Hand in Glove

by Robert Goddard

  For once, Jack’s waggish ways were welcome. He it was who prompted Charlotte to offer the scotches and gins everyone was silently craving and, from that point on, conversation and affectionate reminiscence flowed. The need to function as a group faded as the stilted mood of the funeral ebbed away. Jack began to monopolize Samantha’s attention with his lubricated and faintly lecherous wit. Ursula drifted out on to the lawn to smoke a cigarette. And Maurice sought to reassure Charlotte about his stewardship of her inheritance.

  “I think I can safely claim to have put everything in order, Charlie. Not that it was difficult. Beatrix ran her affairs very efficiently.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “A formidable lady, in many ways. I shall miss her.”

  “We shall all miss her.”

  A peal of laughter from Samantha floated across to them and Maurice smiled. “Well, you and I will, certainly.” He grew more serious. “I leave for New York tomorrow. Life—and business—must go on.”

  “Of course.” Maurice seemed to spend half his time in the United States these days, which was not surprising in view of Ladram Avionics’ steady expansion in the American market. “And how is…business?”

  “Is that a polite enquiry or a shareholder speaking?” He grinned. “Either way, the answer’s the same. Never better.”

  “Then, either way, I’m glad to hear it.”

  “But it means I shall have to leave you in the lurch where Jackdaw Cottage is concerned.”

  “You’ve done more than I could reasonably have expected already, Maurice. It’s high time I took a hand.”

  “What do you think you’ll do with the place? Sell?”

  “I suppose so. That is…What else can I do with it? It’s what I should do with this house as well, come to that.”

  “Yes, it is. I’ve told you so often enough. It would fetch a good price. And it might help you to…start afresh, so to speak.”

  “You’re right. I know. But knowing and doing are two—” She broke off at the sudden realization that her voice was the only sound in the room. Jack’s guffaws had ceased. Samantha’s giggles had died. Turning, she saw they were both looking towards the open French windows. Ursula was standing there. With a stranger beside her.

  Derek left Fithyan & Co. early that afternoon and toured the bookshops of Tunbridge Wells in search of two copies of Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography. He found only one and the assistant looked puzzled by his request to order a second, but she assured him that it would take no more than a couple of weeks to obtain.

  Sitting in his car, he unwrapped the book and gazed at the face that stared up at him from the cover. According to what he had read on the back while standing in the shop, Tristram Abberley had died of wounds incurred while fighting in the Spanish Civil War. Derek was not surprised therefore by the martial air of the photograph, clearly taken in Spain some time before the poet’s death. He was a slim good-looking man of about thirty, with short and already receding hair above a clear and square-jawed face. His uniform was dusty and ill-fitting, the ruined wall against which he was leaning sun-baked and crumbling. But none of that mattered. The nonchalant angle at which he held a cigarette between the first and second fingers of his left hand; the disdainful arching of his eyebrows; the casual pose he struck against the wall: all these captured and conveyed the personality of one whose self-confidence could survive any adversities.

  Derek was about to open the book when he caught sight of one of his clients approaching along the pavement. Instantly, he felt he must not be seen. Not with this book at this time. Hastily, he pushed it out of view beneath the dashboard, started the car and turned into the traffic.

  The roads were busy. The afternoon was hot. As he trailed and braked his way up across the Common towards Mount Ephraim, he began to think about Charlotte Ladram and how he might best approach her. He had looked up her address in the telephone directory earlier and had recognized Manor Park as the name of one of Tunbridge Wells’ many quiet residential side-roads lined by tree-screened villas. The directory had listed the subscriber as Mrs M. Ladram. Her mother, perhaps? If so, she must have been the woman Colin bought the furniture from last year. But the police had told Colin she was dead. The discrepancy was easily explained, since the directory was a two-year-old edition, but it left open the possibility that Miss Ladram no longer lived there. In that event, Derek would be reduced to asking Dredge for information, something he had hoped to avoid.

  It was the thought of explaining himself to Dredge that finally decided the issue. Much more deliberation, he knew, would undermine his resolve completely. He took the next turning on the right, paused to consult his street-map, then set off again, arriving a few minutes later in Manor Park. There he left his car and began to walk, checking each house name as he went. It was a neighbourhood of such heavy-curtained quietude that he felt reluctant even to clear his throat, but the trees which denied him a view into most of the gardens at least ensured he could not be seen from within.

  Ockham House disclosed itself as a glimpse of stolid gabling behind a high thorn hedge. A gravelled drive curved out of sight beyond the entrance and, as he started up it, Derek felt intensely conscious of the crunching noise his shoes made at every step.

  Then, rounding a screen of rhododendrons, he came upon a flower-bordered lawn, with the house set above it on slightly higher ground. It was a stuccoed villa of modest proportions, bay-fronted and high chimneyed, with little in the way of architectural elaboration. Derek felt strangely encouraged by its lack of grandeur and quickened his pace.

  As he approached the front door, he saw that the lawn curved round to the side of the house. There, seated on a wicker chair in a sunny corner, was a woman in a dark dress, smoking a cigarette. He could not tell whether she had seen him, nor whether she was Charlotte Ladram, but he felt it would seem odd to ignore her, so he walked slowly towards her across the lawn.

  As he drew nearer, it became apparent that her dress was not merely dark but black, as were her stockings and the shoes she had kicked off in front of her. She was definitely not Charlotte Ladram, being taller and slimmer, with fashionably short blonde hair. And he could be sure she had not seen him, because she had her eyes closed. She was leaning back in her chair, savouring the sunlight and each lungful of smoke. Beside her, on the grass, was a narrow-brimmed black hat. It was the hat that removed the last doubt in Derek’s mind about why she was dressed as she was. But even as he decided to turn and walk away, she opened one eye, then the other, and looked at him.

  “Good afternoon.” Her voice was clipped and husky. “And who might you be?”

  “I…I’m sorry…My name…That is, I was looking for Miss Charlotte Ladram.”

  “For Charlie?” She smiled. “She hasn’t told us about you. Is this a recent acquaintance?”

  “No. She doesn’t…Is she in?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s in.”

  “Well, perhaps this isn’t…the right time.”

  “No, no. The more the merrier, you might say. Let me show you the way.”

  “There’s really no—”

  But it was too late. She rose, stepped into her shoes and beckoned for him to follow her towards the house. He had no choice but to comply, certain though he now was that he had arrived at the worst possible time. A short flight of steps led up from the lawn to some open French windows. The woman paused as she reached them and waited for him to catch up. In the room beyond her, he could see four figures turning to look in his direction. They too were wearing black.

  It was Derek Fairfax. As Charlotte recognized him, a shaft of anger lanced through her. What could the man be thinking of? To arrive at such a time was either crass insensitivity or a calculated insult. If he thought such an approach would aid his brother’s cause, he was much mistaken.

  “A visitor for you, Charlie,” said Ursula. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch the name.”

  “A friend of yours?” murmured Maurice.

  “No. He’s
Derek Fairfax. Colin Fairfax’s brother.”

  “Good God. What—”

  “I’m sorry.” Fairfax stepped into the room. “I really am sorry to intrude like this. I had no idea…that the funeral was…”

  “Fairfax?” said Jack with a frown. “Isn’t that…the name of…”

  “The man responsible for Beatrix’s death,” said Charlotte. “I can’t imagine what brings you here, Mr Fairfax.”

  “I came to express my condolences.”

  “You could have done that by letter if you thought it appropriate.”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Have you come for some other reason?”

  “Well…In a sense. But perhaps I could call back another—”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “If you have something to say,” put in Maurice, “why don’t you say it?”

  Fairfax’s eyes flashed around the room. He was licking his lips and there was a trickle of sweat at the side of his brow. In other circumstances, Charlotte might have felt sorry for him. But these were not other circumstances. She watched him struggle to compose himself. Then he said: “My brother assures me he had nothing to do with the break-in at Miss Abberley’s cottage.”

  “He would, wouldn’t he?” remarked Ursula, stepping past him to reach an ashtray.

  “But I believe him. And if you heard what he had to say I think you might as well.”

  “Unlikely,” said Maurice. “My mother was swindled out of some furniture by your brother last year. And I subsequently had the dubious pleasure of meeting him. Untrustworthy would be to put it mildly.”

  “But not a fool. That’s the point. Only a fool would do what the police claim he did.”

  “Am I to take it,” said Charlotte, “that your real purpose in coming here is to protest your brother’s innocence? If so, I can’t see how we can help you.”

  “He thinks—and so do I—that the real motive for the break-in was to murder Miss Abberley.”

  “Oh-ho,” said Jack. “The plot thickens.” He grinned, but nobody else seemed to find the situation amusing.

  “The Tunbridge Ware was stolen,” said Maurice. “And found in his shop. How does he explain that?”

  “Planted by the murderer to cover his tracks.”

  “Oh, come on! He can’t be serious.”

  “Besides,” said Ursula, “why should anyone want to murder Beatrix?”

  “I don’t know. But I thought…perhaps you…”

  “Might be hiding something?” snapped Charlotte.

  “No. Not hiding. Just not realizing the significance of…of something…”

  “Perhaps you think we murdered her. For her money.”

  “Of course I don’t.” He looked at her imploringly, urging her to yield just enough ground for him to take some kind of stand. But she would not.

  “My sister and I are the principal beneficiaries under Beatrix’s will, Mr Fairfax,” said Maurice calmly. “For my own part, I am the chairman and managing director of Ladram Avionics, an internationally successful company of which you may have heard. My means are considerable. Do you really think I care about a modest bequest from my aunt?”

  “No. I never suggested you did.”

  “Charlie is also well provided for, as you can see. She owns this house. And a substantial shareholding in the company.”

  “There’s no need to tell Mr Fairfax our business, Maurice,” said Ursula.

  “My point is that by no stretch of the imagination can we be said to have needed what we gained by Beatrix’s death. And nobody else gained anything.”

  “I thought there was a nest-egg for Mrs Mentiply,” remarked Jack.

  “Do be quiet, Jack,” said Ursula.

  “Oh, well, all right.” He assumed a contrite expression. “Only trying to help.”

  Fairfax was still looking at Charlotte, still silently pleading with her to be reasonable. And she was still determined not to be. “Miss Ladram,” he said falteringly, “I’m not accusing anybody of anything, least of all you. I’m only trying to establish the truth of what happened. Don’t you want to do the same?”

  “We already have,” she replied. “The only service you can render us is to identify your brother’s accomplice.”

  “He didn’t have one.”

  “If that’s what you think, I’m sure we’d all be grateful if you left—and didn’t come back.”

  Maurice put a protective arm round her waist. “I’ll second that. Time you left, Mr Fairfax. Bother me if you really must. But leave my sister alone.”

  Ursula moved across to Fairfax’s shoulder. “Cue to depart,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Shall I show you out?”

  Ursula’s smile and her condescending gesture towards the garden completed Fairfax’s defeat. He stepped back and looked away, seeming to shrivel before them. Suddenly, Charlotte regretted their implacable show of unity. Perhaps, after all, he had meant well. But it was too late to find out. Already, he had turned and was hurrying towards the French windows. Ursula swayed out of his path with a little wave of dismissal.

  “Goodbye, Mr Fairfax. So good of you to have called.”

  “There’s no need for that,” said Charlotte.

  “Well, I’m sorry, my dear. I thought you wanted rid of him.”

  “I did. But not—” She broke free of Maurice and hastened into the garden. Derek Fairfax had reached the drive and was walking fast towards the gate. To recall him now—even had she wished—would have been pointless.

  “What’s wrong, old girl?” said Maurice, coming up behind her.

  “Nothing. I just…”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll give us no trouble.”

  “Perhaps we should have been less abrupt.”

  “He was the one who was abrupt.”

  “Even so, he’s not responsible for his brother’s actions, is he?”

  “Then he shouldn’t try to excuse them, should he?”

  “He didn’t. Not really.”

  Maurice’s arm once more encircled her. “Let’s forget him. And his brother. Let’s forget all about the squalid crime that ended Beatrix’s life and remember instead the many happy years she had before Mr Fairfax-Vane crossed her path. She’d want us to, you know.”

  “Yes. She would.” Fairfax was out of sight now. Charlotte told herself to put him out of mind as well. “Come on, Maurice. Let’s go in and have another drink. I could do with one.”

  “That’s my girl.” With a beaming smile, he ushered her back to rejoin the others.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Derek felt so ashamed by how he had managed—or mismanaged—his visit to Ockham House that for several days afterwards he could not think of the event without physically flinching. Colin had praised his diplomacy, but what would he say when he heard just how undiplomatic his brother had been?

  Further contact with the Abberley family was, for the time being, out of the question. Derek’s only immediate hope of learning more about them was to read Tristram Abberley’s biography. This, with guilty zeal, he proceeded to do over the next three evenings.

  The book was the work of an American academic, Emerson A. McKitrick, first published in 1977. Derek, whose taste in literature seldom led him beyond the realm of light detective fiction, was surprised by how absorbed he rapidly became in the life-story of an avant-garde pre-war poet. Perhaps he should not have been, however, since Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography had assumed for him the characteristics of a convoluted whodunnit. The only real difference was that, in this case, the mystery did not begin until long after the book had ended.

  From the first, Derek found himself sharing McKitrick’s evident frustration. Who was Tristram Abberley? What manner of man was he? Sportsman; idler; intellectual poseur; spendthrift; communist; homosexual; womanizer; traveller; wastrel; husband; father; soldier; poet. He had apparently been all of these and more. Yet, at the end of his life, it was possible to believe that he had
been none.

  He was born at Indsleigh Hall, near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, on 4 June 1907, the third and youngest child of Joseph and Margaret Abberley. The other children were Lionel (born 1895) and Beatrix (born 1902). Joseph Abberley was a partner in a Walsall soap manufacturing business, Abberley & Timmins. He was a man of humble origins who had risen, thanks entirely to his own efforts, to considerable prosperity. His aspirations for his children were that they should enjoy all the social and educational opportunities he had been denied. But what they made of those opportunities was, as such men often find, not what he had anticipated.

  For this—and most other insights into Tristram’s early years—McKitrick was indebted, as he made clear, to the poet’s sister, Beatrix, the only living witness to many of the events he described. The thought that she too was now dead struck home at Derek. It transformed what must have been mere reminiscence when related to the author into a fixed and final historical statement. No more than what it told could ever now be told.

  Lionel Abberley was, according to Beatrix, a young man of exceptional sporting and intellectual prowess. Destined for a place at Oxford in the autumn of 1914, he enlisted instead in the Army at the outbreak of the First World War and was killed early the following year. His mother, devastated by the loss, entered a physical and mental decline that ended in her death in November 1916.

  How these two blows affected the character of young Tristram was not certain. What was certain was that his father invested all his hopes for the future in his remaining son and that Beatrix was obliged to assume a maternal role in the family despite her tender years.

  Tristram followed in his brother’s footsteps at Rugby without ever quite fitting them and went up to Worcester College, Oxford, in the autumn of 1926. He had till then displayed neither poetic vocation nor political conviction, but both were soon to blossom. Oxford in the late twenties was, of course, an ideal environment for this to happen in and McKitrick went to great lengths to demonstrate how Tristram was influenced by and associated with such contemporaries as W.H. Auden and Louis MacNiece. Excessive lengths, Derek felt, since actual links between them appeared to have been few.