The first thing to be said is that my brother, though something of a rogue, is not the sort to involve himself in—
Charlotte thrust the letter impatiently back into its envelope. She could spare neither time nor attention for Derek Fairfax’s protestations of his brother’s innocence. Indeed, had she been certain that the letter was from him when she found it, lying between a credit inducement and a card from her dentist on the doormat at Ockham House, she might not even have bothered to open it. There was more urgent business to be attended to. Far more urgent.
Yet in its commission she immediately encountered an obstacle. When she rang Emerson’s London hotel, it was to be informed that he was out. All she could do was to leave a message asking him to call her.
She retreated to the lounge and sat down, feeling suddenly tired, drained by the long drive and her fruitless efforts to untangle Beatrix’s intentions. Idly, she reopened Derek Fairfax’s letter.
The first thing to be said is that my brother, though something of a rogue, is not the sort to involve himself in any kind of violence. He may well have paid your mother less for her furniture than it was worth, but he would never be a party to burglary, let alone murder. It is simply not in his nature.
The second thing to be said is that he is not a fool. Yet only a fool would leave his calling card at a house he intended to burgle and stress his interest in the object of that burglary in front of witnesses. I just cannot believe he would behave so stupidly.
My brother thinks—and so do I—that he is merely the fall guy for Miss Abberley’s murder, that the purpose of the break-in was to kill her, not to steal her collection of Tunbridge Ware. That is why I am writing to you, to appeal for your help in—
Charlotte dropped the letter on to the coffee-table beside her chair and leaned back against the cushions. The house was silent, gripped by the immobility of a windless summer’s day. She had not yet opened a single window and, until she did so, no sound could intrude upon her thoughts. Was it possible that Fairfax was right? Was it conceivable that somebody had wanted Beatrix dead for a reason of which the police had no inkling? If so, Beatrix had known the reason. The letters had represented her insurance against murder. They had not protected her. They had not even been intended to. But they had served a significant purpose. That Charlotte could not doubt. A Welshman; a New Yorker; a Parisienne; and Ursula. Beatrix had spoken to each of them from beyond the grave. And it would have been unlike her to speak in vain.
Time passed. Charlotte closed her eyes. And became a child again. She was at Jackdaw Cottage, dressed for the beach. But she could not set off till she had found Beatrix. And though Beatrix was there, calling to her, she could not tell which room she was in. Every room she went to, upstairs and down, seemed the right one as she approached. Then, as she entered, she realized Beatrix’s voice was coming from somewhere else. As she searched, she became more anxious, fearful that she would never find her at all. Then there came another sound. It was the ringing of a telephone. She ran into the hall and picked it up. But the line was dead. And the ringing went on.
Suddenly, Charlotte was awake. She jumped up and hurried to reach the telephone before it stopped ringing, struggling to order her thoughts as she went.
The caller was Emerson McKitrick, as she had guessed, eager for news. She apologized for not having been in touch sooner and explained why. In her account of her visit to Lulu, she omitted nothing, but, in relating what Ursula had told her, she studiously avoided any implication of what she had already concluded: that Ursula was lying.
“This beats me,” said Emerson when she had finished. “I mean, Jesus, blank paper? What the hell’s the point?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you might.”
“Do you think that’s what all the letters contained?”
“Again, I don’t know. None of it makes any sense.”
“We should ask the other recipients, I guess.”
“But who are they? Lulu’s only absolutely certain of one of their names.”
“You mean Griffith?”
“Yes. But it’s a very common surname in Wales. We don’t even have an initial.”
“I reckon I can supply that.”
“What?”
“It has to be Frank Griffith, doesn’t it? Haven’t you heard of him?”
“Frank Griffith?” Now, at last, she remembered. Frank Griffith had fought with Tristram Abberley in Spain. He had sent Tristram’s possessions back to Mary after his death. And he had visited Mary after returning to England to describe how Tristram had died. Charlotte had heard her mother describe the visit on several occasions. “Of course. Tristram Abberley’s comrade-in-arms. You must have come across him when you were researching your book.”
“I only wish I had. But I couldn’t trace him. He’d cut himself off from the veterans’ association completely. The general consensus was that he was dead. But Beatrix seems to have known better. It looks like she was holding out on me.”
“Then we’re none the wiser. Dyfed’s a big county. And every other settlement must begin with ‘Llan’.”
“We might be able to get round that.”
“How?”
“Can you take me to Rye again tomorrow? There’s something at Jackdaw Cottage I need to check out. It may help.”
“Of course. But what is it?”
“I’d sooner say nothing till I’m sure. But, if I’m right, there might be a way to track Mr Frank Griffith to his lair.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
It was Thursday morning and Derek had calculated that this was the first day when he might hope for a reply to one of his letters. Accordingly, he delayed setting off for Fithyan & Co. in case the postman brought some response from either Maurice Abberley or Charlotte Ladram.
As he waited, the thought crossed his mind that they might simply ignore his appeals altogether. What would he do then? The prospect of another unsolicited visit to Ockham House appalled him, yet, without the help of those who had known Beatrix Abberley, he could gain no glimmer of an insight into why she had been murdered. Without that, Colin’s cause was lost. And Derek, though not threatened with imprisonment, stood to lose something only slightly less important than his liberty. For he believed Colin was innocent. And Colin was relying on him to prove it. If he failed to do so, no excuses would suffice. If he could not save his brother, he could not save his self-respect either.
At that moment, the rattle of the letter-box announced the arrival of the post. He hurried into the hall to find nothing but a flimsy card lying on the mat. He grabbed it up and read:
Dear Mr Fairfax
The book you ordered—Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography—is now to hand and awaiting your collection. Please bring this—
Derek screwed the card into a tight ball in his hand and let it fall to the floor. Another day was bound to pass now with nothing achieved. Another day would be wasted when every moment was crucial.
Emerson McKitrick refused to tell Charlotte what he hoped to find at Jackdaw Cottage until they arrived there later that morning. Then he led the way to the bureau in the drawing room.
“Beatrix kept some maps here, Charlie, remember?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Here they are.” He slid four Ordnance Survey maps out of one of the pigeon-holes. “It struck me as weird when I first saw them. But it didn’t seem important till you told me about Frank Griffith. See?” He laid them out across the flap of the bureau.
“I don’t understand,” said Charlotte, staring down at their unremarkable pink covers.
“Three of them are local, right? Sheet 189 covers Rye, Sheet 188 Tunbridge Wells, Sheet 199 Eastbourne and Hastings. But look at the fourth. Sheet 160 is the odd one out.”
“The Brecon Beacons,” said Charlotte, reading the title.
“You got it. Central Wales. Why should Beatrix want a map of that area?”
“Because it’s where Griffith lives?”
“That
’s what I reckon.” He unfolded Sheet 160 and spread it out on the floor. Crouching over it, Charlotte saw no obvious clues, merely the bunched contours and green polygons of an afforested upland landscape. But Emerson saw rather more. “This is the Dyfed boundary, look.” He traced a line of dots and dashes across the left-hand side of the map. “We can ignore everything east of that.”
“Even so—”
“I reckon Beatrix went to see Frank Griffith during her fortnights with Lulu. Cheltenham’s a handy staging post on a journey from Rye to Dyfed, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. I suppose it is.”
“OK. And we know she travelled by train. So, where’s the railroad?”
“There.” Charlotte pointed to a firm black line snaking across the north-west corner. She was excited now, sure that Emerson was right. “And the biggest settlement served by the railway is—”
“Llandovery.” Emerson grinned at her. “I think we’ve found him, don’t you?”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
The following morning found Charlotte driving fast along the main road that skirts the northern fringes of the Brecon Beacons, with Emerson McKitrick navigating in the passenger seat beside her. They had arrived in Wales the previous evening and had stayed overnight at a country house hotel north-east of Brecon. Emerson, it appeared, was used to the best and had insisted that his newly recruited assistant should travel in style. Charlotte, for her part, had not cared to analyse too closely the exhilaration she felt. Was it the thrill of the chase or the glamour of the company? To be entertained to dinner in a candlelit restaurant by a handsome American was for her a novel and intoxicating experience. To assume the role of equal partner in his endeavours—however briefly—raised in her mind more alluring possibilities than she felt able to cope with.
Emerson was the perfect gentleman, as charming as he was considerate. Entranced by his gallantry, Charlotte was also confused by it. Was he merely humouring her? Or was he, perhaps, growing to like her as much as she was growing to like him? He was such an altogether grander type of man than those with whom she had previously been entangled. Not that there was any question of entanglement where she and Emerson were concerned. To let her frail hopes and fragile emotions run away with themselves would be, she knew, the sheerest folly.
And yet, when she had been dressing for dinner, and had glanced from the window of her room and seen him strolling in the hotel garden, champagne-glass in hand, she had allowed herself to imagine for a few heady moments what it would be like if they were there for no reason but the pleasure each could give to the other. And what she had imagined she blushed now to recall.
Llandovery was a grey huddle of a town occupying a wedge of flat land where three rivers met beneath rolling mountain slopes. The beauty of its setting was in stark contrast to the grim reality of its three principal streets, where none of the passers-by seemed willing to reciprocate Charlotte’s smile.
Emerson, however, was undaunted. In every shop they came to, he enquired after Frank Griffith and seemed able to extract more helpful responses than Charlotte had expected. There were, it transpired, several Griffiths known to the proprietors, but none of those in their seventies was called Frank.
As noon approached, they decided to try the pubs. Of these there were far more than the size of Llandovery appeared to justify and most of them were as cheerless and unwelcoming as Charlotte had feared. They had treated the landlords of half a dozen similar establishments to various tipples—and learned precisely nothing—when they entered the inaptly named Daffodil Inn, bracing themselves to consume yet more mineral water they did not want. But this time their efforts were not to be wasted.
“Frank Griffith?” said the man behind the bar. “Oh, yes, I know him. Seventy if he’s a day, I should reckon. He comes in here most market days. Farms a few sheep, see, up at Hendre Gorfelen, beyond Myddfai. If you’ve a map, I can point it out for you. What would you be wanting with him, might I ask?”
“We’re distantly related,” said Emerson. “I thought I’d track him down while I was in the country.”
“Well, well. That will be a surprise for him, won’t it? Perhaps it’ll put a smile on his face. He seldom enough wears one.”
After a frugal lunch, they drove up into the foothills of the Brecon Beacons. The day was overcast and clammy, the air still and watchful. Through the twisting switchback terrain they slowly wound, like two predatory creatures—Charlotte suddenly and irrationally thought—running their quarry to earth.
Halfway between Myddfai and Talsarn, they turned down a rutted track that looped round the side of a hill, marking the boundary between enclosed pasture and open moorland. The track descended briefly to cross a gurgling stream, then rose again, rounded another hill and ran down through an open gateway to its destination.
Hendre Gorfelen comprised a small slate-roofed farmhouse of whitewashed stone, two barns and several ruinous byres. An old and rusting Land Rover stood in the corner of the yard and beside it a trailer. Some chickens were pecking listlessly at a scatter of straw in the mouth of one of the barns but, otherwise, there were no signs of life.
Emerson climbed out of the car and walked towards the house. Charlotte followed more cautiously, the secluded atmosphere reinforcing her earlier supposition that somebody as old and reclusive as Frank Griffith would not welcome visitors. Emerson, however, did not seem to share her misgivings. He rapped on the door with the heavy knocker, then, when there was no immediate response, stepped across to peer in through one of the windows.
“Out—or lying low,” he announced as Charlotte drew near.
“Well, he is a farmer. He could be anywhere on the hills.”
“What do we do, then? Wait for him to come back? That might not be till sundown.”
“We could drive around, I suppose, in the hope of spotting him.”
Emerson sniffed unenthusiastically and walked to the end of the building, where a crooked wicket-gate gave on to a small and overgrown garden. He glanced around for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, stalked back to the door and tried the knocker again.
“I don’t think he’s in there, Emerson.”
“Reckon not. But you can never—” His hand had strayed to the knob and, as he turned it, the door swung open on its hinges. “Well, well, well.” He grinned at her. “Open sesame.”
“It’s not so surprising. In these parts, they probably don’t need locks and bolts.”
“Everybody needs locks and bolts, Charlie. But I’m not complaining if friend Griffith thinks he’s an exception. Why don’t we take a look inside?”
“What if he comes back and finds us? We don’t want to antagonize him.”
“He won’t be back for hours. Probably pulling a lamb out of a gully somewhere. Come on.” He led the way, stooping to clear the low lintel, and Charlotte followed.
Ahead of them, a short flagstoned passage ended in a narrow flight of stairs. There was a door on either side of the passage, the one on their right closed, the one on their left standing open. Stepping through the open doorway, they found themselves in a small and sparsely furnished dining room. A large stout-legged table filled most of the space, bestriding a threadbare rug. There were two chairs drawn up beneath the table and a settle in one corner. The walls were bare and the window uncurtained. For all that it was a hot day, it seemed cold to Charlotte and she felt a shudder run through her.
“Homely, right?” said Emerson.
“I can’t imagine Beatrix staying here. It’s so austere.”
Emerson opened the door on the other side of the room. It led to a kitchen, where a range, a sink, assorted cupboards and a view of the garden contrived to lighten the atmosphere. Everything was certainly clean enough, Charlotte noted. There were no frying-pans full of congealed fat, no breadboards deep in crumbs. Frank Griffith was evidently neither a sloven nor a sybarite.
They returned to the passage and Emerson pushed open the other door. Charlotte followed him into the
room expecting more of the stark and barren same. What she found instead was so different that she stepped back in surprise.
The room was warm and welcoming, two of its walls lined to the ceiling with crammed bookshelves. The window was curtained and the floor decently carpeted. A thick rug occupied the hearth, flanked by comfortable armchairs. Logs and kindling stood ready and inviting in the fireplace. Above them, on the mantelpiece, was a mellow-toned clock and, beside it, a vase filled with freshly cut marigolds. In one corner stood a broad old desk and, behind it, a chair with buttoned-leather seat and back.
As Charlotte moved towards the desk, her eye was taken by a wooden stationery box positioned at one end. It was Tunbridge Ware, a fine example too, decorated with a butterfly on the lid. Was it one of Nye’s? she wondered. Whoever the craftsman, she could not doubt who had given it to Frank Griffith.
“This could only have come from Beatrix,” she said to Emerson.
“It’s as we suspected, then.” He was standing by one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, running his eye along the titles. “He’s a well-read sheep-farmer, isn’t he? But not an agricultural work to be found.”
“What, then?”
“History and politics by the look of it. Biased to the left, as you’d expect of an old Brigader. Hill. Hobsbawm. Orwell. Carr. Symons on the General Strike. Thomas on the Spanish Civil War. And—Jesus!—my own book. Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography. Well, I reckon that’s some kind of compliment, don’t you? I wonder—”
He stopped in the same instant that Charlotte heard a low growl from the doorway. They turned to find a black-and-white sheep-dog eyeing them menacingly, crouched as if ready to attack, its teeth bared. And behind the dog stood Frank Griffith.
Charlotte knew it was him immediately. He was the right age and had just the warily alert expression she had somehow expected. He was short and narrow-shouldered, wearing shabby tweeds and a Connaught hat. In his right hand he held a stick, raised at a threatening angle. His grip on the shaft was tight, his hands disproportionately large. For all his slightness of build, he conveyed an impression of sinewy strength, of trained and tempered physical resources. His face was thin and prominently boned, the skin browned by wind and sun and wrinkled like a rhino’s. His lips were compressed, his deep-set eyes trained unblinkingly upon them.
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