‘Whose conservatory, sir?’
‘Moira Montano. She was a B-movie actress. Well before your time. I imagine she made films with titles like Stains of Scarlet and The Reek of Dread… Are the bin-liners some-where on this side?’
‘Oh no, sir. On the other side.’ Greg waved his hand towards the door that led to the garden.
‘That’s odd then because the buzzing’s definitely coming from somewhere this side… Are those Renshawe’s french windows?’ Payne pointed again.
‘Yes, sir. Those are Mr Renshawe’s windows.’ Greg had joined Payne beside the kitchen window.
‘And what’s that thing over there in the garden?’ Payne shaded his eyes. ‘Not a well, surely?’
‘It is a well, sir. An ancient wishing well, Mr Renshawe said. That’s where the buzzing is coming from, I guess, sir. I meant to go and investigate.’
‘Let’s go and do it now, shall we?’ Payne turned towards Antonia. ‘The well is in a direct line from Renshawe’s windows.’ Something in his voice made Antonia look sharply at him.
‘Shall I lead the way, sir?’
‘By all means, old boy. Am I right in thinking you’ve been in the army?’
‘Yes, sir. For two years.’
‘What I thought. Good man.’
Antonia and Major Payne followed Greg out of the kitchen door and into the garden. They turned left, then left again…
The garden resembled a jungle, Antonia thought. She was conscious of a rising sense of uneasiness inside her. Yews and birches and, startlingly, tall bedraggled Chinese palms – as well as rose bushes that were as tall as the trees – all interwoven with ivy and various other creepers. And weeds, weeds everywhere. They passed a dilapidated grotto bench with fantastic undersea carvings and a pagoda-like structure, shrouded in ivy. It was the kind of landscape one associated with the Sleeping Beauty’s castle…
Greg had stopped and he raised his hand. ‘Those are Mr Renshawe’s windows.’
Like a bloodhound on the scent, Payne advanced to the steps leading up to the dilapidated terrace. The stone sur-face was invisible under a carpet of dead leaves. The french windows were ajar and Payne caught sight of Beatrice sitting on a straight-backed Empire chair beside the bed in which Ralph Renshawe sat propped up among several pillows.
A toad-like, even Gila-monsterish, face the colour of mouldy old bone, but the eyes struck Payne as bright and animated. Not the eyes of a dying man. Renshawe was wearing an outlandish garb – what appeared to be a Japanese kimono in apricot and black, and across his lap lay a large white feather fan. Major Payne was put in mind of Graham Sutherland’s controversial portrait of the octogenarian Somerset Maugham that had made the grand old man of letters look like the dissolute madam of a Shanghai brothel.
Stationing himself between an empty plant tub made of black marble and an ornate, rusting wire garden chair, Payne took in more details. There was a crucifix on the wall above Renshawe’s head. Renshawe was holding Beatrice’s left hand between the skeletal fingers of both his. He has no idea it’s a different one, Payne thought – or has he? Renshawe was saying something. Beatrice was leaning towards him, nodding her blonde head as though in agreement. She had a very serious expression on her face. They looked like fellow conspirators. Not a word could be heard. Payne wondered what he was saying to her.
A moment later Payne walked back and rejoined Greg and Antonia. Suddenly he didn’t seem to be in a hurry at all. He stood looking at the well. It appeared he was try-ing to estimate the distance between the well and Ralph Renshawe’s windows. ‘You don’t think -?’Antonia began. ‘I don’t know, my love, but it strikes me as a definite possibility. See these rusty stains?’ Payne had kicked at a heap of dead leaves on the ground. Antonia frowned, then nodded. ‘You’d better tighten your tummy. It may not be a pleasant sight.’
Greg was the first to notice the little cloud that hovered above the well. ‘Bluebottles! I thought so! Sir, shall I -?’
‘Go on, old boy. Lead the way.’
Spotting an oblong piece of cardboard in a clump of yellow grass, Payne stooped over and picked it up. No, not an ordinary piece of cardboard. He turned it over. Gilt edges. Somebody’s visiting card. Robin Renshawe, Gentleman of Leisure. The nefarious nephew, eh? He whom Uncle Ralph had disinherited. Had the rogue Robin been here then?
‘Would be remarkable if he really did drop his card, just like that,’ Antonia pointed out. ‘That was blood, wasn’t it?’
‘I think so. Let’s follow the buzzing trail.’
Above them the rooks screamed and flapped their wings. The silly things appeared to be in quite a state. Antonia stopped for a moment and gazed up. As the three of them drew nearer to the well, the ferocious buzzing increased… The cloud moved slightly to one side but didn’t disperse entirely – not even when Greg waved his arms at it.
Antonia gasped as a fresh swarm of flies burst out of the well the moment they stood beside it. Furious at the disruption of their unspeakable feast, she thought. For a moment she feared she might disgrace herself and be sick.
‘This wouldn’t have happened if the weather had been cooler,’ said Payne.
‘Some animal must have fallen into the well, I guess.’
‘Animal… I imagine you’ve seen a great many terrible things in the veldt?’
Greg looked at him with a frown. ‘You don’t think it’s something else, do you, sir?’
‘As a matter of fact, old boy, I do think it’s something else.’
Greg leant over the edge of the well and looked inside. He kept brushing away at the flies with his right hand. ‘There’s something inside. I can see it -’
‘What is it?’
‘Something black, ma’am. No, white – round – covered in flies!’ The next moment Greg swore. ‘What the devil’s that?’
He had drawn back as though he’d been stung by some-thing. ‘It’s – it’s a face, sir! A human face! I swear. There’s a face down there – somebody inside – looking up! I saw the eyes – the mouth too, gaping open. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman but they are dead – covered in flies – must be dead!’
24
Unholy Dying
She had been deceiving him. She had been carrying on outrageously behind his back. She’d been having an affair. She had set all discretion at defiance and thrown every caution to the winds – She had had her lover in the house.
Dazed and dismayed, Colville stood in the middle of the sitting room, staring down at the tobacco pouch in his hand. He was overcome with violent giddiness and feared he might collapse. Earlier on he had managed to persuade himself that he was wrong, that he had been imagining it all, that there was an innocent explanation for things. He was a fool! Well, here was the proof now – the absolute, irrefutable proof of Bee’s perfidy.
An arch betrayer of true love. That had been said about Marie Antoinette but the description fitted Bee perfectly. Bee was like one of those shiny apples which you bite into, only to spit out the brown rotten flesh. A Jezebel of a woman. Nothing but a two-faced whore.
He had already phoned Alessandro’s, Bee’s hair-dresser’s in Oxford. No, they hadn’t had a power cut. They never had power cuts. The woman who answered Colville’s call had sounded extremely surprised. Was the gentleman by any chance from the Health and Safety department? Colville put down the receiver. No. Of course there had been no power cut. He had always known that was a lie. He had then rung Tiddly Dolls, the absurdly named restaurant, and asked the manageress – a Mrs Derwent-Delahaye – if a golden-haired woman with green eyes had had lunch there two days before in the company of a military-looking man. He would have liked to say that Mrs Derwent-Delahaye sounded like a tiddly doll herself, but she had spoken with the intimidating gravitas of some superior schoolmarm.
What an extraordinary query, Mrs Derwent-Delahaye had said repressively; she feared that it would be difficult and time-wasting to ascertain whether a couple of that description had had lunch at her establishment – besides, it wasn’t within their practice to divulge information regarding their patrons – unless there was a serious reason for it? ‘She stole your menu!’ Colville shouted into the phone before slamming it down. He had been shaking. Knowing full well that he had made a fool of himself, he sat with his face buried in his hands.