At Frederick’s Place, Doris was blushing and giggling over a Valentine she had received from her fiancé, whilst Kevin was lamenting the recent form of Chelsea, the football club he insisted on supporting. They might as well have been speaking a foreign language – or inhabiting a different country – for all the affinity I felt with their trivial preoccupations.
I retreated to the sanctuary of my office, closed the door and sat down at my desk. Then I leaned forward, lifted the small plate numbered 13 from the desk-top calendar, turned it round to show 14 and dropped it back into its slot, calculating as I did so that I would perform the same action just five more times before to do so would seem pointless, before all counting and calculation would be ended by the springing of a trap-door bolt in another part of this city I shared with thousands like Doris and Kevin – but with only one Consuela.
A pile of correspondence awaited my attention, but I gave it none. Instead, I stared at the telephone and wondered if it was too early to call Windrush for news. (He had been accommodated at Sir Henry’s chambers since the failure of the appeal.) When I looked at the clock and found that it was not yet half past nine, I decided any such call would be premature. I rose, took off my hat and coat, hung them up and paused at the window to light a cigarette.
A stocky middle-aged man in mackintosh and homburg entered the place from Old Jewry as I gazed out and began walking down our side. I did not recognize him and assumed he was bound for the merchant bank or Mercer’s Hall. It was a mild surprise therefore when he turned in at our door. But it was nothing less than a shock when a couple of minutes later, Reg came in to announce that he was Detective Chief Inspector Wright of Scotland Yard and that he wanted to see me.
He had a round, somewhat rumpled face, with a large nose and a ready grin. All in all, he looked more like an indulgent sweet-shop owner than a sharp-witted policeman, an impression compounded by the effusiveness with which he thanked me when I helped him off with his mackintosh, offered him a chair and ordered some coffee. But his manner made me suspicious. I could not help thinking it was intended to plant in my mind an unjustified sense of superiority.
‘As I expect you’re aware, sir, I’m the officer in charge of the Caswell murder case.’
I was right, it seemed, to be suspicious. His opening remark left me uncertain whether to admit or deny a close knowledge of the case. I chose to prevaricate. ‘I rather thought enquiries in that regard were over, Chief Inspector, following the recent trial.’
‘Indeed, sir. But there are some rather puzzling loose ends. You are, I believe, a friend of Mrs Caswell?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The list of those who’ve written to the Home Secretary urging him to commute Mrs Caswell’s sentence isn’t a long one, sir. Your name’s on it. As is your partner’s, Mr Renshaw.’
‘You’ve come here because of letters we’ve written to the Home Secretary?’
‘Good Lord no, sir.’ He broke off – a smile fixed on his lips – as Doris entered, delivered the coffee and left again. Then he resumed. ‘The police don’t interfere with a citizen’s right to petition his elected representatives. Perish the very thought.’ He dipped his digestive biscuit in his coffee and bit off the soggy portion.
‘Then why are you here?’ I tried to make the question sound as neutral as possible.
‘You would describe yourself as a friend of Mrs Caswell?’
‘Well … In this context, yes.’
‘You believe her to be innocent of the crime she was convicted of?’
‘Yes, I do.’
He nodded, immersed the remainder of his biscuit, then swallowed it. ‘Were you acquainted with her late brother, Senhor Rodrigo Manchaca de Pombalho?’
‘I … I met him on a couple of occasions, certainly.’
‘What sort of occasions, sir?’
It was clear to me now that I had to force him to show his hand. ‘Inspector, I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to ask you to explain the purpose of these questions.’
‘Not at all unreasonable, sir, I agree.’ He paused to sip his coffee. ‘You’re aware of Senhor Pombalho’s recent death, I take it, and of the circumstances in which he died?’
‘Yes.’
‘Speaking unofficially, I dislike verdicts of justifiable homicide. They make me uneasy.’
‘I understood it to be a clear case of self-defence.’
‘Indeed, sir. So the jury concluded. But I’m not entirely satisfied that all the relevant facts were put before them.’
‘Really? Well, I wouldn’t know.’
‘Senhor Pombalho was staying at the Green Man, Fownhope, at the time of his death. It’s a quiet village inn and gets precious few overnight guests, particularly during the winter, so Senhor Pombalho – and his companion – were remembered by the landlord quite distinctly. But they didn’t leave their names and Senhor Pombalho’s companion hasn’t come forward, so we don’t know who – or where – he is. We’d like to know, of course, as you can imagine. He might be able to tell us whether the account given to the coroner by Mr Caswell was completely accurate.’
‘I sympathize with you, Inspector, but I really don’t see—’
‘The landlord of the Green Man hasn’t given us a very helpful description, I’m afraid. Senhor Pombalho attracted most of his attention. His recollection of the other guest is that he was a well-spoken middle-aged Englishman. Well, that could apply to a sizeable chunk of the adult male population, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. It fits you, for instance, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, but as you—’
‘The landlord remembered the type of motor-car the fellow was driving, but naturally he didn’t make a note of the registration number. A “Bullnose” Morris, it was. Not far off being the commonest car on the road. Why, I even have one myself. Do you drive, sir?’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact—’
‘Don’t say you have one as well?’ His face was wreathed in mock disbelief.
‘Er … Yes, I do.’
‘Colour, sir?’
‘Royal blue.’
‘Well, there you are.’ He grinned. ‘Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’
‘To show what, Inspector?’
‘Purely out of interest, sir, where were you on the twenty-second of January?’
‘Er … Here in London, I should think.’ Instantly, I regretted the lie, for fear that he should request the corroboration I was in no position to supply. ‘Of course, I’d need to check … my diary, that is.’
‘I quite understand, sir.’ His grin broadened. ‘It’s not easy to be certain when you’re put on the spot, is it?’
I felt myself colour. ‘As to that, Inspector, I can be certain on one point. I wasn’t in Herefordshire.’
‘I never expected you to say you were, sir.’
‘Are you suggesting I was?’
‘Absolutely not, sir. I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s just … Well, we have to check these things. You do see that, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure I do. Are you proposing to put these questions to everybody who’s written to the Home Office about Mrs Caswell’s case?’
‘Oh no, sir.’
‘Then why are you putting them to me?’
‘Well, sir, you happen to own a car of the same make and colour as that used by Senhor Pombalho’s companion.’
‘But as you said, Inspector, there must be hundreds of royal blue “Bullnose” Morrises on the road. And you didn’t know I owned one before you called here, did you?’
‘Good point, sir.’ His grin was beginning to irritate me, as it was probably meant to. ‘Perhaps I ought to explain that an anonymous letter reached Scotland Yard a couple of days ago, addressed to me. It was posted in Hereford on Monday of this week. And it named you as the person who stayed with Senhor Pombalho at the Green Man in Fownhope.’
‘Me? But that’s—’
‘What’s more, it said you accompanied him when he broke into Clouds Frome dur
ing the early hours of Wednesday the twenty-third of January.’
Be calm, I heard my mind intone. This is a trick. If not, he can prove nothing. He may not believe what you say, but he cannot refute it. ‘The allegation is false, Inspector. I wasn’t there.’
‘There was something very odd about the letter, you know, sir. It was written in a disguised hand, of course, but you’d expect that. The interesting thing was that our graphologist reckoned it was written by the same person, probably a man, who was responsible for the anonymous letters found in Mrs Caswell’s possession when we searched Clouds Frome last September. We never found out who that was and we didn’t need to: it wasn’t material to our enquiries. But it niggled with me a little, I don’t mind admitting. And it’s strange he should write again, so long afterwards, with no word between, very strange indeed. What’s more, it suggests he’s close to the Caswell household, if not a member of it. Otherwise, how could he know what took place at Clouds Frome that night?’
‘But he doesn’t know, Inspector. He’s wrong, because I wasn’t there.’
‘So you said, sir, so you said.’ He stared at me intently for a moment. ‘Of course, we could put that to the test, couldn’t we? We could ask the landlord of the Green Man if he recognized you. We could check your alibi for the date in question. We could even examine your car for traces of soil specific to Hereford. Red sandstone, I believe, easily distinguishable from London clay. It’s been wet recently and mud tends to stick, don’t you find?’
I stared defiantly back at him. ‘I’ve nothing to add to what I’ve already said.’
His gaze softened. ‘I ought to tell you, sir, that, officially, Mrs Caswell’s case and that of her brother’s death are closed.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because I don’t like being lied to.’
‘I’m not lying.’
‘Somebody is, sir. Take my word for it. And Mrs Caswell may hang next week because of it. I understood you were anxious to prevent that happening.’
‘So I am, but—’ Confronted by Wright’s smiling face, I felt helpless and uncertain. Nothing I could tell him about Rodrigo’s death would help Consuela. Though it might embarrass Victor, it could not harm him. He and Miss Roebuck were free to contradict whatever I said. The most I was likely to achieve was acknowledgement that I had lied, not that they had. ‘So I am,’ I concluded lamely.
Wright took a note-book from his pocket, tore out a page, wrote something on it in pencil and pushed it across the desk towards me. ‘That’s my extension at Scotland Yard, sir. The exchange number is Whitehall 1212. But I expect you know that. It’s fairly notorious.’
‘Why are you telling me this, Inspector?’
‘In case you should wish to contact me urgently, sir. Between now and the … twenty-first of this month. After that, I don’t suppose you’ll consider it worthwhile. But, until then, if you re-consider …’
‘Re-consider what?’
‘Your position, sir. Your … version of events. The truth – the whole truth that is – is probably Mrs Caswell’s only hope. Why did her brother break into Clouds Frome? What was he looking for? If we knew, it might just help. It’s a slender chance, I’d be forced to admit, but a real one nonetheless. It’d be a shame if Mrs Caswell had to die because her so-called friends were holding back the truth. More than a shame, really – a disgrace, a tragedy. Don’t you agree, sir? A real tragedy.’
I could not remain at Frederick’s Place after Wright’s departure. I needed fresh air – as fresh, at all events, as London could supply – with which to drive out the doubt and indecision he had planted in my mind. So, I invented an appointment with the partnership’s accountant and spent the next few hours pacing the cold and slush-spattered streets whilst, all around me, the city’s inhabitants milled and bustled in pursuit of their business.
The fact that Wright suspected me was bad enough, but what struck me as far worse was that the anonymous letter-writer had shown his disguised hand once more. If, as now seemed likely, he held the key to Consuela’s fate, it was vital to establish his identity, but the contents of his latest message rendered that identity more impenetrable still. It could not be Victor, since he had good reason to wish that my presence at Clouds Frome on the night of Rodrigo’s death should remain a secret. But who else could know I had been there? I had not been seen by anyone other than Victor and Miss Roebuck. Nobody but we three could know what had taken place. Yet somebody did know, somebody who had taken steps to ensure that the police also knew.
Early afternoon found me seated in the nave of St Paul’s, gazing up and around at the unattainable majesty of Wren’s achievement. My incapacity to conceive and execute such a vast yet intricate plan seemed one then with my inability to detect or comprehend the conspiracy that had enveloped Consuela. And my helplessness was also my shame. The one service I could render her was the one task I could not accomplish. I was no better a man than I was an architect.
The light was already failing when I returned to Frederick’s Place. To my surprise, Reg met me with the announcement that I had a visitor, who had insisted on waiting for me and was now installed in my office: Hermione Caswell.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr Staddon. She was most insistent.’
‘That’s all right, Reg. Organize some tea, would you?’
‘Certainly, sir. Oh, by the way, a Mr Windrush ’phoned for you.’
‘Did he leave a message?’
‘Only that there was no news. He said you’d understand.’
‘Yes, I do. Thanks, Reg.’
Hermione was clad mostly in black and was looking uncharacteristically sombre. Even her natural ebullience, it seemed, had been overborne by recent events. There was, moreover, a severity in her greeting that suggested I had still not been forgiven for my part in the miscarriage of our plans.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you called,’ I said, as soon as tea had been served and we were alone. ‘What brings you to London?’
‘I’ve just left Consuela.’
‘I see.’ I heard – and bitterly regretted – the evasiveness in my voice. ‘I didn’t know she was receiving visitors.’
‘She asked to see me. I couldn’t refuse such a request.’
‘Victor would probably have preferred you to.’
‘Victor doesn’t know I’m here.’
‘Isn’t he bound to find out?’
‘No. He’s out of the country, Mr Staddon, and won’t be back … for some time.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Cap Ferrat.’
‘Really? My wife—’ I took a deep breath and tried to look at Hermione without shifting my gaze. ‘How is Consuela?’
‘Calmer than either of us would be in her shoes. Resigned, I rather think, to her fate. Perhaps too resigned.’
‘Why did she want to see you?’
‘Not for the reason I had feared.’
‘What reason was that?’
‘I was concerned that somebody might have told her of Victor’s intentions.’
‘What intentions?’
‘We were summoned to Clouds Frome last Sunday afternoon for a family gathering. Mortimer, Marjorie, Spencer and me. Victor wished to announce his plans for the future, Jacinta’s future, that is, as well as his own.’
‘If you mean Jacinta’s adoption by Consuela’s surviving brother, I ought to tell you that Windrush has already informed me of it. I understood it had been arranged at Consuela’s request.’
‘So Victor told us. In the circumstances’ – she glared at me momentarily – ‘it seems the best that can be done for Jacinta. I was surprised and gratified that my brother had agreed to the proposal.’
‘Frankly, so was I.’
‘You may be less surprised when you hear what else Victor announced. He said that he would be staying with Major Turnbull in Cap Ferrat until Easter and that he would be setting off on Tuesday – two days ago. Naturally, Gleasure went with him. Rather less naturally,
Miss Roebuck also accompanied him. Since Jacinta is to remain in Hereford – she’s presently at Fern Lodge – one would have thought Miss Roebuck’s place was with her, at least until the girl’s uncle arrives. The realization that this was not to be the case clearly offended Mortimer and Marjorie’s sense of propriety, although it was actually I who asked Victor to explain such an irregular arrangement. He was not in the least discomposed by my question, however. His answer was brazen in its simplicity. When he and Miss Roebuck return from France, they will do so as man and wife.’
‘What?’
‘He means to marry her, Mr Staddon, as soon as … as soon as he is free to do so.’
Suddenly I was sure that this macabrely timed announcement was the answer, the reason behind everything that had happened. Victor was Imogen Roebuck’s dupe. Marriage to him was her chosen path to wealth and freedom. Consuela had stood in her way and had been removed. In due course, Victor too might be removed. As to that, I did not care. Whatever he suffered at her hands he would richly deserve. But Consuela did not deserve to suffer. She was as innocent of Rosemary’s murder as she was unaware of its purpose. For its purpose was Imogen Roebuck’s.
‘She’s beaten us, Mr Staddon. Victor is besotted with her. As he sees it, she’s been his only ally, his loyal comforter, a woman more deserving of the status of his wife than Consuela ever was. They’ll be married in Nice, early next month. Nothing can prevent it – unless Consuela is reprieved.’
‘Which nobody thinks she will be.’
‘Exactly. What we most feared has come to pass.’
‘We must inform the police. We must make them understand the implications.’
‘But what are the implications? We suspect Miss Roebuck engineered all this to suit her purpose, that she poisoned Rosemary in order to dispose of Consuela and to persuade Victor that his wife had tried to murder him. But we can’t prove she did that. In fact, all the circumstances suggest she couldn’t have. So, what will the police think? Only what my outraged brother and sister-in-law already think. That Miss Roebuck is a scheming hussy who’s taken advantage of the situation, who’s played on Victor’s affections when he’s been most vulnerable, who’s exploited events – but not brought them about. They regard her behaviour as contemptible, not criminal.’
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