9
Partners in Crime
Father Lillie-Lysander had ‘gone off’ at five in the after-noon. It was over two hours later that he came to. He found he was lying across his bed, spread-eagled, still wearing his sumptuous dressing gown. He had no recollection of going into his bedroom, but he must have done. It was dark now. He had missed the twilight – he liked the twilight. An atmosphere of tenebrous deliquescence. That was how Baron Corvo would have put it.
Twilight. He remained lying with his eyes open. He had a special feeling for twilight. He got a thrill out of it. Well, he seemed to be one of those men who – how did it go? – rebelled against the light and knew not the way thereof, nor abided in the paths thereof.
Suddenly he laughed. He had remembered a joke Robin had made concerning the long black cassock favoured by Jesuits, about one of its rather peculiar features – the sleeve-like strip of material attached to each shoulder – the so-called wings. These curious appendages, Robin had said, are a vestigial legacy of the days when the Holy Fathers had four arms and could distribute the Body of Christ in two directions at once.
Lillie-Lysander wondered idly what his bishop’s reaction might be if he went to him and made a full confession – about the way he felt, the thoughts he had, the things he did. Would the old fool call for an exorcism? For public defrocking? The bishop would probably have him flogged if he could! He might even be inspired to write a sermon on the subject.
Be vigilant, my brethren (Lillie-Lysander improvised). These cunning, crafty and artful creatures manage to pass them-selves off as men of God, but they are only wolves in sheep’s clothing. They preach not the Gospel of Truth but their own diabolical philosophies and counsels. They make the black night their morning and ally themselves with the terrors of the pit. Yes, they feel secure only when surrounded by deep shades of darkness –
Father Lillie-Lysander rose gingerly from the bed. He felt only the tiniest bit woozy – a trifle swimmy. He had read somewhere that drugs killed brain cells. Surely that was an exaggeration? He was proud of his brain; he wouldn’t want to harm it. He should be fine in a couple of minutes. After he had had a cup of coffee and some break-fast – he was feeling ravenous – or did he mean dinner? It was morning, wasn’t it?
He knew he needed to do something rather urgently. He needed to speak to somebody – no, not to the bishop. To Robin? Yes. He needed to speak to Robin. Poor Robin. Lillie-Lysander put on his slippers and walked across the room. How funny. He felt light inside, yet it was like wading through treacle.
Lillie-Lysander dialled Robin’s number and as soon as he heard Robin’s voice, said, ‘I am afraid I have some bad news. I don’t think you will like it.’ His tongue felt thick – but he didn’t think he was lisping.
‘I will most certainly not like it if it’s bad news.’
‘Your uncle has sent for his solicitor, Robin.’
‘Don’t tell me he intends to change his will,’ Robin said quietly.
‘Well – yes.’ Lillie-Lysander was a bit annoyed that Robin had guessed the nature of the problem so quickly, but then Robin must be thinking of little else. ‘That is his intention. You are no longer his heir.’ Lillie-Lysander kept shutting his eyes and shading them against the electric light with his hand. He felt extremely thirsty.
‘I expected something of the sort,’ Robin sounded almost casual. ‘Who or what will be getting the Hartz millions?’
‘You will never guess.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s you, Lily. That might mean I’d have to marry you.’
‘No such luck, I fear. I will get my rewards in heaven.’ Lillie-Lysander giggled.
‘Not Wilkes? I’d definitely marry Wilkes.’
‘Not Nurse Wilkes either. I said you’d never guess. Well, he has decided to leave all his money to Beatrice Ardleigh.’ Lillie-Lysander paused, expecting an interruption, but there wasn’t any. ‘Your uncle’s solicitor is coming tomorrow morning.’
‘Who the fuck is Beatrice Ardleigh?’
‘A woman your uncle nearly married thirty years ago. They were in an accident and she lost the power of her legs. She’s been calling on him –’
‘Good lord. That woman. I have heard the story of course. Bee Ardleigh, is how Uncle Ralph refers to her.’ course. Bee Ardleigh, ‘That’s correct.’
‘You don’t mean she’s been perambulating herself to Ospreys in her wheelchair? Are you sure she is not a mere chimera? Perhaps she only exists in my uncle’s imagination. I bet my uncle is delusional. That frequently happens to those about to depart.’ Robin continued to sound extremely composed. Lillie-Lysander would have preferred him to sigh, groan, even utter some unprintable oath.
‘She is real enough, Robin. I did meet her. She seems to have made a complete recovery. She is in fine shape. Her legs are perfectly steady. The only oddity about her, if you’d call it that, was that she wears a wig.’
‘You couldn’t have misunderstood about the will? Uncle Ralph is less than lucid these days; you said so yourself.’
‘He was extremely lucid. He talked about his decision at some length. He still feels guilty about Beatrice Ardleigh and is determined to do something by way of compensating her for the torment and misery he has caused her. His solicitor is coming tomorrow at eleven.’
‘I think we should meet. I am coming over.’
‘Actually, Robin, I am not feeling very well at the moment. I have a bit of a headache. Can’t we meet tomorrow morning?’
‘Make some coffee. One of your superior brews. I’ll be with you in about forty-five minutes.’
Lillie-Lysander lived at Athlone Place in Charterhouse Square while Robin had a tiny flat in Knightsbridge.
Lillie-Lysander started saying something but realized that Robin had rung off. He shook his head and smiled, a slightly twisted smile. I am coming over. Robin hadn’t asked whether it would be convenient. He had shown scant regard for Lillie-Lysander’s headache. Well, Robin always saw things exclusively from his own point of view. It was remarkable how Robin always managed to get his way. Lillie-Lysander’s resentment was mixed with admiration. He had intended to go back to bed and read from Don Tarquinio, a book which he knew by heart and whose author, the enigmatic Baron Corvo, was one of his heroes, but he went to the kitchen instead.
‘Bearing armorials on their tabards, displayed at the prow the double-cross and the high Estense gonfalon,’ Lillie-Lysander quoted aloud, articulating as carefully as he could while at the same time speaking fast and making it sound like a tongue-twister. He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t really lisping. Robin had a sharp ear and was bound to tease him about it.
His kitchen was a Vermeer oasis of pewter and glass. He put coffee in the percolator. Coffee from the Himalayan Hills. The packet bore the Harrods label. Well, he simply had to have the best. Some of his smart acquaintances were boycotting Harrods, but he personally didn’t disapprove of Mr Al Fayed. Lillie-Lysander couldn’t help having affinity with people who did outrageous things and defied the Establishment.
As he turned on the radio, he peered at the clock – not eight yet? It was still dark outside and the lights in the kitchen were on. Was there a storm coming? No, he didn’t feel like listening to the radio. It was exactly twelve minutes to eight. Thought For The Day would start any second, and that was the last thing he wanted. He had an aversion to high-minded bores. Liberated ex-nuns and suchlike. The next moment, remembering that it was eight in the evening, not in the morning, he laughed, a somewhat high-pitched giggle.
He was getting confused. Papaver somniferum was turn-ing out to be more powerful than he expected, but oh the joy and ecstasy supreme before oblivion had taken over! He reached out for the radio once more and found Jazz FM. It was a little-known Cole Porter song they were playing. ‘A Shooting-Box in Scotland’. Lillie-Lysander hummed along with the singer:
‘Having lots of idle leisure,
I pursue a life of pleasure –’
Actually that wasn’t true. He didn’t have
lots of idle leisure. He did work. He listened to the incredibly boring confessions of mortally ill elderly gentlemen. He then reported to the elderly gentlemen’s scapegrace nephews. He could actually run that as a regular service, he supposed. A double-crossing father confessor seeks employment. Would under-take most delicate and unusual of tasks. No religious scruples –
Lillie-Lysander felt so light-headed, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he had started soaring up to the ceiling. The Times lay on the kitchen table. He hadn’t been able to so much as glance at it. He put on his reading glasses but the next moment he started recalling how he had pinched the ampoule from Ralph Renshawe’s bedside table. He had been tempted. He had always wondered what it would feel like.
The wicked flourish like a green bay tree. Well, yes. Quite. He was in excellent health and brimming with ideas.
Lillie-Lysander kept his eye on the clock, imagining that Robin, true to his inconsiderate nature, would be either late or early, but Robin was as good as his word. Forty-six minutes later his friend was lounging on the sofa, his legs stretched out before him. Robin had taken off his long charcoal-grey coat but left his white muffler fluttering rakishly at his throat. He wore a black Dior jacket, a cashmere roll-neck and slim polished boots. He looked smart in a French, nouvelle vague kind of way.
Lillie-Lysander put the small tray with the silver coffee-pot and two cups on the round malachite table between them. Robin’s foxy face looked merely blank but he must feel far from happy. Well, it had been Robin’s intention to spend Christmas in the Seychelles. It was his uncle’s money that he had felt sure would pay for it since his uncle would be dead by the end of November, early December at the latest. Robin had probably been envisioning himself bouncing around in speedboats feeding caviar to the fish. Now of course he would have to review his plans.
‘All his money?’ Robin sipped coffee from the delicate eggshell cup with the gold border, which Lillie-Lysander had handed him. ‘Surely not all his money?’
‘Every penny of it,’ Lillie-Lysander said with ill-concealed relish. ‘Those were his exact words.’
‘He’s lost his mind. Do sit down, Lily. It puts me on edge seeing you hovering about. And would you stop rustling that newspaper?’ For the first time Robin was showing signs of emotion.
Lillie-Lysander balanced himself gingerly on one of his little flat-seated heraldic chairs and took a sip of coffee. The chair was part of a set, which he had bought at Christie’s. He had been enthralled by the elaborate armorial painting on the chairs’ backs. ‘You can always contest the will,’ he said.
‘And who’s going to foot my legal bills? Would you? Incidentally, does the lucky slut know about his intentions?’ ‘No. He hasn’t told her yet. He hasn’t said so, but I think he intends it to be a surprise.’
‘A surprise . . . What precisely did he say about me?’
‘Well, um, he said you have been a disappointment. He said he hoped you would understand why he was doing this –’
‘Would I?’
‘You were still young and –’
‘Young?’ Robin gave a rueful smile. ‘I will be forty-one soon.’
They were the same age but beside him Robin looked positively boyish, or rather, as the Gallic flavour of his clothes suggested, comme un garçon. Did he like les garçons? Lillie-Lysander wondered. Robin had courted a baronet’s daughter twenty years before, at least that was what he had told him – a girl called Samantha, they had been practically engaged, but she had gone and married someone else who was in politics. Once at the Midas, Lillie-Lysander had seen him arm in arm with two exceptionally good-looking young Spaniards. He had introduced them as his ‘neophytes’. On that particular occasion Robin had been rather drunk. But then Lillie-Lysander had also encountered Robin at the gaming table, holding hands with a stunning-looking black girl. The girl had been long-legged, smooth-skinned and pouted a lot. She looked like a model and Robin appeared quite taken with her. Robin had introduced her as Mascot – or had he called her his mascot? She had certainly brought him luck that night, Lillie-Lysander remembered.
‘Your uncle referred to the money your father left you,’ Lillie-Lysander went on. ‘He said your father had left you extremely well provided for.’
‘My father didn’t leave me well provided for. Or if he did, that was a very long time ago.’
‘Your uncle said that if you’ve frittered away your father’s money, his decision might be an incentive for you to get a job. He said you had no history of lawful employment. He called you an idler and a waster. He said you were leading a parasitic existence.’
‘How well my uncle knows me.’ Robin frowned. ‘A job would be a bore and a bind . . . So he’s serious about dis-inheriting me?’
‘Yes. He is convinced he has made the right decision. He did ask me for my opinion though.’ Lillie-Lysander paused. ‘I said that this was a very serious matter and he shouldn’t rush things. I told him that he should give the matter careful consideration.’
‘That was kind of you, Lily, but I don’t imagine my uncle was swayed by your views on the subject?’
‘No. Actually it made him laugh. This brought on a coughing fit. It nearly killed him –’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ Lillie-Lysander was watching Robin carefully. ‘Your uncle started gasping – choking. It was ghastly – absolutely ghastly. Nurse Wilkes ran over. Your uncle did look as though he were breathing his last. He recovered eventually, but for a minute or two I was quite worried that I might have killed him.’
Robin loosened his muffler. His face remained expressionless. ‘You were worried that you might have killed him. You realize, don’t you, that if you had – that if my uncle had died there and then, as a result of your perfectly innocent remark – you would have been talking to a multi-millionaire now?’
Lillie-Lysander inserted a cigar into his cigar holder but did not light it. He sat very still. Something like an electric current had run through his body. He had had a powerful sense of déjà vu. You would have been talking to a multi-millionaire now. He had expected Robin to say something like that. Yes. He had the oddest feeling that a curtain had lifted and they were once more on the stage. They were in a play together and he had given Robin a cue . . .
Lillie-Lysander felt the beginnings of a peculiar elation. He went on speaking, but for some reason he found it hard to concentrate. ‘When your uncle recovered, he reminded me that he might die at any moment. He pointed out that careful consideration, as I had put it, would be an extravagant luxury, which he couldn’t afford. He was going to see his solicitor tomorrow morning at eleven; he had already made arrangements. Mr Saunders was coming to Ospreys at eleven in the morning.’
‘I know old Saunders. Of Saunders, Merrick & Bell. Office in New Bond Street. Tomorrow at eleven, did you say?’
‘Tomorrow at eleven.’ Lillie-Lysander nodded. He thought it sounded like the title of a play – a Noel Coward pastiche? More like a Francis Durbridge-style thriller, actually. Tomorrow at Eleven. There was a menacing ring to it. Did they still do Durbridge? Mainly rep, he imagined. As a matter of fact he and Robin were a bit like the two main characters in Patrick Hamilton’s Rope – Lillie-Lysander had always wanted to play Brandon, the ‘dominant’ one. This scene was crucial; it had to be done in an understated, almost perfunctory fashion – not too perfunctory though – over-acting either way would kill it, Lillie-Lysander had no doubt. Well, Robin seemed to have established the right register. Was that how people talked in real life? Well, this was real life. How funny.
‘This is what I would like you to do, Lily. I would like you to be at Ospreys at ten. Or even a couple of minutes before ten, to give yourself enough time.’ Robin put down the coffee cup. ‘Do take off your glasses. You can’t concentrate with your glasses on. Your pupils are like pin-points, incidentally.’
Lillie-Lysander took off his glasses. I do everything he tells me, he thought, fascinated. It was like that silly childish game, Simon Says.
There should be a game called Robin Orders. Robin orders: ‘Take off your glasses.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Lillie-Lysander asked and as he did, he was transported back in time once more, to school, to the day he had rigged up a booby-trap over the classroom door minutes before one of the most popular masters had entered. It had been a carefully premeditated exercise in authority-destruction. The bucket had contained red paint. The master had never managed to enjoy the same degree of popularity afterwards. It was Robin who had put Lillie-Lysander up to it. Robin had managed to persuade him without much difficulty. Neither of them had been caught.
Robin had crossed his legs. A little smile was playing on his lips. Lillie-Lysander was aware that he too was smiling, he couldn’t say why exactly. Robin knows I am an opium-eater, he thought. ‘You won’t be disturbed by Wilkes until half past ten, that’s when she makes you a cup of tea, is that right? Does Wilkes still knit?’
‘I think so. Yes.’ For some reason Lillie-Lysander experienced an unpleasant frisson at the thought of Nurse Wilkes’ knitting needles.
‘I recall the big feather pillows at the foot of my uncle’s bed. Are they still there?’
‘Yes. There are two pillows – no, three.’
‘Have you ever touched them?’
‘Well, yes. Once or twice – without thinking.’
‘How do they feel – soft? Or are they of the somewhat harder, springier variety?’
‘Soft – they are filled with feathers, I think.’ A touch of perversity had entered the dialogue – they must be careful. This was a crucial scene. It had to be played straight, in a matter-of-fact manner. Any suggestion of facetiousness or double entendre would be disastrous.
There was a moment’s pause, then Robin said quietly, ‘You will need to press firmly but make sure you don’t bruise his face. Given Uncle Ralph’s enfeebled state, it would take less than a minute.’
Lillie-Lysander sat very still, staring before him. Robin orders, ‘Smother my uncle.’ Had he goaded Robin into this? He had certainly exaggerated when he said that Ralph Renshawe had nearly died as a result of his coughing fit, which he, Lillie-Lysander, had brought about. Had he done it on purpose? Had he planted the idea of murder in Robin’s mind? Had that been his intention . . . all along?
Assassins at Ospreys Page 7
