No, that was all wrong – it was something that shouldn’t have been there.
What an odd thought. Antonia opened her eyes. What exactly did she mean by that?
They were in the car bound for Ospreys. Major Payne was driving and he expressed the hope that they would-n’t clash with the police. If the house was under some sort of guardianship, they would certainly not be allowed in. The police didn’t like amateur investigators meddling in their business.
‘Why are amateur detectives always cleverer than the police?’ Beatrice looked at Antonia over her shoulder. Beatrice’s spirits appeared to have revived completely. She sat next to Payne in front while Antonia sat in the back of the car. Antonia didn’t quite know how that had happened.
‘It’s a convention in detective fiction,’ she said.
‘Don’t you think you should break it? Isn’t that what conventions are for?’ Beatrice laughed. ‘I mean, write a novel in which things happen the other way round? Have the amateur detective lose the battle of wits to the professional policeman?’
‘A jolly good idea,’ Payne agreed heartily. ‘Don’t you think?’ He addressed Antonia, but she remained silent. She was annoyed because he was right. It was a good idea.
‘Just imagine we are characters in a detective novel,’ Beatrice went on after a pause. ‘We are hurrying towards the scene of a crime, but it is only the author who decides what is going to happen next.. . Perhaps the author doesn’t even know at this point who the victim is – he may not even know who the killer is going to be. That’s quite scary, don’t you think? I mean it could be anyone. It could be the padre – it could be Ingrid – it could be Ralph – it could even be me!’
‘Yes, it could even be you,’ Antonia agreed.
‘What was that called? Metafiction?’
Showing off, Antonia thought – trying to impress Hugh. Beatrice had spent half an hour in her room, getting ready. Her make-up, when she appeared, was revealed as flawless. She had changed into a wasp-waisted tweed suit and more conventional but still rather smart shoes. She had replaced the rather embarrassing Taj Mahal necklace with a string of pearls. She wore a scarf of unusual yellow-green colour – yerba de mate, she told Antonia – intricately wound round her head and had elegant dark glasses on. She looked as though she might have stepped down from some 1950s advertisement… Advertising what? The best way to steal a husband, that’s what, Antonia thought. There would be a bubble coming out of her mouth, saying, Husband-snatching is such fun.
Beatrice kept leaning towards Hugh, laying her hand on his arm. She was doing it again now, at this very moment. She was laughing. He had said something, which had amused her. Antonia pursed her lips. She regretted not having got in front first. Was she being unreasonable?
‘That’s not how it happens in real life, is it?’ Beatrice went on. ‘How many private investigators do you know who tumble to the truth while the police fail lamentably? Are there private investigators any more?’
‘They are in the Yellow Pages, apparently. I have never checked, so don’t quote me,’ Payne said.
Beatrice looked over her shoulder once more. ‘Do you know any private detectives, Antonia?’
Antonia said she didn’t.
Beatrice then asked whether they went to the theatre and the opera often. Living in London they probably went every week? No, not every week, Antonia said. Beatrice missed London terribly. Wallingford was utter ghastly drears – a cultural desert, really. Not a single person to have a decent conversation with. Nothing but tiresome county types. Philistines and oh so smug with it! A woman called Pamela Montdore had referred to Beatrice as the ‘soul of pampered self-absorption’, which Beatrice had found extremely hurtful. Len seemed keen on cultivating the friendship of a husband-and-wife duo called Sutcliffe, but she couldn’t stand them, Beatrice said.
She went on speaking in a wistful voice. Even when they did go to London, things happened to prevent her from enjoying herself. Len grumbled about parking and he hated the sight of too many people. Len wasn’t terribly keen on theatre, and he was even less enthusiastic about opera. He fell asleep during a performance of Othello and afterwards it had taken Beatrice ages to explain about the significance of the handkerchief.
Beatrice looked over her shoulder. Othello was one of the first psychological thrillers, wasn’t it? And it contained elements of the classical detective story – that handker-chief – so clever! Well, yes, Antonia agreed. There was a pause, then for no apparent reason Antonia’s husband started telling Beatrice how to make an Opera cocktail. He listed the ingredients: gin, red Dubonnet and maraschino liqueur.
‘Sounds awful,’ Antonia said.
‘Not so if you shake it properly with ice and strain it into an appropriate chilled glass!’
‘Delicious. I would love to try it,’ said Beatrice. ‘Hugh, may I have a light?’ She had produced a cigarette from a silver case, which she was holding in an inexperienced, almost gauche, manner, as though she had no idea what to do with it. The femme fatale had been replaced by an ingenue. Beatrice suddenly seemed utterly helpless. For a moment it looked as though Hugh was going to abandon the wheel and strike a match for her – she seemed to expect it. Antonia gasped in horror – they were just about to negotiate a roundabout!
‘I smoke nothing but Turkish. One can only get them at a little place in New Bond Street,’ Beatrice said. ‘They are a treat, really – I smoke only rarely and I don’t inhale.’
Antonia was seething. What was Beatrice giving herself a treat for? For succeeding in vamping Hugh? Why had she dolled herself up, if not for Hugh’s delectation? What a bitch, she thought. She didn’t trust her one little bit. She wouldn’t be surprised if Beatrice turned out to have killed both Ingrid and the priest. Well, a fabulous fortune was at stake – and Beatrice had admitted to an agonized craving for the luxe.
Who will rid me of this turbulent priest? Antonia didn’t think Father Lillie-Lysander was anything like Thomas a Becket. Now, why would Beatrice want to kill the priest? She might want to kill Ingrid to prevent her from killing Ralph and thus make it possible for him to sign his new will – but why kill the priest? Unless the priest was another assassin? Assassins at Ospreys. How ridiculous.
Antonia knew she was being irrational. Well, she was jealous. Extremely jealous. Terrible thing, jealousy. It made her feel insecure. Hugh had denied being attracted to Beatrice – did he tell the truth? That was how things had started with her first husband – it had been the beginning of the end -
Soon after, they reached Ospreys.
Ingrid came to, slowly. She tried to rise and a sharp pain pierced her head – she had banged it against some hard surface. The left side of her face was numb. She felt con-fused and disoriented. She could smell petrol and oil. She wondered if she had been in an accident. Or was it a dream? Was she dreaming about the accident? She some-times did, though not recently… Where was she?
Her hands – something had happened to her hands. She couldn’t feel her hands! Had they gone? No – her hands were behind her back – tied – they had gone numb, that’s why she didn’t feel them.
How dark it was. She seemed to be in a box of some kind. For some reason she thought of a closet or a small wardrobe. No, she was horizontal, not vertical. A coffin, she thought. I am in a coffin. Not only bound but gagged. She could hardly breathe because there was a rag of some sort in her mouth and some kind of sticky tape across the lower part of her face. The rag – was it a handkerchief? – reeked of something, a smell she knew well. She could only breathe through her nose, just about.
Her head hurt badly, where the blow had fallen. She believed she had bled from the side of her head. She could smell blood. She could taste it too. Her lip had burst. Well, she was no stranger to blood. Years ago she had used to cut her arms and thighs. The sight of blood had excited her. She hadn’t minded the pain one little bit. Each time she made a cut, she wanted to see how deep she could go…