Take No Farewell - Retail (18 page)

Lizzie dead. Doak in Hereford. And small hope of enlightenment at Clouds Frome. These were the thoughts that filled my head as I paced my room at the Green Dragon, waiting for three o’clock, the hour when Hermione usually took tea
at
the Copper Kettle. I knew her well enough to believe that she at least would be open and frank, but now I had more questions to put to her than I could ever have anticipated. The possibility that she might absent herself this one afternoon had become unbearable.

But I need not have worried. Hermione was where Jacinta had said she would be, devouring tea and fancies at a pillar table in the midst of the crowded café. Thinner about the face and greyer about the head than I recalled, she had passed since our last encounter from a plain and spinsterish middle age to a spry and captivating venerability, as if her character and features had always known youth was not their forte and could only now assert themselves. Her smile, when she saw me threading my way through the close-packed tables towards her, was one of genuine welcome, so much so that I could almost have believed she was expecting me.

‘Mr Staddon!’ she trilled. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ Several heads turned to inspect me and lulls descended on nearby conversations. The Copper Kettle suddenly seemed the last place to share a confidence unless it was to be shared with the whole of Hereford. Hermione invited me to join her and introduced me to her two companions, whose names I could not remember the second after I had been told them. An extra cup was summoned. My hat and coat were removed. Tea and cakes were pressed upon me. I stumbled out something about a commission in the locality. Hermione explained my profession to her two friends. As soon as my connection with Clouds Frome was borne in upon them, they enquired, wide-eyed, whether I had heard of ‘the distressing case’. I admitted I had in tones designed to imply no more than a passing interest. Then, to my astonishment, Hermione kicked my shin so firmly under the table that I nearly spilt my tea. There was a stern look of warning on her face. Obediently, I changed the subject.

The Japanese earthquake (one of Hermione’s companions was organizing charitable collections for its victims) and the phenomenon of the wireless (her other companion’s
husband
had recently purchased a set) occupied us for twenty excruciating minutes. Then Hermione announced that she must be on her way just when they had both embarked on a second scone and were bound to remain. So it was that I found myself walking slowly back towards the Green Dragon with her, knowing I had only a few minutes in which to explain the true purpose of my visit to Hereford.

‘It’s a remarkable coincidence that your work should bring you back to this part of the world,’ she said. ‘Especially in the present circumstances. Who, may I ask, is your client?’

‘I don’t have one. And it’s no coincidence.’

‘Really?’ She seemed monumentally unsurprised. ‘Then why are you here?’

‘Will you allow me to explain why in more discreet surroundings than the Copper Kettle?’

‘I think I must, don’t you?’

We chose a bench by Castle Pool, safely distant from prying ears, and pleasant enough in the autumn sunshine to make our presence there seem natural. I needed information from Hermione and knew I would have to reveal some part of my true intentions in return, so I told her I had always admired Consuela and found it impossible to believe she was a murderer. I had come to Hereford in order to visit her and to ask those closely involved in the case how matters really stood. Of Jacinta I said – and affected to know – nothing. I described my reception at Clouds Frome, my discovery of Lizzie Thaxter’s grave and my encounter with Ivor Doak. And only the last of these descriptions seemed to surprise her.

‘I really ought to have written to you about poor Ivor, Mr Staddon. I’m sorry I didn’t. To be honest, I felt so ashamed about encouraging you to lend him money, in view of what became of it, that I hadn’t the heart to. He bought his ticket, you see, and I saw him on the train to London myself, the day before the ship was due to sail. Alas, he went out drinking in London that very night and fell among thieves. His ticket, passport and remaining cash were all stolen while he was
in
a stupor in some East End alehouse. It was weeks before he returned to Hereford and told me what had happened. He was remorseful, of course, but, since losing Clouds Frome, he’s had this terrible weakness to his character that means, I suppose, Mortimer and Victor were right to advise you against helping him. He’s gone from bad to worse over the years and now even I’d admit he’s past helping. I don’t wonder he took to his heels when he saw you, because his memory and conscience are intact, even if he is a drunken vagrant.’

‘And Lizzie?’

‘There’s very little I can tell you. Nobody knows why she took her life, for she left no note and seemed to have no particular cause to be depressed. Her brother was still awaiting trial for his part in the robbery at Grenville Peto’s mill, so that can hardly have been the reason. Consuela bought that patch of land for her to be buried in and paid for the stone. She insisted on doing so, as I recall, despite Victor’s opposition. She seemed as baffled as everybody else by the girl’s suicide, though sometimes I had the curious impression that she knew more of it than she was prepared to disclose.’

‘Do you think there could be some connection between Lizzie’s death and more recent events?’

‘Good heavens, no. Whatever put that idea in your head?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just that …’ Suddenly I could bear the preliminaries no longer. ‘Tell me, do you believe Consuela is guilty?’

Hermione studied me closely for a moment, then asked, ‘Do you, Mr Staddon?’

‘No. I’ve already said that—’

‘But why not? Isn’t the evidence damning?’

‘Yes. So the newspapers suggest, anyway. But that isn’t the point.’

‘Then what is?’

‘Instinct, I suppose. My instinct tells me that your sister-in-law is not a murderess. Not a poisoner, at all events.’

Hermione smiled. ‘I agree.’

‘You do?’

‘Certainly. And I can’t tell you what a relief it is to find an ally in the cause. Any suggestion of my views to my family inspires accusations of disloyalty. And I am sufficiently considerate of Mortimer and Marjorie’s bereavement not to press my views upon them. Rosemary’s death was a terrible event and I won’t pretend otherwise, but why it obliges us all to assume Consuela was responsible for it I am at a loss to comprehend.’

‘But you said yourself the evidence was damning.’

‘Altogether too damning. If Consuela had wished to murder Victor – which I for one could well understand – I do not think she would fiddle-faddle around with weed-killer. The one advantage of poison over the shotgun I’ve often thought he deserves is that it can be administered without detection, slowly and surreptitiously. A single fatal dose entirely misses the point. Besides, Consuela is too merciful towards defenceless creatures – winged birds, wounded foxes, tearful serving-girls – to risk innocent lives. If she had known there was arsenic in the sugar, I am sure she would have prevented Marjorie and Rosemary eating it. And, if she had been responsible, she wouldn’t have left the evidence lying about in a bedroom drawer waiting to be found. She had twelve days in which to dispose of it, Mr Staddon. Is it credible that she would not have done so, especially when the police gave notice of their intention to search the house?’

‘Perhaps not, but the letters—’

‘The letters! They are the most transparently falsified part of the case against her. If she had received them, she would have destroyed them. And murder prompted by accusations of infidelity against a husband is the act of a jealous, possessive woman. Consuela is neither jealous nor possessive. In fact—’ She broke off.

‘Yes?’

She deliberated for a moment, then said, ‘Consuela’s daughter means infinitely more to her than her husband.
News
that Victor had taken a mistress would be more a relief, I should have thought, than—’

‘A
relief
?’

She arched her eyebrows at me. ‘Spinsterhood should not always be taken to imply naïvety in such matters, Mr Staddon. I am ten years older than Victor. I have observed and studied his personality from the cradle. Consequently I am well placed to know that he is incapable of the finer sentiments. He equates love with greed and loyalty with obedience. And he has always displayed a capacity for physical cruelty which would have obliged me to advise any prospective bride to look elsewhere. Regrettably, I had no opportunity to offer such advice to Consuela. The idea that his fidelity should matter a jot to her is quite preposterous.’

Competing thoughts assailed me. Consuela had never complained of maltreatment at Victor’s hands. But, if Hermione was right, the hope of escape I held out to her might have mattered even more than I had supposed.

‘Have I shocked you, Mr Staddon? I do hope not. These young flappers think only they can be outspoken, but here’s one Victorian relic who proposes to beat them at their own game.’

‘I’m not shocked, except by your suggestion that Victor could have been violent towards Consuela. Can it really be true?’

‘I’d be surprised if it weren’t. He was a notorious bully at school and there was a frightful incident at Cambridge concerning the horse-whipping of a fellow-student that nearly led to his being sent down. Then, after he’d graduated and joined the family firm, there was a complaint from a parlourmaid at Fern Lodge that he’d … Well, I was never permitted to hear exactly what he was alleged to have done. The girl was dismissed and sent packing. But Papa’s attitude suggested he believed most of what she had said.’

‘Is that why Victor was sent to Brazil?’

‘No. At least, not as far as I was ever told. He was consistently neglectful of his work, preferring the racecourse to the office
any
day. There was a number of increasingly bitter rows about his contribution. Mortimer resented the latitude he was allowed, of course. He was always the tortoise to Victor’s hare. And Papa indulged Victor more than he ever had Mortimer. It all came to a head when the full and ghastly extent of Victor’s gambling debts became known. Papa only agreed to settle them on condition that he go abroad. He was found a position with the London and River Plate Bank as a trainee manager at their branch office in Pernambuco and was shipped off there, urged by one and all to knuckle down and make something of himself.’

‘And did he?’

‘Not in the manner intended. He seldom wrote to us and what news we had of him was through Papa’s acquaintance at the bank’s London office. Three years passed, during which he was said to be doing tolerably well, then, out of the blue, came disaster. Financial irregularities had been discovered at the Pernambuco branch. Victor had apparently been using bank money to speculate on the Brazilian stock market and had lost it all in the process. He was dismissed at once and the bank only refrained from prosecuting him in order to avoid a scandal. We expected him to come home in disgrace, but, instead, he vanished. Papa received a letter from him declaring that he would remain in South America to seek his fortune and that he was the victim of bad luck and jealousy. No word of an apology, of course, nor hint of contrition. That was the last we heard of him for five years. Papa went to his grave thinking Victor was dead. But he was very far from dead. As far as I understand his account of those years, he went to Chile and met Major Turnbull, a man with a past far shadier even than his own. They formed a business partnership and within a few years had made their fortunes.’

‘How?’

‘He has told me much of the South American rubber trade, Mr Staddon, but I have remembered little. The essence of it, I believe, is this. He and Major Turnbull purchased
various
tracts of land suitable for rubber cultivation – called concessions – from the Brazilian government in a district called Acre, which actually belonged not to Brazil but to Bolivia. The concessions were cheap because, whilst Acre remained Bolivian territory, they were worthless. But the area was being rapidly settled by Brazilians and Victor and Major Turnbull calculated that Brazil would eventually annexe it. They were right and, as soon as it happened, they became rich men. It was an outrageous gamble, of course, by no means Victor’s first. But this one came off. He retired to Rio de Janeiro to live off the proceeds and wrote to us announcing that he had come into his own at last. Mortimer was not best pleased, I may tell you. I fancy he would have preferred Victor to skulk back to England with his tail between his legs – or never come back at all. As it was, in hardly any time it seemed, he had married the daughter of a wealthy coffee merchant and was proclaiming his determination to return to Hereford and set himself up as a country gentleman.’

Silence fell. A woman with a baby in a pram walked slowly by. ‘You’ve been very candid about your brother,’ I said.

‘The situation demands candour. Consuela’s life is at stake.’

‘Is it? Is it really?’

‘Oh yes. Don’t trouble to doubt it. A show of hands at the Copper Kettle any afternoon would see her condemned unanimously.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they look no further than the facts. And because they do not wish to look further. Consuela is foreign and Roman Catholic and beautiful. The ladies of the Copper Kettle hate her for all those reasons.’

‘Then, what’s to be done?’

‘I don’t know. Minds have already been made up, you see. Neither Mortimer nor Marjorie will discuss the matter with me. Victor has taken himself off to France and does not propose to return until the trial is imminent. Meanwhile,
aside
from that young booby Windrush, nobody is lifting a finger to help Consuela. That’s why I was so delighted to see you here.’

‘Have you spoken to Consuela since the hearing?’

‘I haven’t spoken to her since the day of Rosemary’s funeral, more than a month ago. That, of course, was before we received confirmation that the poor girl had been poisoned. As soon as Consuela was arrested, Mortimer made it clear that none of us was to visit her or make any statements in support of her. Victor echoed this wish. I’ve never known my brothers so united before in anything. That alone should have made me suspicious, but Victor’s display of grief for a niece he had always ignored was what really decided me. A lifetime’s experience of my brothers’ behaviour enables me to see through them at a glance. Whilst Mortimer’s response to Rosemary’s death is perfectly understandable, Victor’s seems altogether more contrived. Amidst all the mourning and wringing of hands, he has failed to exhibit the one emotion such a dreadful experience might be expected to inspire: surprise. He has been everything he has needed to be,
except
taken unawares by events.’