Take No Farewell - Retail (26 page)

I drove wildly back to Nice. Desertions, past and present, seemed to close upon me faster than I could ever hope to flee them. I drank away the afternoon in the bar of the Negresco, slept for a few stunned hours, then woke to find the rain still falling, heavier and wind-blown, from a dark and turbulent sky.

Early evening of the following day found me aboard the night-train to Calais. I had made no further attempt to reason with Angela and now, as the hour for departure grew close and I surveyed the bustling late-comers from the window-seat of my compartment, I entertained no hope whatever that I would see her among them. Disbelief at how little respect remained between us was all that prompted me even to look.

Whistles were blowing, doors slamming and the engine
getting
up steam when a familiar figure appeared on the platform. Not Angela, but the man I had seen leaving the Villa d’Abricot the previous day. A stern-faced
gendarme
was holding him by the arm and urging him forward whilst another
gendarme
in sergeant’s uniform trotted along in front, carrying a battered leather suitcase. My curiosity aroused, I opened the window and leaned out.

The sergeant flung back a door two carriages down the train, tossed the case inside and signalled with his thumb for its owner to follow. He scowled, shook himself free, brushed himself down, said something which the two
gendarmes
studiously ignored, then climbed aboard.

A moment later, the train began to move. As it gathered speed, the
gendarmes
remained where they were, staring pointedly towards the carriage where they had deposited their charge. Only when the guard’s van cleared the end of the platform did they turn away, shrugging at each other as if in relief at an awkward task accomplished.

A few minutes later, I made my move. Whoever the man was, I hoped he would now be calm enough to approach. And approach him I must. As a visitor to the Villa d’Abricot, he was merely interesting. But as a visitor to the Villa d’Abricot subsequently bundled out of Nice by the police, he was a man I had to speak to.

He had a compartment to himself, which was small wonder in view of his menacing appearance. He was slumped low in his seat, feet propped up on his suitcase, the cape wrapped about him making his vast frame seem gigantic. Not that this, the layers of dust on his clothes or the dishevelled state of his greying mane of hair was what would most have deterred his fellow-travellers. They would have found more intimidating still the angry curl of his lip as he muttered to himself, his twitches and snorts of indignation, his alternate stretching and clenching of his right hand.

He glared up at me as I entered, then looked away. ‘
Bonsoir, monsieur
,’ I ventured, but he did not reply. I sat in one of the seats opposite him and smiled. ‘
Où allez-vous, monsieur?
’
Again
there was no reply. I took out my cigarette-case, opened it and held it towards him. ‘
Voudriez-vous une cigarette?
’ Still no response. I pretended to search my pockets for a match, then grinned across at him.
‘Excusez-moi. Pouvez-vous me donner du feu?’

His eyes flashed up and fixed me with a stare. ‘
Deixe-me empaz, senhor
,’ he growled.

It was what I wanted to hear. He had spoken in Portuguese. ‘I saw you leaving the Villa d’Abricot yesterday,’ I said in a rush. ‘Why were you there?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Was it because of Consuela?’

At the sound of her name, his muscles tensed. ‘Who are you,
senhor
?’ he said in a heavy Latin accent.

‘My name is Geoffrey Staddon.’

‘Staddon?’ He frowned, as if, somewhere he had heard my name before.

‘I’m a friend of Consuela. I’m somebody who—’

Before I knew what was happening, he had whipped his feet to the floor, kicked the suitcase aside, lunged forward and grabbed me by the wrist. His grip was like a steel manacle, his stare no less ferocious. ‘What kind of friend?’ he said slowly.

‘The kind she needs. The kind that believes she’s innocent.’

‘She has always been innocent. That is her mistake.’

‘You’ve known her long?’

‘Longer than you, I think.’

‘I first met her fifteen years ago. I built a house for her husband.’

‘For Caswell?’

‘Yes. Clouds Frome. Where—’

‘That is it! That is where I know your name. Staddon.
O arquitecto
.’

‘Yes, that’s who I am. But you still have the advantage of me.’

He let go of my wrist. ‘I am Rodrigo Manchaca de Pombalho. I am Consuela’s brother.’

Rodrigo was by nature a happy and gregarious man. I remembered Consuela speaking of him as such.
O Urso de Mel
, she had called him: the Honey-Bear. She had kept a special place in her heart for the brother nearest to her in age and spirit and he, it seemed clear, had done the same for her. We sat long and late in the restaurant-car of the train that night and, though Rodrigo’s true character emerged more and more as food and wine softened his temper, it was still swamped at intervals by the sadness he felt at his sister’s plight, the helplessness, the raging despair. He crushed a glass in his hand once when speaking of Victor and, at another time, wept like a child. His voice boomed, his arms waved, his eyes flashed; he was to his fellow-diners an object of horror and fascination. To me, however, he seemed an elemental force for hope. Joyous, angry and dejected by turns, he nonetheless succeeded in making me think for the first time that Consuela really could be saved.

Rodrigo’s elder brother, Francisco, was head of the family business. In this capacity, he attended many dinners and receptions where members of Rio’s diplomatic community were to be found. From an
attaché
at the British Embassy he had been dismayed to learn that his sister was to stand trial for murder. Hurt by Consuela’s failure to tell them herself and baffled by what little they could learn of the circumstances, the family had at first been too confused to act. At length, in defiance of his brothers’ wishes, Rodrigo had decided to travel to Europe and root out the truth, little realizing the magnitude of his task.

Upon arrival in England, he had proceeded directly to Hereford, only to confront the same brick wall as I had. Consuela had refused to see him, sending a message via Windrush that he had shamed her by coming and should return to Brazil at once. As for Victor, he had vanished to France, taking Jacinta with him. Windrush had offered to arrange a meeting for Rodrigo with the barrister he had recruited – Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett – but that was the extent
of
the assistance he could offer. Pausing only to antagonize a senior officer of the Herefordshire constabulary, Rodrigo had set off for Cap Ferrat.

His reception at the Villa d’Abricot had been predictably hostile. Victor had refused to let him see Jacinta, had rejected all suggestions that Consuela might be the victim of an injustice and had told him to leave straightaway or be forcibly removed.

‘I took him by the throat for saying that to me. He had not the right. He was frightened. I could see that. He was always a little frightened of me. But too clever. Too clever for Rodrigo. He sent the police for me. They told me I must leave France.
Um criador-de-casos
. That is what they called me. A maker of trouble. They said I threatened him. It is true. He deserved it. He deserved more, but … I left. I had no choice. I cannot help Consuela from a prison in France.’

Rodrigo was incapable of believing that his sister had committed murder. It was for him an article of faith. Questions of motive and evidence were therefore irrelevant. And, since Consuela was necessarily innocent, it followed that Victor was guilty, guilty of abandoning his wife to her accusers even if not of the crime they had laid at her door. When I suggested that there might be something improper in Victor’s relationship with Imogen Roebuck and that, if there were, it could have a bearing on the case, Rodrigo seemed genuinely confused.

‘You are like Victor. You are too clever for me. What I see is this. Somebody tried to murder Victor. He did not die.
Que pena!
I would not weep for him. His … his
sobrinha …
died instead. That is sad. But who did this thing? Not Consuela.
Nunca, nunca
. Then who? Somebody who wanted him to die. Somebody who needed him to die. Who is this somebody? I do not know. But when I find out …’

There was in this, and much else he said, a distaste for Victor that amounted to more than disapproval, more even than contempt. He loathed everything about him, detested everything he represented. It was impossible to believe that
he
would have allowed his sister to marry a man about whom he harboured such feelings. Therefore, I was forced to conclude, his hatred of Victor stemmed from later events. What were they? He would not say. When I pressed him, he pretended to misunderstand. All I could glean was that his father had died a broken man, that his family’s prosperity had steadily declined since and that he held Victor, in some strange way, to blame for this.

‘We made him welcome in our home. We treated him like a member of our family. Victor Caswell. Smiling. Rich. A friend to every man.
O grande empreiteiro. O cavalheiro culto
. I did not trust him. Francisco said he would be useful to us. His money. His land. His rubber. But I saw, in his eyes, what he was.
Um ladrão
. A thief. Like his friend, Major Turnbull. But what did I know? I did not understand. I was Rodrigo the fool, Rodrigo
o bêbado
. So, they let him marry Consuela. They let him take her away to England. And then they found out, too late, what he really was.’

So he continued, lashing out with his tongue where he would as readily have struck out with his fists. He had come to save Consuela, but he could not be sure who or what to save her from. Until he could be, Victor would fill the role. As for the rest – the evidence, the circumstances, the universal condemnation – he would not allow himself to be overborne. In his own unappeasable anger, his own unquenchable confidence, he would place his trust. And I found myself doing the same as I watched him sway away up the corridor that night. He had none of my guilt to stay his hand, none of my doubts to cloud his thoughts. He was the saviour that Consuela needed.

It was over breakfast the following morning, as the train drifted north through a grey dawn, that Rodrigo and I agreed our plan of campaign. He would return to Hereford, speak to as many of those involved in the case as were willing to speak to him and accept Windrush’s offer of a meeting with Consuela’s barrister, Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett; I would also
attend.
Upon what the great man thought of our prospects the future of our campaign depended.

The Channel was as grey and cold as the day itself. Rodrigo and I were the only passengers on deck as the ferry battled across towards Dover. As the White Cliffs came into sight, I asked him how he had left matters with Victor, what undertakings, if any, he had extracted from him. The answer, it appeared, was none.

‘He told me to go back to Brazil. He told me to forget Consuela. He said he would do nothing to help her, because he believed she was guilty. My sister:
uma homicídia
. That was too much for me. That was why I made him a promise.
Uma promessa soleníssima
. If they hang my sister, I will kill him. I meant it. He could see that. If they take her life away, I will take his.’

I looked up at him then and saw what Victor must also have seen. No wonder he had been sufficiently frightened to call in the police. In Rodrigo’s face, as he stared implacably at the heaving waves, was a warning I too should have heeded, but yet could not. Tragedy is its own father, but its offspring were still to be confronted. For all that the past held, the worst was yet to be.

Chapter Nine

IT WAS THE
last day of November, chill, fog-wreathed and dreary, reclaimed by darkness, it seemed, almost before the previous night had released its hold. At Frederick’s Place, a mood of gaiety prevailed, consequent upon Doris’s announcement of her engagement to a junior clerk from the merchant bank next door; the staff of both institutions were scheduled to celebrate the event at the Three Crowns directly after work.

To any form of gaiety I, however, was immune. Indeed, I was greatly relieved when Windrush telephoned me during the afternoon to say that he and Rodrigo were to meet Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett at his chambers in the Middle Temple at half past six; they had been accommodated in his busy itinerary at short notice and I was welcome to join them. This enabled me to flee the celebrations after a hasty glass of ale, a peck at Doris’s cheek and a clasp of her fiancé’s hand.

I had heard nothing from Rodrigo since our return together from Nice the previous week; nothing, if it came to the point, from anybody involved in Consuela’s case. So far as I knew, Angela was still being entertained by Turnbull in the restaurants and casinos of the Cote d’Azur. I had obtained from Imry a fuller version of his visit to York, which had only strengthened my conviction that enquiries into Imogen Roebuck’s past were futile. I had arrived, in short, at the dispiriting stage when every avenue has been explored and nothing has been found. Inertia – heavy, hopeless and
inescapable
– had settled upon me. For whatever information Sir Henry might vouchsafe, however scant, I was bound therefore to be grateful.

The journey took me longer than I had anticipated and the ill-lit staircase of Plowden Buildings finally ensured that I was several minutes late. Rodrigo and Windrush were already installed, and Sir Henry already in voice, when I arrived, breathless and apologetic.

Rodrigo, I remember, did not even acknowledge my presence. He seemed to have visited both a tailor and a barber since our last encounter, but the sobriety of his appearance only compounded the gloom in which he was immersed. He was slumped in a wing-backed chair, staring straight at Sir Henry, his only movement being a pensive stroking of his moustache. Windrush, meanwhile, perched on an upright chair beneath a standard lamp, was all pointless mobility, consuming cigarette after cigarette as he sifted through papers on his knee.