Hand in Glove (58 page)

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

railing, his gloved hand coming to rest no more than a few inches from Derek’s fingers. “You have brought the document?”

“Of course.” He reached slowly into his pocket and withdrew the envelope. “It’s all here.”

“Except the map.”

“I explained that to Señor Galazarga.”

“Yes. You explained. And so did Miss Ladram. But tell me again.

Why did Miss Abberley destroy the map?”

“To seal the secret of the gold for ever. To draw its poison.”

Astonishingly, Delgado smiled. “What a wise lady she was.”

“You . . . You approve?”

“I admire the reasoning, certainly. I am eighty-eight years old, Mr Fairfax, and materially well provided for. The gold has never meant less to me than now. When I look back at all the things I did to obtain it . . . When I hear how an English spinster finally cheated me of it . . . What am I to do but smile?”

“But . . . if you don’t care . . .”

“Why did I have the girl abducted? That was Norberto’s idea. He wants the gold for the leisured future it will buy him after I am dead.

I see my own desire for it burning in him still. He is my son, but he is not my heir. His mother was . . . a servant. Thus my sin is his disquali-fication. And thus he sees the gold as the only inheritance he can hope for. Whereas I see it, with the infuriating piety of old age, merely as a curse. And I do not wish to curse him. For his sake, I am glad the gold is lost for ever.”

“Yet you still want Ortiz’s statement?”

“Of course. He died taunting me with its existence. He died knowing I would never be able to rest until I had found it and destroyed it. Map or no map, I must have it.”

“Then take it.” Derek held the envelope out and was surprised when Delgado grasped it with his right hand, the fingers closing expertly around one end and flicking up the unsealed flap. He lifted the contents out with his left hand and began leafing through them, scanning the pages as he went.

“Ortiz’s writing. Yes, I recognize it, even after all these years. The bold strokes of a Catalan anarchist. The whip-lash serifs of the one victim I have never forgotten.”

“Victim?”

“My victim, Mr Fairfax. One of many. Are you surprised I admit it?”

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“I suppose . . . I expected . . .”

“Dissimulation? Denial? What would be the point? Here, on this bridge, seen but not heard, we can say anything we like. You are a stranger to me. We will never meet again. Thus I can confess my sins to you more freely even than to my priest. For I hold the proof now, in Ortiz’s own hand and words. I am safe at last. It is all here, as you promised. All that I hoped to gain from Miss Abberley when I visited her in Rye forty-eight years ago. How well I remember that smug little English seaside town where she outmanoeuvred me over the tea cups and damask napkins, where the methods I had perfected of beating and crushing and squeezing the truth from my victims were useless. When, do you suppose, did she realize she could defeat me?”

“I don’t think she was trying to defeat you.”

“Perhaps not. But she did. She and Ortiz and Tristram Abberley between them.” Reaching the last sheet, he sighed, shuffled them together and slipped them back into the envelope.

“What will you do with it?”

“Burn it. Make certain the secret cannot outlive me. Ensure Norberto cannot use it to destroy my granddaughter’s opinion of me. When I learned of his contact with Tristram Abberley’s biographer—”

“It wasn’t
you
McKitrick came to see?”

“No, Mr Fairfax. It was Norberto, seeking the means to make himself rich and me worthless in Yolanda’s eyes. She knows nothing of any of this. She is the bright jewel of the barren years I have lived since her father . . . was taken from me. Yolanda deplores what I fought for fifty years ago. But she respects me for
having
fought, for having believed. If she discovered I was a traitor even to fascism, if she learned I was a thief in the midst of war . . . I would die twice.

Once, as I shortly must, at God’s bidding. And once, more agonizingly, in her wide and trusting eyes.”

“All this,” said Derek slowly, “Samantha’s abduction, her father’s murder—”

“Of which she is unaware.”

“Not for much longer. She’ll know soon enough. But what she won’t know is why.”

“But you will know, Mr Fairfax.”

“Yes. To protect
your
reputation.”

“Does it seem worth it?”

“Not remotely.”

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“It would not, to you. But you are less than half my age. When you are as old as I am, you will understand that how we are to be remembered is the only thing that really matters.”

“And how are you to be remembered?”

“As a relic of bygone values. As a hard but honourable man. Not as a thief or a murderer. Not as a traitor or a torturer. Not now I have this.” He patted the envelope and smiled faintly. “You are thinking I was all those things, are you not? And you are right. But now you will never be able to prove it. Nobody will.”

Suddenly angered by his complacency, Derek said: “So much for your reputation. What about your conscience?”

“I do not have one. I lost it, along with my right hand, in the service of my country. When I sided with the insurrectionists in July 1936, I did so because I thought they would win. Others fought for their beliefs. We all lost. But I only lost a fortune in gold. They lost everything.” His gaze drifted past Derek, towards the Land Rover and the figure standing beside it. “Who
is
your companion, Mr Fairfax?”

“He served with Ortiz in the International Brigade.”

“Ah. I might have guessed.”

“Ortiz saved his life during the retreat from Teruel by giving himself up. He didn’t know until recently what happened to Ortiz.

But now he does.”

Delgado’s mouth set in a stern line. “It would have been better for him to go on not knowing. Better by far.”

For a moment, Derek was tempted to ask exactly how Ortiz had died. Delgado knew. He had been responsible. He had given the orders and watched while they were carried out. Perhaps he had even—

But no. Derek would not ask. If he did, he might be told. And if he knew, how could he pretend to Frank that he did not? Ignorance was in the end their only salvation.

As if reading his thoughts, Delgado said: “Tell him this for me, Mr Fairfax. Ortiz died knowing he had lost everything. And yet he knew also he had won. I did not realize it at the time, of course. But, as the years passed, the havoc his secret would wreak in my life, if it were ever known, grew and grew, till it was a stormcloud large and dark enough to blot out all my achievements. That was his victory. He saw it at the end. He knew what it would mean. He understood. And, later, so did I.”

“Is that supposed to . . . to excuse what you did?”

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“No. We are not here to offer or grant excuses. We are here to honour a bargain—and to end my conflict with the family of Tristram Abberley. I have what I came for. And you shall have the same.” He turned and waved stiffly with his right hand.

As Derek watched, Galazarga led Samantha clear of the two vehicles, holding her by the elbow. When they reached a bollard at the end of the bridge, he released her and she started forward hesitantly, then began to hurry, walking clumsily, as if short of practice. She looked haggard and distraught, her hair matted and dirty, her clothes creased and worn. Her eyes were wide and staring, her cheeks hollow, her lips parted in exhaustion and disbelief.

“You need fear no tricks or surprises, Mr Fairfax. Norberto would not dare to disobey me to my face. Take the girl back to her mother. It is time, I think, for us all to go home.”

“Sam?” said Derek, stepping into her path for fear she would otherwise walk straight past.

She pulled up. “Yes. I’m Sam. Who . . . Who are you?”

“A friend of Charlotte’s.”

She frowned. “Don’t I . . . Aren’t you . . .”

“We met once. But that doesn’t matter. Just carry on to the Land Rover. Another friend is waiting for you there. I’ll follow.”

“All right.”

As she walked on, Derek glanced round at Delgado. But he had already turned and started back towards the other side of the bridge, where Galazarga stood waiting for him, his face icily expressionless.

Soon, Derek would be alone on this narrow way across the water, this transitory meeting-point of half a dozen destinies. Delgado’s secret was safe. But so was the gold. Nobody had won. Unless it was Beatrix.

Only she had consistently wanted an end to the greeds and grudges of fifty years ago. And now she had had her way. It really was, as Delgado had said, time to go home. Eagerly, Derek swung on his heel and began to retrace his steps.

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TWENTY-FOUR

Miller and Golding had evidently changed their minds by Saturday morning. After a largely sleepless night in a cell at Newbury Police Station, Charlotte was released without explanation immediately after breakfast. She was driven back to Tunbridge Wells in a panda car, monitoring on her wristwatch the gradual approach of nine o’clock while heading east along the M25.

What was happening in Galicia she could only imagine. She knew, moreover, that she would have to go on
only imagining
until definite news reached her. A visit or telephone call to Colin Fairfax at this stage could be just the mistake her release was intended to provoke.

In such circumstances, her return to Ockham House was merely the exchange of one kind of cell for another. She could go nowhere in case word came while she was out. She could speak to nobody for fear of betraying herself. And she could think of nothing beyond all the reasons why Frank’s plan might have miscarried, why he and Derek, especially Derek, might, thanks to her, be in mortal danger.

An hour of such agonizing made confinement unbearable. Leaving the French windows open to ensure she would hear the telephone if it rang, she walked out on to the lawn, where the autumn leaves had fallen thick and fast during the past distracted week. She remembered the hot day in June when the family had assembled there after Beatrix’s funeral and Derek had burst in on them, levelling accusations they had all agreed were absurd. The only absurdity apparent to her now was their collective ignorance, their mutual unawareness of what the future held. It was not yet four months ago, but seemed in other ways as distant as her own childhood, when they had played French cricket on this same lawn, her father winking as he tossed the tennis ball towards her and Maurice smirking as he crouched by the holly-bush, preparing to catch her out.
“Hit it this way, Charlie. Go
on. You can—”

Suddenly, a car appeared up the drive, moving fast enough to throw a shower of gravel on to the lawn when it braked to a halt. It

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was a large rust-pocked old Jaguar, similar to a model Charlotte’s father had once owned. Colin Fairfax climbed out, grinning from ear to ear.

“What is it?” Charlotte cried.

“Good news.”

“Really?”

“The best.” He lowered his voice as she approached. “Derek rang me from a bar in Castro Caldelas about twenty minutes ago. I thought I’d come straight over in case you’d been released, which I’m glad to see you have. Well, so has your niece. Everything went according to plan. She’s with Derek—safe and sound.”

“Oh, thank God.” Impulsively, Charlotte leant up and kissed him.

For a moment, the car, his smile and her sudden elation made it seem as if her father had arrived home from work, armed as he often was with a present for her. “And thank
you,
Colin. Without you, it wouldn’t have been possible.”

“True.” His smile broadened. “But, after what I’ve been through recently, pulling the wool over the old bill’s eyes was a real pleasure.”

“What you’ve been through is the fault of my family—the family you’ve just placed hugely in your debt.”

“Freedom must be making me generous. How about a drink to celebrate?”

“Certainly. Come inside.”

It was over now. The uncertainty. The misery. The suffering Maurice had caused to one and all by meddling in matters he did not understand. Life could begin again, on a note not of triumph over the past but of liberation from it. Laughing at the simple joy of it, Charlotte led the way towards the house. There she poured Colin a large scotch and herself a scarcely smaller gin to toast the success of their strange and fleeting alliance.

“How long before the news becomes official, do you think?”

“Several hours, I shouldn’t wonder. Derek said they planned to drop Sam at the police station in Santiago de Compostela. God knows how long it’ll take the Spanish authorities to sort things out from there.”

“Meanwhile, only we know she’s safe. It seems a pity her mother should have to go on thinking the worst until . . . Do you know, I’ve half a mind to call her right now.” But, as soon as she had said it, Charlotte realized how unwise such an act would be. “I can’t, can I?”

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“Not if you want to be sure of keeping our part in this secret.”

“If only Ursula were here. If only I could tell her without running the risk of being overheard.” The obvious solution flashed into her mind. “Why don’t I drive up and put her out of her agony?”

Then another objection arose. “But my car’s still at Speldhurst. Colin, could you—”

“I’ll take you the whole way,” said Colin, draining his scotch and gazing fondly at the bottle. “Matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind letting your sister-in-law know it was
me
who helped save her daughter.”

“All right,” said Charlotte decisively. “Wait here while I change into something that doesn’t smell of a standard issue police mattress.”

“Want a hand?”

“Wait here!”

When Charlotte returned to the lounge ten minutes later, she found Colin seated on the sofa, gazing benignly at Beatrix’s old Tunbridge Ware work-table, which had stood empty in the corner of the room since Charlotte had removed it from Jackdaw Cottage shortly after the funeral.

“I’ve just been admiring it,” said Colin. “Lovely marquetry. One of Russell’s, I shouldn’t wonder. Your aunt’s, of course. I remember seeing it there—during my brief visit.”

“A brief visit with enduring consequences.”

“I should say so.” Colin sipped at his scotch and smiled gently, as if reflecting on the irony as well as the injustice of what he had endured.

“But they’re nearly at an end now.”

“What are?”

“The consequences.”

“Ah. I see what you mean.”

“So, shall we go?”

“Yes.” Colin heaved himself up. “Let’s do that.”

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TWENTY-FIVE

Driving Samantha Abberley from the Sil Gorge to Santiago de Compostela had not proved the carefree aftermath to his encounter with Delgado that Derek had anticipated. At first, she had been too confused and disorientated to say much. But a stop for breakfast near Orense had enabled her to order her thoughts and absorb the reality of her new-found freedom. From then on, the questions had flowed. And as Derek’s answers had grown more evasive, so her demands for information had grown more strident.

“You’re Derek Fairfax, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Helping you.”

“But why? You’re no friend of mine.”

“I’m a friend of Charlotte’s.”

“Charlie? What’s she got to do with this?”

“She arranged it.”

“She did? Not my father?”

“No. Not your father.”

“But he knows about this, doesn’t he?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean your family will explain everything. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s for your own good. It was part of the deal we struck with your
kidnappers.”

“Who are they—the people who were holding me?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t. Isn’t it enough to know you’re safe?”

“No. I want to understand what happened to me. Why I had to go
through all that.”

“And maybe you’ll find out,”
Frank had interrupted.
“But not
from us.”

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