Past Caring (46 page)

It was an attractive theory. It fitted the nature of the encounter Elizabeth had just described and, as the only witness to Strafford’s state of mind at the time, she had to be heeded. What it clashed with, of course, was Ambrose’s conspiracy theory. Only Elizabeth’s description of her husband’s “anger” and subsequent

“relief ” supported Ambrose, but they were points worth pursuing.

“Between Strafford’s visit to you and his death,” I said, “did your husband take any more business trips?”

“He may have done, my dear. I really can’t remember. Why do you ask?”

“I wondered if, in view of how angry you said he was that Strafford had shown up, he might have tried to confront him.”

“I think it highly unlikely.”

“But not inconceivable?”

“Not quite that—what is? But I do not believe he would have done so without telling me. Gerald and I had an unspoken pact of honesty. Just as I did not hesitate to tell him of Edwin’s visit, he would not, on his part, have practised any secrecy. Besides, I am sure Gerald would have gone a long way to avoid such an encounter.”

I left it there. I didn’t want to accuse Gerald or Henry Couchman of threatening Strafford when, to their wife and mother, such things were clearly incredible. She was prejudiced in their favour but had a right to be—a right borne of knowing them a great deal longer and better than Ambrose or I had.

Between us all, prejudice wasn’t hard to come by. Evidence was. I lay in bed that night thinking about what Elizabeth had said and all the questions it left me with. What happened between October 1950 and May 1951 that drove Strafford back to England? Did he visit anyone else apart from Elizabeth and Ambrose? If so, who—and why? Was his death an accident, suicide or murder? Only Strafford could tell me for certain.

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Next morning, over breakfast, I broached another question to Elizabeth that I’d been wanting to ask.

“I notice your husband endowed a fellowship at Cambridge.”

Elizabeth smiled and began buttering some toast. “Don’t you approve? I think it was one of the best ideas Gerald ever had. He was keen to make some gift to his old university. An endowed fellowship seemed to go to the heart of the place better than a contribution to his college’s maintenance fund. I thought it would be splendid to provide some support for female academics and Gerald was happy to fall in with the idea, bless him. I remember him joking about it: ‘Once a Suffragette, always a Suffragette.’ He was right, I suppose, but when I think of the succession of Couchman Fellows that Gerald’s bequest made possible—some of them eminent in their fields now—I feel prouder of him than all the incumbents put together. It’s a very happy way to preserve his memory.”

“I’m sure.”

“What brought it to your attention?”

“Since the present fellow is working specifically on Edwardian history, I made contact while in Cambridge to see what she thought about Strafford.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, so you’ve met Miss Randall.”

“Yes.” I was surprised by the energy of her response.

“Tell me more. Henry handles all the administration of the endowment, but I was delighted when he told me the latest fellow was researching a period of history so close to my heart.”

I had a sinking feeling. Elizabeth could have no idea how close to her heart Eve had thought of going. “It was Miss Randall who discovered the marriage certificate in the Kendrick Archive.”

“Really—most enterprising of her.” There was no trace of sarcasm in the remark.

“She’s certainly that. I believe she’d thought of speaking to you about your own experiences as a Suffragette.” Not to mention as Strafford’s dupe and a symbol of exploited Edwardian womanhood.

“I hope she does. It’s strange—and rather cheering in a way—to live long enough to see one’s youth become history.” She

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thought for a moment. “Tell me, Martin, have you ever thought of marrying again?”

“Who would have me?”

“My dear, you underestimate yourself.”

“I don’t think so. You see, sooner or later, they’d be bound to find out about . . . my past. And that would be that.” I didn’t mind referring to the skeleton in my cupboard. Elizabeth knew about it, after all, and one show of frankness deserved another.

“The past can become a burden if you let it, Martin. I believe Edwin may have found that.”

“But how do you stop it?”

“We must each find our own way. We live with the past because we have to, but we don’t have to live in it.”

“It’s difficult, when you’re still called to account for it.”

“Then somehow, you must clear the account.”

Elizabeth was right. But how? In my case, it was surely irre-deemable. In Strafford’s, perhaps less so. I consoled myself with the thought that I might yet ease his burden. Inevitably I thought of my burden: Jane Campion—and what she’d lured me into. I thought of what it had cost me: Helen and Laura, a home and a career, now Eve. Then I thought, for the first time, of Jane herself. I’d assured Eve that Jane was bound to be all right. In reality, I had no idea what had become of her since 1973. She’d floated away to London that summer and out of my life. Perhaps, I thought, after the Strafford business is settled, I’ll find out what she’s done with herself, perhaps have that dispassionate talk with her I once promised myself, seek—like Strafford—some kind of expiation.

What was I thinking? “After the Strafford business is settled.”

I’d not yet looked as far as that, because it didn’t seem possible to do so. It was so complex, so vast, so much a lifetime, that completion didn’t seem conceivable—or even desirable. Two months before, I’d never even heard of Edwin Strafford. But what now would I do without him?

Elizabeth gave me a few days’ grace—time to recover from the blow Eve had delivered, time to take stock of my suspicions.

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Restful and restorative as they seemed, they were also, in a sense, profligate. While I dawdled and talked gently through the enigma of Strafford’s life with Elizabeth, at a pace set by the lazy buzz of bees in her garden, the equipoised movement of her grandmother clock, something more awful than awesome was gaining momentum, accelerating slowly towards the speed of inevitability which would make it an event.

There was no thunder to warn us, no humid prescience in the air, just village life in Sussex, teeming with normality. On Thursday evening, Elizabeth went out for her weekly rubber of bridge at the Sayers’ house and, once Dora had gone home, I was left alone to ponder my next move. Even the cat, who clearly saw me as an interloper, contrived to vanish.

I decided, after all, to report to Sellick again. Instinct told me that, if he really had sent Alec to check on me and alienate Eve from me, it would be foolish to let him deduce I knew that or could be rattled by it. So I set out the evidence Eve had supplied without mentioning her and summarized Elizabeth’s recollections with all the blandness at my disposal, ending prosaically with a request for more money. Staying at Quarterleigh had restored my sense of proportion: if Sellick thought he had a right to interfere in my life, he’d have to pay for the privilege.

I’d just finished the report, and was wondering what time Elizabeth would return, when the telephone rang. Without thinking, I answered it, then instantly regretted doing so. Henry was on the other end.

“Martin—what the hell are you doing there?”

“I came down to see your mother.”

“I told you not to bother her when you showed up last month.

What d’you mean by coming back?”

“She hasn’t objected.”

“Let me speak to her—at once.”

“I can’t. She’s out playing bridge.”

There was a silence at the other end, then: “Listen to me, Martin. I’m telling you to get out of that house right now.

Otherwise, I’ll come and throw you out.”

I felt confident enough to goad Henry. “You didn’t tell your mother I’d tried to see her—why was that?”

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“You bloody little upstart—leave my mother alone, or you’ll regret it.”

I put the phone down. There seemed no point in trading insults with Henry. We’d done it too often in the past. The question in my mind was: why was he so worried? All right, he had good reason to dislike me, even loathe me. But why be so defensive about Elizabeth when she clearly didn’t need or want him to be?

Henry as the devoted son didn’t really convince. As a politician and a person, he’d always had an ugly streak. I felt sure that was what we were seeing now. I waited until breakfast next morning before telling Elizabeth about Henry’s call. She didn’t, at first, see its significance.

“I am sorry to have missed speaking to him. Surely he knows I play bridge on Thursdays.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to wait long to see him.”

“Oh, is the dear boy planning a visit?”

“Elizabeth, your son hates me . . .”

“Surely not.”

“It’s true—and understandable. The point is that he warned me not to come back when I met him here last month. He was furious to find I was here last night. I’m sure he’ll arrive soon to throw me out.”

“There will be no throwing out, Martin, when you are my guest. But I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“We’ll see.”

We soon did. After breakfast, I walked into the village to post my report to Sellick. When I came back, Henry’s Jaguar was in the drive. He must have made an early start from London. It smacked of panic.

I found them in the drawing room. Elizabeth had forced breakfast on Henry, who didn’t seem to want it and was loudly telling her she should be more selective about who she entertained, when I walked in. Henry leapt from his chair. I could tell at once that his mother’s presence was restraining him, but that only made the difference between unpleasantness and raging in-vective. The effort at self-control deepened his colour menacingly.

“I’m told you’ve been here several days, my boy.”

“That’s right.”

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“Well, it’s several days too long.”

Elizabeth interrupted. “Henry, Martin has stayed here at my invitation. I presume I may have what guests I choose?”

“Yes, Mother, but this guest is the man who dishonoured my daughter—your granddaughter. Our family owes him nothing but contempt.”

“I appreciate your feelings on behalf of Helen, Henry, but I cannot believe she would be offended by my showing Martin a certain amount of hospitality.”

“Well, I’m offended—doesn’t that count for something?”

“Of course. But, please, let us conduct ourselves in a civilized fashion.”

“It’s just because he”—stabbing a forefinger in my direction—

“couldn’t conduct himself in a civilized fashion that I object to him sponging off you.”

“Henry, please . . .”

“Hold on,” I broke in. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’ll leave. After all,” adding a rider for Henry’s benefit, “we’ve discussed everything I was hoping to. I’m very grateful for all you’ve told me.”

Henry’s face was a study in baffled outrage. He turned on Elizabeth. “Mother, what have you been telling him?”

“Martin is conducting some historical research into an Edwardian politician named Edwin Strafford—a friend of your father’s. I’ve simply been helping him with my own recollections.”

“Bloody hell, Mother. How can you be so stupid? Don’t you see . . .”

Elizabeth rose from her chair and silenced him with a glare.

“Don’t swear in this house, Henry—and don’t talk to me in that fashion.” She walked slowly past him. “If you wish to speak reasonably, you will find me in the garden. Excuse me, Martin.”

She left.

Henry recovered from his brief humiliation. He turned towards me, preparing to launch a broadside. I decided to get one in first. “Where were you on the night of 4th June 1951, Henry?

Or, come to that, the night before?”

“What are you talking about?”

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“You said you’d never met Edwin Strafford. It isn’t possible, is it, that you did meet him after all—on the dates I’ve just mentioned, in Devon?”

He closed on me, stared and set his jaw. “I don’t know what you’ve wheedled out of my mother, Radford . . .”

“Only what you hoped I wouldn’t.”

“You’re pushing your luck, my lad.”

“Aren’t you pushing yours?”

“I advise you to put up—or shut up.” The practised politician still had an instinct for bluff.

“All right. The reason for your hostility and your mother’s lack of it is that you have something to hide and she hasn’t. What she’s told me helps fit together a few more pieces of the jigsaw.

The picture I’m getting implicates you in a plot that ended with Edwin Strafford’s death in what was supposed to be an accident.”

I reckoned I could out-bluff him if I had to.

“I’m warning you . . .”

“Strafford was staying with his nephew in Devon in June 1951. I’ve spoken to the nephew. He recalls breakins and threats from strangers. His evidence explodes the idea that Strafford’s death was accidental . . .”

Moving faster than I’d expected, Henry grabbed at my throat.

I jerked back against the door frame and he ended up grasping the knot of my tie. It was a tight grip and I could feel his arm shaking. “Listen,” he said between clenched teeth, “do you really think rubbish like you can threaten somebody in my position? If you want to get funny, it won’t just be a question of stopping access to Laura. The police could keep a much closer eye on your nasty little life if the right person asked them to. There are all kinds of ways I could have you leant on—till you snapped. Do you understand that?”

“I understand that what’s threatening you isn’t me, but a fear of the truth.” I was getting back at him for all the abuse he’d inflicted on me over the years, but I was also telling myself to go steady, because I’d never seen him angry to the point of violence before. I guessed that, in a similar mood, he could have killed Strafford. All I doubted was his courage, so I nerved myself to test it.