Hand in Glove

by Robert Goddard

  Charlotte shook her head in bemusement and slid the key into the ignition. As she did so, a figure appeared round the corner of the building and began walking towards her. It was Derek Fairfax, bowed and frowning, one hand fumbling in his jacket pocket. He did not glance in her direction and at first she thought he would walk straight past without noticing her. But his car, it transpired, was the one next to hers. As he turned into the narrow space between them, he looked up and saw her.

  For an instant he seemed about to smile, then the anxious frown reasserted itself. Did he know who she was? Charlotte wondered. If he did, she must avoid speaking to him at all costs. There was no time to analyse why, merely to yield to the instinct. She started the car and saw him step back a pace in surprise. Then, accelerating too hard, she skidded out of the bay, regained control and swerved towards the exit, resisting all temptation to glance in the rear-view mirror.

  According to Dredge, the woman they had seen talking to Chief Inspector Hyslop was Beatrix Abberley’s niece, Charlotte Ladram. She it was who had identified the Tunbridge Ware found in Colin’s shop. Thus had Derek learned why she should have been both at the Treasure Trove and Hastings Magistrates’ Court. What she had thought as she peered into the gloomy interior of the shop or gazed at Colin, rumpled and forlorn in the dock, he had, of course, no way of knowing. Had they spoken on either occasion, he would naturally have offered his condolences. There was nothing else he could have offered. Perhaps, therefore, it was as well that they had not spoken.

  Such thoughts were in his mind as he looked up and saw her, sitting at the wheel of the car next to his. Their eyes met, then parted. He hesitated, uncertain what to do. It would surely be ridiculous to ignore each other. After all, she knew who he was now. There was no point pretending any more. And yet—

  Suddenly, she started her car, skidded forward, slowed momentarily, then swerved towards the exit. He fell back against the wing of his own car, aware that she had come close to hitting him in her eagerness to escape. To escape him. That was it, of course. That was the true measure of the contempt she held him in on his brother’s account. She could not bear even to speak to him.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Derek decided it would not be politic to take any more time off that week. Thursday’s edition of the local newspaper reported Colin’s court appearance, but if anybody at Fithyan & Co. knew they were related—as he was sure some did—they said nothing about it.

  On Saturday afternoon, he drove to Lewes and presented himself at the prison gates amidst a ragged band of wives, girlfriends and children. They were admitted, after considerable delay, to a large bare-walled room with chairs and tables arranged in rows. Seated at the tables, looking variously eager, ashamed and indifferent, were the husbands, boyfriends and fathers, rendered indistinguishable by their blue-grey prison fatigues.

  This was the first such visit Derek had ever embarked upon. Colin had been granted bail last time and had specifically asked to be left alone during his subsequent confinement. It was a request Derek had been happy to comply with. But there could be no such embargo now. There were things to be said and this was the only venue in which they could be said.

  Colin was sitting at the far side of the room, staring blankly into space. He did not seem to see Derek until the last moment, then started violently, made to rise, thought better of it and subsided into his chair with a sigh.

  “Hello, Derek. Pleased you could make it.” He smiled weakly.

  “Hello, Colin. How are you?” As Derek sat down and examined his brother, he suddenly regretted the question. Such an enquiry was always platitudinous, but now it seemed downright insensitive as well.

  “Wonderful,” said Colin. “This place is like a health farm, only a damn sight cheaper.”

  “I…er…I was sorry they refused you bail.”

  “Pull the other one. You were relieved. I would have been, in your shoes.”

  Derek laughed nervously and glanced around. At the tables on either side, inmates and visitors were trying inarticulately to pretend they understood each other, while behind them a warder paced gloomily around the room and cast bored glances up at the clock on the wall.

  “Thanks for trying anyway,” said Colin. “I might not show it, but I am grateful.”

  “Least I could…” Derek sat forward in his chair, resolving to say what had to be said without further prevarication. “Dredge thinks you should plead guilty to the handling charge.”

  “Dredge is an old woman.”

  “He’s your solicitor, Colin. And he has your interests at heart.”

  “Maybe. I wouldn’t know. I used him when I bought the lease of the Treasure Trove and he made heavy enough weather of that.”

  “Why are you using him now, then?”

  “Because he was the only solicitor I could think of when the police said I could call one. Now I find he thinks I’m guilty just like they do. The question is, Derek, what do you think?”

  Derek took a deep breath. “You tell me.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean you denied everything last time as well.”

  “And?”

  “And it wasn’t true, was it? You were in it up to your neck.”

  Colin frowned, started to say something, then stopped and grinned. “You’re right. I lied. I make a habit of it. You should know. You of all people.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I’m not lying this time.”

  “How am I to know that?”

  “Because you know me. I’m a liar and a bit of a rogue and a worse brother than you deserve. But I’m not a fool. Never have been. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Then would I really leave my calling card at a house I intended to break into? As clues go, it’s a pretty glaring one, isn’t it?”

  “I gather from Dredge the police don’t think you were the person who actually broke in.”

  “No, they don’t. They think I paid some young tough to do it. Or agreed a price for the Tunbridge Ware with somebody who I knew would do it. Either way, they think I’m behind it. But they’ve as good as told me they’ll drop the aiding and abetting charge if I’ll name my accomplice. Dredge reckons I might wriggle out of conspiracy as well on that basis. And be looking at no more than five years for handling if they can nail somebody else for burglary and murder.”

  “But you’re not willing to do it?”

  “I can’t do it, because I didn’t have an accomplice. Do you seriously imagine I’d stay silent to protect somebody who’s prepared to stave an old lady’s head in? Not on your life. Especially not if the police were offering me good solid reasons for making a clean breast of it. Which is precisely what they are doing.”

  “So the stuff really was planted?”

  “Put it this way. The first I knew about any of this was when the police came hammering on the flat door at seven o’clock on Monday morning brandishing a search-warrant. I wasn’t happy to see them, but I was happy to let them into the shop, because I knew there was nothing there. When I saw the Tunbridge Ware, standing in a cardboard box on the table in the back-room, well, you could have knocked me down with a feather.”

  “How do you think it got there?”

  “Somebody must have broken in during the night and put it there. One of the panes in the window next to the back door was knocked out. And I’d left the key in the lock. I’m careless that way.”

  Derek did not doubt his brother’s carelessness. But he knew the police would. They would have viewed the broken window as a clumsy attempt by Colin to cover his tracks. “You heard nothing in the night?”

  “Not a thing. But I’d been hitting the scotch. It would have taken a bomb to wake me. Which reminds me…” He leaned forward. “I haven’t had a drink since then. You didn’t have the good sense to smuggle in a half-bottle, did you?”

  “No, I certainly did not.”

  Colin grimaced. “A pity. But not a surprise. You always did
have too much respect for rules and regulations.”

  “If you had the same amount, we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

  “Maybe not.” Colin forced a grin. “Let’s call a truce. When I took the police into the shop, the back door was locked, with the key in it. Simple enough for an intruder to arrange by reaching through the missing pane after he’d left, of course. But the police weren’t interested. They had the Tunbridge Ware. And they had me. So they were satisfied. As they were intended to be.”

  “Intended by whom?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the whole point. Nobody hates me enough to go to so much trouble. I’ve put a few noses out of joint over the years, admittedly, but not that far out. Besides, if they were prepared to kill and had it in for me, why not go the whole hog and stave my head in?”

  “Well?” Derek could tell by the twinkle in Colin’s eyes that he had an answer.

  “I’ve thought it through, step by step. I’ve had plenty of time to think this past week, believe me. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not what all this is about. I’m just the fall guy, the shady antique dealer who takes the blame.”

  “So…what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying the police are looking at it the wrong way round. They see burglary as the objective, murder as the result. Whereas I reckon murder was the real objective. The stolen Tunbridge Ware—and me—were just camouflage.”

  For a second, Derek seriously entertained the possibility. Then scepticism got the better of him. “Isn’t that rather far-fetched, Colin?”

  “Listen to what happened. Then tell me whether it’s far-fetched or not.”

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  “About six weeks ago, I had a telephone call from a woman who gave her name as Beatrix Abberley. She said she had some Tunbridge Ware she wanted valued with a view to disposal. We agreed I’d call a few days later and take a look at the stuff. The address was Jackdaw Cottage, Watchbell Street, Rye. When I asked how she’d heard of me, she said she had relatives in Tunbridge Wells and often went there. She’d seen my display of Tunbridge Ware in the window and had remembered the name of the shop. Well, I wasn’t arguing. Off I went to Rye. She’d been specific about the time I was to arrive. Ten-thirty on Wednesday the twentieth of May. I was there on the dot. A housekeeper answered the door. She said she didn’t know anything about the appointment, but she showed me into the drawing room and went to fetch Miss Abberley. I was giving the Tunbridge Ware the once over when the lady came in. As soon as I saw her, I knew something was wrong. The woman who’d phoned me was much younger. And she’d had a twang to her voice, like a faint American accent. Or one being disguised. But Miss Abberley was an old refined English spinster. And she was adamant she hadn’t called me. Well, I knew she was telling the truth. That was obvious. But what was I supposed to do? Say it had all been a ghastly mistake? Since I was there, I reckoned it was best to try and brazen it out. The Tunbridge Ware was a nice collection. Very nice. I tried to negotiate a price. But she wasn’t interested. Not a bit. So, I decided to call it a day. I gave her my card in case she ever changed her mind and left with fulsome apologies. As to the ’phone call, I wrote it off as a misunderstanding. Maybe I’d misheard the name or the address. Or both. I knew I hadn’t, of course, but no amount of speculation on my part was going to explain what had happened. So, I forgot all about it.”

  “Until the police arrived on your doorstep?”

  “Not quite. That’s where it gets odder still. About a week later, Miss Abberley—the real Miss Abberley—telephoned me. I thought for a moment she must have reconsidered my offer. But no. She simply wanted me to tell her why I’d visited her. Well, I’d already done that. But she wanted more: everything I could remember, in fact, about the original telephone call. The woman’s voice. Her exact words. Every detail I could recollect.”

  “She believed you?”

  “Yes. Strange, isn’t it? It’s the sort of story I might have made up just to get over the threshold. But it happened to be true. And she believed it. She hadn’t when I’d called at the cottage. She’d made that obvious. But now she did.”

  “Why the change of mind?”

  “She wouldn’t say. She simply thanked me for the information and rang off. And that was the last I heard about it. Or expected to hear. Until Monday.”

  “Did you tell the police all this?”

  “Of course. But I was wasting my breath. They had their solution. They had their suspect. And they weren’t going to be deflected by anything I said.”

  “It’s understandable.”

  “Maybe. But they don’t need your understanding. I do.”

  Derek looked away for an instant. Almost everything he knew about his brother constituted grounds for doubt. Except for the fact that he could never have been stupid enough to incriminate himself in the way the police alleged. Colin’s version of events made more sense than any other Derek had heard—and was the more disturbing because of it.

  “Would you do something for me?” asked Colin.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Contact Beatrix Abberley’s family. Try to persuade them I’m telling the truth. They must want the real murderer caught as badly as I do. And they must know what his motive was, even if they’re unaware of it at the moment.”

  Derek thought of Charlotte Ladram speeding out of the car park in Hastings. “I don’t think they’d welcome such contact.”

  “You can win them over. I know you can. Diplomacy’s always been your forte.”

  “I’m not so sure. Didn’t you have a dispute with them last year over the price of some furniture? The police think that’s how you got to hear about the Tunbridge Ware.”

  “They’re wrong. I’d forgotten all about it. I didn’t know the woman I bought the furniture from was related to Miss Abberley until the police told me.”

  “Maybe not. But the family obviously think otherwise. And it’s bound to prejudice them against you.”

  Colin sat back in his chair, stared intently at Derek for a moment, then said: “I don’t underestimate the difficulties. I’m only asking you to try.”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do. But it may not be much.”

  “Anything’s better than nothing. And nothing is what I have to go on at the moment. Apart from this.” Colin reached into his pocket, took out a scrap of paper and slid it across the table. On it was written, in pencilled capitals, TRISTRAM ABBERLEY: A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY, BY E.A. MCKITRICK.

  “What’s this?”

  “Beatrix Abberley was the sister of Tristram Abberley, the poet. Heard of him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “I’m reading his collected works at the moment, courtesy of the prison library.”

  “You? Reading poetry?”

  “I’ve not much else to do, have I? Being accused of aiding and abetting his sister’s murder has done wonders for my poetic sensibility. Unfortunately, I can’t follow his kind of stuff any better now than when I was at school. But biography’s a different matter. The library doesn’t hold a copy, but the librarian favoured me with these details.”

  “You want me to buy a copy for you?”

  “No. I want you to buy a copy for both of us. It’s bound to say something about his family, isn’t it? It’ll give you the background you need. Maybe even a clue. Or maybe nothing at all. We won’t know until we try, will we?”

  “It seems a bit of a long-shot.”

  “It’s the only kind of shot we have.”

  Derek shook his head doubtfully and reached forward to pick up the piece of paper. As he did so, Colin stretched across the table and pressed his hand over Derek’s. “I’m relying on you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t say you owe it to me to do this, because it wouldn’t be true. But there’s no one else I can turn to. Not a soul.”

  “Is that what I am, then? Your last resort?”

  Colin smiled. “I suppose
so. But isn’t that what brothers are for?”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Beatrix’s funeral was conducted with the chilling seemliness reserved for such occasions. On a pluperfect summer’s day, a score of mourners gathered at St Mary’s Church, Rye, for a short but eloquent service and were then conveyed by a flotilla of gleaming limousines to Hastings Crematorium for the conclusion of the ceremony.

  Mrs Mentiply wept openly. One or two of Beatrix’s neighbours dabbed at their eyes. Otherwise, the affair passed off with a lack of emotional display of which Charlotte was sure Beatrix would have approved. Lulu Harrington did not attend, having sent Charlotte a brief note explaining that she did not feel equal to the journey. But there was a full turn-out of family members, Samantha having arrived home for the summer from Nottingham University the day before and Uncle Jack having done his best to sober up as well as smarten up for the occasion.

  Eyeing her relatives across the crematorium chapel, Charlotte caught herself thinking what a typically English amalgam they were of restraint and indifference. As soon as she had decided to exempt Maurice and herself from this charge, however, she realized how unfair she was being. Why should Ursula and Samantha express more than they felt at the death of an old and not always companionable woman? The manner of her death was not their fault and could not be altered by any amount of conspicuous grieving.

  Besides, they played the parts allotted to them with commendable diligence. Ursula assumed her decorous place beside Maurice in the garden of remembrance, shook hands with all the mourners and thanked them for coming. Jack refrained from cracking a single joke. And Samantha’s distant expression could easily have been taken for pent-up emotion, so winsomely affected did a black dress and hat make her appear.

  Afterwards, the family adjourned to Ockham House for tea. At first, it was clear that none of them knew whether to strike a note of sorrow or of celebration. Had Beatrix died in her sleep, her age and mental alertness would have been counted as reasons to take comfort from her passing. As it was, one violent moment cast its shadow over a lifetime of serenity. At all events, Charlotte supposed Beatrix’s life had been serene, although the truth was that nobody had known her well enough to be absolutely certain.