“Mr Griffith?” Charlotte said nervously. “My name is Charlotte Ladram. You may have heard of me…from Beatrix.”
He did not so much as nod in acknowledgement, but he muttered something to the dog, at which it stopped growling and fell back on its haunches.
“This is Doctor Emerson McKitrick, the writer. You know his work, I believe.”
Emerson grinned. “Sorry to barge in like this. The door was open.”
“But that’s no excuse,” said Charlotte. “We really are extremely sorry, Mr Griffith. It was unforgivably rude of us. But we were anxious to contact you…to find out where you were.”
“I tried to track you down twelve years ago,” said Emerson. “All your old comrades said you must be dead. Glad they were wrong.”
“We need your help, Mr Griffith. Beatrix was a friend of yours, wasn’t she? She was my godmother. Perhaps you know that.” A disturbing thought flashed across her mind. “I suppose…you do realize…Beatrix is…”
“Dead.” Griffith had spoken for the first time, but his expression had not altered. “I know.”
“You admit you were friends, then?” said Emerson.
“Admit?” Griffith raised one eyebrow just enough to signal his disgust at the choice of word.
“Pardon me,” said Emerson. “Why don’t we come clean? We know Beatrix came here at least once a year, using visits to Lulu Harrington as cover. And we know she left a letter with Lulu this year, to be mailed to you in the event of her death. All we’re trying to find out is what was in the letter.”
Griffith stepped past the dog and walked across to join them by the bookcase. Emerson was still clutching the copy of his biography of Tristram Abberley. Griffith lifted it gently from his grasp and slid it back into its place. “Researching for another book, are we?” he murmured.
“Maybe. I know Beatrix kept some letters Tristram had sent her from Spain, which she wouldn’t show me twelve years ago. Now they’re missing.”
“Are they?”
“Did she have Lulu send them to you, Frank?”
“My friends call me Frank, Doctor McKitrick. Most of them are dead. And you were never one of them.”
“There’s something I should explain, Mr Griffith,” said Charlotte, trying to strike a conciliatory note. “Beatrix bequeathed all her possessions to me. You could argue that anything she left behind is rightfully mine.”
“Could you, indeed?”
“But there’s more to it than that. Beatrix was murdered and she seems to have known she was going to be. Surely you can understand my wish to find out what lies behind her death. I owe it to her to do everything in my power to learn the truth. As her friend, won’t you help me?”
He stared at her for a moment, then replied. “I’ve always acted according to my conscience, Miss Ladram. I’m not going to stop now.”
“Then…will you help?”
“I’ll do what I think best. That doesn’t include satisfying your curiosity.” He nodded at Emerson. “Or your friend’s.”
“See here—”
“I’ve a question for you, Doctor McKitrick.” Griffith tapped Emerson on the chest with his stick. “What makes you think Tristram Abberley wrote to his sister from Spain?”
“She told me so.”
“Is that a fact? Did she tell you as well, Miss Ladram?”
“Well…No.”
Griffith glanced from one to the other of them. Then he grunted, as if some point had been confirmed to his satisfaction. “I read about Beatrix’s murder in the papers. They said an antique dealer had been arrested and charged. Seemed certain he was guilty. You agree, Doctor McKitrick?”
“Open and shut, far as I know.”
“And you, Miss Ladram?”
“I’m not sure. Fairfax-Vane may be a scapegoat.”
“Who for?”
“I don’t know. It’s one of the reasons why I wanted to speak to you.” Previously, Charlotte would have said no such thing. Now, confronted by just one of the secret figures in Beatrix’s life, she realized it was true: the explanations she had hitherto accepted were no longer sufficient. “How long have you lived here, Mr Griffith?”
“What’s that to you?”
“It’s just I wondered if…You do own this farm, don’t you?”
“I’m nobody’s tenant, if that’s what you mean.”
She decided to back her judgement. “Did Beatrix help you buy the place?”
His eyes widened slightly, but he displayed no other reaction. He looked at Emerson, then back at Charlotte. “A scapegoat, you reckon?”
“It’s possible.”
“Many things are.” He turned, walked to the window and gazed out into the yard. “Many things.” He seemed lost in thought, hunched slightly beneath the burden of whatever he was hiding. Then, without turning round, he added: “I need to think about what you’ve said. I need time, you understand?”
“Of course. We’re staying locally. There’s no hurry.”
“Write down the ’phone number for me.”
Emerson exchanged glances with Charlotte, then took his notebook from his pocket, tore out a page and handed it to her. She picked up a pencil from the desk and recorded the number. “I’ll leave it here, shall I?” she asked.
“Do that. Then go. Both of you.”
“How do we know you’ll call?” put in Emerson.
“You don’t.” Still he did not turn to face them. “I may not. It’s up to me, not you.”
“But we can’t just—” Charlotte’s raised hand and shake of the head silenced him. Bluff and bluster would not help their cause. Of that she was certain.
“All right, Mr Griffith,” she said. “We’re going. Think about what I said.” She hesitated, in case he was moved to respond. Then, when it had become obvious he would not, she led Emerson from the room and out into the yard. When they reached the car and she glanced back at the window, Frank Griffith was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Over dinner that evening, Charlotte and Emerson discussed their visit to Frank Griffith and wondered if they would hear from him. Whether or not he made contact, Emerson agreed that Charlotte’s had been the correct tactics.
“I reckon he may trust you, Charlie, whereas reading my book doesn’t seem to have given him a very high opinion of me. Perhaps he thinks I got Tristram Abberley all wrong and, who knows, maybe I did. His last months in Spain, anyway. But then, if I did, Frank Griffith could put me right, couldn’t he? If he wanted to. Beatrix knew where he was, but she didn’t tell me. He must have wanted to stay hidden even then. Why? Why so badly? That’s what I can’t understand.”
“So he could forget about Spain—and what he did there?”
“But he hasn’t. That’s the point. He hasn’t forgotten a damn thing. All those books. All those memories locked up in his head. Everything’s there—if only I could prise it loose.”
“You think he knows something valuable about Tristram?”
“Maybe. He was there—beside his bed in the hospital at Tarragona—when he died. And he was the one Tristram trusted to send back his last poems to your mother. Nobody else was so close to him at or near the end.”
“But that doesn’t explain why Beatrix should help him buy Hendre Gorfelen—as I’m sure she did—or visit him there every year.”
“No. It doesn’t. But the letter Lulu mailed to him might. And he might be willing to tell you what it contained. What you said about discovering the truth behind Beatrix’s death got to him, I’m sure of it. It was a clever ploy.”
“It wasn’t just a ploy.”
“But this guy Fairfax was caught red-handed according to Maurice.”
“So he was.”
“Then where’s the room for doubt?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps there isn’t any. Let’s wait and see what Frank Griffith has to say.”
“If anything, you mean.”
“Yes. If.”
Charlotte fell asleep
that night rehearsing in her head all the ifs and buts and maybes Beatrix’s death had led her into. If Fairfax-Vane was innocent, as his brother claimed…But how could he be…? Maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth…If he was, Beatrix had been murdered for an altogether different reason than they thought…But what reason…? Maybe, just maybe, Frank Griffith knew the answer…
Early the following afternoon, Derek Fairfax faced his brother across a bare table in the grim and echoing visiting room at Lewes Prison. Colin was nearing the end of his fourth week in custody and had visibly deteriorated since Derek had last seen him. There were dark bags under his eyes and his face had lost its normal high colour and acquired instead a grey and clammy pallor. More worrying still was the faint but detectable tremor in his hand as he rubbed at his unshaven chin.
“You don’t look well, Colin.”
“I might perk up if you brought me some good news.”
“I only wish I could. But so far my letters have been ignored.”
Colin snorted. “Bloody letters! Of course they’ve been ignored.”
“Well, if you’ve a better idea…”
“Maybe I have. Give it up, Derek. I’ll be committed for trial next week. Just let it happen. Wash your hands of the whole thing.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Unless you already have. Is that it?” Colin’s tone had altered now, self-pity giving way to sarcasm. “Perhaps you’re just stringing me along. Telling me you’re straining every sinew on my behalf when in reality you’re sitting back and rubbing your hands with glee at the thought of being rid of me for good and all. Well, don’t worry. You’ll get your wish. Ten or more years in this or some other hell-hole will be the finish of me, no question.”
“Colin, for God’s—”
“Why not come out and say it? You don’t much care whether I’m guilty or innocent. Either way, you think I deserve what I’ve got coming. Just like everybody else.”
Derek knew hardship and frustration were what had driven Colin to throw such accusations in his face. But the knowledge did not make them any easier to bear. “This is ridiculous,” he protested. “I’m doing everything I can to help you.”
“Is that a fact? Well, you could have fooled me.” Colin leaned forward across the table, fixing Derek with his bloodshot eyes. “Or perhaps it’s just that help from you is indistinguishable from hindrance.”
Derek flinched. “Is that what you really think?”
“Yes. It really is.”
In Wales, Charlotte’s day passed listlessly, with no word from Frank Griffith. By the evening, she and Emerson had agreed they could leave matters in his hands no longer. They would return to Hendre Gorfelen next day, invited or not. Emerson’s argument was that if Griffith intended to co-operate, they would already have heard from him. If not, they had nothing to lose.
Charlotte was less certain. Griffith was not a man to be rushed or crowded. He had laid down the terms on which he might be approached. To disregard them was to court failure. Yet they could not wait indefinitely. Somehow, at some time, the issue had to be forced.
And so it was, but not by them. When Charlotte returned to her room after dinner, the telephone rang before she had even closed the door.
“Hello?”
“Miss Ladram?”
“Mr Griffith. I thought you’d never call.”
“So did I. But we were both wrong, weren’t we? Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Can you be here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Seven o’clock?”
“Too early for you, is it?”
“No. Not at all. We’ll be there, Mr Griffith, rest assured.”
“You misunderstand. I mean just you, Miss Ladram. Not Doctor McKitrick. I’ll talk to you alone—or not at all.”
“But—”
“I’m not open to argument. Take it or leave it.” He paused, then added: “Should I expect you?”
Charlotte hesitated only momentarily before answering. “Yes, Mr Griffith. You should.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Driving alone through the green and empty heart of Wales early that summer Sunday, Charlotte felt as if the world had been newly made and revealed to her. The colours of sky and grass were clarified, the sounds of birdlife and running water magnified, till nothing beyond the hills where Frank Griffith had found and made his home seemed real any longer.
At Hendre Gorfelen, the dog sat waiting in the yard, snapping at stray flies that floated in the sunshine. It pricked up its ears when Charlotte drove into sight and barked twice, but did not stir even when she climbed from the car and walked towards the house.
The door opened before she reached it and Frank Griffith stepped out to meet her. He was bare-headed, his grey hair thin and crew-cut, and he was smoking a pipe, holding it oddly by the stem a little short of the bowl. His shirt and trousers were ironed and pressed, as if in honour of her visit, and she felt quite touched by the smartness of his appearance. But he was not smiling. Indeed, looking at him, she could scarcely imagine a smile crossing his lined and wary face.
“You came, then,” he said neutrally.
“Surely you knew I would.”
He nodded. “And McKitrick?”
“I’m alone, as you can see.”
“Good.”
“Why didn’t you want me to bring Emerson?”
“Because I don’t trust him.”
“But you do trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Beatrix said I could. Quite a compliment, isn’t it?”
“Yes…I…”
“How did you know she helped me buy Hendre Gorfelen?”
“It was just a guess. She helped Lulu Harrington in a similar way.”
“And others too, no doubt. She was a fine woman. And a foul-weather friend: the best kind.”
“She came here every year?”
“Yes. Every year since I bought the place. Since we bought it, I should say. That was in 1953. How she explained her trips before the arrangement with Lulu I don’t know.” He glanced up at the sky, then said: “It’s going to be a grand day. Will you step up to the top with me? You’ll enjoy the view, I think.”
Instructing the dog to stay where it was, he led Charlotte up a narrow path adjoining the entrance to the yard. It wound up between stone walls to a stile in the corner of a steeply sloping field, where sheep were busily grazing. Griffith set off across the field at an angle, setting a pace Charlotte found difficult to match. “Did you…farm before you…came here, Mr Griffith?” she panted.
“No. I’m a Swansea boy, born and bred. The first time I came to the mountains was on a steelworks outing. I knew then it was where I wanted to end up. Never thought I would, though. Never would have, come to that, but for Beatrix. It was a better cure for what ailed me than a dozen doctors had prescribed.”
“And what…did ail you?”
“People. People and what they do to each other.”
“Is that why…you didn’t want anybody…to know you were here?”
“In part. Beatrix understood. I don’t expect you to.”
“How did you…first meet her?”
They arrived at another stile on the farther side of the field. Here Griffith stopped and waited for Charlotte to catch her breath. The land fell away sharply behind them, a tumbling succession of stonewalled fields dotted with sheep and interspersed with thickly wooded coombes, all bathed in sharp morning sunlight. The mountainous horizon to the west created the illusion that this landscape was limitless, that nothing save ever-rolling hills lay between it and infinity. Griffith re-lit his pipe and gazed about him, Charlotte’s question apparently forgotten.
“It’s a lovely spot,” she ventured.
“It is that.”
“I was asking…wondering, that is…”
“When I came home from Spain in December 1938, I called on your mother to tell her how her husban
d had died. I’d written to her previously, enclosing his few papers and possessions, but it seemed only right to pay my respects in person. I’d admired Tristram Abberley long before I met him, on account of his poems. A copy of The Brow of the Hill was one of the few items of luggage I took to Spain. To find myself fighting alongside him was a great honour. So, naturally, I did what I could for him after his death. I visited your mother. And then I visited Beatrix. She insisted I stay with her at that little cottage in Rye for a week or more while she fed me up and listened to me talking about her brother. God knows what the neighbours thought.” He paused, then added: “Not that there was anything for them to think.”
Was that true? Charlotte wondered. Had she stumbled on an old and secret love affair? Beatrix had always seemed immune to such emotions, but she had also been adept at concealing what she really thought or felt. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Mr Griffith.”
“No? I rather thought I did.” He sucked at his pipe for a moment, then said: “Well, let that pass. When I left Rye just before Christmas, 1938, I never expected to see Beatrix again. She urged me to keep in touch—to let her know if I ever needed any help—but I no more took her offer seriously than I envisaged having to take her up on it. I intended to go back to Swansea, find work and forget everything about Spain.”
“Was fighting there such a disillusioning experience?”
“Fighting anywhere’s a disillusioning experience. But that’s no bad thing. The illusion is to believe it can be enough merely to fight. I see that now. Now I’m too old for it to matter. I went to Spain because I was as short of money as I was of patience with a rotten, raddled system. Marked down because I was self-educated, well-read and not about to say “thank you very much” when a cigar-sucking manager told me I had to take a pay cut in the interests of the company’s shareholders. Betrayed by so-called socialists like Ramsay MacDonald. Punished for the ultimate sin of not knowing my place. To men like me, communism represented the best—the only—hope for the future. A stand had to be taken. Against capitalism. Against fascism. Against the entire class system. That’s why I went to Spain. And that’s why I was sickened by what I found there. Because it was no more a crusade than any other war. Because settling old scores and winning internecine squabbles mattered more to the Republican rag-bag of an army than ensuring the defeat of fascism. Which is why, of course, it wasn’t defeated. And why my faith in my fellow man finally was. They gave us a farewell parade in Barcelona. And, when we reached Victoria station, they cheered us to the rafters. But they were nowhere to be seen when I returned to Swansea. Cold shoulders and dark looks were the only welcome I had there—from family and from friends. I was an embarrassment to one and all. I’d not only been stupid enough to go to Spain, I’d been inconsiderate enough to come back alive.”
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