‘I know old Saunders. Of Saunders, Merrick amp; Bell. Office in New Bond Street. Tomorrow at eleven, did you say?’
‘Tomorrow at eleven.’ Lillie-Lysander nodded. He thought it sounded like the title of a play – a Noel Coward pastiche? More like a Francis Durbridge-style thriller, actually. Tomorrow at Eleven. There was a menacing ring to it. Did they still do Durbridge? Mainly rep, he imagined. As a matter of fact he and Robin were a bit like the two main characters in Patrick Hamilton’s Rope – Lillie-Lysander had always wanted to play Brandon, the ‘dominant’ one. This scene was crucial; it had to be done in an understated, almost perfunctory fashion – not too perfunctory though – over-acting either way would kill it, Lillie-Lysander had no doubt. Well, Robin seemed to have established the right register. Was that how people talked in real life? Well, this was real life. How funny.
‘This is what I would like you to do, Lily. I would like you to be at Ospreys at ten. Or even a couple of minutes before ten, to give yourself enough time.’ Robin put down the coffee cup. ‘Do take off your glasses. You can’t concentrate with your glasses on. Your pupils are like pin-points, incidentally.’
Lillie-Lysander took off his glasses. I do everything he tells me, he thought, fascinated. It was like that silly childish game, Simon Says. There should be a game called Robin Orders. Robin orders: ‘Take off your glasses.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Lillie-Lysander asked and as he did, he was transported back in time once more, to school, to the day he had rigged up a booby-trap over the classroom door minutes before one of the most popular masters had entered. It had been a carefully premeditated exercise in authority-destruction. The bucket had contained red paint. The master had never managed to enjoy the same degree of popularity afterwards. It was Robin who had put Lillie-Lysander up to it. Robin had managed to persuade him without much difficulty. Neither of them had been caught.
Robin had crossed his legs. A little smile was playing on his lips. Lillie-Lysander was aware that he too was smiling, he couldn’t say why exactly. Robin knows I am an opium-eater, he thought. ‘You won’t be disturbed by Wilkes until half past ten, that’s when she makes you a cup of tea, is that right? Does Wilkes still knit?’
‘I think so. Yes.’ For some reason Lillie-Lysander experienced an unpleasant frisson at the thought of Nurse Wilkes’ knitting needles.
‘I recall the big feather pillows at the foot of my uncle’s bed. Are they still there?’
‘Yes. There are two pillows – no, three.’
‘Have you ever touched them?’
‘Well, yes. Once or twice – without thinking.’
‘How do they feel – soft? Or are they of the somewhat harder, springier variety?’
‘Soft – they are filled with feathers, I think.’ A touch of perversity had entered the dialogue – they must be careful. This was a crucial scene. It had to be played straight, in a matter-of-fact manner. Any suggestion of facetiousness or double entendre would be disastrous.
There was a moment’s pause, then Robin said quietly, ‘You will need to press firmly but make sure you don’t bruise his face. Given Uncle Ralph’s enfeebled state, it would take less than a minute.’
Lillie-Lysander sat very still, staring before him. Robin orders, ‘Smother my uncle.’ Had he goaded Robin into this? He had certainly exaggerated when he said that Ralph Renshawe had nearly died as a result of his coughing fit, which he, Lillie-Lysander, had brought about. Had he done it on purpose? Had he planted the idea of murder in Robin’s mind? Had that been his intention… all along?
‘… take the pillow off his face, plump it up and place it at his feet. Check his wrist. He will have expired, but if he hasn’t, you may have to repeat the procedure. Make certain his eyes are closed and not glazed and staring. That accomplished, sit beside him as you normally do. Is the chair by the bed comfortable?’
‘Not in the least. It’s a genuine Empire.’
‘Excellent. No danger of you dozing off then. Well, that’s where Wilkes should find you. In your dog collar, the rosary clicking between your fingers, your head bowed in prayer. As you hear her enter, look up, execute the sign of the cross over my uncle’s body. Ego te absolvo in nomine Patris. That’s what you say, don’t you? Turn to Wilkes – Mr Renshawe is at peace now. He must have died in his sleep. I have given him his last rites. Don’t forget to bring your little leather bag, will you? What does it contain exactly? I have always wondered.’
‘Chalice. Anointing oil. Bible.’
‘It’s highly unlikely that anyone would insist on a postmortem in the case of a gravely ill cancer patient.’ Robin picked up the silver pot and poured himself more coffee. ‘You could stay until Saunders comes at eleven and break the sad tidings to him, if you like. Saunders’ errand would have been fruitless, or bootless. The status quo would undisturbed. There will be no new will and according to the old one, it is Robin Renshawe, nephew of the deceased, who receives the bulk of my uncle’s fortune.’
‘You are confident of success,’ Lillie-Lysander said in an uninflected voice.
‘I don’t see how it could go wrong. You are already an integral part of the Ospreys set-up. You have been per-forming your duties impeccably. You won’t incur a blink of suspicion. Not that anyone would ever consider the possibility of foul play.’ Robin took a sip of coffee. ‘We’ll go halves. That’s a lot, Lily. Judith Hartz II was a rich bitch. We are talking millions. At least twenty. She left it all to Uncle Ralph, though by all accounts he was the husband from hell. That was well before he found God. I can put it in writing, if you like. I am sure you trust me?’
Lillie-Lysander remained silent. Did he trust Robin? Well, no, not entirely, but then that was part of the thrill. (Was he a masochist?)
Robin murmured, ‘It wouldn’t be as messy as the fox…’
Lillie-Lysander knew at once what he meant. Back at school all those years ago a fox had strayed into the cricket pavilion and he – Lillie-Lysander – had battered it with a cricket bat. Robin had dared him to do it. Robin had suggested Lillie-Lysander was too fastidious, too squeamish, too ‘lily-livered’. Well, he had shown him. They had dis-posed of the fox’s body together, by wrapping it in back numbers of the Catholic Herald and the Tablet, which they had stolen from the school library, and placing it inside one of the gardener’s green refuse bags.
Robin went on, ‘Just imagine your pockets full of lustrous plastic counters – what you could achieve at the Midas if you had that kind of money… You wouldn’t have to go back to St Edmund’s – ever. Or any other similar establishment.’
St Edmund’s was the particularly awful minor public school where Lillie-Lysander had taught English for a year. He had despised and detested St Edmund’s. The boys had been beastly – they had driven him mad. He had told Robin how he had found himself devising ingenious ways of exterminating them one by one, starting with the leaders. It would have been a kind of Unman, Wittering and Zigo in reverse…
Robin’s eyes had strayed to the papers on Lillie-Lysander’s desk – they slid over to the letter concerning his friend’s depleted account. Lillie-Lysander looked down at his unlit cigar in its ornate holder. He was experiencing a rather complex sort of feeling, a curious blend of dread-cum-relish. Soon enough he heard a sigh of commiseration he knew was as faux as the copy of the ‘original’ Dr Crippen’s diary he had picked up at a book auction a couple of months back.
‘My poor Lily,’ Robin said. ‘Just think of the difference this would make to your finances. Think what it would be like to have lots of idle leisure, to pursue a life of pleasure -’
‘“A Shooting-Box in Scotland”.’ Lillie-Lysander looked up. ‘You too heard it?’