Hand In Glove - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  Even a week ago, Charlotte’s vision of her world had been intact. Beatrix was dead and strange discoveries had been made in the wake of her death. But fundamentally nothing had changed. Charlotte had understood the past as readily as the present. Or so she had supposed.

  No longer. All now was altered, thrown into a chaos from which it could never be rescued. It was as if a jigsaw-puzzle she had completed years before had been suddenly overturned and, kneeling to re-assemble it, she had realized the pieces were no longer the same, that a new and nightmarish picture had been substituted for the old and reassuring one and that the substitution might have taken place long ago without her even noticing.

  For an hour or so after Maurice’s departure from Ockham House, she was scarcely able to move, let alone think. Her body and mind were numb with the shock of what he had said, revealing as it did much more than he could ever have intended. She wandered from one room to another, staring about at the brightness of the morning whilst dread and disbelief wrestled queasily within her.

  Then, at last, she abandoned the mental struggle and gave way to the desire for physical flight. She left the house and drove west, retracing at first the journey with which she had set the wheels of her present plight in motion. But she did not stop at Cheltenham. Lulu could be left in enviable ignorance. Instead, she pressed on into Wales and so arrived, in the heat of the early afternoon, at Hendre Gorfelen once more.

  The yard was still and silent, held in a windless trance. Of dog and chickens there was no sign. The door of the house stood ajar and to Charlotte’s knock there was no answer. Some quality of the atmosphere in the passage as she walked in told her that Frank Griffith was not at home. Which might, she reflected, be just as well.

  She entered the room to her right: Frank’s study. There was a mustier air there than before, disclosing stray signals of dust and neglect. There were no flowers on the mantelpiece and the ashes of a long spent fire lay uncleared in the grate. Stepping towards it, Charlotte noticed a half-empty vodka bottle standing beside one of the armchairs. On the broad arm of the chair was a book. Charlotte had to crook her head to decipher the title on its frayed and discoloured dust-jacket. The Brow of the Hill by Tristram Abberley. The 1932 first edition. She might have known.

  She picked the book up and opened it at the page marked by a slip of card, guessing before she saw it that the poem she would find there was ‘False Gods’. And so it was. Tristram Abberley’s finest work. And Frank Griffith’s favourite.

  Hold out your hand and ask for a job.

  They’ll make you a promise and spare you a sob.

  For theirs is the truth that does not pay,

  While yours is the dog that has no day.

  Heed, if you must, the gods of tin

  And let them explain your original sin,

  But never—

  In an instant, the focus of Charlotte’s gaze switched from the familiar lines of verse to the card held between her fingers. There was a date pencilled in the top left-hand corner: 23 Dec ’38. When she turned the card over, she saw that it was in fact a passport-size photograph of Beatrix, smiling warmly at the camera, young enough in appearance to confirm the recorded date of December 1938, when Frank had stayed with her in Rye – and taken away, it seemed, at least one memento.

  Charlotte stared at a Beatrix she could not herself remember – at a confident and self-possessed woman of exactly her own age – for a minute or so, then she slipped the photograph back into its place, closed the book and replaced it on the arm of the chair. There must be no more reading between the lines, no more peeping between the pages. She knew that now. What would Frank Griffith do if she told him all she feared and believed about her brother? It did not bear contemplation. Certainly he would not sit idly by and wait for Tristram’s letters to be made public. That was certain. What had she been thinking of? What had she been hoping to provoke?

  She moved to the desk, found a sheet of paper and wrote a hasty message on it in capitals.

  FRANK,

  I CALLED BUT YOU WERE OUT AND I COULD NOT STAY. I WANTED TO TELL YOU THIS. I AM CERTAIN NOW EMERSON McKITRICK STOLE THE LETTERS AFTER ALL AND DESTROYED THEM ONCE HE HAD REALIZED THE MOCKERY THEY WOULD MAKE OF HIS BOOK. SO, THE OUTCOME IS WHAT YOU YOURSELF INTENDED. THERE’S SOME COMFORT IN THAT, ISN’T THERE? PHONE ME IF YOU WANT TO TALK. I HOPE THE HEAD IS HEALING WELL. CHARLOTTE.

  She wedged the note under the Tunbridge Ware stationery box in the centre of the desk, where it could not be missed, took a glance around the room to make sure she had disturbed nothing else, then hurried out, praying she could make good her escape before Frank returned, shaking her head at the folly of her visit. And her prayers were answered. He was nowhere to be seen. She climbed into her car and drove back up the track as fast as she dared, looking neither to right nor left, sure of little beyond what Beatrix had seemed silently to tell her from fifty years away. Make an end of meddling. Let the bad become at least no worse. And leave the good, the dead and all the rest in whatever peace they may have found.

  18

  ALBION DREDGE LEANED back awkwardly in his chair and pushed the window behind him open still further, though the total lack of movement in the air ensured his action would do nothing to lower the temperature in his oven of an office. He had already discarded his jacket and his grimaces as he prised at his shirt collar suggested his tie would have gone the same way had he been alone. As it was, the presence of a client deterred him, though it occurred to Derek that this was just about the only concession he did seem willing to make to him.

  ‘I don’t want to be a wet blanket, Mr Fairfax,’ Dredge said, abandoning his various efforts at ventilation, ‘but I’m obliged to be realistic. The theory you’ve put forward—’

  ‘It’s more than a theory!’

  ‘Quite possibly. But though you may believe it, I have to prove it. So, let me just be clear what it is you’re saying. One—’ He held up a pudgy forefinger. ‘The late Miss Abberley wrote her brother’s poems for him. Two—’ He raised a second finger. ‘Her nephew wanted her to make this fact public so copyright in the work would be extended and royalties would continue to be paid to him. Three—’ Up went a third finger. ‘Miss Abberley refused, so he decided to overcome her objections by murdering her. And four—’ His little finger joined its perpendicular fellows. ‘He made sure your brother took the blame for her murder by decoying him to Jackdaw Cottage and later planting the stolen items of Tunbridge Ware in his shop.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Dredge sighed. ‘Well, it’s an interesting theory. Very interesting indeed. If true—’

  ‘It’s true. I’ve no doubt of it.’

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t, Mr Fairfax, but others less – how can I put this? – less eager to entertain notions of your brother’s innocence might regard it as fanciful and entirely unsupported by the available evidence.’

  ‘How can you say that? Frank Griffith will confirm the stolen letters prove Beatrix’s authorship of the poems.’

  ‘Mr Griffith sounds an unreliable witness to me, Mr Fairfax. Didn’t you say he had a history of mental illness?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘That plus years of living as a recluse in the wilds of Wales and a recent knock on the head would be used to undermine his evidence, even if it needed undermining, which lack of corroboration suggests it wouldn’t. Besides, you’ve admitted Mr Abberley was in New York at the time of the theft.’

  ‘I never suggested he stole the letters personally. I’m sure he used his former chauffeur, Spicer, to carry out the crimes.’

  ‘For which your evidence is Spicer being seen in a pub in Rye nearly a month before Miss Abberley’s murder.’

  ‘Well … yes …’

  Dredge clicked his tongue like a reproving schoolmaster. ‘For which there could be any one of a number of simple explanations.’

  ‘He was clearly embarrassed to be seen there.’

  ‘Your witness—’ Dredge glanced down at his not
es. ‘Miss Abberley’s housekeeper’s husband thought Spicer was trying to avoid him. I wouldn’t say he was clearly anything.’

  ‘What would you say, then?’ Derek was beginning to feel angry. After being leaned on by Fithyan, what he needed was encouragement, not Dredge’s ponderous brand of nitpicking.

  ‘That your theory is coherent, Mr Fairfax, even attractive. But it lacks substantiation.’ Dredge smiled. ‘Better for me to point out its deficiencies to you now than for you to harbour false hopes – or raise them in your brother.’

  ‘What can we do to substantiate it?’

  ‘Find Spicer. Establish his whereabouts on the dates in question. And vet his financial circumstances for signs that he has been paid for murdering Miss Abberley, framing your brother and stealing the letters from Mr Griffith.’

  ‘But he could be anywhere.’

  ‘Exactly. We would need to use a specialist in search and surveillance. I can recommend one. I can even engage him on your behalf. But I must warn you his services are expensive and, in this case, might yield nothing at all.’

  ‘What else, then?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Dredge spread his hands. ‘Nothing, so far as I can see, is to be gained by monitoring Mr Abberley’s activities. If you’re right, he intends to sit tight until the time is ripe to publicize the letters. If there’s a weak link in the chain, it’s whoever he used to commit the crimes. If it was Spicer, we have a chance, though a slim one. If not—’

  ‘We have no chance at all. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I fear so, Mr Fairfax. Which brings me to your opening question.’

  ‘Should I tell my brother?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Dredge leaned back and joined his hands across his ample stomach. ‘It’s your decision, naturally, but I’d advise you to consider the consequences very carefully. My impression is that he’s come to terms with his situation, that he’s prepared himself for the worst. If you make him think there’s a real prospect of him being acquitted when in reality there isn’t …’

  ‘I take your point, Mr Dredge. I’ll give it some thought. Now, about tracing Spicer—’

  ‘You want me to proceed?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll put the wheels in motion.’

  ‘One other thing.’ Derek’s self-respect rebelled at the necessity of what he had to say. ‘I’d like great care to be taken to avoid Maurice Abberley becoming aware that I’ve initiated such enquiries.’

  ‘Nobody wants him to become aware of it, Mr Fairfax. Alas, I can’t give you an absolute guarantee that he won’t.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘You have some particular reason for mentioning it?’

  ‘Indirectly, he wields a good deal of influence with my employer.’

  ‘Ah. That kind of reason. I sympathize. In view of the likelihood of a negative outcome to our enquiries, perhaps the risks of putting them in train – the risks to your career, I mean – are simply not worth taking.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re not.’ Dredge’s eyebrows were raised in expectation of his next remark. But Derek had already debated the matter with himself, long and hard. He was not about to knuckle under, however easy it would have been to believe it was the best and wisest course to follow. ‘But I mean to see this through to the end. So, such risks as there are, I’m prepared to take.’

  19

  SATURDAY THE FIRST of August was bright and sunny, with a fresh enough breeze to dispel sloth if not despondency. To Charlotte, who craved a restoration of order and complacency in her life, it seemed important to do the little she could to bring that about in as brisk and business-like a manner as possible. She therefore took exaggerated care with her dress and appearance before leaving the house and stopped in Tunbridge Wells to buy a punctiliously listed assortment of domestic necessities before driving south-east towards Rye and a rather more demanding task she had decided to set herself.

  Jackdaw Cottage was, as usual, clean and well-aired. Charlotte walked around it slowly, schooling herself to see it as a piece of property, not a repository of dreams and regrets. She was surprised by how successful she was, by how obedient her emotions were. There had to be a way of coming to terms with the discoveries she had made in the past week and she was determined to find it. So far, the only way she could imagine was to isolate herself from Maurice, from Beatrix’s memory and from every tangible reminder of their importance in her world. And so far, it seemed, so good.

  From Jackdaw Cottage she went straight to an estate agent in the High Street, where she deposited a key and arranged for the house to be valued and put on the market as soon as possible. Then she called on the Mentiplys and told them what she had done. They were not surprised. Indeed, they had been expecting her to make such an announcement for some time. Charlotte was persuaded to stay for coffee and while Mrs Mentiply was in the kitchen preparing it she asked Mr Mentiply, in as casual a manner as she could contrive, to confirm his sighting of Spicer in Rye on 25 May.

  ‘It was him all right. Not a doubt of it. But how did you know I spotted him? I only told that brother of Fairfax-Vane. The Missus reckoned I shouldn’t have. Has he been bothering you?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Making trouble? He seemed the type.’

  ‘I suppose you could say so. But don’t worry. I can handle the situation.’

  Charlotte’s choice of phrase lodged in her mind and acquired a guilty resonance as the day progressed. After leaving Rye, she drove to Maidstone and located the street where she had been born and her parents had entered into their secret pact with Beatrix. The houses were more dilapidated than she remembered, the parked cars more numerous but less highly polished. Her birthplace had its sagging curtains drawn in the middle of a hot afternoon, with deafening rock music billowing from the only open window. For this she felt oddly grateful. Nostalgia and noise were mutually exclusive. And she had no use for nostalgia.

  She returned to Tunbridge Wells just as the coolness of the evening was beginning to drain some of the heat from the day. She thought of what she had said to Mr Mentiply, of how true it was and yet how shameful. She thought of how intolerable it would be to continue, week after week, pretending Derek Fairfax and his imprisoned brother did not exist. And at that she surrendered to impulse.

  He had written to her from his home address in Speldhurst, a well-to-do commuter village north-west of the town. Charlotte drove directly there and found Farriers, a cul-de-sac of widely spaced bungalows, without difficulty. But at number six there was no answer and she retreated, uncertain whether to be disappointed or not. A few minutes later, passing the pub in the centre of the village for the second time, she glanced into its garden and noticed a solitary figure sitting at one of the trellis tables. It was Derek Fairfax.

  Charlotte overshot the entrance to the car park and had to reverse some distance up the lane to reach it. This manoeuvre, of which Fairfax had a clear view, seemed certain to attract his attention, but he failed to look up as she approached his table. He was casually dressed, doodling with a ball-point pen on a paper napkin whilst cradling his beer-glass against his cheek, completely absorbed, so it seemed, in his own thoughts.

  ‘Mr Fairfax?’

  He started violently and, as his eyes flashed up to meet hers, she noticed him screw the napkin into a ball and drop it into the ashtray. ‘Miss Ladram, I didn’t … I’m sorry, I never …’ He frowned. ‘Were you looking for me?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just called at your house.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘I’m not completely sure. I …’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ He rose, smiling awkwardly.

  ‘Yes. Yes please. A gin and tonic.’

  ‘Sit down. I’ll go and get it.’ He drained his glass and set off with it across the garden. Charlotte sat down and watched him until he had vanished into the shadowy interior of the pub. Then, licking her lips nervously, she plucked the screwed up napkin from the ashtray and flattened it ou
t on the table. A diagram confronted her, comprising names both familiar and unfamiliar, juxtaposed according to principles she could not immediately grasp.

  She realized D.F. and C.F. must represent Derek and Colin Fairfax and knew Fithyan & Co. was the accountancy firm Derek worked for, but who Whitbourne might be she could not conjecture. As for her own position, marginal to the rest, no more, in one sense, than an adjunct to Maurice, she could not decide whether to feel relieved or insulted. Nor could she risk prolonged scrutiny of the diagram, for already Fairfax had reappeared in the pub doorway. She compressed the napkin in her hand and replaced it in the ashtray, then looked up to meet his gaze. She wanted to smile, to assure him that his preoccupations were hers as well. But, in the event, she merely thanked him for her drink in a cautious murmur.

  ‘So, why did you want to see me?’ He took a gulp at his beer as he sat down.

  ‘To … To ask if you’d done what you said you would.’

  ‘Tell my brother and his solicitor that I believe your brother was responsible for Beatrix Abberley’s death, you mean?’

  ‘Well … Yes.’

  ‘I told his solicitor. You’ll be glad to know he was unimpressed.’ He swallowed some more beer and Charlotte became aware of a vein of sarcasm in his remarks which alcohol could easily turn to bitterness.

  ‘What about your brother?’

  ‘I visited him today in Lewes Prison. In fact, I’ve just returned from there. The trip left me feeling in need of a drink. Of several drinks, come to that.’

  ‘It’s a depressing place, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes. It is. But it was worse today than usual.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I lied to him.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I lied. He asked if I’d found anything out. And I said I hadn’t.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’