He dialled Robin’s number but found it busy. He looked across the overgrown lawn, shading his eyes with his hand. There was the wishing well, by the beech tree. It dated back to the late 1600s, apparently. He wished this whole business was over. He wished he could give himself another shot of Papaver somniferum. He hoped Robin wouldn’t think he had got cold feet. So hot. Freak weather -
‘Fair is foul and foul is fair,’ he said and in a funny way he felt comforted.
He dialled Robin’s number again. This time his call was answered at once.
‘Oh Robin – it’s me. I am at Ospreys, yes. No, I didn’t do it. No, I didn’t funk it. No, I didn’t get cold feet. Your uncle is not here -’ Lillie-Lysander imagined he heard a noise coming from the rose bushes – the snapping of a twig? Probably a bird or a squirrel. Greedy little beasts, squirrels – should be exterminated. Who so smites with the sword shall perish by the sword, he thought inconsequentially.
‘What’s the matter?’ Robin said. Robin sounded exasperated.
‘Nothing. Sorry. Thought I heard something. Um. Your uncle was taken to hospital last night – sudden deterioration – apparently he passed out -’
‘He didn’t die?’
‘I am afraid not. It must be terribly frustrating for you. He will be back at Ospreys later today. I don’t know when exactly. He is much better, Nurse Wilkes said. It was touch and go, apparently, but he is out of danger now. It’ll have to be done tomorrow. Why do I sound squeaky? I don’t think I sound squeaky at all. No, I am not in a state of blue funkdom -’ That was a phrase they had used at school. ‘I would do it. I said I would. I’ll use the largest pillow, don’t you worry. I’ll come again tomorrow, at ten… He will be here… You don’t believe me? Well, wait until tomorrow and you will see. By ten past ten your uncle will be dead. You have my word, Robin -’
Hidden behind the rose bushes Ingrid crouched and lis-tened. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. At first she scowled ferociously but then her lips curved up slowly into a smile. An interesting complication. A second murderer, eh? It seemed the priest was intent on stealing her thunder.
A challenge. Well, she liked a challenge. Nothing like a challenge to set the adrenalin pumping and catapult her into action.
13
Polaroid
Major Payne said, ‘I am truly sorry and I promise never to do it again. Never.’
‘Why do a silly thing like that?’
‘I don’t know what possessed me. I really don’t. I couldn’t resist it.’
‘You couldn’t resist scaring me?’
‘I mean I thought it would be funny.’
‘It was extremely thoughtless of you. You did scare me. Is that a smirk, Hugh?’
‘No! Of course not,’ he cried. ‘I am just terribly happy that we are on speakers again. I can’t bear you not speaking to me. It’s worse than writing five hundred lines of Latin Georgics!’
‘I should hope so.’
‘I did believe there was blood on the door handle. I did think someone had been killed!’
He kissed her and held her to him and repeated in her ear that he was sorry. He sounded genuinely contrite, so she told him about the phone call she had received from Beatrice Ardleigh. He stared at her. ‘Golly. She went along with the act? I suppose that was the right thing to do in the circumstances. Renshawe is dying – what difference would it make?’
‘None whatever,’ Antonia agreed. ‘It’s not as though she’s been gaining his favour under false colours.’
‘It is funny, when you think about it – dashed ironic – that it should have been Renshawe’s deadliest enemy – mad Ingrid – who managed to win him over!’
The clock started chiming nine. They went into the dining room and sat down to breakfast. The warm weather was continuing and the windows were wide open. They could hear birdsong coming from the garden.
‘Ingrid needs urgent medical attention, if not the attention of the CID,’ said Antonia. ‘I do think we should do something about it, Hugh, since Bee doesn’t want to get “poor” Ingrid into trouble. Bee would hate to be considered a “snitch”. Bee abhors the very idea of “ratting”.’
‘You don’t seem to like Beatrice much,’ said Payne mildly. He dug into his bacon and eggs.
Antonia took a sip of tea. ‘Not much, no.’
‘Well, she’s got a husband to advise her. Colville’s head seems to be screwed on the right way. Besides, he is no fan of Ingrid’s.’ Payne glanced at the clock. ‘What time was Renshawe’s solicitor going to Ospreys?’
‘Eleven.’
‘If Renshawe does manage to change his will, Beatrice will be one fabulously rich lady,’ said Payne thoughtfully. ‘However, if he were to die before he had seen his solicitor, she would get nothing. This is fascinating, don’t you think?’
Antonia agreed it was fascinating.
‘A fortune is at stake and it all depends on the purest of chances. Renshawe is a dying man – he can pop off at any moment. Who do you think inherits by his original will?’ Antonia shrugged and said she had no idea. No one had mentioned any children, so she doubted he had any. Illegitimate children? Chaps like Renshawe always had illegitimate sons, Payne said thoughtfully.
‘He may have nephews – or a niece or two,’ she said after a pause.
‘Imagine their shock if Renshawe does manage to change his will.’ Payne helped himself to toast and Oxford marmalade. ‘Do they know about Uncle Ralph’s intentions? Would they approve?’
‘I don’t see how they could possibly approve.’
Payne looked at her. ‘What do you think will happen next?’
Antonia said. ‘Nothing, I hope.’
Even at the best of times he was prone to mood swings, to descents into the doldrums, to sudden overpowering ‘downers’, as Bee put it. Bee had said it was due to the fact he was born under Saturn, the planet of melancholy, that for those born under Saturn there was no lasting escape from the ‘black dog’. She had spoken like an expert. Woof, woof, she had added. He had managed a laugh – he didn’t want her to say again that he was ‘deficient in the drollery department’ – but the remark had hurt him beyond reason. He had expected greater understanding from her. Well, the truth was Bee had never even tried to enter his feelings.
Leonard Colville sat on the sofa in the sitting room at Millbrook House, leaning against the silk cushions. All the cushions smelled of Bee – of Ce Soir Je T’Aime – her favourite scent. He stroked one particular cushion; there were two golden hairs sticking to it. Then, picking up the cushion, he buried his face in it and inhaled deeply. It didn’t help – if anything, his heart grew heavier. A mood of extreme dejection was overtaking him.
She lied to me, Colville whispered, replaying once more the scene at breakfast.
Bee, in her silver-coloured silk peignoir with rabbit fur trimmings, dipping her spoon in her dish of Fortnum and Mason’s Soya Porage, bringing it up to her mouth, blowing at it gently, parting her lips. It had been a delight watching her. Bee wrinkled her nose and her green eyes narrowed. Colville caught a glimpse of her even pearly teeth and of her tongue the colour of ripe strawberries. He could have sat and watched her like that for eternity.
Then they started talking about the money – what they would do with it if Ralph Renshawe really did leave his fortune to her. That very morning Renshawe’s solicitor was going to Ospreys; a new will was going to be drawn up. Well, darling, Bee said, her voice vibrant with expression, all our financial problems will be resolved once and for all. It was the fairy godfather solution. A cruise – they would go on a cruise, the two of them. A second honey-moon, darling – Bee smiled at him. You would like that, wouldn’t you?
He remembered his thoughts. Never before have I known such bliss – such perfect oceanic peace.
That was only moments before the telephone rang and Bee rushed to it. Colville chided himself for the unworthy thought, but it was almost as though she had expected the phone to ring.