Hand in Glove (28 page)

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We had a visit from three Labour Party bigwigs early last month. No doubt you read about it. Clem Attlee, Ellen Wilkinson and Philip Noel-Baker sat down to dinner with the battalion, condemned non-intervention, ate heartily, sang
The Red Flag
and departed to a chorus of hollow cheers, hollow because most of the chaps here would have been glad to go back with them, rather than face a second winter fighting Fascism. It’s my first, of course, so I haven’t any of their excuses. Even so, I have to say that my morale was singularly un-boosted by the event.

Not that it was in need of boosting. Despite all the privations, I don’t want to be anywhere else but here when this war ends. I want to see and hear and feel and understand it happening. I want to be part of it. And so I shall. Which is why, without a single hint of irony, I can wish you the very happi-est of New Years.

Much love,

Tristram.

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SEVENTEEN

Six weeks ago, all in Charlotte’s life had been sane and normal.

Beatrix had still been alive, whiling away her octogenarian days in Rye. Maurice had still seemed the model half-brother, affectionate without being overbearing. And Tristram Abberley had still been the poet whom one remembered as a brother and the other as a father.

Even a week ago, Charlotte’s vision of her world had been intact.

Beatrix was dead and strange discoveries had been made in the wake of her death. But fundamentally nothing had changed. Charlotte had understood the past as readily as the present. Or so she had supposed.

No longer. All now was altered, thrown into a chaos from which it could never be rescued. It was as if a jigsaw-puzzle she had completed 194

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years before had been suddenly overturned and, kneeling to re-assemble it, she had realized the pieces were no longer the same, that a new and nightmarish picture had been substituted for the old and reassuring one and that the substitution might have taken place long ago without her even noticing.

For an hour or so after Maurice’s departure from Ockham House, she was scarcely able to move, let alone think. Her body and mind were numb with the shock of what he had said, revealing as it did much more than he could ever have intended. She wandered from one room to another, staring about at the brightness of the morning whilst dread and disbelief wrestled queasily within her.

Then, at last, she abandoned the mental struggle and gave way to the desire for physical flight. She left the house and drove west, retracing at first the journey with which she had set the wheels of her present plight in motion. But she did not stop at Cheltenham. Lulu could be left in enviable ignorance. Instead, she pressed on into Wales and so arrived, in the heat of the early afternoon, at Hendre Gorfelen once more.

The yard was still and silent, held in a windless trance. Of dog and chickens there was no sign. The door of the house stood ajar and to Charlotte’s knock there was no answer. Some quality of the atmosphere in the passage as she walked in told her that Frank Griffith was not at home. Which might, she reflected, be just as well.

She entered the room to her right: Frank’s study. There was a mustier air there than before, disclosing stray signals of dust and neglect. There were no flowers on the mantelpiece and the ashes of a long spent fire lay uncleared in the grate. Stepping towards it, Charlotte noticed a half-empty vodka bottle standing beside one of the armchairs. On the broad arm of the chair was a book. Charlotte had to crook her head to decipher the title on its frayed and dis-coloured dust-jacket.
The Brow of the Hill
by Tristram Abberley. The 1932 first edition. She might have known.

She picked the book up and opened it at the page marked by a slip of card, guessing before she saw it that the poem she would find there was “False Gods.” And so it was. Tristram Abberley’s finest work. And Frank Griffith’s favourite.

Hold out your hand and ask for a job.

They’ll make you a promise and spare you a sob.

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For theirs is the truth that does not pay,
While yours is the dog that has no day.

Heed, if you must, the gods of tin

And let them explain your original sin ,
But never—

In an instant, the focus of Charlotte’s gaze switched from the familiar lines of verse to the card held between her fingers. There was a date pencilled in the top left-hand corner:
23 Dec ’38
. When she turned the card over, she saw that it was in fact a passport-size photograph of Beatrix, smiling warmly at the camera, young enough in appearance to confirm the recorded date of December 1938, when Frank had stayed with her in Rye—and taken away, it seemed, at least one memento.

Charlotte stared at a Beatrix she could not herself remember—at a confident and self-possessed woman of exactly her own age—for a minute or so, then she slipped the photograph back into its place, closed the book and replaced it on the arm of the chair. There must be no more reading between the lines, no more peeping between the pages. She knew that now. What would Frank Griffith do if she told him all she feared and believed about her brother? It did not bear contemplation. Certainly he would not sit idly by and wait for Tristram’s letters to be made public. That was certain. What had she been thinking of ? What had she been hoping to provoke?

She moved to the desk, found a sheet of paper and wrote a hasty message on it in capitals.

FRANK,

I CALLED BUT YOU WERE OUT AND I COULD NOT

STAY. I WANTED TO TELL YOU THIS. I AM CERTAIN

NOW EMERSON McKITRICK STOLE THE LETTERS

AFTER ALL AND DESTROYED THEM ONCE HE HAD

REALIZED THE MOCKERY THEY WOULD MAKE OF

HIS BOOK. SO, THE OUTCOME IS WHAT YOU YOUR-

SELF INTENDED. THERE’S SOME COMFORT IN

THAT, ISN’T THERE? PHONE ME IF YOU WANT TO

TALK. I HOPE THE HEAD IS HEALING WELL.

CHARLOTTE.

She wedged the note under the Tunbridge Ware stationery box in the centre of the desk, where it could not be missed, took a glance 196

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around the room to make sure she had disturbed nothing else, then hurried out, praying she could make good her escape before Frank returned, shaking her head at the folly of her visit. And her prayers were answered. He was nowhere to be seen. She climbed into her car and drove back up the track as fast as she dared, looking neither to right nor left, sure of little beyond what Beatrix had seemed silently to tell her from fifty years away. Make an end of meddling. Let the bad become at least no worse. And leave the good, the dead and all the rest in whatever peace they may have found.

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EIGHTEEN

Albion Dredge leaned back awkwardly in his chair and pushed the window behind him open still further, though the total lack of movement in the air ensured his action would do nothing to lower the temperature in his oven of an office. He had already discarded his jacket and his grimaces as he prised at his shirt collar suggested his tie would have gone the same way had he been alone. As it was, the presence of a client deterred him, though it occurred to Derek that this was just about the only concession he did seem willing to make to him.

“I don’t want to be a wet blanket, Mr Fairfax,” Dredge said, abandoning his various efforts at ventilation, “but I’m obliged to be realistic. The theory you’ve put forward—”

“It’s more than a theory!”

“Quite possibly. But though you may believe it,
I
have to prove it.

So, let me just be clear what it is you’re saying. One—” He held up a pudgy forefinger. “The late Miss Abberley wrote her brother’s poems for him. Two—” He raised a second finger. “Her nephew wanted her to make this fact public so copyright in the work would be extended and royalties would continue to be paid to him. Three—” Up went a third finger. “Miss Abberley refused, so he decided to overcome her objections by murdering her. And four—” His little finger joined its perpendicular fellows. “He made sure your brother took the blame

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for her murder by decoying him to Jackdaw Cottage and later planting the stolen items of Tunbridge Ware in his shop.”

“Correct.”

Dredge sighed. “Well, it’s an interesting theory. Very interesting indeed. If true—”

“It’s true. I’ve no doubt of it.”

“I’m sure you haven’t, Mr Fairfax, but others less—how can I put this?—less eager to entertain notions of your brother’s innocence might regard it as fanciful and entirely unsupported by the available evidence.”

“How can you say that? Frank Griffith will confirm the stolen letters prove Beatrix’s authorship of the poems.”

“Mr Griffith sounds an unreliable witness to me, Mr Fairfax.

Didn’t you say he had a history of mental illness?”

“Yes, but—”

“That plus years of living as a recluse in the wilds of Wales and a recent knock on the head would be used to undermine his evidence, even if it needed undermining, which lack of corroboration suggests it wouldn’t. Besides, you’ve admitted Mr Abberley was in New York at the time of the theft.”

“I never suggested he stole the letters personally. I’m sure he used his former chauffeur, Spicer, to carry out the crimes.”

“For which your evidence is Spicer being seen in a pub in Rye nearly a month before Miss Abberley’s murder.”

“Well . . . yes . . .”

Dredge clicked his tongue like a reproving schoolmaster. “For which there could be any one of a number of simple explanations.”

“He was clearly embarrassed to be seen there.”

“Your witness—” Dredge glanced down at his notes. “Miss Abberley’s housekeeper’s husband
thought
Spicer was trying to avoid him. I wouldn’t say he was
clearly
anything.”

“What would you say, then?” Derek was beginning to feel angry.

After being leaned on by Fithyan, what he needed was encouragement, not Dredge’s ponderous brand of nit-picking.

“That your theory is coherent, Mr Fairfax, even attractive. But it lacks substantiation.” Dredge smiled. “Better for me to point out its deficiencies to you now than for you to harbour false hopes—or raise them in your brother.”

“What can we do to substantiate it?”

“Find Spicer. Establish his whereabouts on the dates in question.

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And vet his financial circumstances for signs that he has been paid for murdering Miss Abberley, framing your brother and stealing the letters from Mr Griffith.”

“But he could be anywhere.”

“Exactly. We would need to use a specialist in search and surveil-lance. I can recommend one. I can even engage him on your behalf.

But I must warn you his services are expensive and, in this case, might yield nothing at all.”

“What else, then?”

“Nothing.” Dredge spread his hands. “Nothing, so far as I can see, is to be gained by monitoring Mr Abberley’s activities. If you’re right, he intends to sit tight until the time is ripe to publicize the letters.

If there’s a weak link in the chain, it’s whoever he used to commit the crimes. If it was Spicer, we have a chance, though a slim one.

If not—”

“We have no chance at all. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I fear so, Mr Fairfax. Which brings me to your opening question.”

“Should I tell my brother?”

“Exactly.” Dredge leaned back and joined his hands across his ample stomach. “It’s your decision, naturally, but I’d advise you to consider the consequences very carefully. My impression is that he’s come to terms with his situation, that he’s prepared himself for the worst. If you make him think there’s a real prospect of him being ac-quitted when in reality there isn’t . . .”

“I take your point, Mr Dredge. I’ll give it some thought. Now, about tracing Spicer—”

“You want me to proceed?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Very well. I’ll put the wheels in motion.”

“One other thing.” Derek’s self-respect rebelled at the necessity of what he had to say. “I’d like great care to be taken to avoid Maurice Abberley becoming aware that I’ve initiated such enquiries.”

“Nobody wants him to become aware of it, Mr Fairfax. Alas, I can’t give you an absolute guarantee that he won’t.”

“No. Of course not.”

“You have some particular reason for mentioning it?”

“Indirectly, he wields a good deal of influence with my employer.”

“Ah. That kind of reason. I sympathize. In view of the likelihood

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of a negative outcome to our enquiries, perhaps the risks of putting them in train—the risks to your career, I mean—are simply not worth taking.”

“Perhaps they’re not.” Dredge’s eyebrows were raised in expectation of his next remark. But Derek had already debated the matter with himself, long and hard. He was not about to knuckle under, however easy it would have been to believe it was the best and wisest course to follow. “But I mean to see this through to the end. So, such risks as there are, I’m prepared to take.”

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NINETEEN

Saturday the first of August was bright and sunny, with a fresh enough breeze to dispel sloth if not despondency. To Charlotte, who craved a restoration of order and complacency in her life, it seemed important to do the little she could to bring that about in as brisk and business-like a manner as possible. She therefore took exaggerated care with her dress and appearance before leaving the house and stopped in Tunbridge Wells to buy a punctiliously listed assortment of domestic necessities before driving south-east towards Rye and a rather more demanding task she had decided to set herself.

Jackdaw Cottage was, as usual, clean and well-aired. Charlotte walked around it slowly, schooling herself to see it as a piece of property, not a repository of dreams and regrets. She was surprised by how successful she was, by how obedient her emotions were. There had to be a way of coming to terms with the discoveries she had made in the past week and she was determined to find it. So far, the only way she could imagine was to isolate herself from Maurice, from Beatrix’s memory and from every tangible reminder of their importance in her world. And so far, it seemed, so good.

From Jackdaw Cottage she went straight to an estate agent in the High Street, where she deposited a key and arranged for the house to be valued and put on the market as soon as possible. Then she called on the Mentiplys and told them what she had done. They were not 200