Hand in Glove (39 page)

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“Half-sister, actually.”

“Of course.” The smile acquired a glacial edge. “Such a fine but vital distinction.”

She led the way down a short and curving hall into the lounge—a rugged expanse of blue and gold that seemed to glow in the light admitted by three high windows. Couches and armchairs as big as beds were surrounded by Graeco-Roman statuary and Oriental urns.

Vases sprouted flowers on every surface, their blooms multiplied by huge gilt-framed mirrors. And when Charlotte glanced up, she was astonished to see that the ceiling had been painted as one vast rolling cloudscape. Beneath it, across the ornately worked rugs Maurice had undoubtedly paid for, Natasha strode purposefully ahead. She was of about Ursula’s age and height, Charlotte estimated, but narrower in the waist and somewhat heavier around the hips and bosom. She moved in a way that seemed to emphasize the body beneath the clothes, to hint at the purposes to which it might be put. There was no mystery about what Maurice had seen in her. It declared itself at every step.

“Would you care for tea, Charlie?”

“Er . . . Yes, please.”

Natasha rang a small bell and, almost instantly, a maid entered through another door. They exchanged a few words in what sounded like Spanish. Then the maid retreated.

“Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you.”

Charlotte chose one of the least ostentatious chairs, only to find, when she rested her hand on the rounded end of the arm, that it had been carved in the likeness of a naked woman bending forwards, between whose ample gilded buttocks one of her fingers was dangling.

She pulled it abruptly away and felt herself blush.

“One of Maurice’s favourites,” said Natasha with a smile. “I can see you don’t approve.”

“I’m not . . . It’s not for me to approve or disapprove.”

“It’s kind of you to say so. But I’m sure I know what you really think.”

“I didn’t come here to discuss the past, Natasha. I didn’t come to argue about what you meant to Maurice.”

“Good. Because I meant a good deal, as a matter of fact. More than just what money could buy.”

“Quite possibly. But Maurice is dead now. All that’s ended.”

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“Yes. And you promised to tell me why and how it ended. Well, I should like to know, Charlie.” She fondled the jet pendant. “Even a mistress has a right to understand her grief.”

The maid reappeared, carrying a tea-tray. Silence was observed as she moved a table to stand between Charlotte and the chair Natasha had sat in, then arranged the china and poured the first cups. During this interlude, Charlotte reminded herself of the different bluffs and deceptions each was practising. Would Natasha admit she had known of Maurice’s plan from the outset? Or would she pretend she had never known anything about the letters? How many lies should Charlotte let go unchallenged? How much should she reveal, how little assume?

As if determined to seize the initiative, Natasha said as soon as the maid had gone: “I was shocked to hear of Sam’s abduction. Ursula must be beside herself with worry.”

“Yes. She is.”

“Maurice told me nothing of it, you know. Not a word.”

“Really?”

“Well, he hardly had a chance, did he?”

“He came to New York on the fourth. Didn’t he see you then?”

“No. I last saw him in August. I had no idea he’d been since.” But she should have been more surprised than she sounded. She returned Charlotte’s gaze and sipped her tea, apparently content to let the pretence go undisguised.

“He gave up the letters, Natasha. All of them. They were the ransom—or part of it.”

“What letters?” The arch of her eyebrows declared the pretence was to be total.

“Tristram’s correspondence with Beatrix. The correspondence proving Beatrix wrote his poems.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, Charlie. I know nothing of any of this.”

“I’m not here to accuse you, Natasha. I suspect we’re both well aware who telephoned Colin Fairfax-Vane in May, claiming to be Beatrix. But, since proving that person’s identity is impossible—”

“All of this is way over my head.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I hope you’ll do what you can to help us rescue my niece.”

“Your half-niece, you mean.” Natasha smiled. “I fail to see what help I can offer.”

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“Then let me explain.” As Charlotte did so, she felt increasingly impatient with the veiled sarcasm to which she had been subjected.

Natasha gazed at her with an expression in which caution and disdain were perfectly balanced. It was impossible to tell if the plight of a girl she had never met made any impact on her at all. Even if it did, Charlotte sensed her response would be determined by a fine judgement of how her own interests might best be protected.

When Charlotte had finished, emphasizing how vital it was to find the document the kidnappers wanted, Natasha poured them both more tea before she made any remark. When she spoke, it was in a guarded tone. “
If
Maurice did these . . . these terrible things . . . it was without my knowledge. He mentioned no letters to me. Nor any accompanying document. He left nothing here.”

“The terrible things you refer to were intended to ensure you could continue to live here—in the style you obviously do.”

“I own this apartment outright. A gift from Maurice, it’s true, but not one I’m in any danger of forfeiting.”

“He spent a great deal on you, I imagine. He meant to go on doing so.”

“No doubt he did. I’m sorry he won’t. Sorry for him and for me.”

“But at least you’re alive.”

“Yes. I am.” A distant look came into her eyes. “I never expected Maurice to die in such a way. Sacrificing himself for his daughter . . .”

She shook her head in puzzlement.

“Won’t you help me prevent it being a pointless sacrifice?”

“If only I could.”

“He must have stored things here. Clothes. Books. Papers. Possessions of one kind or another.”

“Clothes only. And not many of those. You’re welcome to search them, of course.”

“I’d be grateful.”

“Come this way, then.” They rose and Natasha led Charlotte out into a short passage. At the end, through an open doorway, she glimpsed a bedroom, richly hung in peach-toned fabrics, expanded by yet more mirrors in one of which she could see the reflection of a large oil painting. The subject was a nude, reclining suggestively across a bed. The picture was of such clarity that it might even have been a photograph. As to the identity of the nude, Charlotte was just too far away to be absolutely certain. Natasha moved ahead, closed the

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door and turned back, smiling faintly. “Maurice used this.” She slid open a fitted wardrobe to their left to reveal a few suits and pairs of trousers hanging from a rail. “They’re all he kept here.”

As Charlotte checked the pockets, she knew she would find nothing. What she could not decide was whether there had ever been anything to find. She had pleaded for help as eloquently as she could. She had refrained from criticizing Natasha, far less condemning her. Yet her restraint had failed to achieve its purpose, perhaps because Natasha was genuinely unable to assist, perhaps because she was too frightened to do so. They returned to the lounge, but, this time, Charlotte made no move to sit down.

“I’m sorry if you’ve had a wasted journey, Charlie.”

“Is there nothing you can tell me?”

“Only that you could try the company apartment on Park Avenue.

Maurice might have stored some papers there.”

“I’m going there when I leave here. In fact, I intend to spend the night there.”

“Before flying back to England?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I shouldn’t have thought you’d have any reason to stay longer.”

Suddenly, Charlotte’s patience snapped. “You know what this is all about, Natasha. Why pretend otherwise? Maurice took you into his confidence from the start.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Beatrix is dead. Maurice is too. For God’s sake give it up. There’s an innocent man in prison and an innocent girl missing from home.

Don’t they mean anything to you?”

“I’ve never met them.”

“What did Beatrix send you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She sent you a posthumous letter. What was in it?”

“You mean the bundle of blank paper? Maurice surmised it was from his aunt. It made no sense to me.”

“Blank paper?”

“Yes. Weird, don’t you think? Quite incredible, really.” Natasha grinned, admitting by her expression that she knew what Charlotte would conclude from this recycling of Ursula’s lie.

“You stole Ursula’s husband. Won’t you raise a hand to prevent her losing her daughter as well?”

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“I stole nothing from Ursula, certainly not Maurice.
He
found
me,
not the other way around. And what he found was a woman who understood him a great deal better than his wife ever did.”

“Perhaps so. But—”

“If you think Maurice ever loved Ursula, you’re wrong. He never loved anybody except himself. Oh, and maybe you, Charlie. Maybe he loved you. I always reckoned so, anyway.”

“What Maurice did—what you helped him do—was wrong. By helping me, you’d undo a little of that wrong.”

“But I can’t help you, Charlie. I can’t and that’s the truth.”

“Beatrix was a fine woman. She shouldn’t have died as she did.

Fairfax-Vane is just a glib-tongued antique dealer. He doesn’t deserve to be facing a long prison sentence. And Sam is a lively girl on the brink of adulthood. She’s entitled to find out what it means, don’t you think? Rather than dying for a reason she doesn’t comprehend.”

“I don’t comprehend the reason either.”

“I’m not saying you do. But if you’d stop lying, for one second, we might—”

“That’s enough!” The real Natasha had found both her voice and her face. She was angry, trembling with rage—and maybe with guilt as well. “You’ve no right to come here—to my home—and call me a liar.”

“I believe I have. I believe it’s my duty. As I believe it’s your duty to tell me whatever you know.”

“Get out! Get out this minute!” She marched into the hall and flung the front door open. “I should never have agreed to meet you. I shan’t make the same mistake again.”

It was futile to linger or protest. Charlotte could see from Natasha’s expression that losing her temper had been counter-productive. She walked slowly towards the door, struggling to regain her composure.

As they came alongside each other, Natasha said: “I once asked Maurice why he thought so highly of you, Charlie. Do you know what he said? ‘Because she’s retained a naïve faith in human nature.’ Not much of a compliment, is it? But he meant it. And he did his best to keep your faith intact. Now he’s gone, I think it’s time you admitted how false it always was.”

“Was it?”

“Oh, yes. You see, you’re the liar, Charlie, not me. You keep insisting on what you know is impossible. You keep pretending something

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can be done. To rescue Sam. To free Fairfax-Vane. To redeem Maurice’s memory. But it can’t. Nothing can be done. About any of it.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that you’ll leave New York as you arrived—empty-handed.”

C

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A

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SIXTEEN

The apartment maintained by Ladram Avionics on Park Avenue was small but comfortably fitted out in contemporary style. It was neither homely nor luxurious and Charlotte doubted if Maurice had done more than visit to check the mail in recent months. Nevertheless, she set about searching it in a methodical fashion, discovering in the process just what she had expected: nothing. She did find an Italian restaurant a couple of blocks away to dine in, however, and there made a point of drinking enough chianti to ensure a good night’s sleep, which her plans for the following day suggested she would need. For she was not yet willing to admit defeat and retreat to England. There was one stratagem left to try first.

She slept longer than she had intended and woke to the glare of full morning and the bleat of the telephone. As she grabbed for the hand-set, she guessed it must be Ursula and wondered if there was news of Samantha. But she had guessed wrong.

“Charlie? This is Natasha. I’m glad I caught you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been thinking over what you said and . . . Can we meet before you leave New York?”

“Is there any point?”

“Very much so.”

“Then, yes, we can meet.”

“Do you know the Frick Collection?”

“I’ve heard of it, certainly.”

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“It’s on Fifth Avenue, at East Seventieth. Walking distance from where you are. I’ll meet you there in one hour.”

Only when she arrived did Charlotte realize that the Frick Collection was housed in nineteen separate rooms on the ground floor of the late collector’s mansion. Since Natasha had not specified which room they were to meet in, there was nothing for it but to progress through each, ignoring the paintings and studying only the other visitors.

She was halfway round and beginning to fret when she entered the Fragonard Room and was briefly transported to a French
salon
of the eighteenth century. Fragonard’s series of paintings,
The Progress
of Love,
was displayed on the walls. Beneath one of them—in which a maiden seated by a statue was glancing about in fear of discovery as her lover scaled the garden wall to press his suit—stood Natasha, apparently lost in thought. She was wearing a short lilac dress and a pale cashmere jacket, beneath which the jet pendant glimmered in inky symbolism. Charlotte had to touch her elbow to gain her attention.

“Why, Charlie!” She smiled. “On time again, no doubt. Though for quite another kind of meeting than this.” She nodded towards the anxious lovers.

“What do you want, Natasha?”

“I come here often. To this room, I mean, not the others. The French understand love. Better than the Americans, anyway, and for certain better than the British.”

“I don’t have very long. Could we—”

“You have long enough to lose yourself in Fragonard’s world, Charlie. We all have. Cherubs and doves frolicking in perpetual summer. Temptation. Pursuit. Consummation. Nostalgia. Regret. Abandonment. They’re all here in these canvasses.”

“Quite possibly. But—”

“Look around for one moment. Please.”

Irritably, Charlotte looked. On every wall, Natasha’s point was made. The man offering what the maiden affected not to want. The man winning her over with gifts and endearments. Then the maiden alone, with only her melancholy for company. But it was a point entirely lost on Charlotte. “If you have something to tell me, Natasha, I’d be grateful if—”

“I am telling you. This is part of it. There are letters even here.”

She pointed to one of the paintings on the south wall, in which the