Hand in Glove

by Robert Goddard

  Lulu fell silent, but Charlotte could sense it was only an interval to collect and marshal her thoughts. She resumed without need of prompting.

  “Beatrix was considerably more intelligent than me. She had a faculty for seeing to the heart of things which could be quite disarming. You must know that, of course. What I mean is that she had such a faculty even as a child. Her father withdrew her from Roedean after her mother’s death. Had she remained, she could easily have surpassed my academic achievements. I went on to Girton College, Cambridge, and came here to teach at the Ladies’ College in 1923, but we never lost touch. I often went to stay with her at Indsleigh Hall and later at Jackdaw Cottage.”

  “You must have met Tristram, then?”

  “Oh, yes. On several occasions. But he had little time for a dowdy schoolmistress like me. I can hardly claim to have known him. An impulsive young man, certainly, as I suppose the manner of his death proves. So far as letters to Beatrix are concerned, she never mentioned receiving any, but, then again, there is no reason why she should have. Our friendship was never intimate, you must understand. We enjoyed each other’s company, but I was never her confidante.”

  Once again, Lulu paused, frowning as if it was difficult to frame what she had to say. But the difficulty was soon surmounted.

  “I was, of course, immensely grateful to Beatrix for the help she gave me in buying this house and when she asked me to help her, I saw it as partial repayment of what I owed her. Not that Beatrix looked upon it in that light. She would, I do not doubt, have accepted a refusal to co-operate as no more than my right. But I did not refuse. Not even when, as recently, what she asked of me seemed so…so very strange.”

  “What did she ask of you?”

  “Initially, my participation in a harmless fraud.”

  “Fraud?”

  “Yes, my dear. You see, Beatrix has come to stay with me every June for as long as I have lived here. You know that, of course. And you think she spent a fortnight with me on each occasion. But the truth is that she spent no more than a couple of nights at either end of the fortnight under this roof. Every year, for the intervening ten or twelve days, she was elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere?”

  “It was a regular arrangement. She would arrive and, within a day or so, depart.”

  “But…to go where?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. Somewhere, clearly, that she did not wish you or any other member of the family to realize she visited. That is why she always returned here before going home, in case there had been any messages for her. In the event of one of you insisting on speaking to her or actually presenting yourself on the doorstep, I was to say she had gone away unexpectedly—and certainly for the first time. But the situation never arose. For twenty years, we practised our little deception without once coming close to being discovered.”

  “You mean…last month…and every other June…she wasn’t here at all?”

  “Not for more than a few days, no.”

  “I just can’t believe it.”

  “I sympathize. It must seem incredible. Yet it is true. I grew accustomed to it. I even enjoyed the element of risk associated with it. And I could see no harm in it. If Beatrix considered it necessary—for whatever reason—why should I stand in her way?”

  “But…surely…” Into Charlotte’s mind floated the recollection of all the postcards she had received from Beatrix during her annual fortnight in Cheltenham. “Arrived safely. Lulu well. Cheltenham as beautiful as ever.” “What…What about the postcards? She sent me one every year. Maurice too.”

  “Written by Beatrix, but posted by me, after her departure for her other destination.”

  “And you don’t know where that was?”

  “I have no idea. She arrived by train. She left by train. It could have been anywhere in the country. I was curious at first, of course, but later I ceased to wonder. It was none of my business. After what Beatrix had done for me, the least I could do in return was respect her privacy—and drop a few postcards into the pillar-box at the appropriate time.”

  Charlotte watched the cat stir and reposition itself in the armchair next to Lulu’s. Slowly, the true significance of what had been said was becoming clear to her. The deception was one thing, its purpose quite another. For twenty years, Beatrix had been somewhere and done something in total secrecy. If it was innocent or inconsequential, why cover her tracks so carefully? What could warrant such an elaborate lie? “Why tell me now, Lulu?” she asked at length. “Why not keep her secret for ever?”

  “Because of the additional request she made of me this year. A request with which I complied rather against my better judgement.”

  “What was it?”

  “Beatrix arrived here on the first of June and left the following day. All seemed the same as usual, although she struck me as somewhat preoccupied. She returned on Wednesday of the following week and remained until Friday. It was on Thursday, sitting where you are sitting now, that she told me quite calmly over morning coffee that she thought her life was in danger.”

  “What?”

  “At first, I assumed she meant she had some medical problem. But she rapidly disabused me of the notion. What she meant was quite specific. It was possible, indeed probable, she said, that she would die in the near future. If she was not ill, I asked, had she had some premonition of death? No. Facts which had come to her attention had convinced her of its imminent likelihood. She was not prepared to disclose what those facts were, nor to suggest how she might die. She did not, indeed, expect or ask me to believe her. All she wanted was my agreement to perform a simple task in the event of her being proved right. She had four large padded envelopes with her, sealed and addressed with type-written labels. As soon as I heard she had died, I was to take them to a postal district other than Cheltenham and despatch them. I was not to open them or to pass them on to any third party.”

  “You agreed?”

  “Yes. Initially, I tried to reason with her, to persuade her either to justify her prediction or to withdraw it. But I soon realized I was wasting my breath. Beatrix was not easy to shift once she had made up her mind about something and, clearly, she had made up her mind about this. When she added that I was the only person she could ask to do such a thing—and that it was imperative it be done—I felt I could not refuse. Besides, I consoled myself I would never be called upon to do it, since she was clearly mistaken, labouring under some appalling misapprehension. But I should have known better. I had seldom known Beatrix to be mistaken about anything. And events were to show she was not mistaken about this either.”

  “So you posted the letters?”

  “Yes. From Gloucester, the day after you telephoned to report Beatrix’s murder.”

  Lulu’s strange remarks during that conversation now made sense. At the time, Charlotte had attributed them to shock, and shock of a kind had indeed been responsible. But it was the predictability of Beatrix’s death, not—as Charlotte had supposed—the exact reverse, which had taken Lulu aback. “Who were the letters to?”

  “Beatrix asked me on my honour neither to record nor to memorize the names and addresses.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I tried to obey Beatrix to the last. I had never known her to act unwisely. I assumed she had her reasons and that they were good and sound. But of course I saw what was on the labels. I could hardly not. And I could not will myself to forget what I saw. I did not memorize the information. Nevertheless, I remember some of it. One letter was to your half-brother’s wife, Ursula. Mrs Abberley, as it was typed, at an address in Buckinghamshire.”

  “Swans’ Meadow, Riversdale, Bourne End?”

  “Very likely.”

  “She’s said nothing about it. Not a word. Even to Maurice. I’m sure he’d have told me.”

  “You must take that up with her. Of course, I have no idea what the envelope contained. She may not have realized its origin.”

  “And the others? Who were they to?
”

  “People I have never heard of. Mr Griffith, at an unpronounceable address in Wales. Llan-something, Dyfed. Miss van Ryan—I think—at a high number on Fifth Avenue, New York. And Madame—a surname beginning with V—at an address in Paris.”

  The name Griffith meant something to Charlotte, though what she could not recall. For the rest, she was as much in the dark as Lulu. “Is that all you can remember?”

  “I fear so. Since we agreed to meet, I have racked my brains for more—and found nothing. The news of Beatrix’s death quite overwhelmed me. I travelled to Gloucester in a daze and did what had been asked of me without considering the consequences. At the time, it seemed to me that the most important thing was to do what I had promised Beatrix I would do. To do it and to forget it. But, in the weeks that have followed, I have been unable to put it out of my mind. Who are these people? What have I sent them? Was I right or wrong to obey my friend? Should I, for instance, have told the police she foresaw her death? I decided in the end there was nothing to be gained by doing so except a reputation for senile delusions. After all, it seems clear enough that this man Fairfax was behind her murder. As far as their investigations were concerned, I could add nothing to what they already knew. Nevertheless, I continued to fear that my actions would rebound on me. Which is precisely what I thought had happened when you telephoned. I felt sure Ursula must have traced the letter back to me. Even when you denied it, I remained uncertain. All I knew was that I could no longer keep this knowledge to myself. I had to share it with somebody. Who better than Beatrix’s god-daughter? I had tried to avoid the issue by absenting myself from the funeral. But your telephone call convinced me I could avoid it no longer.”

  Charlotte leaned back in her chair and tried to assimilate what she had heard as coolly and rationally as possible. Beatrix had foreseen her death. That must mean she had guessed or calculated that Fairfax-Vane would not take “no” for an answer. If so, her real concern seemed not to have been for her own safety, rather for what would happen after her death. Hence the carefully made arrangement with Lulu. But what was she trying to prevent—or bring about—by sending the letters? What was it she could not risk being stolen, found or simply overlooked? And why could neither Maurice nor she be trusted with the information? Some old letters from Tristram Abberley could hardly be the answer, even though their absence from Jackdaw Cottage suggested they might be. What, then? What in the wide world could have been her purpose?

  “I am sorry to inflict this mystery upon you, my dear,” said Lulu. “But do not let it sully Beatrix’s memory. She knew what she was about, I feel sure. Perhaps, after all, we should defer to her judgement. Perhaps we should simply leave matters as they are.”

  “You don’t really mean that, Lulu, do you? If you did, you’d never have told me about it.”

  “For my own part, I think I do mean it. But I am also sure it is not for me to say. You must decide.”

  “I already have.”

  “Yes.” Lulu smiled. “I rather thought as much.”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Charlotte spent the night at an hotel in the Cotswolds. She could have pressed on back to Tunbridge Wells, but then Emerson might have telephoned her and she knew she should speak to Ursula before telling him what she had learned from Lulu. Another advantage was that she could time her arrival at Swans’ Meadow to ensure Maurice had left for the office whilst Ursula would still be at home.

  As it was, she nearly misjudged matters. When Ursula opened the door, she wore the faintly harassed air of somebody verging on being late for an appointment.

  “Charlie! What a surprise!”

  “Can we have a brief word, Ursula? I’m sorry to have given you no warning.”

  “Of course. But we must talk on the hoof. I’m due at the hairdresser at ten o’clock.” She set off at a clip back into the house, Charlotte following. “It’s not about the letter, is it? Have you had one too? If so, you’d do better to talk to Maurice.” She turned into the downstairs cloakroom and began applying mascara in front of the mirror. “I’m not sure what he intends to do about it.”

  Charlotte did not know how to react. The last thing she had expected was that Ursula would guess the reason for her visit. She saw her own slack-jawed frown of puzzlement, reflected in the mirror over Ursula’s shoulder.

  “Something wrong?”

  “What…What was in the letter?”

  “Ingratiating twaddle from that brother of Fairfax-Vane. Are you saying you haven’t had one? We thought he must have written to you as well. In fact, Maurice tried to phone you last night. Where were you? Out on the town with Emerson? He’s a real dish, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t understand. Is this…Was this recently?”

  Ursula turned round and stared at her. “What is the matter, Charlie? You’re not making any sense. Fairfax has written to Maurice apologizing for making an exhibition of himself at the funeral and asking if we can think of any reason why somebody should want to murder Beatrix. Other than his own brother, of course. The letter arrived yesterday. We assumed he’d sent one to you as well.”

  “No…That is…I’m not sure. He may have done. I’ve not been home since then.”

  “Not home?”

  “I went to see Lulu Harrington in Cheltenham and stayed in the area overnight.”

  “Beatrix’s friend? What did you want with her?”

  Charlotte thought for a moment. Then she said: “Is there anyone else here?”

  “No. Aliki’s shopping. And Sam’s gone to London for the day. Why?”

  “Can we sit down in the lounge? There’s something I need to ask you. It’s very important.”

  “But I’ll be late, Charlie.”

  “Please. It really is imperative I discuss this with you as soon as possible.”

  Ursula glared at her, then sighed, wound her lipstick back into its barrel and dropped it into the make-up bag beside her. “All right. Let’s go through.” She marched impatiently past Charlotte towards the lounge and was already seated, head cocked in expectation, when Charlotte reached the room herself.

  She sat down on the edge of the chair opposite Ursula’s, composed herself and said: “Lulu claims to have posted a letter to you on the Tuesday following Beatrix’s death—at Beatrix’s prior request. Is it true?”

  Ursula frowned. “What does she say was in the letter?”

  “She doesn’t know. Beatrix left it with her, to be despatched in the event of her death. It was one of four to which the same conditions applied.”

  “Who were the others to?”

  “Strangers. Nobody she or I know.”

  “I see.”

  “You haven’t said yet whether it’s true. Did you receive such a letter?”

  “Where did she send it from?”

  “Gloucester.”

  “On the twenty-third of June?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a padded envelope?”

  “Yes. How did—”

  “Then it is true, Charlie. I did receive it.”

  “But…you’ve never said…”

  “A word about it? For good reason, I think you’ll agree. I didn’t know it was sent by Lulu. Or that Beatrix had anything to do with it. I know nobody in Gloucester. The address was typed. And there was nothing inside to identify the sender.”

  “What was inside?”

  “Six sheets of paper. All blank.”

  “Blank?”

  “Yes. Bizarre, isn’t it? I took it for some weird practical joke. I never imagined—never would have—that Beatrix was behind it. Are you sure about this?”

  “Lulu is.”

  “Well, I don’t know the lady, of course, but couldn’t she be misleading you? It’s easy to blame the dead. They can’t deny anything.”

  “What would be the point?”

  “I haven’t the least idea. Have you?” Ursula smiled in a thin-lipped signal of disbelief.

  “I’m certain Lulu’s told me the truth
.”

  “No doubt you are, but you’ve always been too trusting, haven’t you?” The smile tightened, conveying more than mere disbelief. There was now about it the hint of a warning.

  “Did you keep the letter?”

  “No. Why should I have?”

  “Or show it to Maurice?”

  “Certainly not. I didn’t want to worry him with such nonsense.”

  “You think he would have been worried, then?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But you weren’t?”

  “It would take more than an envelope full of blank sheets of paper to unsettle me, as you should know. I put it out of my mind. Frankly, I advise you to do the same.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “Well, that’s your choice, isn’t it?” Abruptly, Ursula rose to her feet. “I really can’t dally any longer, Charlie. Would you mind awfully if I threw you out?”

  All the way to Tunbridge Wells, Charlotte struggled within herself to find reasons to believe what Ursula had said. But there were none. It was as inconceivable that Lulu had sent the letter at her own initiative as it was that Beatrix had wanted to send blank paper to her nephew’s wife after her death. Besides, Ursula had only described the contents of the envelope after establishing that Lulu did not know what they were. If she had intended to lie, Charlotte had given her the perfect opportunity to do so.

  But to what purpose? Beatrix’s carefully laid plan defied analysis so long as the nature of her posthumous communications remained unknown. A Welshman; a New Yorker; a Parisienne; and Ursula. Surely fifty-year-old letters from Tristram Abberley could not connect them. Yet something did. And blank paper was not it.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Dear Miss Ladram,

  I have thought long and hard before writing this letter, but I have decided it is the only way to put certain points to you which I strongly feel, on my brother’s behalf, need to be addressed. I greatly regret what happened when I called on you two weeks ago and I hope, by writing, to avoid any of the misunderstanding which arose on that occasion.