Take No Farewell - Retail (65 page)

Spencer took it badly. I do not mean he was upset because we had killed his sister by mistake. He cared no more for her than any other member of his family. He would happily have done for the lot of them if necessary. No, what he took badly was the upset to our plans. He blamed me for bungling the attempt. But he soon saw falling out with me would be fatal. We had to stick together. A murder had been committed, even though it was not the murder we had planned. We still had to make sure Consuela took the blame for it. So, I planted the arsenic and the letters where I was confident the police would find them. And they did. Consuela was arrested and committed for trial.

The question was what to do next. If we made another attempt on Victor’s life, we would prove Consuela was innocent and we would also prove somebody had faked the evidence against her. If we did not, all our efforts would be wasted. Spencer was in favour of drastic action, but I persuaded him we had to be careful. I could see nothing for it but to wait for the fuss to die down before thinking up a new plan.

But I had reckoned without Imogen Roebuck. She saw an opportunity in what had happened to advance herself. As the weeks passed, she wormed her way into Victor’s affections, first as his nurse, then as his friend and finally as his lover. The poisoning took something out of him. It made him feel vulnerable. That is what she played on. I had to watch while
he
came more and more to dote and depend on her. I was powerless to do anything about it. I even had to play my part in deceiving Consuela’s brother at Miss Roebuck’s say-so. I could not afford to make her doubt my loyalty, so I did what she told me to do: strike up an acquaintance with Rodrigo, give him the impression I was open to bribes, then, when he became curious about Victor’s will, encourage him to break into the house and open the safe in order to find out what the will contained. I had to be told the combination then, of course – the combination I already knew. No doubt Victor meant to change it as soon as it had served its purpose. They claimed they just wanted to have Rodrigo deported and that nobody would come to any harm. I do not know if they meant to kill him. Miss Roebuck assured me afterwards that Victor shot him in self-defence. Not that I cared either way. What worried me was that she obviously knew the terms of Victor’s will. And that made her a real threat to the success of our plans. But, for the life of me, I could not see what we were to do about her.

Things came to a head soon after Consuela’s conviction. Her appeal was rejected on 7 February. It seemed certain then that she would hang. On Sunday 10 February, Victor called a family conference at Clouds Frome and announced that he and Miss Roebuck were going abroad and would marry as soon as they were free to.

That forced our hand. As soon as Victor married again, any will he had previously made would be nullified by law. Miss Roebuck, as the new Mrs Caswell, would automatically become his heir. So, we had to strike before they married. Since they could marry as soon as Consuela was dead, that meant we had to strike before her execution. In other words, before today.

This time, the plan was mostly Spencer’s. He had already identified Staddon as a potential scapegoat and had led him to believe that Miss Roebuck and Victor had staged the poisoning in order to rid themselves of Consuela. He had told him that Grenville Peto had telephoned Victor shortly before
Marjorie
and Rosemary’s arrival at Clouds Frome on Sunday 9 September, but had refused to say who had given him this information. It was a lie, of course. Peto never telephoned. But Staddon was trying to clear Consuela’s name. Evidence that Victor knew the ladies might call for tea was therefore just what he thought he needed. And by feeding him with such tit-bits, Spencer was not only diverting him from the truth but also supplying him with a motive to murder Victor. If Victor was poisoned in circumstances which suggested the same killer had struck again, Consuela would be proved innocent. As the date of her execution approached, it became more and more obvious that nothing else could save her. What we had to do was persuade the police that, for this reason, Staddon had become desperate enough to kill Victor. Then we had to lure him to Cap Ferrat so that he would be on hand as a ready-made suspect when the murder was committed.

Unlike the first attempt, the second one had to be hurried. I knew that increased the risks we were running, but there seemed no alternative. After all the planning and waiting, I could not bear to let the chance slip through our fingers.

I was due to leave for Cap Ferrat with Victor and Miss Roebuck on Tuesday 12 February. The night before, I took a supply of arsenic from one of the tins of
Weed Out
in the kitchen garden. Banyard had been told to keep them under lock and key after the first poisoning, but he was too obstinate to take any notice. Meanwhile, Spencer posted an anonymous letter to Chief Inspector Wright at Scotland Yard, naming Staddon as Rodrigo’s accomplice during the breakin at Clouds Frome. Spencer had seen Staddon leaving Fern Lodge early on the morning following the break-in and could not believe it was just a coincidence he was in Hereford at the time. The letter also named Staddon as Consuela’s lover. We were confident Chief Inspector Wright would become suspicious of Staddon as a result. We waited a few days for those suspicions to take root. Then, on Friday 15 February, Spencer paid some street-arab to impersonate a post-boy and
deliver
a forged telegram to Staddon’s office. It claimed to be from Mrs Staddon, who had been in Cap Ferrat for some time as a guest of Major Turnbull. It asked Staddon to come at once because she had discovered disturbing information about Victor. To make sure Staddon responded, Spencer staged a chance meeting with him that evening. He told him I was the source of his information about Victor’s telephone conversation with Grenville Peto on Sunday 9 September. And Staddon, who still thought Victor and Miss Roebuck had carried out the poisoning, fell for it completely. He set off for Cap Ferrat the following morning. Spencer travelled overnight and arrived before him.

Spencer warned me to expect Staddon during the afternoon or evening of Sunday 17 February. Once he had visited the villa, we would be free to proceed. As it happened, he arrived while Victor and his friends were all out, which suited me perfectly. I kept him waiting in the morning-room for two reasons. Firstly, it gave me time to mix arsenic in the whisky that was kept in the drawing-room. Secondly, it meant everybody would later think Staddon had done what I had done. I knew I would have to find another opportunity if Victor did not drink any whisky, but he had been putting a lot away as the hanging approached, so I did not expect to have to try anything else. Turnbull never drank whisky and Thornton hardly ever did. In the event, it went like clockwork. Victor was upset by Staddon’s visit. I did not even have to ask him if he wanted a drink. He demanded a scotch and soda. Luckily for him, Thornton asked for a gin sling. It gave me a lot of quiet pleasure to hand Victor his glass and watch him drink it down, then hear him ask for another.

After Staddon had left, I slipped out and spoke to Spencer, who was waiting by the garden gate. He then kept watch on Staddon’s hotel until he had a chance to plant the arsenic in his room, where the police were bound to find it. Spencer is good at lock-picking as well as forgery. I reckon he would have turned to crime eventually without any encouragement from me.

Victor died that night, in agony. I watched him die. Before the end, I think he knew from my expression that I had killed him. I hope so. The arsenic worked like a knife in his guts. He deserved every twist of the blade.

We would have succeeded, but for bad luck. We made no mistakes. We could not have foreseen that Marjorie and Rosemary would come to tea on 9 September or that Doak would be sleeping in the kitchen garden on 11 February. But for those two mischances, we would have got clean away with it. I do not know where Spencer is. He was supposed to leave Cap Ferrat on Monday, then reappear in Hereford pretending to be as shocked by the news as everybody else. If he finds out I have been arrested, he will realize the game is up. What he will do then I cannot say. He is clever as well as unpredictable.

I have made this statement quite voluntarily and without coercion of any kind. I would like to stand trial in England. This crime began there and it is only fitting that it should end there. I suppose I will pay with my life for what I have done. I suppose I will hang, like Lizzie. Well, perhaps there is justice in that.

There is nothing else I wish to say.

J. W. Gleasure,

21 February 1924.

When I had finished reading the statement, I slid it back across the table to Wright and said: ‘How does this make you feel, Chief Inspector?’

‘Suitably contrite.’ Still he was smiling. ‘We were wrong about this case from the start. I’m only glad we discovered our mistake before it was too late.’

‘Can I speak to Gleasure?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that.’

‘Am I free to go, then?’

‘Oh, completely. I’d be grateful if you could stay in Nice for a few days, though, till I know whether I’ll need you to testify against Gleasure in court here.’

‘And Consuela? Will she be freed too?’

‘Eventually. Technically, of course, she’s still a convicted murderess, so there could be some delay. But she will be released. You need have no doubt of that.’

I rose and was on the point of leaving when the memory of all the questions and accusations I had endured in that room flooded back into my mind. ‘What if Doak hadn’t seen Gleasure that night, Chief Inspector?’ I suddenly asked. ‘What if he hadn’t picked up an old newspaper yesterday morning and read about my arrest? What then, eh?’

Wright shook his head and stared down at the pages of Gleasure’s statement where they lay on the table in front of him. What could he say? The truth was that nobody, least of all either of us, could claim the credit for Consuela’s salvation. She had been unlucky. Now her luck had changed. That, as Gleasure would have said, was all.

But recrimination was swiftly overborne by rejoicing. As I walked out of the building a few minutes later and breathed in a lungful of Mediterranean air, scented with the certainty of spring, I experienced a surge of pure elation. Consuela was safe and would soon be free. Nothing else mattered. That was truly all. That was everything.

Chapter Twenty-Four

THE TWENTY-FIRST OF
February, which I had looked forward to with horror, was suddenly transformed into one of the sweetest days of my life. That I spent it alone did not matter. I booked into the Negresco and from there telephoned Imry, whose voice at the end of the line was the only companionship I needed. He sounded as relieved and exultant as I felt. It was too soon, we agreed, to analyse the recent past or speculate about the future. The present was for once sufficient to still every doubt and fulfil every hope. Consuela was safe. And so were we all. I ordered a bottle of champagne, took it onto the balcony of my room and drank it with slow and silent pleasure as the sun sank behind me and lit the horizon with purest gold.

That night I slept better and longer than I had in weeks. I was still lingering over a late breakfast at eleven o’clock the following morning when Chief Inspector Wright called to see me. He looked more cheerful than ever and had, he said, good news of a confidential nature to impart. We walked out onto the Promenade des Anglais and there, gazing across the blue expanse of the bay towards Cap Ferrat, he announced: ‘Spencer Caswell’s in custody.’

‘How was he caught?’

‘He was arrested at Hereford railway station last night after arriving on a train from London. I’m going back straightaway to question him.’

‘Will he try to brazen it out, do you think?

‘It seems so. He claims to have spent the week in Paris, drifting between bars and brothels. Naturally, he doesn’t have any witnesses to prove it. Perhaps he doesn’t feel he needs any.’

‘Surely, in the light of Gleasure’s statement …’

‘We shall see, Mr Staddon, we shall see. Leave young Spencer to me. Actually, he’s not the only reason I called on you this morning.’

‘No?’

‘We don’t need to detain you here any longer. Gleasure will appear in court on Monday, but the fullness of his confession means no witnesses will be required to testify. Committal for trial will be automatic.’

‘He’s to be tried here, then?’

‘In the end, I don’t think he will be. But extradition is a tricky business. It may take some time to resolve.’

‘And must Consuela stay in prison until it
is
resolved?’

‘I certainly hope not. But it’s hardly for the likes of me to say. Take it up with her lawyers when you get home.’

‘I will, Chief Inspector, believe me.’

‘Don’t worry, Mr Staddon.’ He grinned. ‘The law tries to deal with embarrassments as quickly and quietly as possible. And Mrs Caswell’s case is
very
embarrassing. You’ll have her to yourself before you know it.’

It was not until a few minutes later, as I watched Wright walk away along the promenade, that I realized how natural his assumption had been. He thought I had acted out of love. And so in a sense I had, though not the sense he imagined. Consuela would not be re-entering my life when she left prison. We would not be trying to revive what we had once felt for each other.

Or would we? I turned and stared out to sea. There, where sky and water met, it seemed possible to believe that almost any future could be waiting, however forfeit past actions had seemed to render it. She had forgiven me. And I had suffered on her account. And soon she would be free in every
meaning
of the word. If I tried hard enough, I could imagine three figures – Consuela and I, with Jacinta between us – strolling past on the promenade, laughing and smiling as they went. When I looked round, they were not there. But I was no longer certain they never would be.

I left Nice that evening aboard the night-train for Calais. Not until I entered the restaurant-car for dinner did I realize that Clive and Celia were also aboard. I sat at the opposite end of the carriage from them and resolved to make no effort at communication. But Clive, much to Celia’s evident disapproval, decided that some sort of rapprochement was in order. Abandoning his dessert, he grasped his brandy glass and swayed down to my table.