marriage proposal. Perhaps Bee was merely infatuated with Payne. It might be nothing but a crush. She might already have recovered from it, the way people recovered from bouts of illness. Yes. She might have resisted Payne’s advances. The ultimate might not have taken place yet. Perhaps at that very moment she was saying, ‘I am sorry, Hugh, but this is totally wrong. Please, take your hands off me. I don’t know what possessed me. I must go back to my husband at once.’
Yes . . . He saw his reflection in the mirror smile back at him. I must go and make that bonfire, he thought. My future happiness depends on it. The next moment he noticed a small folded sheet of paper lying on the floor underneath the mirror. He stooped over and picked it up.
Please, darling, forgive, forgive. I love you. I want you so. Do not be cross. H.
H. for Hugh. Hugh Payne. Major Hugh Payne. Payne had written to her. She had dropped Payne’s note. Not very careful, was she? Or maybe she no longer saw any point in concealing the affair. ‘Forgive’ and ‘Do not be cross’ suggested of course a previous secret meeting. They appeared to have had a tiff. A lovers’ tiff. Well, Bee had clearly forgiven Payne. She had engineered the row with Colville, so that she could get Colville out of the house. She had then phoned Payne and asked him to come over –
It was all over. He had been a fool to imagine otherwise.
I must see to that bonfire, he thought.
Back at Ospreys Major Payne was taking command. ‘I would like you to call the police,’ he told Greg. ‘Say we’ve found the body of Father Lillie-Lysander.’
‘Is that him? The priest who disappeared?’
‘Yes. The blood on the sheets and on Renshawe’s pyjamas is his.’
‘The priest’s blood!’
‘Yes. Nurse Wilkes will have to answer some awkward questions.’
/>
‘Oh, that’s too bad!’ cried the good-natured Greg. ‘Just when she won the lottery –’
‘She didn’t win the lottery. What I think she got was part hush money, part reward. I think Nurse Wilkes was generously remunerated for her cooperation. Where’s that bin-liner exactly? The one with the bloody things?’
‘In the big container.’
‘Better get it back into the house – make sure it is the right one. The police would be jolly interested in the bloody things.’ Payne paused. ‘Lord of the flies.’
‘What’s that?’ Antonia said.
‘Beelzebub . . . Remember Beelzebub, my love? The priest’s face was covered in flies. An association of ideas,’ Major Payne explained. ‘The Pharisees accused Jesus of performing miracles in the name of Beelzebub, who was a demon – some say Satan himself . . . I don’t know. Not fair, perhaps, at this early stage. I shouldn’t make precipitate judgements. I may be doing the priest a terrible injustice, but then the cloth does attract some strange individuals. I mean I am assuming he was a bad hat. I’ll tell you what. Let’s have a word with the Master of Ospreys. I want to see him before the police arrive. Come along. It should be jolly interesting. Though I doubt if he’ll tell us the truth. Why should he?’
They saw Greg pick up the phone. When they were in the hall, Antonia asked, ‘What do you think happened?’
‘Well, I may be entirely wrong, but I have an idea that it was Ralph Renshawe’s hand that held the fatal knitting needle that unleashed the gore – which doesn’t necessarily make him into a killer, if you know what I mean.’
Antonia said, ‘He wouldn’t have had the strength for a powerful lethal upward thrust, would he?’
‘No. He wouldn’t have been able to get the body out of the room and drop it in the well either. Someone helped him.’
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.’
Assassins at Ospreys Page 18