Take No Farewell - Retail (30 page)

‘You’re suggesting Lizzie Thaxter killed herself because her brother was in prison?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then exactly what are you suggesting?’

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘She wrote him a letter, Mr Staddon, just before she did it. It reached him a few hours before the news of her death. It told him what had driven her to the edge of doing away with herself. It told him everything about the tormented life she was leading at Clouds Frome.’

‘Tormented? By what?’

‘By who’d be a better question. Pete kept the letter till he’d been sentenced to hang. He didn’t show it to his family because Lizzie had asked him not to. She wanted him to explain it all to them when he came out. But, after clouting that warder, he wasn’t coming out, was he? So, what d’you suppose he did?’

An inkling of the answer had been creeping over me as Malahide spoke, but I held it at bay with a shrug of the shoulders and a petulant ‘How should I know?’

‘He gave the letter to me, Mr Staddon, to be passed on to his family when I got out.’

‘And did you pass it on?’

‘’Fraid not.’ He grinned. ‘Solemn promises aren’t really my line. To tell you the truth, I forgot all about it. If I’d ever been down that way, I might’ve done something about it. Otherwise, I’d probably never have thought of it, but for Clouds Frome and the Caswells popping up in the papers two months back.’

‘So you still have the letter?’

He took a gulp from his stout. ‘I have it, yes.’

‘What do you propose to do with it?’

‘I’ve been wondering about that. The fact is, you see, I thought I’d better read it – after all this time – and, when
I
did, I was surprised to find some familiar names cropping up in it.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as yours, Mr Staddon.’

‘Mine?’

He leaned still closer, till his face was barely a foot from mine, till the glee in his bloodshot eyes could not be mistaken. ‘The letter names you as Mrs Caswell’s lover. It says you and her were planning to run away together. Till you ditched her, that is.’

‘What nonsense! It can’t possibly—’

‘How would I know unless the letter had told me? Be sensible, Mr Staddon. You know what I’m saying’s the truth. You had an affair with Mrs Consuela Caswell. I don’t blame you. Matter of fact, I envy you. The few glimpses I had of her … Well, enough said, eh? You had your way with her, then you ran out on her. It’s the old—’

‘It’s nothing of the kind! And I happen to object – very strongly – to these suggestions.’

‘Object all you like, but take it from me that my version is the one anybody reading Lizzie’s letter would come away with. Now, the point is, do you want people to read it? Do you want them to know what you did to her mistress?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think the papers would bite my hand off for it, don’t you? They’re down on Mrs Caswell. You know that. They want her neck. A letter proving she’s not the lily-white faithful wife she claims – and never has been – would be just what they want. Dragging in the architect her husband employed to build a house for her would be the cherry on their cake – don’t you reckon?’

‘You called this letter a suicide note. Are you trying to blame me for Lizzie’s death?’

‘Oh no, Mr Staddon. Some would blame you. But not me.’ Another grin. ‘If you want to know exactly what’s in the letter, you can find out easily enough. It’s for sale, you see. To the highest bidder.’

‘This is blackmail.’

‘No. It’s an auction. Sotheby’s hold them all the time.’

‘Now listen to me—’

‘No! You listen to
me
, Mr Staddon. I’m a reasonable man. I only want a fair price. If you’re willing to pay, the auction needn’t take place.’

‘How much do you want?’

‘A hundred.’

‘Good God! You must be—’

‘Joking? I never joke. I’ve looked at this from all angles and I reckon that’s what it’s worth. Six months ago, no. Six months ahead, no again. But, just now, yes. I think you’ll see your way clear to coughing up. You’ve your practice to consider, after all. This letter will get splashed all over the front pages. What will your fancy clients think when they read how you helped yourself to one of their wives? Well, I’ll tell you what they’ll think—’

‘Don’t bother! I understand what you’re saying. Spare me the elaboration.’

‘You’ll pay, then?’

I said nothing. The defiance I wanted to express I could not afford to – for Consuela’s sake as well as mine. Would I have resisted if my reputation alone had been at stake? I do not know. All I knew then was that I had to have Lizzie Thaxter’s last letter, whatever price I had to pay for it.

‘We’re agreed, are we, Mr Staddon?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Good. Well, you won’t have the cash about you, any more than I have the letter about me, so what I suggest is this. We meet a week today, I bring the letter, you bring the money. How does that seem? This side of Southwark Bridge, eight o’clock, next Friday night.’

‘Very well.’

Suddenly, he had finished his stout and was on his feet, grinning down at me. ‘It’s a pleasure doing business with a gentleman like yourself, Mr Staddon, a real pleasure. Till next week, then. Don’t be late.’

He was gone almost before I knew it, gone with but an empty glass to prove he had ever been there. His grubby, callused fingers had left their smeared prints around it, as his words had around my life. What had Lizzie written to her brother all those years ago? What had driven her to suicide? What had I done – or not done – to condemn her to a lonely grave beyond the churchyard wall? Dark of face and swift of tread, the truth would surely soon be plucking at my sleeve.

Angela and I had latterly contrived to meet only rarely and to converse not at all beyond the making of strictly practical arrangements. There was comedy, I sometimes thought, in the tight-lipped indifference which we substituted for angry exchanges, but it was comedy that inspired no laughter.

On Sunday morning, departing from her recent habit of breakfasting in bed and thus avoiding me, Angela joined me downstairs. I knew at once that an announcement of some kind – a demand, a rebuke, perhaps even a request – was pending. She was in no hurry, however. Tea, dry toast and two cigarettes received her silent attention before she deigned to address me.

‘I’ve told Mummy we’ll be with them by tea-time tomorrow. I trust you won’t be delayed at the office.’

‘I shouldn’t think so. I’ll be back here by two at the latest.’

‘They’re assuming we’ll stay on for the New Year’s Eve party.’

‘What party?’

‘I did mention it to you.’

‘Well, I have to be back in London by the twenty-seventh. We’ll just have to make two trips of it.’

‘I could remain there while you return to London.’

‘As you please.’

‘And Geoffrey, while we
are
together, do you think you could make an effort at least to pretend that all is well between us? I know it will be an effort – for both of us – but we
don’t
really want to burden my parents with our problems, do we?’

‘I suppose not.’ I looked up from my paper for the first time since she had begun speaking. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, with a vein of sarcasm in my voice that I was later to regret. ‘I’ll behave.’

Sir Ashley Thornton, my esteemed and eminent father-in-law, knighted by Lloyd George’s government in recognition of I know not what, had commissioned for himself some years before we met a country residence of style and substance a few miles south of Guildford. The architect shall remain nameless, lest I be accused of traducing a fellow professional. Luckham Place was, in truth, as safe, sound and solid a piece of Neo-Georgian predictability as any student of the style could wish to encounter.

There, at dusk on Christmas Eve, Angela and I arrived laden with smartly wrapped presents and contrasting expectations. The Thorntons had, as usual, erected in their hall one of the tallest Christmas trees seen beyond the shores of Norway. It, along with every beam and lintel in the house, was strung with baubles, balloons, tinsel and tassels. Angela’s brother, Clive, had already arrived with his wife, Celia, and their three children; the drawing-room was ringing with their laughter as we entered. Instantly, Angela was embraced and kissed by her mother and sister-in-law. So, in turn, was I, but with an aloofness, an icy dutifulness, that reminded me how tenuous and barely tolerated my membership of their family had become. To see my father-in-law dandling his eldest surviving grandson on his knee was to be reminded of all the trust and support he would no doubt have conferred on me – if only Edward had lived.

Clive Thornton was rapidly being groomed as his father’s successor at the head of Thornton Hotels. Five years younger than Angela, he had done everything that could have been asked of him: distinguished war service, a reputable marriage and the regular production of grandchildren. Small wonder
that
in him Sir Ashley’s hopes for the future now resided. If, of course, Clive had died a hero’s death on the Somme, if Edward had not contracted influenza, if the Hotel Thornton had not been burned to the ground, my life would have taken a vastly different turn. But these were unworthy thoughts, I told myself, as the festivities at Luckham Place began to take their ritualistic course: midnight mass at the village church, of which Sir Ashley was a generous benefactor; then Christmas Day itself, with feasting and gaiety unbounded, concluding with parlour games that reduced the children to hysterics. I moved through the seamless succession of events more as a spectator than a participant, conscious of, but no longer discomforted by, my growing isolation. I was a stranger in their midst, but none of us was prepared to admit it.

On Boxing Day, Sir Ashley, Angela, Clive and Celia rode with the local foxhounds. After seeing them off, I drove slowly back to London, glad to be alone once more. I had said I would rejoin them on New Year’s Eve, but, in truth, I could hardly direct my thoughts so far ahead. My appointment with Malahide – and the procurement of Lizzie’s letter – had become an horizon beyond which I did not care to look.

Giles Newsom had volunteered to mind the office between Christmas and New Year. Accordingly, we had the place to ourselves. Always vaguely scornful of the rest of the staff, Giles seemed positively cheered by their absence, engaging me in lengthy conversations about architectural theory and practice. He was, and had always been in my eyes, Imry’s choice. For my taste, he was too glib, too cocksure, too clever by half. And he was something else as well: a fine architect in the making. Perhaps that was what I really resented.

During those days, Giles returned again and again to a topic I had already done my best to deflect him from: Clouds Frome. An apparently genuine enthusiasm for its design seemed in danger of becoming an obsession. There was no
end
to his questions. What had forged the idea in my mind? How had I put it into effect? Where were the original drafts and sketches? Could he borrow them, perhaps, the better to appreciate what I had achieved? My answers were uniformly unhelpful. I wanted no drooling, double-edged praise from a young man who believed he was my intellectual superior. Above all, I wanted no reminders of the way I had thought those many years ago.

I had, besides, a more pressing matter to consider: my bargain with Malahide. On Thursday, I withdrew a hundred pounds from my bank and lodged it in the office safe. On Friday, I gave Giles the afternoon off, then took a long walk round some of my favourite London buildings. Architecture at its best still held for me a healing quality, but the inspiration it once conveyed had drained away. Whether gaping in awe at a work of the master, or gazing in admiration at something by Shaw or Lutyens, I could no longer generate the desire to rival or outdo. I was inferior to them, of course, but what really hurt my pride was that I was also inferior to the architect I had once been.

I returned to Frederick’s Place a little before half past seven, intending to remove the money from the safe and walk to Southwark Bridge in ample time to rendezvous with Malahide. All I wanted now was for our association to be ended and our business concluded as quickly as possible: Lizzie’s letter in my hand, Malahide’s threats off my mind. That, for the moment, would be relief enough.

I did not realize there was anything wrong until I was halfway up the stairs. It was then that the light under my office door, visible across the dark expanse of the outer office, suddenly struck my eyes. The difference in height between one step and another became at once the difference between preoccupation and anxiety. I stopped where I was, scouring my memory of leaving the building that afternoon. I had left no lights burning. Of that I was certain. Somebody had been in since my departure. Then
I
heard a noise – a rustling of paper, a movement of some kind: they were still there.

The street door had been locked. No intruder could have come that way. Yet there was no other way, short of descending from the roof. There came a squeal of swollen wood as the second drawer on my desk – the one that always stuck – was pulled open. At that, I started up the stairs again. I reached the top, crossed the outer office and stopped by my door. Papers were being rustled, sifted, searched. By whom or why I could not guess. I rested my hand on the knob, hesitated for a moment, then flung the door open.

Giles Newsom was standing behind my desk, his hands resting on a pile of documents that lay before him. I could not see what they were, but, if they had come from the desk-drawers, he could certainly have had no business with them. Besides, the look on his face was an admission of guilt in itself. For once, his self-assurance had deserted him.

The door of the corner cupboard stood open, as did all the four drawers of the filing cabinet beside it and all ten of the map-chest. A glance sufficed to tell me that my senior assistant had been searching my office – thoroughly and in secret. I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me, then stared straight at him, waiting for him to explain himself. But he merely moved his hands to his sides and smiled nervously.