‘That’s just it. You did ask me.’
‘Well, maybe I thought I recognized him, but, now you’ve put a name to him, I reckon I must have been wrong.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll bid you good night, Mr Staddon. And happy reading.’ With that, he hurried away.
I was about to call after him when something stopped me. Lizzie Thaxter’s letter was more important than Malahide’s interest in Turnbull. Besides, I knew the fellow too well to think I would learn anything from him against his will. I set off in the opposite direction.
Ten minutes later, in a quiet corner of a pub in Garlick Hill, I took the envelope from my pocket. It was addressed to P. A. Thaxter, Esq., c/o H. M. Prison, Gloucester, and was postmarked Hereford, 19 July 1911: the day before Lizzie’s death. What it contained was, in a sense, her last testament, its significance for my own past unknown till now, more than twelve years later, I nervously opened it and began to read.
Clouds Frome,
Mordiford,
Herefordshire.
19th July 1911
My dearest brother,
I am sorry, but I will not be coming to see you tomorrow, as I said I would. I have thought it all through, Peter, time after time, and there only seems to be one answer.
If only you had not let yourself be talked into stealing. It was my downfall as well as yours. And all for that stupid dream of a roller-skating rink. But for that, Mr Caswell could not have forced me to be his spy. Then he would not have known about my mistress and Mr Staddon. They could have been happy and so could I. All this hurt because you had to be greedy.
My poor mistress is most to be pitied. Mr Staddon has thrown her over, as I knew he would. She thought she would be starting a new life with him in London, but I knew better all along. And now she is beside herself with the grief of it. She has done nothing wrong, but still she suffers. I do not believe she will ever get over it.
But that is not the worst of it. What I cannot bear is the deceit. Letting her think I am loyal. And all the time telling on her to her husband, showing him her letters, warning him of her plans. I have no choice. I have to do as he says. But I cannot endure it any longer, Peter, I cannot.
I have tried to find another way out of this, but there is no other way. He will go on using me. He will never stop. Unless I am no longer here to be used.
It will all be over by the time you read this, pray God, if I can keep my courage up. And I will. You always used to say I was your plucky little sister. Well, tonight I shall prove it.
Do not show Mum and Dad this letter. It would break their hearts. Explain it to them when you get out if you feel they can bear it. Keep up your spirits, Peter. Do not let them break you just because they have broken me. Remember me as your loyal and loving sister.
Lizzie.
I read the letter through for a second time, trying to imagine Lizzie, alone, in her tiny room at Clouds Frome, penning this last farewell to her brother, explaining as best she could why she had decided to end her life. I looked at the postmark again: Hereford, 7.30 p.m., 19 July 1911. She must have walked into the village to post it that afternoon, then made her way back, knowing the die was cast, knowing that, before the next dawn, she would slip from the house, a length of rope in her hand, and steal down to the orchard, never to return.
And what of me? ‘Mr Staddon has thrown her over, as I knew he would.’ I wanted to protest to her that she could not have been certain I would desert Consuela, but she was dead and my own memories rose to defend her judgement. Why had she been weeping that morning when I delivered the note to her room? Why had she stared at it in horror? Because she had known I would bring it and what it would mean when I did.
Much that had once been obscure was now only too clear. Victor had arranged for the Thornton commission to be dangled before me immediately prior to the Clouds Frome house-warming because he knew from Lizzie that Consuela and I were planning to run away together immediately afterwards. As our messenger and confidante, Lizzie had known our every secret. Therefore, so had Victor. Indeed, the full extent of his knowledge hardly bore contemplation. The endearments we had written, the trysts we had kept, the intimacies we had exchanged. Of all of them he had been aware and of all of them tolerant – until the time had come to call a halt.
What was not clear was why Lizzie had betrayed us. It had something to do with her brother’s imprisonment, but what it was I could not discern. She had never tried to hide the fact that she was Peter Thaxter’s sister. Yet she had written: ‘But for that, Mr Caswell could not have forced me to be his spy.’ Something else, then, held the answer, something deeper and worse than disgrace by association, something she could not bring herself to admit even in the last letter she had ever written.
‘What will you do with it?’ asked Imry, when he had finished reading the letter. ‘Destroy it?’
I shook my head. Imry was in London for the day and we were lunching at his club. Less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since Lizzie’s letter had come into my possession. But already I had decided what must be done with it. ‘When this is all over,’ I said, ‘when it can’t do any harm, I shall give it to Lizzie’s family. It’s rightfully theirs, I think.’
‘Oh, I agree. And meanwhile?’
‘Meanwhile, I intend to have matters out with Victor Caswell.’
‘Yes. I thought you might.’
‘I expect you’d advise me not to.’
‘Not this time, Geoff. The past is generally best left to its own devices, in my opinion. But there are exceptions. And I’m inclined to think this is one.’
I had recounted to him the circumstances of my parting from Angela and winced now at the memory of them. ‘I’ve been a damn fool, haven’t I, Imry?’
‘Yes. But you’re not unusual in that. We all are, sooner or later. It’s just that most people’s foolishness doesn’t catch up with them as conclusively as yours has.’
‘Antagonizing Sir Ashley won’t be good for business.’
‘I shouldn’t let that worry you.’
‘What will Angela do, do you think?’
‘She’s your wife, Geoff, not mine. But, for what it’s worth, I think she’ll divorce you.’
‘So do I.’
‘Will you try to stop her? To patch it up?’
‘I don’t know. To be honest, I’m not sure I care enough to make the effort.’
‘You ought to. Remember, hitting her as you did, in front of witnesses, is going to make you look like the guilty party. But, from what you tell me, her friendship with Major Turnbull is intimate enough to justify your behaviour, or at least to excuse it.’
‘I don’t want to drag in any of that. In fact, I don’t want to justify my behaviour – as you put it – at all.’
‘You must – in your own interests.’
‘That’s just it, Imry. Don’t you see? I’ve brought all this about by putting my interests first, above those even of the people I’ve claimed to love. Well, not any more. From now on, I steer by a different star.’
‘And that star is?’
‘It doesn’t have a name. But it has a purpose. One I intend to serve to the full extent of my ability – without regard to self.’
‘Oh, that has a name, Geoff. It’s called honour. Downfall of many a man.’ He smiled. ‘And the salvation of just a few.’
To say that I was surprised to receive a letter from Hermione Caswell the following morning would be an understatement. I was even more surprised by its enclosure: a sealed envelope addressed to me in Jacinta’s handwriting. Hermione’s covering note read as follows.
Fern Lodge,
Aylestone Hill,
Hereford.
2nd January 1924
Dear Mr Staddon,
Jacinta has asked me to forward this letter to you. She is no longer free to come and go at Clouds Frome and certainly not at liberty to correspond with persons of whom her father disapproves. You are evidently one of these. You know me better than to think, however, that Victor’s opinion c
ounts for anything with me. When Jacinta found an opportunity over Christmas to tell me of the restrictions he has imposed upon her, I told her that I would be more than happy to post letters for her and to pass on replies. So, should you wish to reply, please write to me at the above address, enclosing whatever message you wish me to convey. This will reach Jacinta as soon as circumstances permit.
Jacinta has forbidden me to enquire into her reasons for writing to you and I have mastered my curiosity sufficiently to comply. It is no breach of confidence to tell you, however, that the imminence of her mother’s trial and the contemplation of its probable outcome has much depressed the poor child. If it lies within your power to relieve her anxiety in any way, I would urge you to do so.
Sincerely yours,
Hermione E. Caswell.
I at once tore open Jacinta’s letter and read it.
Clouds Frome,
Mordiford,
Herefordshire.
31st December 1923
Dear Mr Staddon,
I have heard nothing from you since we met in London at the start of this week. I am worried, because I know my mother’s trial will soon begin and nobody here will tell me anything about it. Since we returned from France, I have not been allowed to leave the house unless my father or Miss Roebuck comes with me. Miss Roebuck takes me to church in Hereford every Sunday. Otherwise, I never go anywhere and nobody visits us apart from members of the family. I thought about it a great deal before asking Aunt Hermione to help me, but I had to ask somebody and she is the only person I ever see who I feel I can trust.
None of the family apart from Aunt Hermione ever mentions my mother now, or her trial. But I hear the servants gossiping. Banyard, Noyce, Gleasure and Mabel Glynn are going up to London soon because they have to give evidence. My father will go as well. Aunt Hermione has told me that the trial will open on 14th January. That means there is hardly any time left. They all think my mother will be found guilty. I can tell that. If she is, they will hang her. We have to help her, Mr Staddon. We have to do something. But what?
Please write soon. Please tell me you know what to do. Please say you are not as helpless as I am.
Yours truly,
Jacinta Caswell.
Crowding about me as I read Jacinta’s letter came the recriminations inspired by my futile attempts to save Consuela. I had assured myself – as well as Jacinta – that some way of doing so must exist and that I would not rest until I had found it. And yet, more than two months later, what had I accomplished? Nothing, save perhaps the ruin of my own marriage. Nothing, it was certain, likely to sway the judge and jury who would shortly decide Consuela’s fate.
I hurried into the study and wrote an immediate reply to Hermione.
27 Suffolk Terrace,
Kensington,
London W8.
4th January 1924
Dear Miss Caswell,
Thank you for your letter and for alerting me to your niece’s state of mind. I propose to travel to Hereford tomorrow and to lodge for a few days at the Green Dragon. I would be greatly obliged if you could meet me during my stay and would suggest a message left at the hotel, stating where and when might be convenient, as the most sensible arrangement. You will appreciate that I cannot express the full urgency of my request in a letter. Be assured, however, that this matter is of overwhelming importance to me. The value of any assistance you feel able to offer at this crucial time is consequently impossible to exaggerate.
Yours sincerely,
Geoffrey Staddon.
I posted the letter on my way to Frederick’s Place. I spent the rest of the day hard at work, consumed by an exhilaration born of the knowledge that I was committed to a new course of action. I telephoned Windrush in Hereford and he agreed to dine with me at the Green Dragon the following evening. From him I hoped to learn the harsh truth about Consuela’s prospects. From others, whom I did not propose to forewarn of my visit, I hoped to learn a still harsher truth: what had really happened, and why, at Clouds Frome the afternoon Rosemary Caswell had swallowed a fatal dose of arsenic.
Chapter Twelve
I LEFT LONDON at dawn, preferring a long and arduous car drive to the comforts of train travel. Oxford, where I had frittered away a pampered portion of my youth, was grey and unyielding beneath cold, scudding cloud. In the Cotswolds, nothing moved across the bare fields save flights of rooks that might have been black rags blowing in the wind. All was grey and chill and grudging. All was as discouraging as only nature’s indifference could render it. And yet I was not discouraged.
From Gloucester the way grew more familiar, the shape and character of the land more reminiscent of what had formed Clouds Frome in my mind. Suddenly, the broad meanders of the Wye were visible in the valley below me. Suddenly, Mordiford was named on a finger-post and I knew, for all my earlier resolutions, that I could not pass it by.
I drove slowly through the village, past the field next to the church where Lizzie Thaxter lay buried, and so came, as I knew I should not, to Clouds Frome once more. I halted the car on the other side of the road, climbed out and gazed up at the house. It stood exposed by winter, robbed of all adornment, yet the conception held good. It triumphed, by setting and structure. It disregarded the austerities of the season, brushing them aside as if they were of no account.
Elated by what I had once achieved, yet bowed down by the conviction that I could never create its equal, I walked slowly along the road towards the entrance. And there stopped dead in my tracks with surprise.
There had never been gates across the drive. In the absence of a lodge, they had seemed neither practical nor necessary. Yet now there were. Between the pillars flanking the entrance had been erected a pair of stout wrought-iron gates with close-set palings reaching twelve feet in height and spiked at the top. They bore a large wooden sign, inscribed in bold letters: PRIVATE, KEEP OUT.
I crossed the road and stared in amazement at what I saw. The gates were locked and, in addition, a padlocked chain had been looped between them. Fixed to the right-hand pillar was a wooden box which had certainly not been there before, its outward face hinged as a door, and beneath it a sign, which read: NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. VISITORS PLEASE RING. I swung open the door of the box. Inside was a telephone and winding-handle, presumably for ringing the house. Victor had indeed made certain that he would see only those whom he wished to see.
I returned to the car, climbed in, lit a cigarette and stared up at Clouds Frome. The house seemed somehow more remote now I knew how difficult it was to reach. I could have demanded to be admitted, could have tried to insist that Victor speak to me, but I knew it was not yet time for such desperate measures. Not quite, at all events. I finished the cigarette, then started the car and drove away.
At the Green Dragon, a letter was awaiting me, delivered by hand earlier in the day. It was from Hermione.
Fern Lodge,
Aylestone Hill,
Hereford.
5th January 1924
Dear Mr Staddon,
Your letter arrived this morning and I shall deliver this reply when I go shopping. I would be happy to meet, but we must be careful in view of the consternation caused by our being seen together last time you were in Hereford. I occasionally attend the eight o’clock service of matins at the cathedral on Sunday mornings and it would arouse no suspicion if I did so tomorrow. It would be a simple matter to spend the hour at the Green Dragon instead. I shall therefore expect to find you breakfasting in the dining-room at eight o’clock sharp.
Sincerely yours,
Hermione E. Caswell.
I had not expected to meet Hermione as early as this and had therefore assumed I could defer until Sunday morning that most delicate of tasks: the composition of a letter to Jacinta. I had, alas, little idea what I could or should say in it and had made no sort of a start by the time Windrush arrived for our dinner engagement.
He looked more haggard and careworn than ever. A nervous blink and a jerkiness to his head m
ovements were characteristics I felt sure he had not displayed previously. He drank and smoked greedily, but ate hardly at all, and wasted little time in explaining the cause of his anxiety.
‘This case has made me a marked man in Hereford, Staddon. It’s all right for you. You don’t have to live with these people. They blame me for getting the trial transferred, for denying them the pleasure of seeing the assize judge don the black cap.’
‘Is it really as bad as that?’
‘If anything, it’s worse.’
‘I passed Clouds Frome this afternoon. Caswell seems to have made some changes.’
‘You mean the gates? They were put up about a month ago. Broken glass was cemented along the top of the boundary wall at the same time. There’s even supposed to be a guard-dog that roams the grounds by night. Some say all the precautions are to keep out the press and sensation-seekers. Others say the poisoning’s unnerved him and he’s afraid somebody will try to murder him.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘Oh, I think it’s certainly more than a desire for privacy. Between you and me, I can’t help feeling our friend Pombalho may have rattled him. Last time he was here he uttered some pretty dire threats about what he’ll do if his sister hangs.’
‘Kill Caswell, you mean? Surely that’s not to be taken seriously.’
‘I’d take it seriously if I were Caswell. Have you seen Pombalho recently?’
‘Er … no.’
‘Well, count yourself lucky. He’s like a simmering volcano. If his sister does hang, he’ll erupt. I wouldn’t want to be in Caswell’s shoes then.’
I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. ‘Will she hang, do you think?’
‘You’d better ask Sir Henry. It’s largely up to him anyway. I’m due to meet him at his chambers next Friday for a last conference before the trial. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘He’ll strike an optimistic note, of course. He has to. But I don’t think he has any basis for it. If you want my opinion, we’re no nearer assembling an adequate defence than we were two months ago.’
Take No Farewell - Retail Page 27