Hand in Glove (13 page)

H A N D I N G L O V E

83

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 rut-ted 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 84

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

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 over-grown 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 antago-nize 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

H A N D I N G L O V E

85

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 86

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

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 disproportion-ately 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.

“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

H A N D I N G L O V E

87

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 88

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

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 note -

book 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

H A N D I N G L O V E

89

and out into the yard. When they reached the car and she glanced back at the window, Frank Griffith was nowhere to be seen.

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

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.”

90