Take No Farewell - Retail (62 page)

‘What are you trying to say, Chief Inspector?’

‘Make a clean breast of it. That’s my advice. Admit you murdered Victor Caswell. And admit the part you played in
trying
to murder him last September.’ He smiled at the astonishment he must have been able to read in my face. ‘I don’t know why it didn’t come to me sooner. Perhaps it’s a sign of age. But that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the truth of the matter. Mrs Caswell tried to murder her husband in order
to
be free to marry you. And now you’ve finished the job. Unfortunately, there isn’t going to be a wedding.’

‘No. That isn’t the truth at all.’

‘The anonymous letters put me off the scent. They made me think Mr Caswell was the unfaithful partner, not Mrs Caswell. But then I remembered the emphasis Sir Henry put on her religion at the trial. Roman Catholics can’t divorce. That’s why it had to be murder. But you couldn’t persuade her to go through with it. So you sent her those letters. And they swayed her where you’d not been able to. Her scruples flew out of the window as soon as she read them. Clever, I call that. Very clever. But heartless as well. Cruel, I could almost say.’

‘I didn’t write the letters.’

‘What I can’t understand is why you wrote the last one – the one addressed to me. Was it because you wanted to make sure I didn’t suspect you of sending the first batch? If so, it was a mistake. Who else could know you were with Pombalho? Caswell had no wish to advertise the fact. No, it had to be you. A big mistake, as I say. I’m afraid you’ve been making quite a lot of those lately.’

‘Gleasure knew. He wrote them. He murdered Victor. It’s there in front of you, but you refuse to see it.’

‘The point is this, Mr Staddon. If you confessed your part in the murder of Rosemary Caswell, that would take priority over the later offence. We could apply for extradition. I expect the French authorities would be happy to get you off their hands. Then you could stand trial in England. Much better for your chances, that would be, don’t you reckon?’

I stared at him, trying to will him to believe what I was about to say. ‘I don’t care about my chances, Chief Inspector. I only care about Mrs Caswell. If she hangs, you’ll regret it. One day, when the truth comes out, her case will be a
cause célèbre
. Everyone will know hanging her was a grotesque miscarriage of justice. Books will be written about it, inquiries demanded. She may even be posthumously pardoned. Somewhere, in the footnotes, you’ll be mentioned
as
one of those who let it happen, one of those who stood and watched while the state committed murder. You won’t be smiling then.’

Nor was he smiling now. ‘I’ll speak to you again tomorrow, Mr Staddon. That’ll be your last opportunity to see reason. I hope you take it. By then, Mrs Caswell won’t need your help – or anyone else’s.’

Slowly, the afternoon passed. The brilliance of the Mediterranean sky faded. The shadows lengthened. I wondered again what Consuela was doing. A walk in the exercise yard? A letter to Jacinta? An interview with her priest? She could not be expecting anything now but death, premature and undeserved. What she might once have regarded as mere precautions were now essential preparations.

Night fell. I watched the colour being leeched from the sky until the very last glimmer of it had gone, knowing that in England it would have vanished even sooner. I was served a frugal meal. No doubt, at Holloway, they were more generous. But I ate nothing and nor, I suspected, would Consuela. The evening wore on. I had no way of keeping track of time. It would be different for Consuela. She would know, because they would tell her, when 9 p.m. came and the last revolution of the clock began.

Wednesday 20 February 1924

Big Ben has just struck 9 p.m. Those of us gathered in this cold and cheerless room all heard it clearly. That, I suppose, is a measure of the absolute silence in which we are waiting. We have sat here for barely twenty minutes, though it seems far longer, Windrush chain-smoking and fidgeting in the chair to my left, Pombalho pensive and immobile in the chair to my right. We do not know how long it will be before the door on the other side of the room opens and our vigil comes to an end, nor whether that end will be the one we fervently desire or the one we greatly dread. All we can do is wait and hope
.

I was breakfasting with the Pombalhos in the dining-room of the Green Dragon this morning shortly after nine o’clock, trying and failing to find some words with which to lift their spirits, when, to my surprise, I saw Hermione Caswell threading through the tables towards us. There was an urgency to her progress and an edge to her expression that told me something remarkable had happened before she had even spoken a word
.

At Hermione’s insistence, I left the Pombalhos and accompanied her to a small writing-room at the rear of the hotel. There, waiting for us, was the sort of man whom the staff of the Green Dragon would normally turn away at the door: malodorous and raggedly dressed with matted grey hair and a beard; clearly, a tramp. Hermione introduced him as Ivor Doak. Geoff having told me all about him, I wondered what on earth he could want with me. The answer was that he had something to tell me, something he had already told Hermione and which she considered to be of quite startling importance
.

Doak spent last night in a quiet doorway near the cathedral – one of his regular bolt-holes. This morning, whilst crossing the cathedral green, he noticed a discarded newspaper lying on the bench and picked it up to read. It was yesterday’s special edition of the
Hereford Times,
reporting Victor Caswell’s murder and Geoff’s arrest on suspicion of having poisoned him with arsenic. Doak read of this with something amounting to glee, since a painful death is exactly what he would have wished on the man who took Clouds Frome Farm away from him. But he was sorry to learn that Geoff might be made to answer for it, grateful as he has always been to him for his generosity of former times and ashamed that it was not put to better use
.

Doak’s sorrow was also tinged with incredulity. Here we came to the crux of his account. He is evidently a frequent visitor to the grounds of Clouds Frome, partly out of nostalgia, partly to prove he does not accept that the land has ceased to be his. Victor’s recent measures to deter intruders he viewed with scorn and negotiated with ease. He frequently spends a night bedded down in one of the out-buildings, usually one of those in the kitchen garden. (He
suspects
Banyard has long known this, but has turned a blind eye to it.) His choice, on Monday night of last week, was the fruit house, where food as well as warmth is to be found. His slumbers, on this occasion, were disturbed. He has a keen ear and the light sleeping habits of a man used to being turned out of his bed. It was not, he emphasized, the first time he had been roused by suspicious comings and goings at Clouds Frome
.

Somebody was moving around stealthily outside the fruit house. Doak edged open the door and, in the moonlight, saw a figure standing a few yards away by one of the lean-to sheds which run along the north wall of the kitchen garden. As Doak watched, the figure opened the door and entered. Once inside, he removed the lid from a tin – Doak heard the distinctive sound – and, a few moments later, replaced it. Then he reappeared, closed the shed and stole away
.

Curious, Doak waited until all was quiet, then went over and looked in the shed. There were two identical tins of
Weed Out
standing near the entrance. It was one of these the fellow had opened, presumably for the purpose of removing some of the contents; contents used, as Doak well knew, in the poisoning of Victor, Marjorie and Rosemary Caswell last September. Nevertheless, he decided to do nothing about what he had seen. What business was it of his? If somebody wanted to make a second attempt on Victor’s life, Doak only wished them luck. He was delighted to read this morning of their success. All that worried him was the thought that a man who had once done him a substantial kindness should take the blame for it. Because Geoff is assuredly innocent. Of that Doak had no doubt. He hastened to Fern Lodge and told Hermione so (she being the only member of the Caswell family for whom he has any respect). The poisoner had to be the man he had seen that night in the kitchen garden: John Gleasure
.

As soon as Doak named Gleasure, my thoughts were assailed by a riot of responses ranging from elation to despair. At last we felt we knew who the murderer was. Consuela’s innocence was proven. And so was Geoff’s. How I regretted the doubts I had entertained about him. Then, all too swiftly, came the misgivings. Would the authorities believe Doak? Even if they did, would they agree that
his
evidence justified a reprieve for Consuela? Was it really good enough – or simply that worst of all possibilities, too little too late? Alas, I still do not know
.

At the time, one thing at least was clear to me. We had to make the most of what Doak had told us and we had to do so straightaway. We explained the significance of his account to the Pombalhos, then, leaving Dona Ilidia at the Green Dragon, hastened to Hereford police station, arriving shortly before ten o’clock. And there the delays and obstructions that have dogged us all day began
.

The officers on duty agreed that only Superintendent Weaver could help us. I remembered him from the trial as a slowly spoken, even-tempered model of a fair-minded policeman and my hopes rose at the mention of his name. But he was in conference with the Chief Constable and could not be disturbed. We reasoned, we pleaded, we demanded. But they would not yield. Eventually, Hermione announced that either Weaver was summoned to see us or she would interrupt his meeting herself; they would have to restrain her physically to prevent her. At this, they agreed to send in a note
.

Weaver emerged, clearly annoyed. But he listened patiently to Doak’s account. Then he questioned him at length. Time marched on. It was gone eleven before he conceded that the matter warranted further investigation. His problem, he freely admitted, was that conduct of the case had passed to Scotland Yard. It would be difficult for him to act without their approval, but the officer in charge, Chief Inspector Wright, was in Nice. He went away to consult the Chief Constable. He came back and said he would telephone Wright for advice. This seemed to take an age and resulted only in a French policeman telling him in fractured English that Wright was not available. He returned to the Chief Constable. Noon approached
.

Weaver’s mood had changed when he next appeared. Notwithstanding his reservations on the point, he was prepared to conduct a search of Gleasure’s room at Clouds Frome in the hope of turning up traces of arsenic or some other evidence to corroborate Doak’s statement. He had no search warrant, but was confident Danby
would
not stand in his way. Leaving Doak to dictate and sign a formal statement, we set off with him at once
.

Thus my first visit to the house Geoff designed took place in circumstances which drove all architectural considerations from my mind. Gleasure’s modest bed-sitting room was subjected to the meticulous attentions of Weaver and two assistants whilst Hermione, Pombalho and I looked on. The room did not seem likely to yield many secrets, for it was apparent that the occupant was a man of neat habits and few possessions. I frankly did not expect anything of an incriminating nature to be found. Nor, in all probability, would it have been but for Pombalho standing on an exceptionally squeaky floor-board. When the carpet was pulled back, two saw-cuts, enabling a short section of the board to be lifted out, became visible. In the cavity beneath, wedged between the joists, was an old biscuit-tin. It contained an assortment of greetings cards – birthday, Christmas, Valentine – and a letter. The cards were still in their envelopes, written in the same hand and bearing postmarks covering a period from the autumn of 1910 to the summer of 1911. They were addressed to Gleasure and signed (if at all) ‘L’, accompanied by expressions of fondest love for ‘dearest John’. The letter, by contrast, was addressed to Peter Thaxter, care of Gloucester Prison; it had been posted on 19 July 1911. I knew it at once from the forged version Geoff had shown me, but this – as the handwriting on the cards confirmed – was the genuine article: Lizzie Thaxter’s farewell note to her brother
.

Weaver could remember Lizzie’s suicide very well. Now, at last, he learned the reason for it. He also learned that Victor Caswell was in large measure responsible for it and that Gleasure and Lizzie had been secret sweethearts. Thus, at a stroke, a motive for murder presented itself: revenge for a lost love. All the fragments of the mystery were re-assembling themselves before us. Malahide must have sold Lizzie’s letter to Gleasure, thus acquainting him with the ugly truth about Lizzie’s death. The man he had served faithfully for years had driven his beloved to suicide. Small wonder he had resolved to kill him
.

We were back at Hereford police station by half past two. From there Weaver telephoned Wright again and this time succeeded
in
speaking to him. Wright undertook to question Gleasure immediately and to search his room at the Villa d’Abricot. With the superintendent’s proposal to contact the Home Office he was in complete agreement. ‘It’s settled then,’ said Weaver. ‘We’ll recommend a reprieve in the strongest possible terms.’ If only it had been settled, genuinely so. But the superintendent, as we were to discover, had spoken too soon. He went into conference with the Chief Constable once more, emerging at length with the news that the Permanent Under-Secretary of State was prepared to consider new evidence if it could be laid before him by seven o’clock that evening. There was nothing for it, then, but a dash to London
.

Before setting off, I telephoned Windrush and explained the situation to him. He undertook to alert Sir Henry and to meet us at the Home Office. Hermione elected to remain in Hereford, where she thought she could most usefully be employed in calming Jacinta and Dona Ilidia. Doak, meanwhile, was enjoying a slap-up meal in the police canteen. But he had completed and signed his statement and that was all we thought we needed. By four o’clock, we were on our way
.