Hand in Glove (7 page)

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approved. Lulu Harrington did not attend, having sent Charlotte a brief note explaining that she did not feel equal to the journey. But there was a full turn-out of family members, Samantha having arrived home for the summer from Nottingham University the day before and Uncle Jack having done his best to sober up as well as smarten up for the occasion.

Eyeing her relatives across the crematorium chapel, Charlotte caught herself thinking what a typically English amalgam they were of restraint and indifference. As soon as she had decided to exempt Maurice and herself from this charge, however, she realized how unfair she was being. Why should Ursula and Samantha express more than they felt at the death of an old and not always companionable woman? The manner of her death was not their fault and could not be altered by any amount of conspicuous grieving.

Besides, they played the parts allotted to them with commendable diligence. Ursula assumed her decorous place beside Maurice in the garden of remembrance, shook hands with all the mourners and thanked them for coming. Jack refrained from cracking a single joke.

And Samantha’s distant expression could easily have been taken for pent-up emotion, so winsomely affected did a black dress and hat make her appear.

Afterwards, the family adjourned to Ockham House for tea. At first, it was clear that none of them knew whether to strike a note of sorrow or of celebration. Had Beatrix died in her sleep, her age and mental alertness would have been counted as reasons to take comfort from her passing. As it was, one violent moment cast its shadow over a lifetime of serenity. At all events, Charlotte supposed Beatrix’s life had been serene, although the truth was that nobody had known her well enough to be absolutely certain.

For once, Jack’s waggish ways were welcome. He it was who prompted Charlotte to offer the scotches and gins everyone was silently craving and, from that point on, conversation and affectionate reminiscence flowed. The need to function as a group faded as the stilted mood of the funeral ebbed away. Jack began to monopolize Samantha’s attention with his lubricated and faintly lecherous wit.

Ursula drifted out on to the lawn to smoke a cigarette. And Maurice sought to reassure Charlotte about his stewardship of her inheritance.

“I think I can safely claim to have put everything in order, Charlie.

Not that it was difficult. Beatrix ran her affairs very efficiently.”

“I’m sure she did.”

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“A formidable lady, in many ways. I shall miss her.”

“We shall
all
miss her.”

A peal of laughter from Samantha floated across to them and Maurice smiled. “Well, you and I will, certainly.” He grew more serious.

“I leave for New York tomorrow. Life—and business—must go on.”

“Of course.” Maurice seemed to spend half his time in the United States these days, which was not surprising in view of Ladram Avionics’ steady expansion in the American market. “And how is . . .

business?”

“Is that a polite enquiry or a shareholder speaking?” He grinned.

“Either way, the answer’s the same. Never better.”

“Then, either way, I’m glad to hear it.”

“But it means I shall have to leave you in the lurch where Jackdaw Cottage is concerned.”

“You’ve done more than I could reasonably have expected already, Maurice. It’s high time I took a hand.”

“What do you think you’ll do with the place? Sell?”

“I suppose so. That is . . . What else can I do with it? It’s what I should do with this house as well, come to that.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve told you so often enough. It would fetch a good price. And it might help you to . . . start afresh, so to speak.”

“You’re right. I know. But knowing and doing are two—” She broke off at the sudden realization that her voice was the only sound in the room. Jack’s guffaws had ceased. Samantha’s giggles had died.

Turning, she saw they were both looking towards the open French windows. Ursula was standing there. With a stranger beside her.

Derek left Fithyan & Co. early that afternoon and toured the bookshops of Tunbridge Wells in search of two copies of
Tristram
Abberley: A Critical Biography
. He found only one and the assistant looked puzzled by his request to order a second, but she assured him that it would take no more than a couple of weeks to obtain.

Sitting in his car, he unwrapped the book and gazed at the face that stared up at him from the cover. According to what he had read on the back while standing in the shop, Tristram Abberley had died of wounds incurred while fighting in the Spanish Civil War.

Derek was not surprised therefore by the martial air of the photograph, clearly taken in Spain some time before the poet’s death. He was a slim good-looking man of about thirty, with short and already

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receding hair above a clear and square-jawed face. His uniform was dusty and ill-fitting, the ruined wall against which he was leaning sun-baked and crumbling. But none of that mattered. The nonchalant angle at which he held a cigarette between the first and second fingers of his left hand; the disdainful arching of his eyebrows; the casual pose he struck against the wall: all these captured and conveyed the personality of one whose self-confidence could survive any adversities.

Derek was about to open the book when he caught sight of one of his clients approaching along the pavement. Instantly, he felt he must not be seen. Not with
this
book at
this
time. Hastily, he pushed it out of view beneath the dashboard, started the car and turned into the traffic.

The roads were busy. The afternoon was hot. As he trailed and braked his way up across the Common towards Mount Ephraim, he began to think about Charlotte Ladram and how he might best approach her. He had looked up her address in the telephone directory earlier and had recognized Manor Park as the name of one of Tunbridge Wells’

many quiet residential side-roads lined by tree-screened villas. The directory had listed the subscriber as Mrs M. Ladram. Her mother, perhaps? If so, she must have been the woman Colin bought the furniture from last year. But the police had told Colin she was dead. The discrepancy was easily explained, since the directory was a two-year-old edition, but it left open the possibility that Miss Ladram no longer lived there. In that event, Derek would be reduced to asking Dredge for information, something he had hoped to avoid.

It was the thought of explaining himself to Dredge that finally decided the issue. Much more deliberation, he knew, would undermine his resolve completely. He took the next turning on the right, paused to consult his street-map, then set off again, arriving a few minutes later in Manor Park. There he left his car and began to walk, checking each house name as he went. It was a neighbourhood of such heavy-curtained quietude that he felt reluctant even to clear his throat, but the trees which denied him a view into most of the gardens at least ensured he could not be seen from within.

Ockham House disclosed itself as a glimpse of stolid gabling behind a high thorn hedge. A gravelled drive curved out of sight beyond the entrance and, as he started up it, Derek felt intensely conscious of the crunching noise his shoes made at every step.

Then, rounding a screen of rhododendrons, he came upon a 46

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

flower-bordered lawn, with the house set above it on slightly higher ground. It was a stuccoed villa of modest proportions, bay-fronted and high chimneyed, with little in the way of architectural elaboration.

Derek felt strangely encouraged by its lack of grandeur and quick-ened his pace.

As he approached the front door, he saw that the lawn curved round to the side of the house. There, seated on a wicker chair in a sunny corner, was a woman in a dark dress, smoking a cigarette. He could not tell whether she had seen him, nor whether she was Charlotte Ladram, but he felt it would seem odd to ignore her, so he walked slowly towards her across the lawn.

As he drew nearer, it became apparent that her dress was not merely dark but black, as were her stockings and the shoes she had kicked off in front of her. She was definitely not Charlotte Ladram, being taller and slimmer, with fashionably short blonde hair. And he could be sure she had not seen him, because she had her eyes closed.

She was leaning back in her chair, savouring the sunlight and each lungful of smoke. Beside her, on the grass, was a narrow-brimmed black hat. It was the hat that removed the last doubt in Derek’s mind about why she was dressed as she was. But even as he decided to turn and walk away, she opened one eye, then the other, and looked at him.

“Good afternoon.” Her voice was clipped and husky. “And who might you be?”

“I . . . I’m sorry . . . My name . . . That is, I was looking for Miss Charlotte Ladram.”

“For Charlie?” She smiled. “She hasn’t told us about you. Is this a recent acquaintance?”

“No. She doesn’t . . . Is she in?”

“Oh, yes. She’s in.”

“Well, perhaps this isn’t . . . the right time.”

“No, no. The more the merrier, you might say. Let me show you the way.”

“There’s really no—”

But it was too late. She rose, stepped into her shoes and beckoned for him to follow her towards the house. He had no choice but to comply, certain though he now was that he had arrived at the worst possible time. A short flight of steps led up from the lawn to some open French windows. The woman paused as she reached them and waited for him to catch up. In the room beyond her, he could see four figures turning to look in his direction. They too were wearing black.

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It was Derek Fairfax. As Charlotte recognized him, a shaft of anger lanced through her. What could the man be thinking of ? To arrive at such a time was either crass insensitivity or a calculated insult. If he thought such an approach would aid his brother’s cause, he was much mistaken.

“A visitor for you, Charlie,” said Ursula. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch the name.”

“A friend of yours?” murmured Maurice.

“No. He’s Derek Fairfax. Colin Fairfax’s brother.”

“Good God. What—”

“I’m sorry.” Fairfax stepped into the room. “I really am sorry to intrude like this. I had no idea . . . that the funeral was . . .”

“Fairfax?” said Jack with a frown. “Isn’t that . . . the name of . . .”

“The man responsible for Beatrix’s death,” said Charlotte. “I can’t imagine what brings you here, Mr Fairfax.”

“I came to express my condolences.”

“You could have done that by letter if you thought it appropriate.”

“Yes. But—”

“Have you come for some other reason?”

“Well . . . In a sense. But perhaps I could call back another—”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“If you have something to say,” put in Maurice, “why don’t you say it?”

Fairfax’s eyes flashed around the room. He was licking his lips and there was a trickle of sweat at the side of his brow. In other circumstances, Charlotte might have felt sorry for him. But these were not other circumstances. She watched him struggle to compose himself. Then he said: “My brother assures me he had nothing to do with the break-in at Miss Abberley’s cottage.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” remarked Ursula, stepping past him to reach an ashtray.

“But I believe him. And if you heard what he had to say I think you might as well.”

“Unlikely,” said Maurice. “My mother was swindled out of some furniture by your brother last year. And I subsequently had the dubious pleasure of meeting him. Untrustworthy would be to put it mildly.”

“But not a fool. That’s the point. Only a fool would do what the police claim he did.”

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“Am I to take it,” said Charlotte, “that your real purpose in coming here is to protest your brother’s innocence? If so, I can’t see how we can help you.”

“He thinks—and so do I—that the real motive for the break-in was to murder Miss Abberley.”

“Oh-ho,” said Jack. “The plot thickens.” He grinned, but nobody else seemed to find the situation amusing.

“The Tunbridge Ware was stolen,” said Maurice. “And found in his shop. How does he explain that?”

“Planted by the murderer to cover his tracks.”

“Oh, come on! He can’t be serious.”

“Besides,” said Ursula, “why should anyone want to murder Beatrix?”

“I don’t know. But I thought . . . perhaps you . . .”

“Might be hiding something?” snapped Charlotte.

“No. Not hiding. Just not realizing the significance of . . . of something . . .”

“Perhaps you think
we
murdered her. For her money.”

“Of course I don’t.” He looked at her imploringly, urging her to yield just enough ground for him to take some kind of stand. But she would not.

“My sister and I are the principal beneficiaries under Beatrix’s will, Mr Fairfax,” said Maurice calmly. “For my own part, I am the chairman and managing director of Ladram Avionics, an internationally successful company of which you may have heard. My means are considerable.

Do you really think I care about a modest bequest from my aunt?”

“No. I never suggested you did.”

“Charlie is also well provided for, as you can see. She owns this house. And a substantial shareholding in the company.”

“There’s no need to tell Mr Fairfax our business, Maurice,” said Ursula.

“My point is that by no stretch of the imagination can we be said to have needed what we gained by Beatrix’s death. And nobody else gained anything.”

“I thought there was a nest-egg for Mrs Mentiply,” remarked Jack.

“Do be quiet, Jack,” said Ursula.

“Oh, well, all right.” He assumed a contrite expression. “Only trying to help.”

Fairfax was still looking at Charlotte, still silently pleading with