Hand in Glove

by Robert Goddard

  Not, however, when Charlotte sat opposite him in an eerily empty airport café and described her experiences in the United States while gazing at him with an expression implying what he most wanted to believe: that she trusted him unreservedly. It was a miracle, given how often her trust had been betrayed of late. But it was a miracle, he well knew, born of desperation.

  “I wanted to speak to you before I saw Ursula,” she concluded, “because she might object to my giving you the private detective’s report on Maurice’s finances.”

  “You’re giving it to me?”

  “Yes. And the tape I obtained from Natasha.”

  “But…why?”

  “Because they should persuade the police of your brother’s innocence. Or at least make them doubt his guilt.”

  “Yes. They should. But it’s your brother’s reputation that will pay the price.”

  “It can’t be helped. Maurice brought it on himself.” Her mouth set in a stubborn line. Her decision represented the final abandonment of a lifetime’s loyalty and could not have been easy to take. For though it was true Maurice had brought it upon himself, he had also brought it upon her. And she did not deserve to suffer because of it.

  “I’m grateful. I’m sure Colin will be too. But what about Ursula? She won’t thank you for blackening her late husband’s name.”

  “Then she must curse me. I want to put an end to every consequence of Maurice’s scheme. And this is one end I have the power to bring about.” She reached into her holdall, pulled out a large buff envelope and slid it across the table. “The report.” Then she unzipped her handbag, took out the cassette and placed it on top of the envelope. “And the tape. They’re yours. On one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t use them until Sam’s been released or…Well, another few weeks in prison won’t make much difference to your brother, but it might to my niece. I don’t want to encourage the police to ask any more questions. And I don’t want to have to lie to them. The kidnappers have given us until October the eleventh to deliver the document and I haven’t despaired of finding it before then. But if the police learn I’ve been to America, they’ll ask why. And if I refuse to tell them, they’ll become suspicious.”

  “Then don’t worry. I’ll keep these safe. But I won’t breathe a word about them until after October the eleventh.”

  Charlotte’s expression grew suddenly sombre. “I’ve just thought. It’s three weeks tomorrow. I wonder what those three weeks will bring.”

  “Your niece’s safe return home.”

  “Really? At the moment, I don’t see how.”

  “While you were away, I remembered something which might just help.” The flash of hope in her eyes made him wish he could report a more substantial discovery than the meagre piece of intelligence he had to contribute. “The document’s written in Catalan, right? Presumably, therefore, by a Catalan. The capital of Catalonia is Barcelona. Tristram’s last letter to Beatrix implied the document had been given to him by a friend. What friends did he have in Spain apart from other International Brigaders? Like Frank Griffith and—”

  “Vicente Ortiz!”

  “Yes. Ortiz. According to Frank, he was a native of Barcelona.”

  Charlotte leant back in her chair. “You’re right. It must be Ortiz who wrote it.”

  “That’s what I thought. I’m not sure it takes us very far, of course. Ortiz is long dead.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “But Frank said—”

  “He didn’t see him killed!” She was so eager to embrace the chance of Ortiz being alive—of him holding the key to Samantha’s freedom—that she shouted the words, rousing the waitress from a slumped reverie by the till. She blushed and lowered her voice. “Frank must be told,” she whispered. “This alters everything.”

  “He may not agree. And even if he does—”

  “Could you come with me to see him? Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  Uncertain whether to admit his pleasure at being asked to assist, he said merely, “If you’d like me to.”

  “I would. Very much.”

  “Then certainly I’ll come.”

  She looked doubtful for a moment. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know.”

  “If you’re only agreeing because of the tape and the report, then I’d rather you refused. I didn’t expect anything in return for them.”

  “I know that too. But I’d still like to come with you.” Recognizing much of his own diffidence in this display of it on Charlotte’s part, he added: “I’d be honoured to.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled warily. “Right now, I think I need…”

  “A helping hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then look no further.” He reached out to touch her fingers where they rested on the table. “You’ve found one.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  You did what?”

  The violence of Ursula’s reaction convinced Charlotte she had been wise to meet Derek Fairfax before going to Swans’ Meadow. There would have been no possibility of winning her consent to handing him the tape, let alone the private detective’s report. It might have been different had Charlotte been able to claim any success for her American trip. As it was, she could not. The hopes Ursula had nourished in her absence had been dashed. All of which would have been bad enough without Charlotte’s final revelation.

  “You gave them to Fairfax?”

  “He has a right to them, Ursula. His brother is completely innocent.”

  “So’s Sam, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t. But this has nothing to—”

  “How do you think she’ll feel when she knows you helped brand her father a murderer?”

  “Badly. As I did when I found out what he’d done.”

  “But the report was mine. Beatrix sent it to me, not you!”

  “And you were prepared to let Fairfax-Vane go to prison despite having the means to prevent it. That might have been forgivable while Maurice was alive. But not now.”

  “This has nothing to do with Maurice.” Ursula’s voice dropped. Her eyes narrowed. “Or some washed-up antique dealer. You’ve done this to hurt me, haven’t you?”

  “Of course I haven’t.”

  “Yes you have. This is your way of getting back at me for Emerson.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m simply trying to repair some of the damage caused by Maurice’s greed.”

  “And I suppose you know nothing about greed. Or envy. Or lust. They’re total strangers to you, aren’t they, Charlie? They’ve never crossed your virtuous path through life.” She stepped closer. “What a nauseating little Miss Perfect you are.”

  “Insulting me isn’t going to help Sam.”

  “No. But nor is letting your conscience govern my life. I trusted you with that report—and with the information it contained. If I’d known what you intended to do with it, I’d never have told you it existed.”

  “Then I’m glad you didn’t know.”

  A stinging blow from the back of Ursula’s hand caught Charlotte round the mouth before she was aware of it being aimed. She rocked back on her heels and clutched at the bureau for support. “What…What are you doing?” she cried.

  “Get out of this house, Charlie! Get out of my bloody sight!”

  “But…We need…We need to talk.”

  “I don’t need to talk to you. That’s the very last thing I need to do. Now, for Christ’s sake, get out!”

  “What about Sam?”

  “Let me worry about her!”

  “But there’s so much—”

  “I’ll handle this on my own, as I should have done all along, without any interference from your bloody conscience!” They stared at each other for a moment, then Ursula added, emphasizing every word: “Please leave my home. Now!”

  Charlotte could find no answer. There suddenly seemed to be nothing between them except the hatred flaring in Ursula’s eyes. The pact t
hey had silently concluded after Maurice’s death stood exposed as a sham. Their alliance was at an end. If, indeed, it had ever begun. Without another word, Charlotte turned and hurried from the room.

  She drove across the bridge into Cookham, scarcely able to see for tears of shock and anger. There she stopped in a car park to dry her eyes and dab the blood from the tear at the corner of her mouth. She guessed Ursula’s diamond-encrusted eternity ring had inflicted the damage and recalled being shown it for the first time nearly ten years ago. “Look what Maurice has given me,” Ursula had cooed, displaying her ring finger for Charlotte’s admiration. “He’s such a darling, isn’t he?” Everything about those distant days had been false and fraudulent—every gift, every smile, every declaration of love and loyalty. Yet at times such as this Charlotte wished she could still believe all the lies she had been told. They were so much more comfortable than the truth she was left with in place of them. And had now to face. Alone.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Derek collected Charlotte from Ockham House early on Sunday morning. He had looked forward to the long drive to Wales as an opportunity to push out the boundaries of their friendship, to gauge whether it might flourish in more normal circumstances than those in which it had begun. But the opportunity proved to be illusory. Charlotte seemed too distracted to give him much attention. Every word had to be prised from her, every smile coaxed. In the end, he fell victim to her gloom and lapsed into silence.

  On nearing Hendre Gorfelen, however, Charlotte was suddenly transformed into the alert and confident young woman Derek thought he knew. She even apologized for having been poor company on the journey. “I’ve a lot on my mind. Too much, I sometimes feel, for it to hold.” Derek assured her he understood. And so he did. But still it was clear that, amidst her preoccupations, there was scarcely room to think of him as anything more than a temporary ally. Hardly a friend at all.

  The dog was in the yard and barked a desultory warning of their arrival, but made no attempt to stop them approaching the house. The door was open and orchestral music could be heard from a radio somewhere within. Charlotte knocked, then shouted: “Frank!” The radio was switched off, but there was no other response. The sound had come from the kitchen and Charlotte led the way through to where Frank Griffith sat smoking over the remains of a bread and cheese lunch. He stared at them without speaking, conveying his meaning by the blank coldness of his gaze.

  “The document the kidnappers want was written by Vicente Ortiz,” said Charlotte in a rush. “We’ve come for your help.” Frank’s eyebrows bunched into a frown at the mention of Ortiz’s name, but still he did not speak.

  “It’s true,” said Derek. “They’ve specified a document written in Catalan by a friend of Tristram Abberley. Who can it be but Ortiz?”

  “Vicente’s dead,” Frank responded at last. “Let him rest in peace.”

  “He may not be dead,” put in Charlotte, drawing from Frank a withering glare.

  “If you’re trying to link poor Vicente with your niece’s abduction…”

  “Nobody’s trying to do that,” said Derek. “But we have to do everything we can to find whatever it was he gave to Tristram before October the eleventh.”

  “The date they say they’ll kill Sam,” explained Charlotte, “unless the document is delivered to them.”

  “Kill her? For something Vicente may have written nearly fifty years ago?”

  “Those are their terms.”

  “They make no sense.”

  “We know,” said Derek. “But they’re the terms they’ve set.”

  Frank stared at him. “What’s your interest in this?”

  “I’m just trying to help. Won’t you do the same?”

  “Please, Frank,” said Charlotte.

  Frank looked at each of them in turn, then sighed. “I can’t. You come here talking to me about Vicente Ortiz, about a document he may or may not have given to Tristram and which Tristram may or may not have sent to Beatrix. It’s meaningless and long ago and far away and—” He tapped his pipe out aggressively in a saucer. “They’re all dead, for God’s sake, every last one. What can it matter now? Who can it matter to?”

  “Didn’t Vicente ever say anything to you?” asked Derek. “Or Tristram? Or Beatrix? Didn’t one of them imply or suggest something—however vague—that might explain this?”

  Frank thought for a moment, then said: “No. If they shared a secret, they kept it from me. Perhaps deliberately. Perhaps—”

  “A Spaniard visited Beatrix in Rye during the summer of 1939,” interrupted Charlotte. “Uncle Jack told me about him. He was looking for something. He must have been. Could it have been the document?”

  “Describe him,” said Frank.

  “Cold and forbidding, according to Uncle Jack. Tall and thin with a hooked nose. And a touch of the Nazi about him.”

  “A Fascist by the sound of it,” murmured Frank. “Not Vicente, for certain. Your Uncle Jack would have been all over him.”

  “Do you recognize the description?” asked Derek.

  “No,” Frank replied. “But why should I? He could have been anybody. Or nobody. It’s as if…” His words petered out. He leant back in his chair and thrust the unlit pipe into his mouth, holding the stem in that strange but characteristic grip between the first and second fingers of his left hand.

  Charlotte glanced quizzically at Derek, who shrugged back at her. Then she said promptingly, “Frank?”

  He raised his right hand to silence her and continued to stare at the tabletop before him, head cocked to one side. Fully two minutes must have passed before he plucked the pipe from his mouth and said: “I don’t know what the document contains. Something important, obviously. Something dangerous. Vicente might have entrusted it to Tristram because he was being evacuated from Teruel and was expected to go back to England. And Tristram might have sent it to Beatrix when he realized he was dying. None of them told me about it. None of them breathed a word. Even Tristram. I suppose he thought it was safe with Beatrix. As presumably it was. Until Maurice hatched his benighted scheme. So, what did she do with it? Send it to me? No. Send it to Maurice’s wife? I hardly think so.”

  “She didn’t send it to Natasha von Ryneveld either,” put in Charlotte. “She’s who Lulu misremembered as van Ryan. A mistress Maurice maintained in New York. I’ve spoken to her—and seen the contents of Beatrix’s letter to her. It isn’t what we need.”

  “Then it must be Madame V in Paris, mustn’t it?”

  “Yes. But who is she, Frank?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve no way of knowing. Or of finding out.”

  “Nor have we. It’s why we came.”

  “Then you’ve had a wasted journey, haven’t you?” A crushed grimace of defeat crossed Charlotte’s face at his words. Derek saw it and saw also Frank’s reluctant flinch of sympathy. The old man rose, walked to the back door, pushed it open and inhaled a lungful of air. Then, without turning round, he said: “I’m sorry I lied to the police. I suppose I shouldn’t have. But I’d had a bellyful of your family and I just wanted to stay out of the whole rotten business. And to keep my promise to Beatrix. Not that she would want me to keep it now it’s gone this far. She’d want me to help your niece, not a doubt of it. The trouble is I can’t. None of us can. Your only hope is to find Madame V—and pray the letter Beatrix sent her contains what the kidnappers want.”

  “But if it doesn’t?” asked Charlotte in a flat and weary tone. “Or if we can’t find her?”

  Frank did not answer, other than to shake his head and sigh. Nor did Derek. There was, in all truth, no answer to give except what they were not yet quite despondent enough to admit: that Samantha was beyond their help.

  They returned to Tunbridge Wells via Cheltenham, where Lulu Harrington gave them tea and her fulsome apologies for being unable to remember the full name and address on Beatrix’s fourth letter. Something neither short nor long, beginning with V. Somewhere in or near Paris, tho
ugh how near could be at the mercy of French postal zoning. There was even the possibility that it was Mademoiselle V rather than Madame. As to the addressee being a woman, she was adamant. Or was she? The more they pressed her, the more confused she became. They left with their path ahead no clearer. Indeed, the path ahead could scarcely be said to exist. In every direction lay dead ends. Even the route they had followed to this point seemed now to have closed behind them.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  Charlotte passed a glum and largely sleepless Sunday night, unable to restrain her mind from rummaging again and again through the clues that always led, however often they were re-examined, to the most hopeless of conclusions. Monday dawned still and misty, with a promise of autumn sunshine. Gazing out at the grey sky turning slowly blue, or glancing aimlessly through the newspaper’s parade of politics, fashion, commerce and sport, Charlotte felt a numb remoteness from the wider world. It would whirl on regardless to October the eleventh and beyond. And at some point in those looming weeks space would be found to report what had become of Samantha Abberley, only daughter of the recently deceased chairman and managing director of Ladram Avionics. MIRACULOUS RESCUE. UNEXPLAINED RELEASE. STILL MISSING. FOUND DEAD. Charlotte could almost suspect the headline had already been selected, the outcome already determined. It was as if only she was not yet to be told which it was to be.

  When the doorbell rang shortly before ten o’clock, she assumed it was the postman and answered it ill-prepared for the face that greeted her. It belonged to Chief Inspector Golding. And he was not smiling.

  “Could we have a word, Miss Ladram?”

  “Certainly. Come in.”

  They went into the lounge. An offer of coffee—even of a seat—was declined.

  “What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?”

  “I’ll come straight to the point, Miss. Your sister-in-law, Mrs Abberley, has informed us of your recent contact with her daughter’s kidnappers.”