‘You hold out little hope, then?’
‘It’s in Sir Henry’s hands. He can’t refute the evidence. All he can hope to do is sow sufficient uncertainty – and sympathy – in the jury’s minds for them to give Mrs Caswell the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Does Mrs Caswell realize the seriousness of the situation?’
‘Oh, yes. But she’s completely unmoved by it. I have the impression that she’s already prepared herself for the worst. She’s a brave woman, Staddon, very brave. And I have a nasty feeling she’s going to need to be.’
Late that night, I sat alone in my room, pen in hand, a sheet of hotel notepaper laid before me on the desk.
My dearest Jacinta,
You are not yet old enough to understand what I am about to tell you, but I cannot delay the telling any longer. Victor Caswell, the man who has made your mother’s life a misery and who now holds you prisoner at Clouds Frome, is not your father at all. I am your father. That is why your mother sent you to me. Because you are my daughter and because your protection is the least, the very least, I owe to your mother – the woman I deceived and deserted. There is nothing I can say to excuse my conduct in the past, but there is at least something I can do in the present to—
I tore the letter into fragments and burned them. I had known, even as I had written the words, that Jacinta would never read them. They represented what I wanted to tell her, what one day I knew I would have to tell her, but for the moment they had to remain locked within the secrecy of my conscience. In their place I could find nothing with which to still her fears. According to Windrush, those fears were only too well founded. And therefore silence seemed the least hurtful of all the ways I could greet my daughter. I had written no letter, and prepared no message, when eight o’clock the following morning found me seated in the sparsely populated dining-room, awaiting my next visitor.
‘I will have a freshly brewed pot of tea,’ said Hermione to the waiter. ‘And a rack of toast. I do not expect the slices to be limp, mark you.’ Then, as the waiter made to leave: ‘And Mr Staddon looks as if he would like some more coffee.’
Hermione’s vitality was undimmed and instantly cheering. After glaring at the only other guest taking breakfast – a glum-faced fellow with an irritating cough and less fat on him than the bacon I had just consumed – she fixed me with a piercing look and said:
‘Why are you here, Mr Staddon?’
‘Because you wrote to me.’
‘Come, come. You could more easily have responded by post than in person.’
‘Not really. I’ve no letter for you to pass on. Only a message. Jacinta mustn’t lose hope. There’s still every cause for optimism.’
Hermione frowned. ‘You disappoint me, Mr Staddon. Surely you know Jacinta too well to think she can be satisfied with platitudes. Her mother’s life is in considerable danger – and she knows it.’
‘So do I. But there’s nothing more I can say to her.’
‘That sounds awfully like defeatism.’
‘I don’t mean it to. Indeed, I’ve come to Hereford in anything but a defeatist mood.’
‘What do you propose to do?’
‘I propose to confront Victor with certain facts that have recently come into my possession. And I hope thereby to discover the truth. Is that the sort of fighting talk you think Jacinta would prefer to hear?’
‘Yes, but we must tread carefully with her where Victor is concerned.’
‘Because he’s her father. Exactly. Hence my difficulty in knowing what to ask you to tell her on my behalf.’
Tea, toast and coffee arrived amidst an excessive rattling of crockery. Whilst they were dispensed, Hermione stared at me across the table with the intensity of one seeking confirmation of a questionable deduction. When the waiter had gone, she selected a slice of toast and began to butter it, then said: ‘I don’t think Victor is Jacinta’s father, Mr Staddon. And I don’t think you think so either.’
‘What … what do you mean?’
‘It’s clear enough, surely? Your determination to save Consuela. Her instruction to Jacinta that she should look to you for help. Jacinta’s date of birth. And your last visit to Clouds Frome. Even old ladies can count, Mr Staddon. Of course, I understand that you may not know, for certain I mean, but I feel sure you suspect it. Now, would you mind passing the marmalade?’
Dumbly, I pushed the pot across the table.
‘Don’t worry. Nobody else is likely to guess. If Jacinta had not asked me to act as your go-between, it would never have occurred to me. And I’m not going to tell anybody. Why should I? It’s really none of my business. But I thought you ought to know that I’d guessed. Is it, may I ask, one of the facts with which you propose to, confront Victor?’
‘I … Yes. In a sense.’
‘Well, you may find that difficult. Victor has become elusive of late. Casual visitors are no longer welcome at Clouds Frome. And he’s had some alterations made. The house resembles a fortress. Locked gates. Broken glass on the walls. A mastiff loose in the grounds. Bolts at all the windows. And those are only the precautions I know about.’
‘What’s he frightened of?’
‘I don’t know. The poisoning’s changed him, no doubt of that. And his holiday in France did him little good. He seems nervous, suspicious of everyone outside the household. The trial’s been preying on his mind, of course, but I rather think there’s more to it than that.’
‘Could it have anything to do with Consuela’s brother, Rodrigo Manchaca de Pombalho? I believe he’s been to Hereford.’
‘It may indeed. My only encounter with Senhor Pombalho suggested he would gladly wring Victor’s head from his body. And he obviously has the strength to do it. He is, to say the very least, a forceful gentleman.’
An unpleasant thought came suddenly into my mind. Could Hermione, wittingly or not, have alerted Rodrigo to the fact that Consuela and I had once been lovers? ‘Did you … Did you tell Rodrigo that you doubted Victor was Jacinta’s father?’
‘Good heavens, no. Apart from anything else, no such doubt had then formed in my mind. Even if it had, I would not have shared it with Senhor Pombalho. Whatever can have put that idea in your head?’
‘Oh … something he said to me. But I may have misunderstood.’
‘I think you must have done. Senhor Pombalho visited Fern Lodge some time in late November, as I recall. Mortimer felt obliged to receive him courteously, but there was nothing courteous about the way he left. Victor was still in France then, of course. It was only later that we learned Senhor Pombalho had threatened to kill him. It was a threat he repeated in still more violent terms when Victor returned. That was when the alterations began at Clouds Frome and Victor began living as a recluse, forcing Jacinta to do the same. He has so far found no excuse for forbidding me to visit her, but it would not surprise me in the least if he tried to. As for Senhor Pombalho, we have heard no more from him. There have been several reported sightings, but none of late. He is not, as you know, the most inconspicuous of men, so I assume he has left Hereford, probably for London. He may even have returned to Brazil, though I doubt it.’
‘So, could these … alterations … be intended to protect Victor from Rodrigo?’
‘If not, I cannot imagine what other purpose they serve.’
‘Will Victor refuse to see me?’
‘He may well. But that does not mean, of course, that he must necessarily have his way.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Your visit to Hereford is timely, Mr Staddon. Tomorrow afternoon, there is to be a directors’ meeting at Caswell & Co. I know, because, thanks to the provisions of my father’s will, I am one of the directors, as is Victor. He will most certainly attend the meeting, so, if all else fails, you will be able to speak to him then.’ Her expression suggested that, if I were forced to seek her brother out at the company offices, she would relish being present. ‘Now,’ she added, ‘I feel sure the tea has had sufficient time to draw. Would you mind pouring me a cup?’
She stared at me with a calculated blankness as the chauffeur climbed out and opened the door for her. I felt again a swelling of pride at how well she contained her emotions, at how bravely she bore the despair her mother’s plight must have caused her. She was wearing a smart fur-trimmed coat and some kind of tam-o’-shanter that made her look even younger and smaller than she was. She paused as she stepped out of the car, pursed her lips and took a deep breath, reminding herself, I sensed, to display no sign of weakness, though whether her self-control was for my benefit or Imogen Roebuck’s I could not decide, since Miss Roebuck was watching her from the car as intently as I was from the pavement.
Jacinta started walking towards the church. Just when I thought she meant to pass me without acknowledgement, she stopped and looked up at me. ‘Good morning, Mr Staddon. How are you?’
‘I am well, Jacinta. I—’ Miss Roebuck was staring at me from the car. As I glanced up, our eyes met. The absurd belief came into my mind that she would be able to read my lips even if she could not actually hear what I said.
‘Are you still trying to help my mother, Mr Staddon?’
‘Yes. In every way that I can.’
‘Will you be able to save her?’
‘I hope so.’
‘I must go in now, Mr Staddon.’ She had flushed slightly and her chin, I saw, was trembling faintly. ‘Goodbye.’ She was gone then, in a rush, up the church steps and out of my sight.
I looked back at the car. The chauffeur was about to pull away, but Miss Roebuck tapped him on the shoulder. Obedient to a summons that had been issued only in my imagination, I walked round to her side of the car and waited for her to lower the window.
‘Good morning, Mr Staddon,’ she said calmly. ‘Victor forbade you to communicate with Jacinta, as I recall, some weeks ago.’
‘On the pain of losing most of my clients, something he claimed to be able to arrange.’
‘Do you doubt his claim?’
‘No. As a matter of fact, I don’t.’
‘Then why defy him so openly?’
‘Because the penalty he threatened to invoke means nothing to me. And because it isn’t Jacinta I came here to communicate with. It’s Victor.’
‘You will have to explain that remark.’
‘I wish you to deliver a message to him on my behalf.’
She arched her eyebrows. ‘What message?’
‘I want to see him. There are matters we have to discuss.’
‘I don’t think he’s likely to agree.’
‘Tell him I know how he stopped me taking Consuela from him, as I should have done, twelve years ago.’
Miss Roebuck’s eyebrows arched still higher. The chauffeur cleared his throat. ‘Such a message would represent a damning admission on your part, Mr Staddon. Are you sure it’s wise?’
‘I’m not interested in your assessment of what is or isn’t wise. Will you tell him?’
‘If you insist.’
‘I do. I’ll call at Clouds Frome at four o’clock this afternoon. I’ll expect him to see me.’
Miss Roebuck did not reply. Her gaze was ironic, almost amused, chillingly so given the gravity of the situation. She slowly wound up the window, keeping her eyes fixed on me as she did so. Then she leaned forward and murmured an instruction to the chauffeur. And the car glided away down the street.
I reached Clouds Frome some minutes before the time I had named, but remained in my car until my watch showed four o’clock. Then I walked to the gate and, finding it locked as expected, picked up the telephone and wound the handle.
‘Clouds Frome.’ It was Danby’s voice.
‘Danby, this is Geoffrey Staddon.’
‘Ah yes, sir. I was told to expect you.’
‘Good.’
‘I was also told to explain that Mr Caswell cannot see you.’
‘What?’
‘He desires me to say that, if there is anything you wish to convey to him, you should do so by letter.’
‘That’s not good enough!’
‘Unfortunately, sir, it will have to be.’
‘Put me through to him, damn it!’
‘His instructions were quite specific, sir. He does not wish to see you. He does not wish to speak to you. Now, if—’
I slammed the telephone back on to its hook and stalked away towards my car. So Victor would not grant me an audience. But he would see me, whether he liked it or not.
I drove north. There was something, I knew, behind all this, concealed by Clouds Frome and the Caswells, one with the cold still dusk, with the grey-green darkening countryside and the winding-sheet of cloud above my head. I had not seen it yet. I had not understood it. But soon I would.
Ahead of me on the narrow lane I had taken, a figure appeared, trudging towards me along the muddy verge. A tramp, I assumed, some homeless vagrant wandering where the mood took him. Then, as he grew nearer, the gangling frame, the ragged clothes, the matted hair and beard composed themselves into the likeness of somebody I knew. I drew to a halt beside him and waved for him to approach. Mechanically, he obeyed. Then, as recognition dawned, he stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Hello, Mr Doak. Remember me?’
He did not speak. Neither, on this occasion, did he turn and run. In his expression there was a mixture of shame and defiance. And he was sober enough this time for defiance to gain the upper hand.
‘Where are you going?’
He glanced towards Hereford. It was a reply of a kind and therefore a modest victory.
‘I’ll drive you.’
He shook his head, tightened his grip on his knapsack and seemed about to move off.
‘It’s cold. And it’ll be dark soon.’
He hesitated, licked his lips, then said: ‘I owe you. An’ I can’t pay you. But I won’t crawl.’
‘I’m not asking you to. Just get in.’
He walked slowly round the bonnet of the car, eyeing it suspiciously, and stared in through the passenger window. I opened the door for him. Still he hesitated. Then he climbed gingerly aboard. We started off. I offered him a cigarette, which he accepted, and smiled to myself as I saw him savour the first inhalation.
We covered half a mile in silence. Then, abruptly, he said: ‘Never bin in one o’ these afore.’
‘Do you approve?’
He ignored the question. ‘Seen ’im swan past in one often enough, though.’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘Who d’you think?’
‘Caswell?’
‘Ar. That’s ’im. ’E don’t know me any more. Leastways, ’e makes out ’e don’t. ’E thinks I’m nothin’ to ’im. ’E thinks I’m so much apple-mush under ’is well-’eeled feet. Seen what ’e’s done to Clouds Frome? Locks. Bolts. Bars. An’ broken glass for the likes o’ me to slash our ’ands to ribbons on.’
‘I’ve seen.’
‘What’s it all for, eh?’
‘Protection?’
‘Ar. Reckon so. Reckon ’e needs it.’
‘Really?’
‘I sees things, Mr architec’. I sees an’ I don’t forget. ’E thinks ’e’s safe there, thinks ’e can’t be got at. Well, that’s all ’e knows.’
‘You know better?’
‘I comes and goes as I please.’
‘At Clouds Frome? How?’
‘You should know. You built it. ’E can’t stop every ’ole.’
‘Are you saying you often enter the grounds?’
‘I’m saying nothin’. Mebbe I do and mebbe I don’t. Be no more ’n me ri
ghts if I did, though. Clouds Frome is Doak land. Still is by my reck’nin’.’
‘But I’m told he has a guard-dog roaming free at night.’
‘Dog’s don’t worry me. It’s men that worry me. Men like Victor Caswell.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cos ‘e thinks ’e can take what isn’t ’is an’ never suffer for it. Well, ’e’s wrong an’ the time’s comin’ when ’e’ll know it. I told you, Mr architec’, the day you first came to Clouds Frome. I told you Caswell’d live to regret takin’ that land from us Doaks. An’ ’e will. The Caswells crawled to us once. An’ I’ll live to see ’em crawl again.’
I dropped Doak on the outskirts of Hereford. He did not want to be taken to the centre. Perhaps he knew of some nearby billet for the night. At all events, he accepted a sovereign when I offered it to him, though very much in spite of himself. We both knew what he would do with it, but I did not begrudge him. He was a man defeated by life, crushed by circumstance, sustained only by stubbornness and empty prophecy. If there was one thing of which I was certain, it was that he would never get the better of Victor Caswell. And in my certainty I felt for him a dreadful affinity.
Still I did not return to my hotel. North again, along the night-blotted Shrewsbury road, as fast as the car could carry me, I drove with blank mind and suspended intent, till at last, long past Ludlow, cold and eerily alone, I came to rest, knowing that to continue was futile. Back, always and ever, I was bound to go.
‘Staddon! In here!’
The voice was raised and slurred, reaching me from the bar as I stood in the lobby of the hotel, waiting for my key. When I looked round, I saw Spencer Caswell grinning through the doorway at me. He raised a half-empty glass and winked.
‘Just the man I want to see! How about a nightcap?’
As much to silence him as for any other reason, I joined him at the bar. Unsteadily propped on a stool, tie askew, cigarette dangling crookedly from his fingers, he was even more detestable drunk than sober, manifestly a spoilt and unashamed child.
‘Bad pennies, eh Staddon? We get more than a few round here, I can tell you.’
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