There was in this, and much else he said, a distaste for Victor that amounted to more than disapproval, more even than contempt. He loathed everything about him, detested everything he represented. It was impossible to believe that he would have allowed his sister to marry a man about whom he harboured such feelings. Therefore, I was forced to conclude, his hatred of Victor stemmed from later events. What were they? He would not say. When I pressed him, he pretended to misunderstand. All I could glean was that his father had died a broken man, that his family’s prosperity had steadily declined since and that he held Victor, in some strange way, to blame for this.
‘We made him welcome in our home. We treated him like a member of our family. Victor Caswell. Smiling. Rich. A friend to every man. O grande empreiteiro. O cavalheiro culto. I did not trust him. Francisco said he would be useful to us. His money. His land. His rubber. But I saw, in his eyes, what he was. Um ladrão. A thief. Like his friend, Major Turnbull. But what did I know? I did not understand. I was Rodrigo the fool, Rodrigo o bêbado. So, they let him marry Consuela. They let him take her away to England. And then they found out, too late, what he really was.’
So he continued, lashing out with his tongue where he would as readily have struck out with his fists. He had come to save Consuela, but he could not be sure who or what to save her from. Until he could be, Victor would fill the role. As for the rest – the evidence, the circumstances, the universal condemnation – he would not allow himself to be overborne. In his own unappeasable anger, his own unquenchable confidence, he would place his trust. And I found myself doing the same as I watched him sway away up the corridor that night. He had none of my guilt to stay his hand, none of my doubts to cloud his thoughts. He was the saviour that Consuela needed.
It was over breakfast the following morning, as the train drifted north through a grey dawn, that Rodrigo and I agreed our plan of campaign. He would return to Hereford, speak to as many of those involved in the case as were willing to speak to him and accept Windrush’s offer of a meeting with Consuela’s barrister, Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett; I would also attend. Upon what the great man thought of our prospects the future of our campaign depended.
The Channel was as grey and cold as the day itself. Rodrigo and I were the only passengers on deck as the ferry battled across towards Dover. As the White Cliffs came into sight, I asked him how he had left matters with Victor, what undertakings, if any, he had extracted from him. The answer, it appeared, was none.
‘He told me to go back to Brazil. He told me to forget Consuela. He said he would do nothing to help her, because he believed she was guilty. My sister: uma homicídia. That was too much for me. That was why I made him a promise. Uma promessa soleníssima. If they hang my sister, I will kill him. I meant it. He could see that. If they take her life away, I will take his.’
I looked up at him then and saw what Victor must also have seen. No wonder he had been sufficiently frightened to call in the police. In Rodrigo’s face, as he stared implacably at the heaving waves, was a warning I too should have heeded, but yet could not. Tragedy is its own father, but its offspring were still to be confronted. For all that the past held, the worst was yet to be.
Chapter Nine
IT WAS THE last day of November, chill, fog-wreathed and dreary, reclaimed by darkness, it seemed, almost before the previous night had released its hold. At Frederick’s Place, a mood of gaiety prevailed, consequent upon Doris’s announcement of her engagement to a junior clerk from the merchant bank next door; the staff of both institutions were scheduled to celebrate the event at the Three Crowns directly after work.
To any form of gaiety I, however, was immune. Indeed, I was greatly relieved when Windrush telephoned me during the afternoon to say that he and Rodrigo were to meet Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett at his chambers in the Middle Temple at half past six; they had been accommodated in his busy itinerary at short notice and I was welcome to join them. This enabled me to flee the celebrations after a hasty glass of ale, a peck at Doris’s cheek and a clasp of her fiancé’s hand.
I had heard nothing from Rodrigo since our return together from Nice the previous week; nothing, if it came to the point, from anybody involved in Consuela’s case. So far as I knew, Angela was still being entertained by Turnbull in the restaurants and casinos of the Cote d’Azur. I had obtained from Imry a fuller version of his visit to York, which had only strengthened my conviction that enquiries into Imogen Roebuck’s past were futile. I had arrived, in short, at the dispiriting stage when every avenue has been explored and nothing has been found. Inertia – heavy, hopeless and inescapable – had settled upon me. For whatever information Sir Henry might vouchsafe, however scant, I was bound therefore to be grateful.
The journey took me longer than I had anticipated and the ill-lit staircase of Plowden Buildings finally ensured that I was several minutes late. Rodrigo and Windrush were already installed, and Sir Henry already in voice, when I arrived, breathless and apologetic.
Rodrigo, I remember, did not even acknowledge my presence. He seemed to have visited both a tailor and a barber since our last encounter, but the sobriety of his appearance only compounded the gloom in which he was immersed. He was slumped in a wing-backed chair, staring straight at Sir Henry, his only movement being a pensive stroking of his moustache. Windrush, meanwhile, perched on an upright chair beneath a standard lamp, was all pointless mobility, consuming cigarette after cigarette as he sifted through papers on his knee.
Sir Henry, by contrast, was welcoming and courteous, more so than I would have been to a client at such an hour on a Friday evening. Rotund and balding, he was possessed of one of those cheery, chinless faces that should be, but are not, conferred on all fat men. This, and the signs of weariness in his words and actions, created an immediate impression of endearing and reassuring vulnerability. To judge by his legal collar and bands, he had come straight from a long day in court. If so, he could have been forgiven for thinking more of home and hearth than the business we had brought him. But there was no hint that he was.
‘For your benefit, Mr Staddon, I should explain that our request to transfer Mrs Caswell’s trial to London has been granted. I fancy we have the disorderly scenes at the hearing to thank for that. It will be heard at the Old Bailey. We also have a date: the fourteenth of January. That gives us precisely six weeks to prepare a defence. With Christmas intervening, it is not a generous allowance, but it is all we have. Mrs Caswell has been moved from Gloucester to Holloway Prison to await trial. Windrush and I visited her there yesterday afternoon.
‘Mrs Caswell’s response to the charges is straightforward denial. I must say that I was deeply impressed by her sincerity. It is, perhaps, the single most encouraging factor to emerge from my consideration of this case. And encouragement is something which I will freely admit we need in substantial quantities. The prosecution have amassed a large amount of damaging circumstantial evidence which we are unlikely to be able to refute. Our answer to the charges rests upon how Mrs Caswell presents herself to the court and what view the jury forms of her. We cannot deny that she was present when the crime was committed, nor that she had the means and opportunity of carrying it out. We cannot even divert suspicion elsewhere. In all the evidence I see no trace of an alternative suspect. Therefore, our efforts must be directed to persuading the court that Mrs Caswell is incapable of having done what she is alleged to have done.
‘The one distinguishing characteristic of evidence in poisoning cases is that commission of the crime is never directly witnessed. Nobody sees the poison being administered. If they did, they would intervene. By my reckoning, anybody who was in the house on the afternoon of the ninth of September could theoretically be the murderer. The prosecution will argue that nobody but Mrs Caswell had any reason to commit the crime or had such a good opportunity to do so. We will argue that no sane person would leave the only evidence against her lying around waiting to be found. If we can discredit that evidence, we will have created a persuasive d
efence, but, to do it, we will need to employ Mrs Caswell herself.
‘I anticipate that this case will turn on the defendant’s own testimony. My examination will give her every chance to do herself justice and I will prepare her for cross-examination to the very best of my ability. I cannot emphasize too strongly, however, that the crux of the matter will be how she responds to hostile questioning. I will not be able to help her. She will be on her own. Then, and only then, we will know whether our efforts on her behalf are likely to secure an acquittal.
‘So much for our strategy. Now, Windrush, I believe you have been recruiting witnesses. What joy on that front?’
‘I’ve traced Cathel Simpson, Mrs Caswell’s maid, to her new place of employment in Birmingham. She’s prepared to swear neither the arsenic nor the letters were in the drawer the day before the search.’
‘Excellent. And the gardener?’
‘Sings a different tune every time he’s asked.’
‘Excuse me,’ I put in. ‘Banyard told me that Mr Caswell, not Mrs Caswell, made the complaints that prompted him to buy Weed Out. Is that helpful?’
‘It is indeed,’ said Sir Henry. ‘And to reinforce such points we need good character witnesses. What progress there, Windrush?’
‘Miss Hermione Caswell seems the best bet. Convinced of Mrs Caswell’s innocence and related to the deceased. Plenty of spirit. Not likely to be knocked off her stride.’
‘Good. Anybody else?’
‘I’m afraid not. Mrs Caswell doesn’t seem to have many friends. And all Mr Caswell’s friends are fighting shy. There’s the Roman Catholic priest in Hereford, of course, but—’
‘I think not, Windrush. More harm than good with the stolid Protestant jury that will no doubt be our lot.’ He mused for a moment. ‘Miss Hermione will have to suffice, then. Perhaps, upon reflection—’
‘I’d be happy to testify,’ I said, more abruptly than I had intended.
Sir Henry smiled indulgently. ‘Thank you, Mr Staddon, but no. You would only confuse the jury, I fear. In my experience, jurors find it impossible to believe that married men and women can be friends with each other and nothing more.’
I noticed Rodrigo’s head turn towards me. But his eyes were in shadow: I could not tell what he was thinking. ‘Perhaps I can help in some other way, then,’ I continued. ‘You mentioned the lack of an alternative suspect, Sir Henry. Can we exclude the possibility that Mr Caswell staged this poisoning in order to be rid of his wife?’
Windrush winced and sucked in his breath. Sir Henry, for his part, looked at me more attentively than before. ‘Would you care to expand upon that remark?’ he said mildly.
The shallowness of my suspicions about Victor Caswell was never more apparent to me than when I tried and failed to sketch out a case against him in response to Sir Henry’s invitation. I heard myself stringing together impressions and inferences in a way that even I found unconvincing. When I had finally stumbled into silence, Sir Henry sat for a moment with his hands clasped before him and his mouth pressed against them. Then he smiled and spoke in a tone of mild correction.
‘Your hypothesis is untenable, Mr Staddon. Moreover, reference to it in court would antagonize both judge and jury. They would feel we were compounding the family’s bereavement by levelling tasteless and unfounded allegations. Be guided by me. There are cases in which counter-attack is the best defence. This is not one.’
Suddenly, Rodrigo roused himself. ‘I want to ask a question,’ he announced in a tolling voice.
‘Pray do,’ said Sir Henry, his face still creased by a smile.
‘Will you be able to save my sister?’
‘Well, it’s really not as simple as—’
‘It is all I want to know!’ Rodrigo slapped the arm of his chair. ‘Can you save her?’
Sir Henry was unmoved. ‘I can save her, yes. I hope to save her. But I cannot guarantee it. There are no guarantees in law, only chances.’
‘And what are our chances?’ I asked.
‘Candidly, I would have to say that they are not good. But neither are they negligible. And I am confident that they can be appreciably improved between now and the fourteenth of January.’
‘What will happen if you fail?’ said Rodrigo. ‘What will they do to her if you lose the case?’
‘That would be a matter for the judge.’
‘Will they hang her?’
For the first time, Sir Henry’s optimism seemed dented. He fell back in his chair and his face sagged. ‘It is a possibility.’
Rodrigo nodded sombrely. ‘That is what I thought.’ He heaved himself to his feet. ‘Chego! You have told me what I wanted to know. Now, I must go. Obrigado e boa tarde, senhor.’ He bowed stiffly, turned and walked out of the room.
Windrush was clearly taken aback by Rodrigo’s sudden departure. He looked from me to Sir Henry and back again in a grimace of confusion. ‘Er … I’m sorry, really I am. I’d better go after him.’
‘No matter,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Our business is virtually concluded.’
‘Even so, I—’ He bundled his papers together, spilling some in the process.
‘Volatility is part of the Latin temperament, after all,’ Sir Henry added, craning forward to address Windrush as he stooped to the floor.
‘I know, but—’ Windrush swayed upright. ‘I really must check a couple of points with him. Excuse me.’ With that, and barely a nod in my direction, he rushed after Rodrigo.
‘I too should be going,’ I said, as Windrush’s footsteps died away.
‘There’s no hurry, Mr Staddon, I assure you. I was just thinking … Would you like a cigar?’
‘Er … no thanks.’
Undaunted, he lit one for himself. With the first puff, he assumed a more relaxed posture. ‘I was just thinking about my description of our Brazilian friend. “Volatile”. Accurate, would you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘So would I. But it doesn’t fit his sister, does it? Mrs Caswell is one of the calmest people I’ve met. Perhaps the calmest, in view of her position.’
Imogen Roebuck’s suggestion floated to the fore of my thoughts. ‘As if she’s not worried by what’s happening to her? As if she … wants it to happen?’
Sir Henry frowned. ‘What do you mean, Mr Staddon?’
‘It’s just that … Consuela Caswell is incapable of murder, assuming her personality’s not changed since I knew her. But what if it has changed? You said no sane person would commit such a crime and leave the evidence of their guilt lying around to be found by the police. You’re right. No sane person would. But what if—’
‘Don’t say any more, I beg you!’ He smiled, as if to apologize for his interruption. ‘Mrs Caswell is innocent. I am sure of it. To defend her will be an honour, whatever the outcome. But if we muddy the waters, we are lost. You understand?’
‘Yes. I understand.’
‘Good. Now, if you won’t have a cigar, can I offer you a drink? To be frank, Mr Staddon, you look as if you need one.’
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from Plowden Buildings into a night that had grown raw and chill. I turned south along Middle Temple Lane and saw at once, waiting in a doorway some yards ahead, Windrush, enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke and his own frosting breath.
‘There you are, Staddon. Thank God. I thought I’d missed you.’
‘Where’s Rodrigo?’
‘Vanished. He’s in a queer mood, I don’t mind telling you. That’s why I was so keen to catch him. I only hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.’
‘Such as?’
‘God knows. But he worries me, he really does. Where are you heading?’
‘Temple tube station.’
‘I’ll walk with you, if I may.’
‘I won’t deny I’d have liked a word with Rodrigo myself,’ I said as we set off.
‘Count yourself lucky you didn’t. He seems to have taken a dislike to you.’
This explained his pointed disregard of me in Curtis-
Bennett’s chambers, but not what had prompted it. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘He seemed friendly enough when we last met.’
‘And he spoke well of you when he turned up in Hereford last week. But something’s happened since then to change his attitude. I don’t know what. When I collected him from his hotel this afternoon—’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘The Bonnington, in Southampton Row.’
‘Perhaps I’ll call on him, then. I’m sure I can dispel any misunderstanding.’
‘It’s up to you, of course, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I know he can be hard to follow at times – the accent, the clipped sentences – but his sentiments about you were clear as day. He wants nothing more to do with you, Staddon, at any price. What he’d do if I told him you were covering Sir Henry’s fee I can’t imagine.’
‘He doesn’t know?’
‘Good God, no. Fortunately, he’s far too impractical to think about money, so he’s unlikely to ask.’
‘Sir Henry didn’t seem to take his walk-out to heart.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Persuading Sir Henry to accept this brief was the best day’s work I’ve done for Mrs Caswell. I don’t want her crazy brother frightening him off.’
We turned on to Victoria Embankment and plodded on in silence for a while. A thought I had been seeking to suppress wormed its way into my mind and became a question before I could prevent it. ‘How is Consuela?’
‘The same. Calm. Remote. Like a swan I saw today on the Serpentine. Elegant. Uninvolved in human affairs. After a while, it starts to seem eerie.’
‘Will you be visiting her again soon?’
‘Tomorrow morning, before I go back to Hereford.’
We reached the entrance to the underground station and halted. I felt humiliated by the knowledge of my private affairs this man, a total stranger, had unwittingly acquired, reluctant to ask him what I so dearly wanted to.
‘Our paths divide here, Staddon. I’m staying with friends in Mitcham. So, I’ll bid you good night.’
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