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 Bee had hastily withdrawn her hand – didn’t Ingrid know it was unlucky to compare hands?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.
Suddenly the lid opened and Ingrid was blinded by light –
An electric torch had been flashed into her face. She moaned – it burnt her eyes. She felt the tape being removed from her mouth, roughly and painfully peeled off, the handkerchief pulled out. Air! She coughed and gasped. Bright spots swam before her eyes. Then, in negative black and white, she saw something familiar. Wasn’t that the holly tree in front of Millbrook, the house she and Beatrice had shared for thirty years? Of course it was. The holly reached up to her bedroom window – why, she had trimmed it only last week!
Then she saw where she was. In the boot of a car – not in a coffin. She opened her mouth wide – not to scream but to breathe. She filled her lungs with air. Had help come? Earlier on she had been praying to Mighty God Rook –
No. Ingrid couldn’t make out the features of the face looking down at her, but she knew very well who it was. It was – him. I will have you for assault and illegal constraint, she wanted to shout but the next moment she smelled bitter almonds. She tried to bite the hateful fingers that were pushing the lump of cyanide into her mouth – how she would have liked to crunch them off! – but failed. She snarled – she felt her chin being pushed upwards. She heard her teeth click. She felt the cyanide gliding down her tongue, like a boat down a sluggish river, sinking deep into her throat. She gasped again – choked – gurgled –
Then, in the couple of seconds she had to live, Ingrid saw why she had been kept alive so far and brought to Millbrook House. It was one of those instant flashes of intuition.
The plan was that her death be made to look like suicide. It was her cyanide, she knew. The cyanide she kept in a phial in her room. Her cupboard had been raided. Suicide – wasn’t that what loopy people like her did when they reached the end of the line? The police were meant to assume that it was she who had killed the priest – that he had tried to protect Ralph, that they had had a fight – and she had stabbed him. No doubt they would discover the fruit knife in her pocket – it would be suitably smeared in the priest’s blood. They would assume she had panicked and bolted – that she had been hiding. She would be found stretched out on her bed beside her daughter’s photos –
One last gasp – one last convulsion – and she was still.
27
Esquire of the Body
Ingrid’s face was fiercely distorted. One eye, large and staring, moved slightly to the left as if it had become unmoored. The other remained fixed on her killer.
Ingrid’s body was dragged through the front door of the house and up the stairs, to the room which she had once occupied. There were a lot of photographs in silver frames on the bedside table. Several showed the two dogs Ingrid had once loved but had eventually had put down – these had black ribbons across the left corner. The majority of the photos were of similar
-looking little girls. About six or seven years old – smiling faces – dimpled chins – blonde curls. That was what her daughter would have been like, Ingrid had felt certain. Six photographs showed the same girl in a playground; that had been her best Claire; Ingrid had found her after hours of searching, and taken photos of her without the mother noticing. She had seriously considered abducting the girl and bringing her up as her own – but there had been too many people around.
The body was laid on the bed. The hands and the feet were unbound. An open phial which contained traces of cyanide was placed between the fingers of her right hand. For a moment the killer hesitated – she was right-handed, wasn’t she? The blonde wig was still on Ingrid’s head but it was a rag now, covered in congealed mud; blades of grass and dead leaves stuck out of it. Ingrid’s face was badly bruised – it was black and blue and no longer looked anything like Beatrice’s, he was pleased to note. The nose seemed broken, one of the eyes terribly swollen. The lips too. Well, the police would assume that Ingrid Delmar had sustained her injuries in her fight with the priest. The fruit knife, covered in the priest’s blood, would be discovered in her pocket.
He stood looking round the room. Sea-green walls, very faded, bordered with a pattern of roses on a black back-ground. On the dressing table, beside a bowl of dead flowers, so black it was impossible to say what they had been when fresh, lay a book. He picked it up and held it in his gloved hand. George Trevelyan. On Reincarnation and Other Psychic Matters. He leafed through it. A sort of erudite madness, from what he could see. The book was covered in dust, like the rest of the dressing table. What was it Ingrid had wanted to believe? That her unborn daughter might have come back as some other little girl? He wiped his gloves with his handkerchief.
A musty smell hung on the air. Heaven knew when the room had been cleaned and aired last . . . Was there any-thing else he needed to do? He had already disposed of the knitting needle. The police would never find it . . . Earlier on he had managed to burn his bloodied clothes as well as the shirt and jumper he had taken from Ralph Renshawe’s wardrobe. He had done it in the back yard. He had made sure the clothes had been reduced to ashes, then scattered the ashes over the river . . . He remembered Ralph’s eyes following him as he had walked across the room. Ralph – his former rival in love! Of course Ralph had had no idea as to who he was. Ralph had nodded and mouthed his thanks. Not a word had passed between them. At one point both of them had looked at the clock. They had had the same thought in mind, the same purpose – that nothing should interfere with the signing of the will.
He had dropped Robin Renshawe’s card in the garden; he had found it in the priest’s wallet. The more false leads the police had to follow, the more hares to chase after, the better. Though of course, inevitably, it was all going to culminate here, in this room. That was how it had to be. He didn’t turn off the light. Casting one final glance at Ingrid’s body, he left the room.
He descended the stairs and went out of the house with-out locking the front door.
He got back into his car.
He sat trying to collect his thoughts. Suddenly he felt empty – anticlimactic.
It would be up to Beatrice to discover the body and inform the police. Whenever she and Payne came back. If they came back . . . They were bound to notice the light in Ingrid’s room . . . It might be quite late – midnight or even in the small hours of the morning . . . Would they come back? They might decide to spend the night at an hotel – or at Payne’s pied-à-terre. Fellows like Payne always kept a pieds-à-terre . . . Payne’s wife clearly had no idea of what was going on, preoccupied as she was with her writing, inventing murders and victims and alibis. Shouldn’t he write to Antonia Darcy and apprise her of her husband’s infidelity? Anonymously – signed ‘Well-wisher’? No – what would be the point? It wouldn’t change a thing – too late.
He stared in front of him into the gathering darkness. He had prepared an alibi for himself. Now what was it? He frowned. He needed to concentrate. He gripped the wheel between his gloved hands and shut his eyes. No, he didn’t need an alibi. No one would ever suspect him. Why should they? He would need to clean the boot though – dispose of the handkerchief and the paper with the house plan –
Colville groaned. He had felt the beginnings of a depression, the powerful daemon he had never been able to understand, counter or control. It started as usual with the familiar sinking sensation – thoughts of futility and pointlessness – a nameless dread nagging at his mind, like some ancient curse. What had Bee said the last time he had complained? By no means let the black dog pounce! It’s all a question of silly biochemistry, darling – one of those rogue enzymes. Bee hadn’t been exactly helpful. The truth was she had never understood him – she hadn’t even tried.
What good would all this money be to him without Bee’s love? Even if she stayed with him, for appearances’ sake, she’d continue to sneak out to meet Payne. Of course she would. Colville clearly lacked that significant It in the boudoir department . . . Love trysts . . . Secret and not so-secret assignations . . . Bee would expect him to condone her ways – she regarded him as a mere blind, doting dullard . . . He took Payne’s pouch out of his pocket and stared down at it.
Then another thought struck him. If Bee did leave him for Payne, which she probably would do in the end, he’d get nothing . . . not a penny. He could never tell Bee what he had done . . . All his efforts – to keep Bee and Payne in state! He examined his bruised knuckles. The risks he had taken – the danger he had put himself in – so that those two could enjoy a life of plutocratic leisure –
He started the car. He had no idea where he was going.
‘Oh, but you must come in and have a bite to eat,’ Beatrice said when they delivered her at Millbrook House shortly after ten that evening. ‘Please . . . I feel a wreck. I look a wreck, don’t I?’ Opening her eyes wide, she turned to Antonia. ‘Don’t I?’
‘Not really,’ Antonia said.
‘Oh, I can’t get Len on his mobile . . . I could do with some company.’ Beatrice shot Payne a sidelong glance, but Antonia no longer minded. Earlier on Beatrice had been saying how absolutely thrilling she found that young man’s South African accent. She meant Greg. It wasn’t at all ‘common’, nothing like the way Australians, say, spoke – it sounded warm and unusual and well, sexy. She had given a laugh and made a funny face – her ‘duck face’, she informed them.
At one point she and Greg had started talking about tattoos and she had confided in him that she too had one. She would have shown it to him, she said coyly, if only she didn’t have to remove her stocking. They had stood in the kitchen at Ospreys, drinking brandy. Greg had opened one of Ralph Renshawe’s bottles of Armagnac. They had all needed a drink. Father Lillie-Lysander’s body had been taken away. The police had gone.
Well, Beatrice couldn’t help herself. She was that sort of woman. Still, they needed to talk to her seriously before long. What would be the best way to break the news to her? Beatrice wouldn’t have hysterics, would she? Antonia couldn’t bear the thought of a scene. They would probably end up staying the night at Millbrook House. (Where was Ingrid’s body? What had he done with the body?)
‘Heaven knows where Len has gone . . . He seems to have had a bonfire earlier on, can you smell it?’ Beatrice had opened her door but seemed reluctant to leave the car. ‘Such a pleasant, Christmassy kind of smell . . . I am sure that’s our back garden . . . Why are you so quiet? You look as though you know something I don’t. Don’t tell me I am imagining things. I saw you whispering, just before we left Ospreys . . . What is it? Why are you looking at me like that? You are frightening me!’
Antonia pretended she hadn’t heard. Keeping Beatrice in the dark afforded her an unworthy frisson of sadistic pleasure. ‘It’s getting colder,’ she said. ‘ The weather’s turning, have you noticed?’
‘All right.’ Major Payne cleared his throat. ‘Beatrice, there’s something you should know –’
Beatrice interrupted.
‘Oh my God, look – look. The light’s on in Ingrid’s room!’ She pointed. ‘Ingrid seems to be back . . . Now you simply must come in . . . You can’t possibly leave me alone with her. We may have to call the police and you can do that so much better than me.’
28
The Taj Mahal Necklace
Four weeks later it was Christmas and they had Major Payne’s aunt staying with them. Lady Grylls had recovered from her cataract operation, but she still wore a piratical patch across her right eye – because she fancied herself in it rather than out of any real necessity, Antonia suspected – and was eager for entertainment. Lady Grylls loved stories of mystery, mayhem and murder, so, with the Christmas pudding and the black coffee, they told her this one. The whole lamentable affair in which greed, revenge, despair and madness all played a part.
‘Colville gave every appearance of a man who stands on his feet, representing solidity and permanence, but he became a double murderer,’ Major Payne said. ‘Well, he wasn’t a particularly effectual landlord. His business had been going to the dogs. He needed money badly and, having this magnificent windfall come to his wife, he wasn’t going to allow it to be snatched away, just like that. What was hers was going to be his. They had a joint bank account. We are talking about a fabulous fortune here. Big money.’
‘How big?’ Lady Grylls asked. She liked details in a story.
‘Very big. Thirty-five million pounds. Well, money is a great catalyst. He decided to follow Ingrid moments after he’d seen her through the window and snapped her with his Polaroid. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. He saw her make for the bus stop. He had no doubt she’d get on the number 19 bus, which would take her to Ospreys. Maybe he saw her get on the bus. His one and only concern was that Ralph Renshawe should be alive at eleven o’clock and sign the will which made Beatrice his sole beneficiary.’
Assassins at Ospreys Page 20