“I can imagine.”
“Be grateful that’s all you need to. Do you remember the last time I had to visit one?”
“For Dad.” She remembered well enough. She was never likely to forget. One foggy afternoon in November 1963, her father had crashed his light aeroplane in Mereworth Woods, killing himself and his passenger. It was at that point in their lives that Maurice had emerged from Ronnie Ladram’s jovial shadow and imposed his personality upon the family. Charlotte often suspected he had been secretly relieved at his step-father’s death, if only because it meant he could bring some order to the chaotic affairs of Ladram Aviation. Though even now, more than twenty years later, he would never allow himself to admit as much.
“I spoke to Ursula on the car phone. She sends her love—and her sympathy.”
“That’s kind of her.” Charlotte took her glass back to the drinks cabinet, recharged it, then returned to the fireside. Maurice had lit a small cigar and, when he offered one to Charlotte, she surprised herself by accepting.
“The police were asking about Fairfax-Vane,” he said after a moment of silence.
“I know. They think he may be behind the break-in. But I hardly—”
“You didn’t meet him, Charlie.” It was true. Maurice had been the one delegated to visit Fairfax-Vane’s shop and attempt to buy back the furniture Mary had sold him. Without success, as it had turned out.
“Did he strike you as worse than just a con-man, then?”
“He struck me as slippery enough for anything.”
“Even murder?”
“I don’t imagine he intended it to go that far. I don’t even imagine he broke into the cottage himself. Probably some young tearaway he hired who panicked.”
“So, Beatrix was killed for a few thousand pounds’ worth of Tunbridge Ware?”
“More than a few thousand. Do you realize what that stuff fetches these days?”
“Not really.”
“A lot, believe me.”
“Oh, I do. But, even so, it seems…such a sad and pointless death.”
“I agree. Though perhaps Beatrix wouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she was never one to knuckle under to anything, was she? The idea of dying in defence of her possessions might have appealed to her. She was eighty-five. Perhaps it was better than…whatever would have happened to her eventually.”
“Perhaps.”
“It’s about the only consoling thought I can come up with, I’m afraid.”
“Then we’d better cling to it, hadn’t we?” Charlotte sighed and gazed into the fire. “In the absence of any other.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Events the following day moved faster than Charlotte had anticipated. Thoughts of Beatrix—and the circumstances of her death—had kept her awake until the small hours. Then, when exhaustion had finally gained the upper hand, she overslept. When she came downstairs in mid-morning, it was to find Maurice engaged in a lengthy telephone conversation with his secretary at Ladram Avionics. He had already, it was to transpire, made an appointment for them to see Beatrix’s solicitor in Rye that afternoon, pressure of work obliging him to push matters forward with some vigour. For this he apologized, though Charlotte did not think he needed to. As far as she was concerned, the formalities of death were best conducted speedily. If Maurice had displayed the same attitude after their mother’s death—rather than trying to cocoon her from the reality of it—she would, she now thought, have been grateful.
Over a late breakfast, they discussed their last meetings with Beatrix. Charlotte had not seen her since Christmas, though she had spoken to her by telephone on several occasions, most recently on her eighty-fifth birthday. Maurice, by contrast, had been entertained to tea at Jackdaw Cottage less than a month ago, on the Sunday before Beatrix’s departure for her annual fortnight with Lulu Harrington in Cheltenham. The two had been at school together and with sudden dismay Charlotte realized that Lulu had yet to be informed of her old friend’s death.
She had no sooner begun contemplating the dismal task of contacting her than the telephone rang. It was Chief Inspector Hyslop’s sergeant, requesting that they call at Hastings Police Station as soon as possible. He declined to say why, but, since the urgency of his request seemed manifest, they agreed to set off straightaway.
Hyslop could scarcely disguise his satisfaction when they arrived. He escorted them to a room where, on one long table, were arranged the items of Tunbridge Ware Charlotte and Mrs Mentiply had listed as missing the previous evening.
“You recognize them, Miss Ladram?”
“Why, yes. These are the contents of Beatrix’s cabinet. There’s no question about it.”
“So we thought. They match your descriptions exactly.”
“You’ve recovered all of them?” put in Maurice.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where did you find them?”
“A store-room at the rear of the Treasure Trove, Fairfax-Vane’s shop in Tunbridge Wells. The premises were searched early this morning.”
“And Fairfax-Vane?”
“Under arrest. Presently unable to account for his possession of these items.”
“My congratulations, Chief Inspector. You’ve made excellent progress.”
“Thank you, sir. If I could ask you, Miss Ladram, to make a statement formally identifying them as Miss Abberley’s property…”
“Gladly.”
“Then I’ll be free to return to my questioning of Mr Fairfax-Vane. Though perhaps I ought to say just Fairfax. We gather ‘Vane’ is a purely professional handle.”
“Even his surname’s a fraud, then?” asked Maurice.
“Yes, sir.” Hyslop smiled. “As you say.”
Charlotte should have been more pleased than she was by the news of Fairfax-Vane’s arrest. To her mind, the rapid solution of the crime only heightened its pointlessness. Theft and murder were bad enough, she reflected, without being compounded by incompetence.
After she had made her statement, they visited the Registrar’s office nearby. The provision of a death certificate took longer than seemed necessary, but was eventually accomplished. They were, indeed, only a few minutes late for their three o’clock appointment in Rye with Beatrix’s solicitor, Mr Ramsden. He was a dull and deferential man of middle years to whom Beatrix’s straightforward requirements must have seemed utterly unexceptional. He offered his condolences, then proceeded to explain the provisions of the will he had drawn up for his client some years previously.
“I believe you are aware, Mr Abberley, that Miss Abberley appointed you her executor?”
“Indeed.”
“Then it will suffice for me to summarize how her estate is to be disposed of. There is a bequest of ten thousand pounds to Mrs Avril Mentiply and a gift of five thousand pounds to the East Sussex Naturalists’ Trust.”
“Lame ducks of all species were her speciality,” said Maurice.
Ramsden glanced from one to the other of them, clearly discomposed by this shaft of humour. “To proceed. Jackdaw Cottage, which she owned outright, goes to you, Miss Ladram, along with its contents, including all Miss Abberley’s personal possessions.”
“Good heavens. I’d no idea.” Nor had she. Insofar as she had considered the point, she had assumed Maurice, as Beatrix’s nearest blood relative, would inherit everything.
“She told me some time ago, old girl,” said Maurice, patting her hand. “You were her god-daughter, after all.”
“But…” It was futile to explain how such generosity only increased the guilt she felt for avoiding Beatrix in recent months. She fell silent.
“The residue of her estate,” Ramsden resumed, “devolves upon you, Mr Abberley. That comprises such capital as may be left after bequests and inheritance tax and such royalties as may continue to be due under the estate of Miss Abberley’s late brother, Mr Tristram Abberley. Copyright in his works expires, I believe, at the end of next year.”
“Except for the posthumously published poems, that’s correct,” said Maurice. “Perhaps it’s as well she never had to get used to doing without the income.”
Perhaps Maurice was right, thought Charlotte. He had Ladram Avionics, after all, in which the investment of Abberley royalties had paid a handsome dividend. And she had her own substantial shareholding in the company, inherited from her mother. But Beatrix was likely to have given away as much as she had saved over the years. Though poverty would never have threatened her, the necessity to economize might have. That she had been spared the experience represented a meagre form of solace.
Ramsden’s office was only a few doors from the premises of Rye’s principal undertaker. There Charlotte and Maurice were received with doleful solicitude and gently guided through the maze of funerary alternatives. Beatrix had not specified in her will whether she wished to be buried or cremated and neither Charlotte nor Maurice could remember her ever expressing a view on the subject. Her neat and unsentimental nature suggested, however, that cremation was the choice she would have been likely to make and on this they settled.
Outside, the streets were crowded with shoppers and tourists. Their loud voices and gaping faces seemed to magnify the warmth of the afternoon to a single burning pitch. All Charlotte wanted was to be done with the business that had brought them to Rye, free of the commitments Beatrix had wished upon her. But to want, as she well knew, was not necessarily to achieve.
“Do you think we should go up to the cottage?” asked Maurice. “The police will have finished by now and we could easily collect the key from Mrs Mentiply.”
“I’d rather not. It’s too soon to start sorting through Beatrix’s possessions. I should feel she was there all the time, looking over my shoulder. Perhaps after the funeral.”
“As her executor, I’m not sure I can wait that long. I’ll need to find her cheque books and bank statements for probate purposes. See if there are any unpaid bills about the place.”
“Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” It was typical of Maurice to take his responsibilities seriously. Fortunately, she did not have to. “Can’t you go alone?” she asked, in a tone that urged him to say he could.
“I can, Charlie, yes. With your permission. You are the new owner, remember.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course you have my permission. Go ahead. I’m only grateful I don’t have to take the task on myself.”
“Very well. I’ll come back tomorrow and try to sort everything out. If that’s what you want.”
“It is. Definitely.”
Maurice suggested they eat out that evening and Charlotte agreed enthusiastically, hoping good food and drink consumed in pleasant surroundings might lift her spirits. Before they set off, however, there was one duty to be performed which she knew she could neither postpone nor avoid. Lulu Harrington had to be told.
Charlotte had never met Lulu, even though she and Beatrix had been friends from schooldays. She had taught at Cheltenham Ladies’ College for forty-odd years and now lived in a flat in the town, enjoying what Charlotte imagined to be a fittingly demure retirement. When she answered the telephone, she did so in text-book style, stating the exchange as well as the number and pronouncing all three syllables in “Cheltenham.”
“Miss Harrington?”
“Yes. Who is that, please?” She sounded frail and a touch querulous. Charlotte’s heart sank.
“My name’s Charlotte Ladram, Miss Harrington. We’ve never met, but—”
“Charlotte Ladram? Oh, of course! I know who you are.” Her tone was warmer now. “Beatrix’s niece.”
“Not her niece exactly but—”
“Good as, I rather thought. Well, forgive me, Miss Ladram. May I call you Charlotte? Beatrix always refers to you as such.”
“Of course. I—”
“It’s a great pleasure to speak to you at last, I must say. To what do I—” She broke off abruptly, then said: “Is Beatrix all right?”
Suddenly fearful that Lulu would guess before she could tell her, Charlotte blurted out: “I’m afraid she passed away yesterday.” Then she regretted her abruptness. “I’m sorry if it’s a shock. It was for all of us.” But only silence followed. “Miss Harrington? Miss Harrington, are you still there?”
“Yes.” She sounded calm and sombre now. “May I…That is, what happened…exactly?”
She would have to know of course. There was no way of pretending Beatrix had slipped away peacefully. As she explained the circumstances, Charlotte sensed how brutal and unfair they must sound to one of Beatrix’s own age who also lived alone. But the circumstances could not be altered.
When she had finished, there was another momentary silence. Then Lulu said simply: “I see.”
“I’m really very sorry to have to break such news to you.”
“Pray don’t apologize, my dear. It’s good of you to have called.”
“Not at all. You were Beatrix’s oldest friend, after all.”
“Was I?”
“Of course you were. She always said so.”
“That was good of her.”
“Miss Harrington—”
“Call me Lulu, please.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? This must have come as a terrible shock.”
“Not really.”
“What?”
“Forgive me. I mean simply that at our age—Beatrix’s and mine—death can never be regarded as a surprise.”
“But this is different…This was not…”
“Not natural. Quite so, my dear. The difference does not escape me, I assure you.”
“Then how…” Charlotte stopped herself. The old lady was clearly wandering. It would be charitable to disregard whatever she said. “Will you wish to attend the funeral, Lulu? It’s to be held next Monday, the twenty-ninth. It’s a long way for you to come, of course, but I could offer you overnight accommodation if that would help.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. But…I will think about it, Charlotte. I will think about it and let you know.”
“Of course. Of course. Do that. Now, if you’re certain you’re all right—”
“Absolutely. Goodbye, Charlotte.”
“Good—” The line went dead before she could finish. And left her staring at her own puzzled frown in the mirror above the telephone.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Fairfax.”
“Good morning. Is that Mr Derek Fairfax?”
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Dredge, Mr Fairfax. Albion Dredge. I’m a solicitor, representing your brother, Mr Colin Fairfax.”
Derek felt the blood rush to his face. It had happened. What he had dreaded ever since Colin’s arrival in Tunbridge Wells. A reversion to type, some might say. A stroke of bad luck, Colin would undoubtedly protest. A problem, unquestionably, that Derek did not need. “Representing him in what, Mr Dredge?”
“I regret to have to tell you, Mr Fairfax, that your brother was arrested yesterday by the Sussex Police and subsequently charged with serious criminal offences.”
“What were the offences?”
“Handling stolen goods. Conspiracy to burgle. Aiding and abetting murder.”
It was worse than he had imagined. Far worse. “Murder, you say?”
“An elderly spinster was found battered to death at her cottage in Rye on Sunday afternoon. You may have seen a report of it on the local television news.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Then let me explain.” As Dredge did so, Derek felt a clammy foreboding rise about him. Colin would have no truck with violence. That was certain. But he had never been scrupulous about the provenance of what he bought and sold. He habitually sailed close to the wind. Sometimes too close, as the affair in St Albans proved. Could he have gone so far as to commission a burglary in order to obtain a collection of Tunbridge Ware? If he knew he could make enough out of it, the answer had to be yes, especially if his finances were in a more than u
sually parlous state. Murder, of course, he would never have countenanced. Nor strong-arm tactics of any kind. But if he had misjudged his associates, if he had trusted to luck and the good sense of those who had none, then the consequences could be precisely what the police had alleged. “He is currently being held at Hastings Police Station,” Dredge concluded. “And will appear before the magistrates tomorrow morning.”
“Does he…deny the charges?”
“Unequivocally.”
“Then…how does he account for the Tunbridge Ware being in his shop?”
Dredge sighed. “He assumes it was planted there.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s simply…well, in the perception of the police, it’s exactly what he would say, isn’t it?”
“He hasn’t suggested they planted it, has he?”
“Mercifully, no.”
“Then who…why should…”
“Mr Fairfax, I don’t wish to be abrupt, but such questions are perhaps best considered at another time. My purpose in telephoning you today is to ask whether you would be prepared to act as surety in the event that the magistrates grant bail. If granted, the figure involved is likely to exceed your brother’s means.”
Derek could have told Dredge that himself. Colin’s means had never to his knowledge kept pace with his expenditure. Too often in the past, indeed, Derek had been obliged to bail him out, literally as well as metaphorically. And each time he had sworn it would be the last. So had Colin, come to that. “What sort of figure are we talking about?” he asked defensively.
“It’s hard to say. The police will oppose bail. The question may not arise.”
“But if the question does arise?”
“Then it will be a substantial sum.”
“How substantial?”
“I would imagine…somewhere between five and ten thousand pounds.”
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