‘Ah.’ Father Lillie-Lysander gave a sigh of the deepest satisfaction as he felt himself relax more and more… and more. ‘The Holy Spirit is upon me,’ he murmured blasphemously, his lips curved in a ridiculous grin.
The morphine – Papaver somniferum! (He made it sound like a benediction.)
At last… At last. (He must speak to Robin… Break the news… What would Robin do?)
Strangely enough, Father Lillie-Lysander’s last thought before he passed out was of Miss Ardleigh. There was something that wasn’t right about her. He was an old thesp and he was ready to swear that that blonde hair of hers – What a delicious sensation – it felt like being in the centre of a giant centrifuge!
Down-down-down – light as a feather.
7
The Letter
‘Ingrid? Do you know Ingrid?’ Beatrice appeared surprised.
‘I met her in Hay-on-Wye,’ Antonia reminded her.
‘Of course you did. Sorry, my dear. I’ve got so much on my mind. Oh, yes, she still lives here, but now that Len’s moved in, she’s planning to move out.’ Beatrice Ardleigh gave a sigh. ‘I am so sad. I am deeply grateful to her. She did everything for me, you see. We’ve lived together for – what is it? Nearly thirty years? Goodness, that’s a terribly long time, isn’t it? She never allowed anyone to come near me. Never.’
‘Not even your doctor?’
‘Dr Aylard found her quite difficult.’ Beatrice held her cigarette away from her eyes. ‘Once she pushed him out of my room. Well, Ingrid saw me through all my indignities. When I couldn’t sit up and had to lie down all the time. When I couldn’t go by myself to the loo. It is so easy to be dismissive and say, “Oh, one of those feverish female friendships,” I am sure that’s what people are saying, but it was so much more than that. Whenever I felt down and wanted to have a little cry, Ingrid sat beside me and held my hand. She read to me. She’s particularly good with voices. She sang me to sleep. Honestly. She fed me, mopped my brow, brushed my hair, bathed me, gave me massages. She dealt with all my correspondence -’
‘She reads your letters?’ Payne interrupted.
‘Used to – I mean she did it until recently. Not any more – not since Len’s been around. But before that she acted as my secretary. She was also my nurse, nanny – mother, if you like – guardian angel! All rolled up in one! I was Ingrid’s baby, her very special little girl. I know this sounds ridiculous and strange, but she lost her child, you see. She was seven months pregnant when it happened. It was going to be a little girl, apparently. Claire.’
‘Claire?’
‘That was the name Ingrid intended to give her little girl. She had been listening to “Clair de Lune” on the radio when the accident happened. She’s got all those photos in her room – various little girls – blonde and demure-looking. She said they were her nieces, but, you see, she hasn’t got any sisters. Once she was off guard and she said, “That’s Claire, my daughter.” Some of the photos are actually magazine cuttings. Photos of fair-haired girls modelling children’s clothes.’
‘You mean she pretends they are her daughter?’ Payne’s eyebrow went up. ‘ She imagines they are her daughter?’ ‘Yes. Yes. She could never get over the loss of her baby. She keeps having conversations with Claire in her head. She sends a monthly cheque to the Convent of the Poor Claires. She keeps listening to “Clair de Lune” -’ Beatrice broke off. ‘Oh, I know – I know – it’s totally mad. You poor things – the look on your faces! Well, losing the baby was a most devastating blow for Ingrid. She was quite unable to come to terms with the fact she’d never have another child too. To cut a long story short, I became a – a substitute. I allowed her to mother me. I don’t care what people think. Great shame it all has to end like that.’
‘She didn’t like the idea of you marrying?’
‘She didn’t. She was distraught. She made a ghastly scene.’ Beatrice shut and opened her eyes. ‘It was quite frightening. Honestly. She said some truly appalling things to me. She made me cry. I didn’t really see why the three of us couldn’t be happy together. I honestly didn’t. Len said he didn’t mind at all; he is an angel… I misjudged the situation completely, it seems. I must be terribly naive. Ingrid took it all rather badly. “You don’t really expect me to cohabit with you?” How she screamed! She seemed out-raged. She made it sound as though I’d come up with some really improper suggestion.’
‘You haven’t made up?’
‘I am afraid not. She’s still extremely cut up. She won’t speak to Len. Pretends he’s not there. She calls him “the interloper”. She hates Len. She is very, very cross with me. She keeps saying I betrayed her. She calls it an “act of treachery”. She said I was “the most selfish, the most ungrateful, the most unappreciative person who ever lived”. She hates me. I did try to explain – to reassure her. I did my best, believe me.’ Beatrice’s voice shook. ‘I made it clear that nothing had changed, but she didn’t want to listen. She was beyond reason. I did want to discuss things openly and rationally, the way sensible people do, but she just sat and stared in her inscrutable manner.’
‘Where is she?’ Antonia asked.
‘I have no idea.’ Beatrice stubbed out her cigarette and looked at the clock. ‘She went out over three hours ago. It’s freezing cold outside. Where does she go? She has no friends. Not a single friend. Can you imagine? She mistrusts people. I do hope she’s taken the train to Oxford and gone to the cinema and is not roaming the streets, brooding.’
‘Does she go out often?’
‘Quite often, yes. Lately, that is. She slips out without a word. And here’s an odd thing – we hear her but never see her. She seems to time her exits very carefully. We hear the stairs creak or the front door opening or closing. And she always comes back after we have gone to bed. I thought it was my imagination, but then Len noticed it too – and he is not particularly imaginative… Ingrid’s exits and entrances invariably take place when Len and I are together, either here, watching something on the box, or in our bedroom. We tend to spend a lot of time in our bed-room.’ Beatrice gave a coy smile. ‘Call me a stupid fool, but each time Ingrid goes out, I tend to imagine the worst – that she would do something silly. She did say once that the idea of suicide was never too far from her mind.’
The chink of china was heard, the door opened and a beaming Colville wheeled in a trolley laden with tea-things. Four cups, a large silver teapot, a muffin dish, a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches and a chocolate cake. ‘She is often troubled by suicidal fantasies,’ Beatrice went on. ‘I am telling them about Ingrid, darling.’
‘Ah. Ingrid.’ Colville’s smile faded and he shook his head.
‘She told me that at times suicide seemed not only frighteningly real but the only option. Varied and violent methods of ending her life keep presenting themselves to her – Darling, would you pour? At first it was the usual stuff – sleeping pills, cyanide, exhaust fumes, but then she said she had started considering slitting her wrists with the blades of a Gillette sensor razor or cutting her throat with an X-Acto knife… Another drop of milk, please… Now that’s too much! Honestly!’ For a moment Beatrice looked furious. ‘I am sorry, Len, but you know I don’t like my tea drowned in milk. Can I have another cup?’
‘Yes, of course, darling. So – so sorry. I didn’t mean to -’ Colville appeared greatly flustered. ‘Here you are. Sorry, darling.’
‘Thank you.’ Beatrice leant towards Payne. ‘What is an X-Acto knife? I’ve been wondering. Is it an army kind of knife?’
Payne admitted he had no idea.
‘Ingrid once went so far as to try a beam in her room to see if it would be strong enough to support a noose. And on another occasion she considered driving off a cliff.’
‘People who talk so much about killing themselves never do it,’ Colville said a shade regretfully. ‘Did you show Miss Darcy the letter?’