Hand in Glove (9 page)

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del Ebro front in October 1937. Then, in January 1938, his battalion was called in to the gruelling Battle of Teruel. He suffered a serious leg-wound during a rifle engagement outside the city on 20 January and was subsequently evacuated to hospital in Tarragona. Amputation was not considered necessary and he appeared to be well on the road to recovery when a blood infection set in. He died on 27 March 1938 and was buried in Tarragona the following day.

Tristram Abberley’s career as a poet did not end with his death.

Indeed, in many respects, it was only then in its infancy. His experiences in Spain had prompted a last outpouring of verse, sent back to his widow among his personal effects and not published until 1952, when it emerged under the title
Spanish Lines
. This revived interest in the whole body of his work, which during the ’fifties and especially the ’sixties grew steadily in popularity and esteem. By the time of McKitrick’s research for his book in the mid-seventies, he was regarded as one of the most significant English poets of his generation.

Wisely, McKitrick did not attempt to reconcile the conflicting aspects of his subject’s life and personality. The poems, he thought, were what would ultimately be remembered about Tristram Abberley.

Though the biographer could explain
how
they had come about, he could not penetrate to the secret of
why
.

Derek’s despondency deepened as he neared the conclusion of the book. He had hoped, for no good reason, that something—anything—in the life and death of Tristram Abberley would come to his rescue. Instead, he was left as empty-handed as he had feared he would be. The Beatrix, Mary and Maurice he had read about might as well have been different people for all the insight he had gained into their more recent lives. If there was a secret buried in their collective past that explained what had happened, it was not to be found in the words and actions of a long-dead poet. If it was to be found at all, Derek would have to look elsewhere. But in what direction he did not know. He had been running towards a dead end all along. And now he had arrived.

C

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TEN

Eight days had passed since Beatrix’s funeral when Charlotte decided she could postpone a visit to Jackdaw Cottage no longer. On a cool breezy morning, she drove down to Rye, collected the key from Mrs Mentiply and entered what was now her property but still seemed indelibly to belong to another.

Thanks to Mrs Mentiply, the cottage was spotlessly clean. It was as if she regarded her bequest as a retainer and meant to discharge her duties more assiduously after her employer’s death than before.

The effect was to suggest Beatrix had merely gone away for a few days. All was as she might expect to find it when she returned. Except that she would not return.

Listlessly, Charlotte wandered from room to room, reliving in jumbled order her visits down the years. In her memory of them, she fluctuated between childhood and her present age, but Beatrix never varied. Always she was the same: kindly but not indulgent, generous but not playful. She had treated Charlotte as an adult long before she was one and retained to the end an independence of mind which some found disconcerting but which Charlotte had come more and more to admire.

But an end had come to all that and to preserve Jackdaw Cottage as some kind of museum was surely not what Beatrix would have wanted. As she gazed from the window of what had often been her room out across the small patch of garden towards the sea, Charlotte knew that the wisest solution was the swiftest: sell up and have done.

Yet Beatrix would surely also have wanted her to have a memento of their times together, something that would remind her of her godmother whenever her eye fell upon it. Ironically, she would have chosen one of the smaller pieces of Tunbridge Ware, but they lay bagged and labelled in a police station basement, awaiting Colin Fairfax’s trial. The only remaining item of Tunbridge Ware was the work-table in the drawing room and, as soon as Charlotte had thought of it, she realized how appropriate it would be, since it combined practicality and elegance in a manner close to Beatrix’s heart.

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Without further ado, she carried it out to her car, went back for some blankets to wrap it in for the journey, then briskly took her leave. Tomorrow she would contact an estate agent and put the sale of Jackdaw Cottage in hand. Tomorrow nostalgia would be cast aside.

“So, what you’re telling me,” said Colin, “is that you’ve drawn a complete blank.”

“Yes,” Derek replied, averting his gaze towards the bare wall of the visiting room. “I’m afraid I have.”

“The family have nothing to say?”

“Not to anybody associated with you.”

“And there are no clues to be found in Tristram Abberley’s biography?”

“None. Read it yourself and see.”

“I intend to.”

They eyed each other warily for a moment, Derek sensing the silent accusation of failure that hung between them. Colin would think he had lost his nerve, misplayed his hand, blown his chance.

And the worst of it was that he would be right.

“Where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I do. At least, I know where
I
go. Down for a long stretch.

Dredge keeps pushing me to do some kind of deal with the police.

And I would if I could. But I can’t. They all think I’m holding out on them. They mean to make me suffer for that. And suffering isn’t my favourite occupation. But it seems I may have to get used to it.”

“I’m sorry, Colin. If there was anything—”

“Find something!” Colin nearly shouted the words, drawing a sharp glance from the warder. “Just keep trying, brother,” he murmured through a fixed grin. “You’re my only hope.”

At Ockham House, Charlotte was in the process of selecting a suitable place for Beatrix’s work-table when the telephone rang. It was Ursula.

“Hello, Charlie. Maurice asked me to call you.”

“Really? I thought he was still in New York.”

“He is. But we spoke last night. He wanted me to find out if you could have lunch with us next Sunday.”

“Next Sunday? Well, yes, I’d be delighted. But . . .”

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“Is there some problem?”

“No. No problem at all. I’m just surprised Maurice should make a transatlantic phone call simply to invite me to lunch.”

“Well, it appears he’s bringing somebody back with him from New York who wants to meet you, so he asked me to make sure you were free.”

“To meet me? Who is this person?”

“I don’t know. Maurice wouldn’t say. ‘
Very keen to make your acquaintance
.’ That’s all I know. A secret admirer, perhaps.”

“In New York? I hardly think so.”

“I shouldn’t be too sure.”

“You know who it is, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not. Guides’ honour. Anyway, the mystery will be solved on Sunday. You will come, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there. With an incentive like that, how could I stay away?”

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ELEVEN

The forced jollity of a midsummer Sunday lay in wait for Charlotte throughout her journey to Bourne End. Every pub car park was full, every picnic-spot clamorous with children and dogs. Why she should be forever excluded from the communal pleasures of humanity at play she did not know. Sometimes she was glad to be excluded. Sometimes she suspected it was an insult devised by the world for her and nobody else. And sometimes she simply did not care.

The Thames was clogged and noisy with craft of all description.

Charlotte crossed it at Cookham and turned, with some relief, into the unmarked road that led to an exclusive handful of riverside residences, among them Swans’ Meadow.

It was a house, she often thought, ideally suited to its owner’s personality. Visible from the other side of the river and therefore an object of admiration, it was also aloof and secluded. Though large and

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lavishly appointed, it did not flaunt its architectural wares, but blended discreetly into the affluent landscape behind weeping willows and well-clipped hedges. Maurice had bought it twenty-one years ago as a glamorous new home for his glamorous new wife and he remained conspicuously proud of both acquisitions, as eager to protect them as he was to be envied on their account.

Aliki, the Cypriot
au pair,
answered the door and directed Charlotte to the garden, where the family—and their mysterious guest—were relaxing while she prepared lunch.

They were sitting on canvas chairs beneath a silver birch tree, with a tray of drinks standing on a table close at hand. Behind them the lawn, its flower-borders awash with colour, stretched to the bank of the river, where the weeping willows stirred serenely in a gentle breeze. Maurice, a smiling figure in panama and cravat, waved to Charlotte as she approached. To his right sat Ursula in a polka-dot dress, coolly remote behind dark glasses and cigarette smoke. Next to her, just outside the shadow of the trees, sat Samantha, stretching her legs and holding an iced glass against her cheek as she absorbed the heat of the sun. She was wearing an abbreviated pink swimsuit and an expression of calculated languor. To Maurice’s left sat their guest, enjoying—as Charlotte felt sure he was intended to—a spectacular view of Samantha’s bronzed and shapely limbs. He was square-shouldered, with a shock of dark hair and a beard, informally dressed in a pale green shirt and trousers. He rose as she drew near, shot her a flashing smile and extended his hand.

“Hi. My name’s Emerson McKitrick.” He spoke in a subdued American accent and by the time she had released his hand, Charlotte had realized who he was.

“Tristram Abberley’s biographer.”

“The very same. We never did meet while I was researching the book, did we?”

“No, we didn’t.” It was twelve years ago—whilst Charlotte had been away on an ill-fated holiday in the Greek islands—that McKitrick had interviewed her mother. She had spoken afterwards of a polite and good-looking young man and Charlotte could see that this had been a considerable understatement. “What an unexpected pleasure, Mr McKitrick.”

“It’s
Doctor
McKitrick, Charlie,” put in Maurice.

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“Oh, I—”

“So why don’t you call me Emerson and solve the problem that way?”

“Sit down and have a drink, Charlie,” said Ursula. “We’ve left a chair for you—and a glass.”

Charlotte found herself seated next to McKitrick, aware that she was blushing for no good reason. “What . . . er . . . What brings you here . . . Emerson?”

“Research. Same as last time.” He did have a winning smile.

There was no question about it. And enough laughter-lines at the edges of his eyes to suggest he was no dry and cloistered academic.

But he was altogether too tanned and muscular for that to be plausible anyway. Charlotte caught herself guessing his age and settled on forty. “My teaching schedule at Harvard means this is about the only time of year I can get away.”

“And what are you researching?”

“Something I’m kind of hoping you can help me with.”

“Me?”

“That’s right. You in particular.”

“While Emerson explains,” said Ursula, “I really must go and see how Aliki’s coping in the kitchen.” She rose and smiled at McKitrick.

“Do excuse me.”

“Sure.”

Turning towards her daughter, Ursula said: “And it’s high time you put some clothes on, young lady. Unless you’re thinking of lunching in your swimsuit.” Then she headed towards the house, leaving Samantha to grimace at the others before following. It really was, as became apparent when she left her chair, an extremely brief costume, cut as revealingly high at the hips as it was scooped daringly low at the back. McKitrick did not seem to mind Charlotte seeing him watch her curvaceous retreat across the lawn.

“A beautiful wife
and
a beautiful daughter. You’re a lucky man, Maurice.”

“Are you married yourself, Emerson?” asked Charlotte.

“No.” He grinned. “Except to my work.”

“Which you think I can help you with?”

“Perhaps I’d better come clean. My publisher’s been pressuring me for a few years now to produce a new edition of
Tristram Abberley:
A Critical Biography
. I’ve been stalling them, mostly because I don’t

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enjoy going over old ground. But there’s a chance now of finding some fresh material that would make a new edition worthwhile.”

“How so?”

“The chance arises from your godmother’s recent death. As soon as I heard about it—from a friend at Oxford who passed through Harvard at the end of last month—I tried to contact Maurice. When I found out he was in New York, I fixed up a meeting with him.”

“And I told him the whole sad story,” said Maurice.

“It is sad,” said McKitrick. “She was a feisty old lady. I liked her.”

“So did we all,” said Charlotte. “But I still don’t see—”

“I met with Beatrix twelve years ago, when I was doing the original research for the book, and got a whole mass of valuable information from her about Tristram’s early years. In fact, she was pretty well my only source for his life before and immediately after Oxford. Up to about 1933, that is. But it was oral stuff. Straightforward recollection.

She had no papers that Tristram left behind. None, I should say, that she was prepared to let me use.”

“Well,” said Charlotte, “it was always my understanding that none existed. Apart from the poems themselves, of course. And a few letters. But surely my mother showed you those.”

“She did. But when I was speaking with Beatrix about Tristram’s last few months, in Spain, she told me he’d written to her regularly from there—right up to his death. And that she’d kept the letters.”

“Really? Mother never mentioned such letters to me.”

“Nor to me,” put in Maurice.

“No. Because Beatrix didn’t tell her. She evidently didn’t want Mary to be jealous. It seems Tristram wrote more often to his sister than his wife. That could have been hard for a young widow to accept.”

“And it would have been typical of Beatrix to want to protect Mother from any unnecessary pain,” said Maurice.

“Right,” said McKitrick. “That’s how I saw it. And she was still protecting her nearly forty years later. So, I had to go along with it. I tried to persuade her to let me see the letters, but it was a waste of effort. You two know better than me she couldn’t be shifted once she’d made up her mind. I had no choice but to go ahead without the material. And, anyway, she didn’t leave me completely empty-handed. She said she’d give the letters to Maurice before her death on the understanding that, when Mary died, they could be made public. She was 62