Take No Farewell - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Staddon. Geoffrey Staddon.’

  He frowned, signalling that the name meant nothing to him. He was extremely tall, I now saw, and spectacularly thin. His black suit was becoming shiny from wear. All in all, the last thing he seemed likely to inspire was confidence.

  ‘I’m an old friend of Mrs Caswell’s. I’d like to help if I can.’

  ‘Really?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘Yes. Is that so very strange?’

  ‘No. Unique. Do you live in Hereford, Mr Staddon?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Hm. Well, hereabouts, my client is regarded as a cross between Lucrezia Borgia and Morgan le Fay. You’ll scour this city in vain looking for another friend of hers. But open my window and ask the first passer-by what they think and they’ll tell you hanging’s too good for her.’

  ‘Surely it can’t be as bad as that.’

  ‘Take it from me, it is.’

  ‘You don’t sound optimistic.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Why did you take the case, then?’

  He slumped back into his seat and flapped a hand at the only other chair in the room. I removed a pile of papers from it and sat down gingerly. Windrush rubbed his forehead vigorously, then smiled. ‘To be honest, Mr Staddon, I need all the business I can get, but I’m likely to lose clients by accepting Mrs Caswell. According to my wife, it was an act of lunacy. Somebody had to do it, of course, though God knows who would have done if I’d refused. None of Hereford’s other solicitors, I’d venture to suggest. It’s not as if I was even Mrs Caswell’s own choice. The police gave her my name as somebody unlikely to turn work down. It’s not the highest of recommendations, is it?’

  ‘Do you believe she’s innocent, Mr Windrush?’ I was becoming impatient with his self-pitying tone.

  ‘For what it’s worth, yes.’

  ‘I should have thought it was worth everything.’

  ‘Hardly. The prosecution have a considerable fund of evidence, you see. The letters, which my client denies receiving. The arsenic, which she denies possessing. And the servants, who between them refute the proposition that anybody other than my client could have poisoned the sugar. To outweigh all of that, I need to do more than protest her innocence. I need to prove that somebody else could have committed the murder and falsified the evidence against her. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Well, no, but—’

  ‘Nor has Mrs Caswell. You see my difficulty? Denial will not suffice. If she is innocent, she must be the victim of a conspiracy. But who are the conspirators? The servants are patently honest and, besides, they don’t have the nerve or the intelligence to plan and carry out such a plot. Nor, as far as I can see, do they have anything to gain by it. That leaves the Caswell family. Good, solid, local stock who happen to employ a substantial proportion of Hereford’s adult male population. And three of them were poisoned, not just the deceased. It is unbelievable that they poisoned themselves. So who are we to accuse?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if I can help in any way …’

  Windrush held up a placatory hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Staddon. I don’t mean to be rude. This case is the very devil, but that’s no fault of yours. Cigarette?’ After lighting one for me as well as himself, he resumed in calmer vein. ‘You say you’re an old friend of Mrs Caswell’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then perhaps there is a way you can help. I’ve tried to persuade her to tell me everything that could conceivably be relevant. Who might bear her a grudge. Exact details of the days and weeks preceding Sunday the ninth of September. What everybody did that afternoon. Who came, who went, who left the room, however fleetingly. Who, in short, could have had the chance, never mind the motive, to commit the crime and fasten it on her.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And very little. She seems unable to accept the seriousness of her position. She denies everything and accuses nobody. She left the drawing-room between the delivery of the tea-tray and the arrival of her husband and daughter and supposes that somebody could have slipped into the room and poisoned the sugar during that time. The same person presumably planted the arsenic and the letters in her room. But she has no proof of her absence from the drawing-room and no suggestion to make concerning the identity of the poisoner. We need more, Mr Staddon, much more.’

  The time had come to reveal a little of my strategy. ‘I’d thought of questioning some of the witnesses myself.’

  ‘The police take a dim view of that kind of thing. It could be construed as interference. You’d have to be extremely careful. And there’s another difficulty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Caswell’s gone to France pending the trial, taking his daughter and her governess with him, as well as Gleasure, his valet, who testified at the hearing. He’s also dispensed with the services of Mrs Caswell’s maid, Cathel Simpson, who’s now working in Birmingham. The police know where she is, but they’ve not yet told me. So, as far as obtaining statements for the defence from these people is concerned, I’m hamstrung.’

  ‘But you did say I could help, didn’t you?’

  ‘If you’re an old friend of Mrs Caswell’s, I suggest you urge her to be more … forthcoming. This is no time for reticence. She must tell me everything, every secret of her marriage, every significant incident of her life. If you can persuade her to do that, we may yet turn up the evidence we need.’

  ‘I’ll gladly try. When can I see her?’

  ‘As a remand prisoner, she’s allowed daily visits. I’m due to visit her this afternoon.’

  ‘Then … tomorrow?’

  ‘Very well. I’ll tell her to expect you, Mr Staddon. And I’ll hope your efforts meet with more success than mine.’

  It was as I was leaving shortly afterwards that I remembered to ask Windrush what he knew of Cathel Simpson’s predecessor. Jacinta had never heard of Lizzie Thaxter and I was beginning to wonder what had become of her. But Windrush was no help. To him also the name meant nothing. My messenger of former times seemed to have vanished.

  ‘You’ve not seen Mrs Caswell since before the war?’ Windrush asked as he showed me to the door.

  ‘No. We rather lost touch.’

  ‘She’s a beautiful woman and they say she was exquisite in her youth. I suppose that explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘How she can still command a friendship like yours. All this way, after all this time, to lend a helping hand. It’s commendable, Mr Staddon, truly commendable.’

  There was a slant to Windrush’s words I did not care for. Declining to comment further, I bade him a cool good morning.

  A cab would doubtless have been the quickest way to reach Clouds Frome, but I preferred the ten o’clock train to Stoke Edith. From there, through a landscape changed only by the season, I wound my way back up the lanes and years towards a place and time I had believed I would never re-visit. At the field-gate beyond Backbury Hill where I had smoked a cigarette and savoured my first view of the newly finished house twelve years before, I halted once more and turned to survey it.

  Better even than fond memory had predicted, Clouds Frome met my gaze with calm, mellow assurance. For just this effect – just this firmly rooted sense of domain and purpose – I had planned and laboured. And my reward lay before me. Clouds Frome was a finer achievement than any I was now capable of. It stood upon a crest from which I had long since begun to descend. It mocked me with its perfection.

  I did not linger. I could not bear to. Instead, I hurried on to the entrance and started up the drive. I had still not decided how to announce myself when I saw a group of men at work in the orchard, bagging up newly harvested apples and loading them on to a cart. Confident that none of them would recognize me, I called across to the nearest one.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for Albert Banyard, the head gardener. Do you know where I might find him?’

  ‘Best try the kitchen garden, sir.’ He pointed towards it. ‘That’s where I last saw ’im.’


  I marched on up the drive, deliberately refraining from looking towards the house as I passed. The kitchen garden lay beyond it, in a slight hollow, sheltered by a ten-foot-high perimeter wall and screened from the house by a yew hedge. Along the back of the northern wall of the garden was a range of low-roofed brick buildings. In one of these I found a crock boy who directed me to the fruit house. This was a small thatched structure set in the lee of the hedge. As I approached, I could see a figure at work inside who looked very like the man I remembered: squat, powerfully built and perpetually flat-capped. He did not look up when I entered, but went on peering and prodding at the apples and pears laid out on shelves around the walls. It was indeed Banyard, his hair white where it had formerly been grey, but otherwise unaltered by the years. My dealings with him had been few, but they had left me with the impression of a cheerless, solitary individual unlikely to welcome any interruption, far less the questioning I had in mind.

  ‘Mr Banyard?’

  He glanced at me and nodded. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t recognize me. I’m Geoffrey—’

  ‘Staddon. Architec’. ’Course I reco’nize you.’

  ‘Ah, splendid. Well—’

  ‘What brings you ’ere, though? That’s what I’m wonderin’.’

  ‘It’s a little difficult to explain. Could we … talk somewhere?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Er …’ There seemed no point in prevarication. ‘Mrs Caswell’s trial.’

  ‘Ar. Thought it might be.’ He scratched his stubbly chin. ‘These days, no party wants to talk to me ’bout anythin’ else.’ He deliberated for a few moments, then said: ‘All right, Mr Staddon. Come through to my office.’

  Banyard’s office was one of the buildings set against the kitchen-garden wall. It contained little beyond a counter top scattered with scribbled notes, flowerpots and fragments of earth. Beneath this was a stool which Banyard pulled out and sat on before lighting his pipe and giving me his attention. As I stumbled through my explanation, his expression revealed not the slightest hint of his reaction.

  ‘The reports I’ve read seem so extraordinary that I felt compelled to verify them. I find it hard to believe Mrs Caswell could be a poisoner. Perhaps you do as well.’

  ‘Can’t say as I’ve considered it.’

  ‘Not considered it?’

  ‘Bain’t my place to.’

  ‘But surely … Don’t you feel in any way responsible for what’s happened?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because your weed-killer was the source of the poison.’

  ‘So they tell me.’

  ‘Don’t you believe them?’

  ‘Can’t say as I do. Mind, I can’t say as I disbelieve ’em neither.’

  I took a deep breath. There was nothing to be gained by becoming exasperated. ‘Where did you store the weed-killer, Mr Banyard?’

  ‘Same place as I store it now.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘You might as well see for yourself.’ He led me out through the door and into the next shed. This was a more crowded replica of his office, with old sacking and broken flowerpots stacked on and beneath the counter top and hoes, rakes, shovels, brooms and spades propped around the walls. A wheelbarrow took up most of the floor space and standing in it were four large tins, one of which was labelled Weed Out. ‘That’s a new ’un,’ he said. ‘The police took t’other one away.’

  ‘What do you use it for?’

  ‘Weed-killin’, sir. What do you think I use it for? Mr Caswell’s very particular ’bout weeds. ’E don’t like ’em. ’Cordingly, neither does I. Take the flagstones ’neath the pergoly. Your pergoly, I should say. Well’ – he touched the tin with the toe of his boot – ‘this shifts the weeds from ’tween ’em good an’ proper.’

  ‘I see. At the hearing, you said Mrs Caswell took more of an interest in the garden than Mr Caswell.’

  ‘So she does.’

  ‘But the weed-killer was Mr Caswell’s suggestion?’

  ‘It weren’t nobody’s suggestion. It were my solution to a problem.’

  ‘A problem identified by Mr Caswell.’

  ‘Mentioned by Mr Caswell, ar.’

  ‘And when did he first … mention it?’

  ‘I don’t rightly recall. Last spring, maybe. Last winter, p’raps.’

  ‘Comparatively recently at all events.’

  ‘Well, I don’t—’

  ‘Excuse me!’ Somebody had spoken from close behind. When we turned round, it was to find Danby the butler staring at us. As soon as he recognized me, his face relaxed into a smile. ‘Mr Staddon. It’s you, sir, of all people.’

  ‘What brings you down ’ere, Mr Danby?’ asked Banyard suspiciously. ‘This is a long way from your pantry. You’ll be pickin’ up somethin’ nasty on the soles o’ your fine shoes if you’re not careful.’

  Danby ignored him. ‘You were seen arriving, Mr Staddon, but nobody knew who you were. Perhaps you’ll come with me. I’m sure Mr Banyard won’t mind.’

  Whatever view Banyard took of the matter was not about to be disclosed, since Danby turned decisively on his heel and I felt obliged to follow him. The weakness of my position was at once apparent to me, for how was I to explain my presence at Clouds Frome without revealing intentions of which Danby’s master would most certainly disapprove? As we passed through the gate in the yew-hedge and started along the path towards the house, I said, ‘Perhaps I should have let you know I was here,’ and instantly regretted my words.

  ‘Perhaps you should, sir. Mr Caswell is away from home at present. As for Mrs Caswell, I take it you are aware of the recent sad turn of events affecting the household?’

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact—’

  ‘I am under strict instruction to discourage visitors. We have been pestered by the yellow press, as you may imagine, and others of a morbidly curious frame of mind.’

  ‘You thought I was one of those?’

  ‘What else was I to think, sir? I could not help overhearing your conversation with Banyard. You seemed to be questioning him about matters pertaining to the murder.’

  ‘I can’t deny I was.’ We halted at the courtyard entrance and faced each other. He did not seem about to invite me in. ‘The fact is, Danby, that I was so horrified by what the newspapers reported that I decided to see what I could learn for myself. The accusations against Mrs Caswell are quite monstrous, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  ‘They are acutely distressing, sir. But, as I’m sure you will agree, such enquiries are best left to the appropriate authorities. If there’s any message you wish to leave, I’ll happily communicate it to Mr Caswell upon his return. Or, should you wish to write to him, I can furnish you with his address in France. Otherwise, there’s really nothing—’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m well aware of his address. Major Turnbull’s villa at Cap Ferrat, isn’t it?’

  Danby frowned. ‘Do I take it, sir, that you knew Mr Caswell was away when you came here? If so—’

  ‘When’s he due back?’

  At this, Danby permitted himself a sniff of affronted dignity. ‘I really am not at liberty to discuss Mr Caswell’s plans, sir. How, may I ask, did you—’

  ‘He’s taken Gleasure with him, I know. And Cathel Simpson’s been dismissed, I believe.’

  ‘Since Mrs Caswell is no longer in residence, a lady’s maid is surplus to the household’s requirements.’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’

  ‘It’s convenient, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘In what way, sir?’

  ‘Never mind.’ I was becoming impatient and sensed I would betray myself if I prolonged the discussion. ‘I’ll say good morning, Danby. There’s no message. And I shan’t be writing.’ With that, I turned and set off down the drive.

  Before I had even reached the high road, shame had taken the place of anger. I should not have gone straight to Banyard. I should not
have antagonized Danby. I should not have allowed petulance to distort my judgement. As matters stood, I was now extremely unlikely to be able to talk to either Noyce, the footman, or Mabel Glynn, the kitchenmaid. All hope of gleaning anything useful from them had been dashed. Banyard might be willing to talk to me again, but to what end? Nothing he seemed disposed to reveal promised to add anything to his testimony.

  At the end of the drive, I turned towards Mordiford rather than Stoke Edith, concluding that a long walk back to Hereford was a fitting treatment for my dissatisfaction. I had made a poor start to my efforts on Jacinta’s behalf and the knowledge burned within me. Perhaps, I thought, if this was the best I was capable of, I should abandon my endeavours altogether.

  Why I halted at Mordiford Church I do not know, but, on an impulse, I went in through the lych-gate and embarked on a circuit of the graveyard, recalling as I went the summer Sunday when the Caswells had assembled there, with me amongst them as an honoured guest. By the farthest wall, beyond which a sheep-grazed field sloped down towards the river, I paused to light a cigarette. As I struck the match, my attention was taken by a headstone erected a yard or so the wrong side of the graveyard wall and fenced off from the sheep with barbed wire. It occupied a small, triangular patch of land at the corner of the field, nearly hallowed, as it were, but not quite. I walked along until I was exactly opposite it and leaned across the wall to read the inscription. In it I found the answer to a question that had been troubling me. And found still more troubling questions to take its place.

  ELIZABETH MARIGOLD THAXTER

  DIED 20TH JULY 1911,

  AGED TWENTY-TWO YEARS.

  ‘FAREWELL LIZZIE’

  The address of a sidesman was recorded in the church porch. It was one of a terrace of small cottages just beyond the Full Moon Inn. There, hoeing his vegetable patch, I found the obliging old fellow, who was happy to indulge my curiosity.

  ‘She’s buried in unsanctified ground, sir. As I recall, kinsfolk bought that patch o’ land from Farmer Apperley so she’d be as near the church as the law could permit.’

  ‘Why couldn’t she be buried in the churchyard?’ Already, I had guessed the answer, but I needed it to be confirmed.