Hand in Glove (3 page)

H A N D I N G L O V E

15

“Really? He never—” Charlotte stopped. Hyslop had probably thought it a kindness not to ask her to perform such a duty. “Will you go straightaway?”

“Yes. But there’ll be a sergeant here to take the list when you’ve finished it. It’s probably best to get the identification done as soon as possible.”

“Of course.”

“Afterwards, well . . . I was wondering if I could spend the night at Ockham House.”

“Certainly. You don’t need to ask.”

“There’ll be umpteen formalities to see to tomorrow. Registrar, solicitor and so forth. And I can’t say I fancy driving all the way back to Bourne End tonight.”

“All right. I’ll see you later.”

As she put the telephone down, Charlotte realized what a relief it would be to let Maurice take charge of the whole sad affair. Since her father’s death, he had become the calm and efficient organizer of family business. He had assumed control of Ladram Aviation, her father’s barely solvent flying school, and turned it into Ladram Avionics, an internationally successful company. He had negotiated the contracts relating to his own father’s poetical works from which her mother—and subsequently she—had handsomely benefited.

And he had consistently shown himself able to offer his half-sister a helping hand without trying to run her life. Now, once more, he would come to her rescue. And, as she walked slowly back into the Mentiplys’ sitting room, she acknowledged to herself that the sooner he did so the happier she would be.

The list at last completed and delivered, Charlotte drove back to Tunbridge Wells. It was pitch dark by the time she reached Ockham House and cold enough for the warmth of the day to seem a distant memory. At all events it felt cold, though whether the temperature was to blame—or Mrs Mentiply’s account of how she had found Beatrix—Charlotte was uncertain.

“He’d hit her with one of those heavy brass candlesticks. Several
times, I should say. I hardly recognized her at first. Her hair all matted
with blood. And this terrible wound in the side of her head. They told
me it must have been quick and I hope to God they’re right. But it won’t
16

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

fade quickly from my mind, I can tell you. I shan’t ever forget going up
those stairs and finding her huddled in the corner of the landing. Not
ever.”

Charlotte turned on more lights than she normally would and lit a fire, then poured herself the stiff drink Maurice had recommended earlier. As the fire gained a hold and the chill left her, she went in search of the family photograph album and found in it the last picture taken of Beatrix. Longer ago than she would have expected, it dated from a party thrown in honour of her eightieth birthday.

There, on the lawn at Swans’ Meadow—Maurice’s home beside the Thames at Bourne End—the family had staged a rare and photo-graphically commemorated gathering.

Beatrix was, naturally enough, the centre of the septet. Unusually tall for a woman of her generation, she had also remained resolutely straight-backed with the passage of time. Newly coiffured and barely smiling, she projected even greater self-possession in the picture than she had in life. Mary, Charlotte’s mother, standing to Beatrix’s left, could, indeed, have been the same age rather than twelve years younger. Hunched and peering, contriving somehow to frown and smile simultaneously, her appearance produced in Charlotte a surge of grief and guilt that was so intense she slammed the album shut. Then, after a swallow of gin, she reopened it.

Only to confront herself to her mother’s left, grinning fixedly at the camera. She had worn her hair too long then and favoured shape-less dresses intended to disguise her weight. Not that she need have worried on that score. Five years later, bereavement had achieved what a dozen different diets never had. Yet this image of herself reminded her why she had always, even as a child, sought to avoid being photographed. Not because of superstition or shyness, but because the camera could force her to do what she least desired: to see herself as others saw her.

On Charlotte’s left, unbalancing the group by standing a foot or so to the rear, was Mary’s brother, Jack Brereton. At the sight of him, red-faced and clearly more than slightly drunk, Charlotte chuckled.

Uncle Jack, thirteen years his sister’s junior, was the free and infuriating spirit that she was sure every family needed. Witty when sober and offensive when not—which meant at least half the time—he was as unreliable as he was lovable. As a result of their parents’ early death, he had lived with Mary even after her marriage to Tristram Abberley. Later, during the war, they had all lived with Beatrix in Rye

H A N D I N G L O V E

17

and from those crowded years in Jackdaw Cottage Uncle Jack had culled a vast fund of anecdotes with which to entertain those—like Charlotte—who had never had to endure him on a daily basis.

The three figures to Beatrix’s right were Maurice, his wife Ursula, and their daughter Samantha. They were a family within the family, the one branch of it where convention and continuity seemed assured.

Each of them was strikingly good-looking and seemingly happy to proclaim an easy-going affection for the other two. Hence the casual way in which Maurice had put his arm round Ursula’s waist. And hence the unthinking readiness with which Samantha held her mother’s hand.

Even at fifteen, Samantha’s clear-skinned beauty had not been in doubt, although the figure with which she was subsequently to turn many a head had yet to fill out. Ursula and she could just about—

Charlotte reluctantly conceded—be taken for sisters, so lightly and elegantly had Ursula coped with motherhood and early middle age.

They both had naturally wavy hair and an instinctive finesse of bearing, although it was an awareness of their own superiority—conveyed by the way they held their chins, the manner in which they met the camera’s gaze—that had always set Charlotte’s teeth on edge.

As her eyes moved to Maurice—calm, debonair and jauntily grinning—she heard a crunch of car tyres on the gravel of the drive that told her he was about to arrive in the flesh. Suddenly, without understanding why, she knew she did not wish to be found studying an old photograph in which two of the subjects were now dead. Accordingly, she closed the album and hurriedly put it away, allowing just enough time to compose her features in the mirror before opening the front door.

“Hello, old girl.” He greeted her with a hug and a weary smile.

“Hello, Maurice.” Stepping back from their embrace, Charlotte caught herself comparing him for an instant with his photographed image.

His hair was marginally thinner, perhaps, the smudges of grey at his temples more extensive. Otherwise, he was at fifty what he had been at forty-five: lean and craggily handsome, with a reassuring blend about him of strength and sincerity. He inspired trust even—perhaps especially—in those who did not know him. As for those who did, occasional descents into petulance were easy to forgive when set against his undoubted generosity.

“I could use a drink, Charlie, I really could.”

18

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

“I’ll pour you one. Come in and sit by the fire.”

He followed her into the lounge and subsided into an armchair.

By the time she had returned from the drinks cabinet with a large scotch and soda, he had loosened his tie and was massaging his forehead. “I’m glad you lit this,” he said, nodding at the blazing logs.

“Those mortuaries chill your blood, I can tell you.”

“I can imagine.”

“Be grateful that’s all you need to. Do you remember the last time I had to visit one?”

“For Dad.” She remembered well enough. She was never likely to forget. One foggy afternoon in November 1963, her father had crashed his light aeroplane in Mereworth Woods, killing himself and his passenger. It was at that point in their lives that Maurice had emerged from Ronnie Ladram’s jovial shadow and imposed his personality upon the family. Charlotte often suspected he had been secretly relieved at his step-father’s death, if only because it meant he could bring some order to the chaotic affairs of Ladram Aviation.

Though even now, more than twenty years later, he would never allow himself to admit as much.

“I spoke to Ursula on the car phone. She sends her love—and her sympathy.”

“That’s kind of her.” Charlotte took her glass back to the drinks cabinet, recharged it, then returned to the fireside. Maurice had lit a small cigar and, when he offered one to Charlotte, she surprised herself by accepting.

“The police were asking about Fairfax-Vane,” he said after a moment of silence.

“I know. They think he may be behind the break-in. But I hardly—”

“You didn’t meet him, Charlie.” It was true. Maurice had been the one delegated to visit Fairfax-Vane’s shop and attempt to buy back the furniture Mary had sold him. Without success, as it had turned out.

“Did he strike you as worse than just a con-man, then?”

“He struck me as slippery enough for anything.”

“Even murder?”

“I don’t imagine he intended it to go that far. I don’t even imagine he broke into the cottage himself. Probably some young tearaway he hired who panicked.”

“So, Beatrix was killed for a few thousand pounds’ worth of Tunbridge Ware?”

H A N D I N G L O V E

19

“More than a few thousand. Do you realize what that stuff fetches these days?”

“Not really.”

“A lot, believe me.”

“Oh, I do. But, even so, it seems . . . such a sad and pointless death.”

“I agree. Though perhaps Beatrix wouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she was never one to knuckle under to anything, was she?

The idea of dying in defence of her possessions might have appealed to her. She
was
eighty-five. Perhaps it was better than . . . whatever would have happened to her eventually.”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s about the only consoling thought I can come up with, I’m afraid.”

“Then we’d better cling to it, hadn’t we?” Charlotte sighed and gazed into the fire. “In the absence of any other.”

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

FOUR

Events the following day moved faster than Charlotte had anticipated. Thoughts of Beatrix—and the circumstances of her death—had kept her awake until the small hours. Then, when exhaustion had finally gained the upper hand, she overslept. When she came downstairs in mid-morning, it was to find Maurice engaged in a lengthy telephone conversation with his secretary at Ladram Avionics.

He had already, it was to transpire, made an appointment for them to see Beatrix’s solicitor in Rye that afternoon, pressure of work obliging him to push matters forward with some vigour. For this he apologized, though Charlotte did not think he needed to. As far as she was concerned, the formalities of death were best conducted speedily. If Maurice had displayed the same attitude after their mother’s death—rather than trying to cocoon her from the reality of it—she would, she now thought, have been grateful.

Over a late breakfast, they discussed their last meetings with 20

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

Beatrix. Charlotte had not seen her since Christmas, though she had spoken to her by telephone on several occasions, most recently on her eighty-fifth birthday. Maurice, by contrast, had been entertained to tea at Jackdaw Cottage less than a month ago, on the Sunday before Beatrix’s departure for her annual fortnight with Lulu Harrington in Cheltenham. The two had been at school together and with sudden dismay Charlotte realized that Lulu had yet to be informed of her old friend’s death.

She had no sooner begun contemplating the dismal task of contacting her than the telephone rang. It was Chief Inspector Hyslop’s sergeant, requesting that they call at Hastings Police Station as soon as possible. He declined to say why, but, since the urgency of his request seemed manifest, they agreed to set off straightaway.

Hyslop could scarcely disguise his satisfaction when they arrived. He escorted them to a room where, on one long table, were arranged the items of Tunbridge Ware Charlotte and Mrs Mentiply had listed as missing the previous evening.

“You recognize them, Miss Ladram?”

“Why, yes. These are the contents of Beatrix’s cabinet. There’s no question about it.”

“So we thought. They match your descriptions exactly.”

“You’ve recovered all of them?” put in Maurice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you find them?”

“A store-room at the rear of the Treasure Trove, Fairfax-Vane’s shop in Tunbridge Wells. The premises were searched early this morning.”

“And Fairfax-Vane?”

“Under arrest. Presently unable to account for his possession of these items.”

“My congratulations, Chief Inspector. You’ve made excellent progress.”

“Thank you, sir. If I could ask you, Miss Ladram, to make a statement formally identifying them as Miss Abberley’s property . . .”

“Gladly.”

“Then I’ll be free to return to my questioning of Mr Fairfax-Vane. Though perhaps I ought to say just Fairfax. We gather ‘Vane’

is a purely professional handle.”

H A N D I N G L O V E

21

“Even his surname’s a fraud, then?” asked Maurice.

“Yes, sir.” Hyslop smiled. “As you say.”

Charlotte should have been more pleased than she was by the news of Fairfax-Vane’s arrest. To her mind, the rapid solution of the crime only heightened its pointlessness. Theft and murder were bad enough, she reflected, without being compounded by incompetence.

After she had made her statement, they visited the Registrar’s office nearby. The provision of a death certificate took longer than seemed necessary, but was eventually accomplished. They were, indeed, only a few minutes late for their three o’clock appointment in Rye with Beatrix’s solicitor, Mr Ramsden. He was a dull and deferen-tial man of middle years to whom Beatrix’s straightforward requirements must have seemed utterly unexceptional. He offered his condolences, then proceeded to explain the provisions of the will he had drawn up for his client some years previously.

“I believe you are aware, Mr Abberley, that Miss Abberley appointed you her executor?”

“Indeed.”

“Then it will suffice for me to summarize how her estate is to be disposed of. There is a bequest of ten thousand pounds to Mrs Avril Mentiply and a gift of five thousand pounds to the East Sussex Naturalists’ Trust.”

“Lame ducks of all species were her speciality,” said Maurice.

Ramsden glanced from one to the other of them, clearly discomposed by this shaft of humour. “To proceed. Jackdaw Cottage, which she owned outright, goes to you, Miss Ladram, along with its contents, including all Miss Abberley’s personal possessions.”

“Good heavens. I’d no idea.” Nor had she. Insofar as she had considered the point, she had assumed Maurice, as Beatrix’s nearest blood relative, would inherit everything.

“She told me some time ago, old girl,” said Maurice, patting her hand. “You were her god-daughter, after all.”

“But . . .” It was futile to explain how such generosity only increased the guilt she felt for avoiding Beatrix in recent months. She fell silent.

“The residue of her estate,” Ramsden resumed, “devolves upon you, Mr Abberley. That comprises such capital as may be left after bequests and inheritance tax and such royalties as may continue to be 22