The Killing of Olga Klimt

by R. T. Raichev

  I clear my throat. ‘I hope they put the flowers out at night, sir. It is not healthy to keep them beside your bed while you sleep. Most flowers exude a certain subtle poison.’

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ Mr Eresby says dismissively.

  I watch Olga pick up a rose. She starts plucking off its petals. She starts speaking. ‘A little, a lot, passionately, not at all. Not at all.’

  I feel a cold hand around my heart.

  ‘Everything quiet on the Sloane Square front, Bedaux?’ Mr Eresby asks.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We haven’t been burgled yet, I trust?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Olga says she wants to smoke.

  ‘You know you can’t, darling,’ Mr Eresby says.

  ‘Why can’t I smoke?’

  ‘Because it’s not allowed here.’ Mr Eresby strokes her hair again.

  I don’t like him touching her. I feel like ripping off his arm.

  A minute or so later I leave Mr Eresby’s room. As I walk down the corridor, I pass the nurses’ room. The door is ajar. I catch a glimpse of the Nanny Everett nurse talking to another, younger nurse.

  ‘No,’ I hear the younger nurse gasp. ‘Not kill him?’

  I halt and listen.

  ‘That’s what she said. It was quite a confession. It was all part of some plan or other, she said, which she’d never intended to carry out. She threw herself across Mr Eresby’s bed. Oh you should have seen her. She was in floods of tears. She didn’t even wait for me to leave the room. She said she loved him, only him, that he was the only man she’d ever loved, not Mr Beddoes, whoever that may be. She said she hated Mr Beddoes but she was also scared of him.’

  ‘She is Russian or something, isn’t she?’ the younger nurse says. ‘She was probably play-acting.’

  What the older nurse meant was ‘Bedaux’, of course, not ‘Beddoes’.

  I have been in a number of tight corners, but never for an instant have I lost my self-possession. Yet, I must admit this thoroughly unexpected revelation of Olga’s treachery does give me a nasty shock.

  She said she loved him, not Mr Beddoes.

  This time it is I who is walking like a clockwork toy soldier.

  As I leave the clinic, I wonder what my next move should be.

  10

  THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER

  Dusk had fallen and for the first time there was an autumnal nip in the air. Although it was some time before the clocks went back, the heat wave was over and one could already feel the insidious approach of winter.

  The walk from the bus stop seemed endless. There was hardly any traffic and not a single person in sight. Something was wrong with the street lights, not one of them was on! It was also very quiet, oh so quiet! Olga thought it the deepest silence she had ever known since she had started living in London. It felt heavy and oppressive. One can’t see a silence but she did; she imagined it as a great dark beast lying sprawled over the neighbourhood, over the street and the houses, deadening every sound beneath its soft fur …

  There was a story that used to terrify her when she was a little girl, about the man who was coming to get you when you were upstairs in bed. Now the man was on the first step. Now he was on the second step. Now he was on the third, the fourth, the fifth step … and now the man was on the twelfth step, which was the last, crossing the landing and opening your door and creeping in – and now he was standing by your bed … Got you! It was her old ghoul of a grandmother who told her the story, each time making Olga laugh and scream.

  What was the reason for that particular memory? Why had it come to her now? Well, it was dark – she was feeling a little sad and a little nervous and a little scared – and there was someone walking behind her.

  Yes. She could hear footsteps. Left, right. Furtive, yet determined and purposeful. No. They were perfectly ordinary footsteps. Left, right. Just someone like her going home.

  She wished it wasn’t so dark!

  Olga peered over her shoulder. She saw no one. But she thought she caught a movement.

  The street was flanked with trees, so perhaps the person had dodged behind a tree? Her stalker wanted to remain unseen. Could it be Mr Bedaux? (Mr Bedaux had been very much on her mind.) Or perhaps it was Joan? Perhaps Joan intended to scare her. She had done it before, when she followed her and Charlie all the way to the Royal Albert Hall. Olga hadn’t seen Joan for some time and Charlie said she’d given up her pursuit, but what if she hadn’t? At one time Joan seemed to believe Olga could be persuaded to drop Charlie …

  Who else could it be? Not any of her friends trying to give her a fright, she didn’t think. Neither Inge nor Simona would play such silly games with her! They knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of unwanted attentions. Besides, neither Simona nor Inge would have been able to keep it up. They’d have giggled by now! No, it wasn’t them. The only games Inge and Simona played were the games their clients demanded of them.

  Mr Bedaux had given them very careful instructions. Do not frustrate the gentlemen with any pretence of maiden blushes. Mr Bedaux spoke like that. Thank God she had never had any clients. She hated the idea of clients, of strange men who paid to have you in their houses. She had been extremely lucky. She was not a slut. She could have become one out of dire necessity, of course she could, but she had met Charlie and that had been her salvation. It was unfortunate that Mr Bedaux should have fallen for her too …

  She had told Mr Bedaux she loved him, but that was a lie. Well, she’d had no choice but to lie. She had depended on Mr Bedaux, to start with. He had given her money, provided her with a place to live as well as with jobs, mainly in catering.

  She should have gone to college, continued with her education, that’s what her mother wanted for her more than anything else in the world. Olga’s dream was to be an actress. Perhaps she could still go to drama school in London? Charlie said she could. Each time mother phoned, she told her she had to be a good girl. Mother worried about her all the time. ‘You are in a foreign country, Olga, so be a good girl, don’t do anything bad or they will send you back …’

  Be a good girl … Funnily enough, that’s what one of Inge’s regular clients, a very rich old gentleman who lived in Bayswater, told her each time she went to his house. Be a good girl and you will have nothing to regret …

  The old gentleman wished to be known as ‘Mr X’ and he never expected more than to be allowed to brush her hair, Inge said. He was really kind, a real old English gentleman with white hair, very neat, perfectly dressed, always wearing a silk cravat and a matching silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Sometimes he would brush her hair for half an hour without stopping. He would put on a pair of surgical gloves first, which was a bit creepy, but Inge said she didn’t mind. Mr X used an exquisite brush with an ivory handle that had belonged to his late mother, or so he told Inge …

  Mr Bedaux still believed nothing had changed between them. He couldn’t possibly know what Olga had done, what she’d said, could he? It wasn’t as though he had been in the room when she made her confession to Charlie. Mr Bedaux had seen her holding Charlie’s hand but he thought that she was still acting. Well, she was a good actress. She always spoke English in a silly way, mispronouncing words and phrases, the way she’d heard some of the other Lithuanian girls speak, but she did it on purpose. She made herself sound like a halfwit. She didn’t want to show she was clever. She always felt it was safer that way …

  Back in Charlie’s room at the clinic she had been aware of Mr Bedaux’s eyes on her … It had made her nervous … He had kept looking at her, as though he suspected what she had done, as though he knew …

  What would he do if he knew?

  There were the footsteps again – following her!

  Olga stopped abruptly and turned round. This time she saw a figure, though not at all clearly. A long coat – a hat? A woman? It looked like a woman, yes. Was it Joan? The figure had stopped too. Olga stood looking into the darkness.

  She wonde
red if it could be Mr Bedaux. Mr Bedaux had told her once that he liked to dress up in women’s clothes sometimes. He liked to wear ‘drag’. That was the English expression. He also told her he could talk like a woman too, if he chose. And he could also mince like a woman. That was very creepy, very scary.

  Charlie had said, leave it to him, he’ll deal with Bedaux, but Charlie wasn’t well yet. Charlie didn’t seem to take the murder plot seriously enough. He had laughed. ‘So you and Bedaux have been plotting to kill me?’ Charlie had then called Mr Bedaux a ‘snake in the grass’.

  Mr Bedaux was the age Olga’s father would have been if he hadn’t drunk himself to death. She’d pretended to enjoy Mr Bedaux’s kisses, but she’d really hated being pawed by him. But she was a good actress, that’s why Mr Bedaux had never suspected the truth. It was Charlie she liked and loved and that had nothing to do with his money and his big house, nothing at all …

  Once more Olga wondered what Mr Bedaux would do when he realised that she had lied to him. Sooner or later the truth would come out. Charlie had told her that it would be all right. He had told her not to worry. He’d get rid of Bedaux, he said. But she was worried, very worried. Mr Bedaux was creepy. She was scared of him. One never knew what went on inside Mr Bedaux’s head. She didn’t even know his first name!

  Mr Bedaux would be very angry with her. He would be furious. He would want to hurt her. He might do something horrible. She hoped he wouldn’t take it out on Inge and Simona. Poor Inge and poor Simona still very much depended on Mr Bedaux. Rich men, that’s what Mr Bedaux specialised in. Rich clients.

  She had been waiting for a chance to break away from him. Well, the moment she had seen Charlie in his hospital bed, looking so pale, so ill, all because of Mr Bedaux and her, she had made up her mind. Enough lies! She had realised how much Charlie loved her and how much she loved him. How much she wanted to be with him …

  The footsteps seemed to have stopped. Had her pursuer gone away?

  Her house was at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac. Ruby Road. Lovely name. No one seemed to live in any of the neighbouring houses. Charlie had chosen a place where she wouldn’t be disturbed by prying eyes …

  Olga stood in front of her little house. Charlie had bought it for her. Philomel Cottage. Lovely house with a lovely name. ‘Philomel’ meant nightingale, apparently.

  She unlocked the front door and let herself into the hall. She switched on the light. She gave a great sigh of relief. Home is the one and only really good, warm, safe place, that’s what her mother always said …

  She had heard a scratching sound … The kitchen door was open … There seemed to be someone in the kitchen … She stood very still … There it was again … Scratching …

  The next moment she remembered – the kitten! Charlie had given her a kitten! It was very young and very, very silly. It was still without a name.

  Olga gave a sigh of relief. She smiled.

  She was still smiling as she started walking towards the kitchen …

  11

  HEADS YOU LOSE

  I don’t know why I am doing this, I really don’t, Fenella Frayle thought wearily. It’s not as though I am going to do anything about it.

  She was standing outside the house, but as soon as she saw the light come on in the hall, she moved into the shadow of the wall on the right.

  Philomel Cottage. This was where Olga Klimt lived. No doubt about it now.

  Fenella’s hand went up to her hat and she pulled the brim down over her eyes. Then she swung round and walked briskly back to the main road and made for the Tube station.

  She had spotted Olga come out of Doctor Bishop’s clinic. Fenella had gone to the clinic with the intention of calling on Charles Eresby, to see how he was doing.

  Olga Klimt looked exactly as in the photograph. The moment she had seen her, Fenella had changed her mind. She had turned her back on the clinic and started following Olga. She had acted on a wild impulse. Never before had she stalked anyone, let alone a perfect stranger.

  This is so unlike me, Fenella thought.

  The night before she had had another row with her aunt. It had been horrific. The situation had become quite impossible. Aunt Clo-Clo had been vicious … She had really surpassed herself … Such nastiness … She had actually enjoyed seeing Fenella squirm and cower.

  Her aunt had asked Fenella to come and see her at her house in South Kensington. Fenella should never have agreed but she’d had the idea she might be able to make her aunt change her mind … Some hope!

  She had found her with a bottle of whisky beside her.

  Don’t say ‘my school’ in that proprietorial way, my girl – it was never your school. Actually I have a good reason to have you evicted, a very good reason. I have a moral reason. I have a duty to society. Moral, yes. Why do you look so surprised? You’ve put on weight, did you know that? You are as fat as a pig. Rather than curb your appetites, as would befit a moral person, you let them rule your life. I know what’s going on under that roof, oh yes, I do. A bunch of deep-voiced dykes, that’s what you all are – you shouldn’t be left in charge of innocent little children – you should never be allowed anywhere near a child – man-mad harpies, that’s what you are – that young man you lured in from the street – you didn’t think I knew, did you?

  Fenella had felt the blood rush from her face. It hadn’t occurred to her to laugh at Aunt Clo-Clo’s idiotic lack of logic – no woman could really be a dyke and man-mad. She had been possessed by fury. She had been standing beside the fireplace and had caught herself looking at the poker …

  She remembered her thoughts. How easy it would be to bash in her ugly old head, but if I did, I’d be caught in no time. The battle over the Sylvie & Bruno Nursery School was ongoing and it seemed to be common knowledge among members of her staff. These things, alas, got around. That relations between her and her aunt were far from harmonious was also known. Isobel Cooper had actually spoken to Aunt Clo-Clo on the phone, several times. On one memorable occasion poor Isobel had been on the receiving end of Aunt Clo-Clo’s drunken bile …

  But how had Aunt Clo-Clo heard about Charles Eresby? That, surely, was what she meant by the ‘young man lured in from the street’. She must have a spy somewhere among the staff … One of the teachers – which one, though? Martha Ransom? Martha had been unhappy with her extra duties and she had demanded a salary rise, which she hadn’t got, so she had a grudge against Fenella … Or could it be Mrs Mason, the cleaner? Mrs Mason is not exactly the soul of integrity. Perhaps Aunt Clo-Clo had bribed Mrs Mason?

  ‘I want the old bitch dead,’ Fenella whispered.

  What if Aunt Clo-Clo did die a violent death – and it was proven that Fenella couldn’t have done it as she was hundreds of miles from the scene of the crime? What if the police found that she had a cast-iron alibi? She could go to France, or to Italy. Italy, yes. She loved Florence!

  Had the biscuit heir been serious? They were in the same boat, he said. He wanted to be rid of trashy, mercenary Olga Klimt – she, on the other hand, wanted Aunt Clo-Clo dead …

  His words came back to her.

  ‘Do let’s exchange murders. You do mine, I do yours, how about it?’

  Fenella sat on the Tube, a copy of the Evening Standard on her lap.

  What if she were to present Charles Eresby with the fait accompli? What if she told him she had killed Olga Klimt? Then he would have no choice but to go and kill Aunt Clo-Clo.

  It was ridiculous, insane! She couldn’t kill a perfect stranger, could she? That trashy blonde. But it wouldn’t be difficult. She could follow Olga, exactly as she had done tonight, all the way to Philomel Cottage – and then what? Bash in her head? Stab her? Strangle her? Drive a hypodermic syringe filled with cyanide into her neck?

  The girl doesn’t know me, that’s the beauty of it, Fenella thought. She’s never seen me. I could easily engineer a meeting – engage her in conversation. Say that I am a friend of Charles Eresby. I don’t think she’ll be suspicious.
I look eminently respectable, I exude common sense, I invite trust. I will tell her I have a message from her boyfriend – I will say it is urgent … Your name is Olga Klimt, isn’t it? I must talk to you. I will suggest we have coffee at some café –

  She would offer to buy the coffees – as she took them back to the table, she would slip a powder into the girl’s cup – some slow-acting poison – the girl would collapse and die some time later, maybe in the street, or inside a shop – she was a foreigner – no one would care, really – the police would probably think Olga had committed suicide – that she’d poisoned herself – or that she was on drugs – foreign girls often killed themselves – they always had so many problems –

  Madness – and yet – how easy it would be. Fenella Frayle felt excitement bubbling up inside her, thinking about it. I’ll leave nothing to chance, she thought.

  It would be easy for her to change her appearance – a Hermes scarf round her head, alter the colour of her eyes with contact lenses, put on her reading glasses, walk with a little limp, make herself look older – that was the image the CCTV cameras would capture.

  Fenella nodded to herself. No one would know it was her.

  12

  DU CÔTÉ DE CHEZ COLLINGWOOD

  Lord Collingwood lay strapped to an operating table. The walls around him were of a gleaming kind of white, which made him blink. The surgeon was bending over him, scalpel in hand, his face covered by a mask. The fellow was about to perform a trepanation – cut off the top of Lord Collingwood’s head and remove whatever it was that needed to be removed – the thingummy that had been bothering him.

  They didn’t seem to have given Lord Collingwood any anaesthetic and yet he could smell the sticky reek of ether all around him. It put him in mind of old Coleridge. Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. Had they forgotten the anaesthetic or were they doing it on purpose? It was all highly irregular. It was going to hurt like hell, having the top of one’s head sliced off –