Hand in Glove (18 page)

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his awareness of his own authority—made Derek feel shabby and inadequate by comparison.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Er . . . Yes. Thank you.”

“India or China?”

“Well . . . I . . . I don’t mind.”

“Lapsang then, I think, Sally,” said Maurice to the secretary, who nodded and withdrew so silently Derek did not even hear the door close behind her. “Come and sit down, Mr Fairfax.” He motioned towards two leather armchairs.

“Thank you. You . . . er . . . have a splendid view.”

“I do, don’t I? I find it helps me keep a sense of proportion.”

“I suppose we all . . . need that.”

“Oh yes. We do. Undoubtedly. In fact, you could say it’s why we’re meeting this afternoon.”

“Really?”

“In the immediate aftermath of a death, particularly a violent one, there’s little scope for mature reflection. That’s why your visit to Ockham House was so untimely.”

“I realize it was now. I’m sorry. I should have known better. I was anxious to do something—anything—to help my brother.”

“It’s understandable. I hope you agree our reaction was also understandable.”

“Of course.”

“So, let’s not misunderstand each other on this occasion. I have no liking for your brother and no confidence in his innocence. But certain recent developments have undermined my confidence in his guilt to the extent that I think it only proper—only fair—to inform you of them. As you said in your letter, it’s in all our interests to establish the truth about Beatrix’s death. If your brother
was
responsible, you will just have to accept the fact. If not, I want to find out who the culprit really is.”

“Those are my views too, Mr Abberley. I’m only—”

“Ah,” interrupted Maurice. “Here’s tea.”

Tea was delicately served in wafer-thin Spode, Maurice beaming irrepressibly whilst his secretary ministered to them. When she had left them alone again, he leaned forward, as if a greater degree of in-timacy were suddenly called for.

“Charlotte thinks we should leave well alone, Mr Fairfax. So does 120

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my wife. In fact, none of my family seems to share my misgivings.

They wouldn’t approve of my talking to you. So I think it would be best if we kept this to ourselves, don’t you? It would only lead to pointless recriminations otherwise. Can I rely on your discretion?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Good. What I’m about to tell you may mean nothing. I must warn you of that. I wouldn’t want you to jump to any conclusions. A mystery conceals trifles more often than riches.” He smiled, then said:

“My aunt was a very private person. I never regarded her as secretive because I never thought she had anything to be secretive about. She belonged to a different generation, one less accustomed than we are to parading our emotions. I’d always supposed that accounted for her reticent nature. Now . . . I’m not so sure.”

“No?”

Maurice sipped at his tea, then reclined in his chair, swivelling it slightly to face the window. “It’s an odd business. Confoundedly odd.

As I say, it may amount to nothing at all. On the other hand, it seems to me you should know about it. Then you can judge for yourself. And act accordingly.”

Derek listened attentively as Maurice continued. Beatrix Abberley, it appeared, had concealed for many years a friendship with a man called Frank Griffith, who had fought with her brother in Spain. She had also concealed certain letters sent to her by her brother from Spain and these she had arranged to be sent to Frank Griffith after her death with a request that he destroy them unread. This he claimed to have done. Nobody could suggest any reason why Beatrix should have gone to such lengths to prevent the letters coming to light. Nor could they credit the notion that she had been killed because of them. Yet the fact remained that she had foreseen—even expected—her death. It seemed as if she had known her life was in danger and had prepared herself accordingly.

“It’s hard for me to believe she was murdered on account of some fifty-year-old letters from my father, Mr Fairfax, very hard indeed. If my mother was still alive, I’d think Beatrix had been trying to keep something from her. A love affair Tristram had in Spain, perhaps. But my mother died last year, so that can’t be it. Equally, it’s hard now to believe Beatrix was murdered simply for a few antiques. There are too many other unexplained circumstances. If she thought her life was being threatened—by your brother, for instance—why didn’t she

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go to the police? Or tell me about it? Why do nothing at all to protect herself ? And how did she know anyway? What made her so certain something was going to happen to her?”

“I may be able to point you towards an answer,” said Derek, suddenly eager to share his half-formed conclusions. “Your aunt’s conviction that she was going to be murdered fits with some information I’ve uncovered.”

Maurice’s gaze intensified. “What information?”

The sequence of events Derek sketched out was part known, part conjectural. Yet the force of its logic could not be denied and his belief in it strengthened as he spoke. When Colin visited Jackdaw Cottage on 20 May, Beatrix regarded him as a foot-in-the-door confidence trickster whose explanations were a tissue of lies. But a week later, when she telephoned him, she clearly believed his story and wanted to hear every detail of it. Only a few days afterwards, she travelled to Cheltenham, en route for Wales, firmly convinced her murder was already being plotted. Whatever convinced her must therefore have occurred during the days immediately following 20 May. And the only unusual event reported during that period was a sighting in Rye of Maurice’s former chauffeur, who had been anxious to deny—

“Spicer?” exclaimed Maurice. “Spicer was in Rye on the twenty-fifth of May?”

“Arnold Mentiply is adamant it was him.”

“Strange.” Maurice frowned. “Very strange.”

“I gather you dismissed him because of drunkenness.”

“I had no choice. He was a good driver, but he couldn’t be relied upon to remain sober. I let him go at Christmas.”

“Do you know where he works now?”

“No. In the circumstances, I could hardly give him a reference.

And I’ve heard nothing more of him. He lived in a flat in Marlow while he was with me. But I doubt he’s still there.”

“What contact would he have had with your aunt?”

“Minimal. The odd word perhaps. He drove me down to Rye whenever I visited her.”

“He had no connections with the area?”

“None I was aware of. I simply can’t account for him being seen there. Unless he works in the locality now, of course.”

“If he does, why would he pretend to Mentiply he was somebody else?”

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“I don’t know. But for that, I could regard it as a pure coincidence.”

“One of rather too many, surely?”

“Yes. That’s the point, isn’t it?” Maurice thought for a moment, then said: “Spicer was a rough diamond in many respects. It’s possible he could be involved in criminal activities. I can’t deny it.”

“But you don’t know where he is?”

“No. No idea at all.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. “But I could ask around. His landlady in Marlow. The pub he used. He might have told somebody what his plans were.”

“I’d be very grateful if you could make some enquiries,” said Derek, detecting a pleading note in his voice as he spoke. “I’ve done just about as much as I can on my brother’s behalf.”

“I’ll see what I can find out as soon as I return from New York,”

Maurice replied. “Meanwhile, however, I should have thought there
was
something you could profitably do to help your brother.”

“What?”

“See Frank Griffith. Establish whether he’s telling the truth.”

“You think he might be lying?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t met him, remember. Charlotte certainly believes him. But to destroy Tristram’s letters, without even reading them first . . . I’m not sure I can believe anybody did that.”

“But . . . if he didn’t . . .”

“He may still have them. Either way, he may know what they said.”

“And that might tell us why Beatrix was murdered.”

“Exactly.” Maurice looked Derek intently in the eye. “I promised Charlotte I wouldn’t bother Griffith. And I doubt I’d learn anything even if I did. But you’re free to do as you please. And maybe—just maybe—your brother’s predicament will persuade Griffith to reveal what he knows, where Charlotte’s curiosity didn’t.”

“It’s certainly worth a try.”

“Yes.” Maurice smiled. “I rather think it is.”

C

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TWENTY-SIX

Is it really a dead end?” asked Charlotte. “To your research, I mean?” She had driven Emerson back to Swans’ Meadow and they were standing together by the bank of the river, while behind them on the lawn Samantha lay prostrate on a sun-lounger, insulated against the world with dark glasses and Walkman.

“Looks that way.”

“But it seems so . . . unsatisfactory.”

“It is, Charlie. You’re right. But what can we do? Your uncle Jack’s reminiscences are intriguing, but they lead us nowhere. Beatrix seemingly didn’t want anybody to read Tristram’s letters. Well, Frank Griffith has made sure nobody will. And we don’t have any way of knowing what was in them.”

Charlotte was suddenly tempted to contradict Emerson and tell him she was not sure Frank Griffith had destroyed the letters. But she knew why she was tempted, as well. Because, if Emerson’s research was at an end, so was all hope of their acquaintance blossoming into something more. To betray Frank’s trust on an emotional whim would be unforgivable. Therefore she must hold her tongue. “When will you go back to Harvard?” she asked lamely.

“Why? Do you want to get rid of me?”

“Of course not.” She blushed. “You know I don’t.”

“I’ve been one hell of a nuisance since I arrived, haven’t I? Dragging you all over the country. Cross-questioning you at every turn.”

“I’ve enjoyed it. Really.”

“So have I.” He smiled. “Matter of fact, I was wondering whether I could persuade you to join me on a couple more trips while I’m here.”

“What sort of trips?”

“No more research, I promise.” He let his gaze engage hers for a playful instant. “Purely for pleasure, this time.”

Charlotte’s own smile was as much one of relief as of eagerness.

“I’d love to,” she said.

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“Then why don’t we start with dinner this evening? Restaurant of your choice.”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“Great.” He lowered his voice and nodded towards Samantha’s recumbent form. “But don’t tell Sam, eh? It’s possible she might feel jealous.”

Derek did not return to Tunbridge Wells that afternoon. Instead, he drove on to the motorway and headed towards Wales, intent on pursuing the hope Maurice Abberley had planted in his mind. Their second encounter had been infinitely more encouraging than their first.

Maurice struck Derek as a man willing to confront unpalatable facts even when they flew in the face of his own prejudices. Derek did not delude himself into believing there was any real affinity between them. All that united them was a desire to learn the truth, in Maurice’s case in order to avenge his aunt, in Derek’s in order to ex-onerate his brother.

He stopped for the night at a pub near Abergavenny and sat alone in a corner of the bar, plotting how best to approach the unapproach-able Frank Griffith. To plead? To demand? To reason? His choice might be crucial, yet it could not be made until he had met and taken stock of the man. Even then, it might be in vain. Griffith could easily prove immovable or genuinely unable to help. He could—

There Derek stifled the last of his speculations. They were as pointless as they were dispiriting. And, tomorrow, he would have no need of them.

Charlotte dined in vastly different circumstances at an award-winning restaurant beside the Thames. She was a stranger to such extravagance, not because she could not afford it, but because she had never seen any purpose in spoiling herself. Her boyfriends—such as they had been—would not have displayed any of Emerson McKitrick’s social accomplishment, nor would they have attracted—as he did—admiring glances from ladies at other tables. Charlotte was elated by the thought of being envied on his account, by the host of unspoken possibilities that clustered around their ever greater familiarity with each other.

“How come you’ve never married, Charlie?”

“I’ve never been asked.”

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“I can’t believe that.”

“It’s true. What’s your excuse?”

“Indecisiveness, I guess.”

“I can’t believe that either.”

“Well, it doesn’t necessarily mean not being able to make up your mind. It can also mean not taking risks with your emotions.”

“In that case, I know the feeling.”

“I thought you might. It doesn’t pay in the long run, does it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Don’t wait to be sure, Charlie. Not every time. If you do, you’ll just go on waiting.”

“Will I?” Their hands touched and briefly engaged. And Emerson’s only answer was a smile.

Later, with their meal over and the restaurant emptying, they strolled down to the river’s edge and watched the dining room lights shimmer on the black surface of the water while a restless moorhen splashed and clucked among the reeds on the opposite bank. Charlotte was to sleep at Swans’ Meadow that night, but she was reluctant for them to return there, knowing that, once they had done so, Emerson’s company would no longer be exclusively hers. She was reluctant, indeed, to break in any way the spell under which she had fallen. The silk of her dress felt cool against her skin, the clasp of his arm warm around her waist. When he kissed her, she was neither prepared nor surprised. It had been bound to happen. Only her self-doubt had made her think it might not.

“Nothing’s ever wasted, Charlie,” he whispered. “On a wild goose chase, you may find a swan.”

“Don’t flatter me too much. I might come to expect it.”

“Why shouldn’t you—when you deserve it?”

“But I don’t.” She was going to tell him. She knew that now. It was too late not to. “I’ve deceived you.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.” Too many years of loneliness and vulnerability were stored within her for judgement or deliberation to stand a chance.

She wanted to surrender herself to Emerson, body, soul, secrets and all. She did not want to be alone any more. “I don’t think Frank Griffith really destroyed those letters. I think he still has them at Hendre Gorfelen.”

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