The eyes watching her were hard. And gripped by a sudden vice of fear, Rosy heard herself gasp absurdly: ‘But you’d be mad to shoot me here, there would be such a mess!’
The words elicited not a gunshot, but a shout of laughter. ‘Hah! Such solicitude for my carpet and the domestics, and what a shame I shan’t be able to pass on your kind concern to them. But you are right, it would indeed be foolish – which is why you and I are going to take a little stroll in the grounds. As you may have observed, my house is beautifully secluded.’ He stood up.
Rosy gulped and felt the sweat trickling down her neck. She must check him! ‘What about Felix’s hat?’ she blurted inconsequentially.
He looked perplexed. ‘Smythe’s hat? What about it?’
‘Yes, the panama – it was near the body.’
A slow smile spread over Ramsgate’s features and he wagged his finger at her. ‘Tut-tut! You are playing for time, Rosy Gilchrist: trying to divert the old boy from his regrettable task. It won’t do, I fear.’
Seeing his mocking eyes, hearing those silky sardonic tones, Rosy felt her terror replaced by something else: hatred. Contempt suddenly welled up in her and she was gripped by a furious defiance. ‘Just tell me about the effing hat,’ she shouted. ‘I want to bloody know!’
Ramsgate started. ‘Good lord, Miss Gilchrist,’ he exclaimed, visibly shocked, ‘where did you learn that language? Surely not from your job at the British Museum!’
‘You’d be surprised,’ she snapped, thinking of Dr Stanley’s tantrums. ‘I just want to get it straight, that’s all.’
‘Ah! A lady of clear mind, I see. Well, since you are so insistent I suppose I had better indulge you … She was wearing it when she came to the hut – got it on at a rakish angle. Thought it would impress Mickey, I suppose. After the shooting it was too risky to move the body in daylight, so the plan was to leave her in the hut for a few hours until nightfall. We had taken her shoes and beach bag but stupidly forgot the damned hat. And then—’
‘Wasn’t it a bit risky leaving the body there?’ Rosy asked, genuinely curious.
‘Not really. Naturally, we had locked the hut; and in any case it wasn’t used that often. It was worth taking the risk for that short time.’ He smiled wryly, adding, ‘Though I must admit that I was relieved not to see a bevy of helmeted bobbies standing guard when we went back! But getting her to the dunes was the difficulty. We had my shooting brake, of course, and at that hour of the evening there was barely a soul about. Nevertheless, carting a corpse from hut to car was still a risky business. We might have been exposed to comment.’ Ramsgate laughed. Rosy did not.
‘Anyway, the problem was easily solved by the deckchairs. That was Mickey’s idea.’
‘What deckchairs?’ she asked. ‘The hut doesn’t have any.’
‘No, because we had taken them. We laid them flat and put her between them – what one might describe as a stretchered sandwich – and then taking an end each, carried our freight to the car. Two chaps heaving a pile of deckchairs was less likely to arouse suspicion than if seen manhandling a corpse. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Rosy felt rather sick and said nothing, her flare of anger gone and desperate fear returned.
‘Anyway,’ he continued conversationally, ‘what we had overlooked was that wretched hat. We had forgotten to put it into her beach bag earlier and the damn thing was still there. So we shoved it under the body between the chairs. Then once we had reached Ferry Road, we did the whole thing in reverse: decanted the thing from the shooting brake and on to the dunes. Fortunately, it was really dark by then and the whole area deserted – or so it seemed. The hat fell out, and it was then that Mickey said he was going to put it on her head – said it would gild the lily. Christ! But at that instant there was a faint whistle from somewhere further down on the shore: someone calling for their dog. So he dropped the hat, and with a deckchair each we hoofed it back to the car. I’m getting a bit old for that sort of thing, and as we were scrambling up the bank I tripped and nearly lost my shoe. Still, we made it to the car all right and got away.’
Ramsgate breathed a sigh of relief as if he was reliving the whole episode. He didn’t quite mop his brow but he had that look in his eye. ‘You know, I wouldn’t want to go through that again,’ he said.
‘No,’ Rosy said faintly, ‘no, I don’t suppose you would.’
Her response brought him back to the present and he gazed at her with hardened eyes, all amusement gone. ‘That’s quite enough now,’ he said abruptly, ‘no more of this stalling. Time flies and I’m a busy man. We must be off.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Where will it happen? How will he do it? Under the trees? With the gun – or with a rope?
Such were the thoughts thundering through Rosy’s mind.
Pathetically, she grasped a final straw: ‘It must have been quite a shock when Standish was killed like that, I mean, you being such old colleagues. An awful blow, wasn’t it?’
He had already gestured her towards the door and she hadn’t really expected an answer. Thus when he paused she was surprised – and even more so when he replied casually: ‘Hardly a shock, my dear, since it was I who snuffed him.’
Rosy’s heart lurched. ‘You killed him?’ she cried. ‘But you can’t have! He was coshed by some intruder in his London flat, his wallet was empty and spare change all over the floor. The newspapers said it was the work of some late-night chancer!’
Ramsgate gave a bitter laugh. ‘“Chancer” is about the right term,’ he said. ‘I took my chance and it paid off. But it was hardly spur of the moment: it was planned, all right. I knew his habits, you see, or some of them. Every Wednesday he would nip along to the Clermont to do a spot of blackjack and at 2 a.m. on the dot would leave to return home. It was always the same, whether he had won or lost. Very disciplined was Mickey. So with that in mind, I drove down to London that evening, parked in a side street – Farnham Place to be precise – used my spare key to get into the flat, concealed myself behind the proverbial curtain and waited. He arrived bang on time, came into the sitting room, lit a cigarette and sat at his desk with his back to the window and my convenient curtain.’
The man paused, before adding quietly, ‘And then came the easy part. I stepped forward, gave him a smart rabbit punch behind his ear and then coshed him for good measure. Poor sod didn’t stand a chance … Naturally, I roughed things up a bit, threw his wallet on the floor, and then scarpered leaving the door ajar. The worst bit was driving back here to Reydon, a ghastly journey. I was exhausted and with a hell of a headache: nervous reaction, I suppose – which is why, Miss Gilchrist, I could have done without your visit this afternoon. However, “tired and emotional” though I may have felt, as you have perhaps observed, I was able to rally.’ He gave a mirthless laugh.
In the nightmare, Rosy heard herself saying icily, ‘Wonderful melodrama, but why did you do it?’
‘Force majeure: I had had a tip-off that the Home Office had got their sights on him about the arms business and that Scotland Yard was due to descend at any minute. Standish was a cool customer, so cool that I guessed that if he was caught and charged he wouldn’t hesitate to implicate me. As explained, over the years we had been close allies, but I had always felt that deep down he resented the hold I had on him re that incident with the prefect. Without that he would probably have gone his own sweet way beholden to no one. I think he saw me as an irritant, a liability, especially after the Tildred stuff. He was furious too about my leaving that letter in the book I gave Dillworthy. Not that one can blame him, really; it was damn stupid of me. But oh yes, if he had gone down he would have pulled me with him all right! Never share secrets: that’s my philosophy. Which is why I must now—’
He never finished his sentence. For at that moment Rosy saw the dog’s face … Mr Bates’s inquisitive nose was thrusting itself against the glass of the French window behind Ramsgate’s back. The next instant she saw two other forms – the human figures of Barth
o and Amy. They were peering through the panes, the latter shading her eyes to get a better view.
Instinct drove; and without thought or care, Rosy threw up both arms and beckoned them frantically to come in.
‘What the Christ are you doing?’ Ramsgate cried, confused by her sudden antics. As he spun round to where she was signalling, the French window burst open and the three intruders were suddenly in the room.
The shock was mutual, but the man with the gun had the upper hand. ‘Get over to that corner,’ he snarled, gesturing with the pistol. ‘You too,’ he snapped to Rosy. Obediently, she moved and stood next to Amy. Perversely, the dog wandered to the opposite corner and started to scratch.
There was a silence as Ramsgate seemed to be contemplating his next move. Bad enough having to kill one bastard, but three together was a bit excessive. He was unprepared!
Bartho was the first to speak. ‘You don’t know what to do with us, do you?’ he said conversationally. ‘When you gunned down Tippy Tildred in my cousin’s beach hut it must have been easy: a skimpy kid all on her own, it must have been child’s play; but now you’ve got a real problem on your hands.’
Ramsgate glowered, but with a nonchalant shrug said, ‘Oh, it wasn’t me, that was Standish. And as it happens, as your friend here knows, I’ve done for him. So watch your mouth, sonny boy.’
Bartho looked nonplussed. But before he could make a retort, the whippet, disgruntled in its corner, had started to whine and fidget.
‘Oh, do sit down, Batesy,’ squeaked Amy, ‘you’re being such a pain!’ She looked angrily at Ramsgate. ‘See, you’ve upset him. He’s not keen on guns, and neither am I!’ Her gaze returned to the dog: ‘Come to Mummy, sweetie.’ Dutifully, the creature trotted over and sat at her feet. ‘Good boy,’ she crooned, and stroked his ears.
But the dog was indifferent to such endearments, being fixated on Ramsgate’s left ankle – its slightly protuberant eyes gazing with interest at the man’s trouser cuff.
Ignoring the interruption, Ramsgate turned back to Bartho. He levelled the gun menacingly. ‘I admit your intrusion has rather disturbed my plans, but I can assure you that—’
But his assurance was never heard. For at that moment, Mr Bates, alerted by the sudden movement and rampant with desire, had sprung forward, and with thin forelegs clamped firmly around Ramsgate’s calf, began to hump away for all he was worth.
It was a mild diversion but it did the trick. Kicking out in furious disgust, Ramsgate momentarily lost his balance and dropped the gun. He bent to pick it up – but not before the three of them had rushed to the door and out into the corridor.
To their left was another door. ‘In here,’ gasped Bartho, ‘it’s the lavatory.’ He pulled them inside and drew the bolt.
‘Where’s Mr Bates?’ Amy exclaimed.
‘Resting, probably,’ muttered Bartho.
‘Oh, don’t be absurd,’ she wailed, ‘the beast may shoot him!’
‘Blow the dog, what about us! Look, we can crawl out of that window, but you’ll have to breathe in. Come on, I’ll give you a hand up.’
‘No,’ the girl replied doggedly, ‘I am not having Mr Bates shot in the line of duty. I’m going back for him.’ She made a move towards the door.
‘Sh!’ Rosy commanded, and grabbed her. ‘He’s coming.’ They froze and heard brisk but unhurried footsteps. These passed the lavatory door and continued on down the passage.
‘Why isn’t he running?’ Rosy whispered.
‘Doesn’t need to,’ said Bartho, ‘it’s a dead end. It only leads to the cellar. I mistook it for the loo at the party. He thinks we’ll be there.’
‘Well, he’ll soon find otherwise. Quickly!’ She moved towards the window. But Amy had also moved – to the locked door, and before they could stop her had unlatched and opened it a few inches. Such caution was as well: for right on the threshold sat the whippet – looking, Rosy felt, distinctly reproachful. Baulked in flagrante and then summarily abandoned, it perhaps had good cause.
Mr Bates was the first to scramble through the small opening, followed by the puffing Amy. There was a hiatus as she squirmed about on the ledge.
‘Jump!’ Bartho ordered.
‘I can’t,’ she protested in a bellowed stage whisper, ‘I’ve got my knee stuck.’
‘Well, get it unstuck, for Christ’s sake!’ Bartho exclaimed. ‘We haven’t got all night!’
She managed to do as he urged, but lacking the dog’s agility fell in an ungainly heap. She was followed by the other two, whose landing on the flower bed was less dramatic. They hesitated, breathless, unsure which way to run. The dog, glad to be in the open again, had gone haring across the lawn. Amy was about to follow, but she was gripped by Bartho. ‘For God’s sake, not that way, we’ll be in full sight of the front windows!’
‘It’s not those windows, it’s this one, where we’ve just come from,’ Rosy cried. ‘He’s bound to guess where we went. He’ll take a potshot from there at any moment. Quick!’ She hustled them round the side of the house, and keeping flat against the wall, they edged their way in the direction of a small shrubbery.
They might have reached it, had not a rabbit sprung into sight, hotly pursued by the whippet. There was a loud crack and the rabbit fell dead. The dog skidded to a halt, looking vaguely bemused.
‘Oh my God,’ Bartho breathed, ‘it’s him. Look, on the veranda steps – and he’s got a shotgun.’
‘Batesy!’ Amy screamed. She started to race towards the dog, in full view of the house and in the clear sights of the twelve-bore.
Another shot rang out. The girl fell to her knees. Instantly, Bartho started to tear towards her, while the figure on the steps reloaded.
Mesmerised, Rosy gazed aghast at the image before her: the trio at the centre of the beautiful lawn – stooping young man, crouching girl, cavorting whippet; and outlined on the steps, reloading his shotgun, Vincent Ramsgate … wearing his fez.
The scene held a cinematic quality, a surrealism akin to one of the more bizarre sections of The Languid Labyrinth, and despite her helpless anguish – or perhaps as diversion from it – Rosy found herself puzzling over the man’s headgear: he certainly hadn’t been wearing it in the study. Maybe it formed part of his shooting attire: some men wore ratting caps, perhaps Ramsgate favoured a fez …
Dread replaced reverie as she waited in agony for what must surely happen. The man was mad, and the next victim would be neither rabbit nor dog. Drawing breath, she closed her eyes and tensed for the shot.
There was no shot. Instead, what she heard was the throbbing engine and crunching tyres of an approaching vehicle.
She opened her eyes and saw a large black Wolseley trundling its way up the drive towards the house. Rounding the bend, the driver must have seen and grasped the situation – the man on the steps lifting and aiming his gun, its targets huddled helpless on the broad sward – for with a crash of gears and flaying of gravel, the car leapt forward, and, with blazing headlights and clanging klaxon, drove full tilt to where Ramsgate stood.
He swivelled the gun wildly, loosed off one barrel, which shattered the car’s wing mirror, and with another hit its radiator. And then slinging the weapon aside, he leapt down the steps and made off across the grass.
Had he not been wearing carpet slippers he might have made better progress. As it was, he stumbled, lost his balance and fell to one knee. He pulled himself up, hesitated, and then turned to face his pursuers. From his pocket he took the small pistol he had been brandishing in the study, and with arm outstretched pointed it towards them. For a few seconds, almost theatrically, he held it poised while they faltered ready to duck.
Then slowly, and still with an air of theatre, he bent his elbow and twisted his wrist so that the muzzle was levelled at his own face. The barrel went into his mouth and there was an explosion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘And we only came to check his gun licence,’ the young constable said to Jennings in a tight voice, ‘he had
a Purdey, you know.’
‘Not any more he hasn’t,’ Jennings replied, ‘unless Purdeys make harps as well.’
They were sitting on the front steps waiting for the arrival of the ambulance and Nathan with reinforcements from the station. The other participants, recovered from their ordeal, had gone inside to get water for the dog and find brandy for themselves.
‘How’s the girl?’ the constable asked.
‘Very lucky. The pellets whipped straight through her sleeve, all she needs is a plaster. The medics won’t care for that much.’
‘Hmm. If you ask me, Mr Nathan won’t care for that either.’ He nodded in the direction of the Wolseley’s shattered wing mirror, dripping radiator and its buckled front bumper where Jennings had been tardy in applying the brakes. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you took a bit of a risk, didn’t you, driving at him like that? He could have shot the pair of us!’
Jennings cleared his throat and straightened his tie. ‘Ah, but it was a calculated risk, you see, and there’s a subtle difference between that kind of risk and mere rash impulse. It’s something you will learn as you go along,’ he added paternally.
The young constable nodded but was not entirely convinced.
Inside the house, in the large drawing room where Ramsgate’s party had been held, the three escapees were comparing notes.
‘I am hardly complaining,’ Rosy said, ‘but what exactly were you doing here? I had the shock of my life when I saw you peering through that window!’
‘Huh,’ Bartho replied cheerfully, ‘not half such a shock as you might have got ten minutes later if he had pursued his plan.’
There was a splutter of laughter from Amy. ‘Or the shock he had from naughty Mr Bates! It just goes to show how right it is about dogs being man’s best friend.’
‘I doubt if poor old Ramsgate would have agreed with you,’ said Bartho. He paused for a second, frowning, and then said quietly, ‘My God, we’ve been lucky.’
Shot in Southwold Page 19
