Hand in Glove (24 page)

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the literary world would have to acknowledge her role in their com-position. As would the legal world.”

“The
legal
world?”

“I used to handle the tax affairs of a playwright who collaborated on some of his works with another playwright. As a result, I had to fa-miliarize myself with the copyright laws, particularly those relating to cases of co-authorship.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“Copyright, Miss Ladram! A lucrative commodity where the poems of Tristram Abberley are concerned. And copyright expires fifty years after the death of the author. If there are two or more co-authors, it expires fifty years after the death of whichever one survives the longest. If Beatrix Abberley is recognized as the author or co-author of her brother’s poems, copyright in the work will be extended until fifty years after
her
death. Fifty years from
now,
in other words. Either way, your half-brother benefits. The royalties continue to flow for the rest of his life, to him and to him only. He’s the sole surviving heir of both Tristram
and
Beatrix, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Charlotte replied with bleak neutrality. “He is.”

“If he knew from your mother that Beatrix wrote the poems, if he came to know she possessed the letters proving her responsibility for them, if he realized the advantage of making the fact public, if Beatrix refused to co-operate—”

“But he was in New York last night. And he probably has an equally good alibi for the night of Beatrix’s death.”

“Does Brian Spicer have an alibi?”

“Who?”

“Spicer. Your brother’s former chauffeur.”

“What about him? He was sacked, months ago, for drunkenness.”

“But he was seen in Rye on the twenty-fifth of May. What was he doing there?”

“How should I know?”

“Preparing to break into Jackdaw Cottage, do you think? What better way to suggest he had no connection with your brother than for him to be sacked? But was he sacked—or simply given a better paid job with the same employer?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It was your brother who told me Frank Griffith had the letters.

By visiting Hendre Gorfelen and demanding to see them, I covered the tracks of whoever was planning to steal them. And I provoked 166

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Frank into fetching them from their hiding-place, which the thief was waiting patiently for him to do. Spicer again, do you think?”

“No.” Charlotte turned away and stared through the window, concentrating on the trimmed and orderly section of the garden she could see beyond. To believe what Fairfax had suggested was unthinkable, but to dismiss it was impossible. She needed time and silence and solitude. Above all, she needed Maurice to lead her by the hand back to calm and sane normality. “My brother is incapable of doing such things. Or of paying others to do them. He’s not short of money. Even if he were, he wouldn’t have Beatrix killed to . . .

simply to . . .”

“Remember what Frank Griffith said. Those events aren’t imaginary and they can’t be wished away.”

At that she rounded on him, a stray thought renewing her confidence. “If you’re right, Mr Fairfax, we’ll soon know, won’t we?

Maurice has only to make the letters public to prove your point.”

“But he could wait more than a year before doing so. If necessary, he could even wait until copyright had lapsed. He can choose his moment. He can say he found the letters, stumbled across them by chance, received them anonymously through the post. He can explain himself in any way he pleases. Whatever I or Frank Griffith think—whatever you think—we won’t be able to prove anything. And my brother will stay in prison.”

“You believe Maurice fabricated the case against him?”

“I believe he may have done. The royalties are substantial, aren’t they? Was fifty thousand a year so very far out? If not, over ten years, that’s half a million. Invested at a modest rate of interest, it would—”

“I don’t want to know!” She almost shouted the words and then, as soon as they were out, realized how horribly true they were. She did not want to know. But she would have to. “Did you tell Frank Griffith about this?”

“No. I thought I should speak to you first.”

“Thank you for that at least. Please don’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I’ve seen Maurice and satisfied myself that you’re wrong.”

“He’s hardly likely to admit any of it.”

“No. But I shall know if he’s lying.”

“And if he is?”

“Then my closest relative—in many ways my closest friend—is a thief and a murderer.”

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Fairfax stepped closer. “Miss Ladram, I . . . I’m . . .”

“Please don’t say you’re sorry.”

“But I am. To cause you this distress, to level accusations at those you love . . .”

“Never mind.” Stubbornly, Charlotte smiled. “You must do what you can to help your brother. And so must I.” She could maintain this façade of self-control only a little longer, she knew. She had to be rid of this man with his mild questioning eyes, his hesitant surmising that was worse than the calling of names and slinging of mud, his un-conscious displays of a nature similar to her own. “Maurice flies back from New York on Wednesday. I shall meet him off the ’plane and lay everything you’ve said before him. When I’ve heard his response, I shall tell you what my conclusions are. After that, you must act as you see fit. But, until then, will you promise to do and say nothing about any of this? There’s no reason why you should agree, but, as a personal favour . . .”

“I agree.” He solemnly extended his hand. “You have my word, Miss Ladram.”

It was strange, Charlotte thought as she put out her hand and let him shake it, that she should seek or accept a promise from anybody about anything after all she had recently endured. But seek one she had. And accept it she did.

C

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NINE

Albacete,

30th October 1937

Dear Sis,

The Aragon offensive is over and I’ve survived my first taste of action. With some distinction, I’m assured, though believe me I’ve no wish to crow. I enjoy a big advantage over most of my comrades. This was my first, not umpteenth, 168

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experience of military defeat. And I haven’t yet come to share their no doubt justifiably cynical view of the cabals and com-missariats that govern our fate.

So, as we rest here and try to recuperate, there’s time to reflect on the consolations of a soldier’s life, whether he’s on the winning or the losing side, the right or the wrong. The greatest of all is the peerless brand of friendship bred by danger and adversity. I spent the best part of a day trapped in no man’s land with two men who I’d never have met but for each of us being caught up in this chaotic affair and, absurd as it may sound, I’m glad I volunteered for that reason alone.

You may meet Frank Griffith one day and I’m sure you’ll like him if you do. He’ll never be invited to a Bloomsbury cocktail party—unless it’s one I throw in his honour—but you could trust him with your life and not be disappointed.

There’s not much higher praise than that, is there?

Vicente Ortiz is an anarchist, by party and inclination. But he recognizes his party’s faults. He knows—and he’s told me—the mistakes their leaders made and how they undermined their position in the Republican movement. He also knows his ideology makes him a marked man, at best an embarrassment, at worst a target. But he doesn’t seem to be-grudge the fact. It’s all one to him. Fighting the Fascists is what he regards as important, not evening the ideological score. If only more Republicans thought the same! Remember what happened to the POUM?

But you don’t want me to lead you into the tangled forest of Republican factions. Perhaps you knew the fervour we sensed in Madrid six years ago would lead to this. Perhaps you even told me so. It wouldn’t have been like me to listen, would it?

With autumn well entrenched, my thoughts turn to Mary and the boy. How is the little chap? He must be seven months old now and growing fast. I worry about him more than I worry about his mother. I feel nervous about what sort of a man he’ll grow to be, about how my example will influence him. It’s not much of one, after all, is it? Not what you’d want anybody to model their life on. What do you think he’ll say about me when I’m dead and gone? Will he thank me or curse me, respect my memory or revile it? If only we knew, eh, Sis?

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If only we had the chance to alter the effect we have on the future and the people who inhabit it. Well, on reflection, perhaps it’s best that we don’t. We’ve plenty to put right in the here and now. Why waste energy on the yet to be?

Don’t worry about me. I don’t feel half as gloomy as this letter sounds. And I’ll write again as soon as I can.

Much love,

Tristram.

C

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TEN

It’s astonishing, Charlie. Quite astonishing. I really don’t know what to say.” Maurice frowned and shook his head and sipped distractedly at his coffee. And Charlotte watched him.

They were in the air-conditioned lounge of one of the low-rise hotels on the northern perimeter of Heathrow Airport, seated in huge and squeaky leather armchairs, flanked by glossy-leafed pot-plants, walled in smoked glass, bathed in muzak. A more disorienting venue for their discussion Charlotte could not have imagined, but, having surprised Maurice by meeting him off his flight from New York, she had been in no position to object when he had offered to postpone his return to Ladram Avionics on her account.

“The idea that Beatrix wrote my father’s poems . . . Well, I’d have said it was about the craziest suggestion I’ve ever heard. Still would, if it comes to it. But if the letters leave no room for doubt . . .”

Derek Fairfax had kept his promise and Frank Griffith had gone home to Wales following his release from hospital. Charlotte was therefore confident Maurice had received no warning of what she had to tell him. She had spent four days preparing herself for their encounter, scouring her memory for hints of the truth Beatrix might have let slip, probing for flaws in the logic that focused suspicion on Maurice. She had studied his face with the clarity of a searchlight, weighed his words with the zeal of an inquisitor. And still she was not 170

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sure. Was his dismay artificial? Was he a good enough actor to deceive her without even the opportunity to practise his lines? Or was he as taken aback as he appeared to be?

“I can’t come to terms with it, Charlie. I can’t think through all the implications. I suppose Griffith’s explanation makes sense, but are you sure he’s to be believed?”

“I believe him.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.” He let out a slow and thoughtful breath. “The question is: why would anybody want to steal such letters? What would they have to gain by it?”

“I don’t know. But I know what Derek Fairfax would say.”

“Quite.” Maurice placed his hand over hers. “It was good of you to put the lid on that particular notion. I don’t need to tell you, of course, that it’s completely without foundation.”

“Of course.”

His hand withdrew. “I can see why concern for his brother might make Fairfax want to believe it. After all, he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know
us
. It’s the way an accountant might reason. It adds up, even though it’s wrong in every respect. I haven’t seen Spicer since the day I sacked him. I don’t know anything about the letters. And the loss of the royalties won’t dent my finances in any way.”

The effort of concentration—of analysing every nuance of Maurice’s reactions while suppressing the desire to confide in him—was beginning to tell on Charlotte. She thought of all the generous acts he had performed, the stray kindnesses and magnanimous gestures. She thought of the many occasions he had comforted and consoled her, of the love he had always shown her. To harbour a secret doubt about him, to put it to the test while declaring her loyalty, was in itself an act of treachery.

“But none of that’s really the point, is it? If I were reduced to my last penny, I still wouldn’t be able to do what Fairfax is suggesting. It’s a matter of breeding, isn’t it, Charlie? A matter of right and wrong.

Conspiring to murder Beatrix? Can you imagine how many principles and instincts would have to be conquered in order even to consider the possibility? I can’t. I can’t begin to imagine.”

“Because you never did consider it?”

“Exactly. All I did was make the mistake of telling Fairfax about Frank Griffith. And why? Because I thought he was entitled to know.

I wanted to give him a helping hand, for God’s sake. And what’s my reward? To be accused of murdering Beatrix for the sake of some

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paltry royalties I didn’t even know might be due to her.” He was becoming angry, as was understandable. Astonishment was giving place to indignation. “My God, Fairfax has a nerve to try this on. Does he really expect to help his brother wriggle free by smearing me in this way?”

“I think he may believe it, Maurice. As you said yourself, he doesn’t know you. And there’s so much . . . apparent corroboration.”

He frowned. “Such as?”

“You prompted his visit to Hendre Gorfelen.”

“I’ve just explained that. I was trying to help him.”

“And it was you Emerson McKitrick contacted.”

“What of it?”

“Well, he must have been lying, mustn’t he? About the letters, I mean. In view of what we now know they contain, it’s inconceivable Beatrix would have mentioned them to him.”

“So it is.” Maurice looked at her sharply. “I hadn’t thought of that. Have you challenged him on the point?”

“No. I didn’t want to do anything without consulting you first.”

Charlotte struggled to erase any hint from her expression that there might be other reasons why she should have wished to avoid Emerson McKitrick.

“Good girl.” Maurice grasped her hand and squeezed it. “He has some explaining to do. I’ll see him straightaway.”

“You think he holds the key to all this?”

“He may do. If there is a key. If it isn’t just a huge coincidence.”

“How can it be?”

“Easily.” He stared at her. “Isn’t it obvious? McKitrick may have been trying his luck. Talking vaguely about old letters to see what he could uncover for his blasted new edition of Tristram’s biography. By chance, there actually
were
some letters. At least, so Griffith claims.

Until I see and read them, I won’t really believe they exist.”

“You’re suggesting McKitrick stole the letters?”

“Or Griffith dreamed the whole incident. Either way, it probably has nothing to do with Beatrix’s death. She died because a petty villain broke into her house, put up to it by Colin Fairfax-Vane.”

Maurice was retreating before Charlotte’s eyes, recoiling from the consequences of accepting any part of Derek Fairfax’s theory. This was natural, but it was also consistent with another interpretation of his behaviour. He had played for time when taken unawares. Now he had devised a strategy and meant to pursue it.

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