‘Who the fuck is Ingrid Delmar?’ Robin asked aloud. There hadn’t been much regret in his reaction to Lily’s demise. He had always regarded Lily as expendable. As disposable as a cocktail stick. Requiescat in pace, he had murmured and he had raised his glass. He had then wondered if it would be worth the trouble of sneaking into Lily’s flat and collecting the marble bust of Cicero or whoever that was. It seemed to have caught his fancy, oddly enough. No. That wishing well might have been swarming with flies, but Lily’s flat would be much worse – it would be swarming with les flics. Robin laughed at his joke, but his heart was far from light.
Another of his lieutenants gone. A couple of minutes earlier he had received a call from Eric at long last. Eric had told him he hadn’t been able to do what Robin had asked him. I am very sorry, Robin. The silly ass had given the most pathetic reason imaginable for failing to go to Ospreys on the morning of the 26th. Eric had been most apologetic in that absurd lisping voice of his. That famous saying, Looks like Tarzan, speaks like Jane, might have been invented with Eric in mind. Robin should have known better.
‘Why do I always associate with people like that?’ Robin murmured. ‘Why? Why?’ He shut his eyes.
Golden… golden… hair and eyes… and paradise. The words of a song floated through the open window in the warm night. Some people, it seemed, were managing to have a good time.
Everything had gone wrong. Lily was dead while his uncle was alive. Robin had been on the phone to Saunders, trying to pump him for information about the will. He had wanted confirmation – was there a new will? Saunders, however, had been terribly tight-lipped about it. Saunders had given him the cold shoulder. Saunders had been much nicer to him in the past, but then of course Robin had been his uncle’s main legatee. Now Saunders treated him like a leper. All solicitors were bastards. Profiteering hypocritical bastards. Robin had then called Wilkes. It was she who had told him about the new will, which she had witnessed – together with one of the cleaners. Well, she had confirmed what he had known all along. Everything to Beatrice fucking Ardleigh! Christ. The whole Judith Hartz fortune. Wilkes had commiserated with him. She had been on her way to the airport, apparently, off to get married or something.
‘Why Ingrid Delmar? Who is this Ingrid Delmar? ‘ Robin cried. ‘It is to Beatrice Ardleigh you should be speaking! You fucking ineffectual flics. It was Beatrice who killed Lily – must have done! Who else?’
His front doorbell rang. He remained seated. He yawned. He stretched his arms. He was not at home. The doorbell rang again. A manservant would have been able to deal with the matter in a smoothish kind of way. Mr Renshawe is not at home. May I take a message? Well, he couldn’t afford a manservant, unless he asked Eric to do it for free? Eric would look jolly presentable in a black alpaca coat and striped trousers. No, not Eric -he was finished with Eric – not even if Eric, like his famous namesake in the book, learnt to do things properly, little by little.
What the fuck was that? Robin couldn’t believe his ears. Someone was forgetting this was Knightsbridge and not fucking Redbridge. Manners, please. Fists had started banging on his front door. A voice shouted: ‘Mr Renshawe? We know you are there! Open up. Police!’
Robin remembered how as a boy he used to read the Norse myths and how he cheered on Loki, the trickster malcontent and shape-shifter, who was doomed to agonized failure in his persistent battles with the Asgard gods… They must have found something… Saunders must have talked, blast him… His uncle must have been saying things. .. Had Eric too talked? Eric tended to want to ‘share’ things with people in the girlie way he had… Would the Asgard gods batter down the door if he didn’t open?
They couldn’t put him in jail – there wouldn’t be enough evidence – but they were capable of making his life distinctly unpleasant for a while. The Mortification of Moriarty. How ironic, Robin Renshawe thought. It was almost as though Lily had known some such thing would happen all those years ago when he had devised the twist at the end of their play.
At her enemy’s mercy…
Who was her enemy? Ingrid was sure she knew. If only her head didn’t hurt so badly, if only so many thoughts didn’t insist on crowding round her brain, it would come to her… The name or the face… So hard to think of one particular enemy, when one had so many! Ralph. The interloper. Bee. Father Lillie-Lysander – no – Father Lillie-Lysander was dead – killed like a pig.
How he had bled!
What was it the handkerchief in her mouth reeked of? It was such a familiar smell. A mixture of tobacco and scent. A smell she associated with someone she had once loved dearly. No, not Claire… Claire didn’t smoke. Claire was too young, completely unspoilt… Her little girl… Lovely lips like a rosebud, clear blue eyes, hair like lint, so fair it hardly made any shadow on her pale forehead. Where was Claire?
Ce Soir Je T’Aime and stale Turkish cigarettes. That was it – the malodorous melange. To think that there had been a time when she hadn’t minded the smell of either, that she had actually liked it since they were both part of Bee… She had been dabbing drops of Ce Soir Je T’Aime behind her ears as part of her impersonation – but it was not something she wanted in her mouth.
For no apparent reason a memory floated into Ingrid’s head. A balmy day in early August. The sun shimmering off the river in bright waves. Bee and she sitting contentedly within a nest of large brocade cushions. A starched tablecloth on the grass. A picnic lunch. Pimms, grilled salmon-trout, sauteed potatoes, green salad, a bottle of white wine, followed by lemon sorbet and, finally, thick black coffee out of exquisite Meissen porcelain cups, which Ingrid had brought over from the house carefully wrapped up in two silk shawls. The summery buzzing of bees in the air. Bluish smoke rising from Bee’s Turkish cigarette. Bee reminiscing once more about the grand hotels in the South of France where she had stayed with her father – vanilla and strawberry palaces in their vastes parcs fleuris, sheltered by parasol pines and fountaining palm trees – sleek-headed bellboys in duck-egg grey uniforms – taps that filled the bath in thirty seconds and caused it to overflow in thirty-five… Then the wild beating of wings – two ducks fighting on the river. How they had laughed! Quack, quack, Bee had said in her droll way. Quack, quack, quack. Ingrid remembered her thoughts. This is too perfect.
Ingrid had reached out for Bee’s left hand, held it palm upwards and compared it with her own. Look, our hands are practically identical. Bee had hastily withdrawn her hand – didn’t Ingrid know it was unlucky to compare hands? Ingrid had told her not to be silly. Ingrid hadn’t really expected anything bad to happen, but had felt a little disconcerted when the following morning at ten a man introducing himself as ‘Leonard Colville’ phoned and asked to speak to Bee. Ingrid had put her hand over the receiver and whispered – Sounds like some pompous fool – hope you won’t be too bored.
Ingrid realized that she was dead already. Her parents had killed her, her boyfriend had killed her, Ralph had killed her, Bee had killed her, the interloper had killed her, the wasted years had killed her. When the heart was dead, all was dead, though the victim might not fully be aware of it for a long time – She tried to scream but all that came from her mouth was a faint moaning sound. What kind of a box was this? As a child she used to be punished by her father by being shut up in a wardrobe or small cupboard, where she had imagined that a small creature was trying to bite off her toes. Had her toes been bitten off -