Hand in Glove (38 page)

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conflict which had recently extended its crabbed old hand to touch their lives. “Chief Inspector Golding pointed out to me . . .” he hesitantly began.

“Pointed out what?”

“That Colin’s defence, such as it is, collapses completely without Tristram’s letters.” He looked round to her and tried to smile. “Sorry,”

he murmured.

“Don’t apologize. It’s I who should apologize to you—and your brother—for what Maurice did.”

“But as Colin is to me, so Maurice was to you. We can’t choose our brothers. Or cease to care about them.”

“You reminded me once that Maurice is only—was only—my half-brother.”

“Perhaps that’s what I was apologizing for.” Before caution could restrain the impulse, he placed his hand over hers where she was resting it on the low wall in front of them. She made no move to shake it off. “You do have my sympathy, you know. My sincere sympathy.”

She glanced at him. A smile flickered across her lips. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Derek removed his hand, glad he had been allowed to decide when he should do so. “Do you think this is really about the Spanish Civil War?” he enquired.

“The document dates from then and is written in Spanish—or Catalan. What else are we to think?”

“Nothing. Which is what worries me.”

“In what way?”

“If it—whatever it is—matters enough, fifty years later, for people to kill and kidnap for . . .”

“Yes?”

“Then you need to be careful. Very careful.”

“Being careful won’t help Sam.”

“Perhaps not. But I don’t know Sam, I only know you. I’m only worried about you.”

“Don’t be.”

“If there’s anything I can do . . . to help . . .”

“There’s nothing.” She shook her head. “If Natasha will talk to anybody, it’s me.”

“What about Ursula?”

“There’d be too much tension between them. Besides, the police 270

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are keeping a close watch on her. I shall tell her what I propose to do, of course. If she insists on informing the police, so be it. But she won’t. Take my word for it. She’ll agree it’s best for me to go—alone.”

Charlotte turned away and started back up the slope towards the road. As Derek caught her up, a possibility came into his mind to which he gave immediate voice. “Is Natasha the only person you plan to visit in the States?”

Charlotte frowned. “Who else would I visit?”

“I don’t know. It’s just . . .” He gritted his teeth, determined to put their new-found trust to the test. “I’ve been thinking. Why didn’t the kidnappers try to obtain the document earlier? Why wait fifty years?”

“Because they didn’t know where it was.”

“But now they do. Or they think they do. Something—or someone—drew their attention to Tristram’s letters. Who? Only a few people knew about them. You. Me. Maurice. Ursula. Frank Griffith. And Emerson McKitrick.”

Charlotte did not reply at once. They walked on in silence for a minute or so, then she said: “If you genuinely want to help me, Derek, don’t ask about Emerson McKitrick.”

“All right. I won’t. But he is another reason why you should be careful.”

“Then I promise I will be.” She stopped and looked at him. “Satisfied?” There was no sarcasm in the remark. Her expression hovered, as Derek suspected his own did, on the brink of admitting what neither of them could quite believe.

“Not really, Charlotte, no,” he said with a smile.

She smiled back. “Everybody calls me Charlie.”

“Could I be an exception?”

“You could be, yes.”

“Then I rather think I’d like to be.”

Halfway back to Tunbridge Wells, Charlotte said suddenly: “I’d like to visit a bookshop.” Seeing Derek’s puzzled look, she added: “You mentioned the Spanish Civil War and I’ve been thinking about the message the kidnappers told me to use to contact them.”

“ ‘Pen pals can be reunited. Orwell will pay.’ ”

“It has to be George Orwell, doesn’t it? Didn’t he fight in Spain?”

“He may have done.”

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“Then he’s bound to have written about it. Park at the railway station and we’ll try in Hatchard’s.”

Half an hour later, they were scanning the autobiography shelves in Hatchard’s. Orwell was represented by
Down and Out in Paris and
London
and one other volume whose title seized their immediate attention:
Homage to Catalonia
. Charlotte lifted it from the row and together they read the note on the back.
This is Orwell’s famous account
of his experience as a militiaman in the Spanish Civil War. In it he
brings to bear . . .

“Orwell will pay homage to Catalonia,” said Derek under his breath. “That must be what it means.”

Charlotte nodded, turned to the front of the book and pointed to the year of first publication.

“1938. The year Tristram died.”

“And the year he entrusted a document written in Catalan to Beatrix. Maurice was right.”

Charlotte marched to the counter and paid for the book. Derek waited until they were standing outside, with Saturday afternoon shoppers bustling past them, before asking: “What was Maurice right about?”

“ ‘Something’s snaked its way out of the Spanish Civil War—from fifty years ago—to wrap itself round our throats.’ Those were his very words. I pooh-poohed them at the time. And less than twenty-four hours later he was dead.” She turned to look at Derek.

“He could feel it, you see. And now I think I can too.”

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FOURTEEN

Maurice’s funeral was in many respects indistinguishable from Beatrix’s. Both were well-attended and efficiently staged. Both progressed smoothly from sun-lanced church to manicured crematorium. And both seemed to be over before they had begun. Yet there were also significant differences. Most of those 272

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who had come to Beatrix’s had done so out of love, whereas duty clearly impelled the score of senior staff from Ladram Avionics who turned out to bid Maurice a corporate farewell. The same could be said of Miller, Golding and D.C. Finch, who contrived to look more like miscel-laneous employees of the undertaker than police officers, let alone friends of the deceased. And there was not even a pretence of mourning among the reporters and photographers who clogged Cookham churchyard and followed the cortège to Slough Crematorium and back.

Nor did a spirit of affectionate remembrance obtain among the few whom Ursula felt obliged to entertain afterwards at Swans’

Meadow. Aliki had returned from Cyprus in time to cater for the event, but nobody displayed much appetite for the food she had prepared and most departed as soon as decency permitted. The only exception to this rule was Uncle Jack, who clearly had his sights set on several more whiskies when Charlotte insisted, at Ursula’s request, on driving him to the station and seeing him aboard the London train.

When she returned to Swans’ Meadow, she found Ursula had embarked on a cold-blooded drinking bout and was reluctant to accompany her into the garden, the one venue where Charlotte felt she could safely disclose what had happened. But accompany her she eventually did. And sobriety was instantly restored when she heard Charlotte’s news.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she responded, a sudden access of hope lighting up her face. “It means Sam still has a chance.”

“Only if we can find the document,” Charlotte cautioned. “That’s why I think it would be worth going to New York.”

“Thank God you’re prepared to, Charlie. I’d never be able to without the police getting wind of it. And they mustn’t, they absolutely mustn’t.”

“I agree.”

“When will you go?”

“As soon as you can supply me with Natasha’s address and telephone number.”

“You propose to forewarn her?”

“I can’t risk her being away. And I don’t think she’ll refuse to see me, do you?”

“I really couldn’t—” Ursula pursed her lips and suppressed her evident irritation. “No, I don’t suppose she will.”

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“Is the . . . er . . . the report Beatrix commissioned here?”

“Yes. You may as well take it away with you. After all, I don’t need to ensure myself against Maurice’s treachery any more, do I?” Ursula flicked a fragment of cigarette ash off the sleeve of her black dress and added, almost as an afterthought, “Poor Maurice,” before turning and walking away towards the house.

As Charlotte started after her, it crossed her mind that this throw-away remark was the kindest thing Ursula had found to say about the man she had been married to for more than twenty years since the day they had found him dead. She had succeeded in damning him with the faintest of eulogies.

Charlotte did not read the report until she was back at Ockham House. She wondered how Beatrix had reacted to its revelation of the double life Maurice was leading. Had it been the final confirmation of her suspicions? On finishing it, had she realized for the first time that he meant to kill her? If so, she had prepared for the event more thoroughly than he could ever have imagined. And she had needed to, for she had known—as Maurice had not—that there was more at stake than Tristram’s royalties, far more.

Poor Maurice, as his widow had truly said. He had expected everybody to abide by the rules he had applied to his own life. He had expected weakness to yield to strength. He had expected money to answer every need. No doubt, even at the end, as he saw the blade of the knife flash in the moonlight, he had assumed his killers would rob his corpse. But they had not. Instead, they had fed it with the only food he knew.

Charlotte wept then, more freely than at any time since his death.

She wept for them all—Tristram, Beatrix, Maurice and Samantha.

And lastly she wept for herself. Then she dried her tears and read aloud the epigraph Orwell had chosen for
Homage to Catalonia
to make sure her voice would not betray her.

“ ‘Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou be like unto him. Answer a fool according to his folly, lest he be wise in his own conceit.’ ” She was reminded of a remark in Tristram’s last letter to Beatrix—“
Such a foolish conceit, in both senses, eh
?”—and she wondered if she was about to succumb to a similar temptation. To start what she could not finish. To initiate more than she knew. “No matter,” she said to herself as she walked into the hall. “It must be done.”

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She picked up the telephone and dialled the number recorded in the report for Maurice’s Fifth Avenue apartment.

“Yes?” The voice came distantly, accompanied by an echo that seemed to rob it of identity.

“Natasha van Ryneveld?”

“Who is this?”

“Charlotte Ladram.”

“Why, Charlie, you take me by surprise.” The accent was superficially American, but beneath there seemed to lie some other tongue, threatening to emerge at the end of every sentence. “I hadn’t . . . Why have you called?”

“Maurice was creamated today.”

“Ah. Was he? I thought it would be about now. If only . . . But still you don’t say why you’ve called.”

“I think we should meet.”

There was a lengthy pause before Natasha replied. “For what purpose?”

“You asked about the circumstances of Maurice’s death.”

“And you want to tell me about them?”

“Yes.”

“You will come here?”

“Yes.”

“Just to satisfy the curiosity of your brother’s mistress? I don’t think so, Charlie, do you?”

“When you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand. And I hope you’ll want to help.”

“Help with what?”

“We must meet if I’m to explain.”

Natasha sighed audibly and said nothing for so long Charlotte thought she had walked away from the telephone. But she had not.

And when she spoke it was so suddenly and decisively that Charlotte felt her heart pound at her words. “Come then, Charlie. Perhaps, after all, it’s time we met.”

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FIFTEEN

Charlotte had never crossed the Atlantic before. It seemed so quick and easy when the time came that she wondered why she had waited so long. But as the taxi bore her in from JFK

Airport along featureless expressways beneath a gun-metal sky, her wonderment fell away. This was an alien landscape, man-made in its totality according to a scale she could not comprehend. When the taxi emerged from a tunnel beneath the East River amidst Manhattan’s towering walls of glass, she suddenly felt unequal to the task she had set herself. She was too small, too weak, too long sheltered from the harshnesses of the world.

But inadequate and ill-prepared though she felt, she knew she could not turn back now. Already they were on Fifth Avenue, with the open expanse of Central Park on one side and a phalanx of elegant apartment blocks on the other. The taxi drew to a halt where a purple awning reached out to the edge of the pavement. She checked the number on the polished brass wall-plaque and knew she had arrived.

As she climbed out and approached, the door was opened from within. A uniformed doorman smiled in welcome and confirmed Miss van Ryneveld was expecting her. And so she entered one more hidden compartment of her brother’s life.

Natasha was waiting at the door of the apartment when Charlotte emerged from the elevator. She was a dark-haired woman of medium height with a faintly Asiatic cast to her brow and complexion. She held her head proudly and, even before she moved, conveyed a feline quality of grace and languor. She was wearing a loosely belted grey dress and black high-heeled shoes with very little jewellery or adornment save a jet pendant at her throat. Charlotte was immediately disconcerted by this hint of mourning and was grateful when Natasha smiled and stepped back, inviting her to enter.

“Come in, Charlie. You’re exactly on time. Just as I’d expect of Maurice’s sister.”

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