Take No Farewell - Retail (66 page)

‘Hello, old man. Seems a bit rum for us to pretend we don’t know each other.’

‘Does it?’

‘Mind if I join you for a minute?’ Without waiting for a reply, he sank into the chair opposite me. ‘Must say we were all thoroughly bucked to hear you were in the clear.’

‘Really?’

‘Even Angie. She wouldn’t want you to come to any harm, you know.’

‘Is she still in Cap Ferrat?’

‘Yes.’ He grimaced. ‘I was damn glad to clear out as soon as the police said we could. But Angie’s staying on for the funeral. Turnbull’s quite cut up about Victor. Well, so were we all, of course, but Turnbull took it specially hard, the two of them being such old friends. Angie’s doing her best to jolly him along.’

‘You paint a touching scene. What about Miss Roebuck?’

‘Distraught at first, of course. But bearing up now.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I never thought you could be guilty, of course. Not for a moment.’

‘Decent of you to tell the police that.’

‘What?’ He frowned. ‘Don’t quite take your meaning, old man.’

‘None of you raised a hand to help me. That’s what I mean.’

‘Oh. Well … Damn it all, we’d have spoken up if it had come to a trial. You must know we would.’

‘No. I don’t.’

He eyed me thoughtfully for a moment, then said: ‘I gather there’s been a lot of publicity at home. Reprieve of a condemned woman and all that. I wouldn’t be surprised if some reporter tried to talk you into saying things you might regret.’

‘Such as?’

‘The point is, I wouldn’t want to think Angie was going to read something unpleasant about herself in the papers. Something said by you, for instance.’

‘Your concern does you credit. But I hardly think the gutter-press are likely to be interested in the break-down of my marriage. Do you?’

A wince and a smile merged on Clive’s face. His voice dropped. ‘About the divorce, old man. Our agreement regarding the terms. I trust it still applies?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But surely—’

‘Listen to me,
old man
. I’ve just been cleared of a murder charge. The woman I – and precious few others – have been trying to save has just escaped death by a matter of hours. Do you seriously think that in the face of all that I give a damn about the
terms
on which Angela hopes to divorce me? If you do, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought. And, frankly, I’m not sure that’s possible.’

Clive gaped at me, the realization that I had insulted him seeping through the thick layers of his insensitive soul. ‘I say, dammit, there’s no—’

‘What I suggest is this. Go back to Celia. Finish your meal. And then spend the rest of this journey doing what you thought so very rum. Pretend we don’t know each other.
I’ll
do the same. It won’t be difficult. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it’s almost the truth.’ I signalled past him to the waiter. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I feel in need of some fresh air.’

I paid the bill and hurried into the corridor of the next carriage. There I lowered a window and leaned out, letting the cold night blast away some of my anger. Poor Clive. He could not be expected to understand. Everything my marriage had brought me seemed tainted by the deception of which it had been a consequence. The past was a wasteland, the future an unexplored continent. Behind me was regret, ahead only uncertainty. At least now I knew which was preferable.

I breakfasted early enough the following morning to avoid Clive and Celia and saw nothing of them at Calais. I suspect Celia may have insisted they wait for a later sailing rather than risk an encounter on the ferry. For that I was grateful.

At Dover, I bought all the national newspapers and scoured them for assessments of the case as the train bore me north towards London. The dramatic circumstances of Victor’s murder, Consuela’s reprieve and Gleasure’s confession had evidently been covered on previous days. Spencer’s arrest was made little of, as if it were a trifling postscript to more sensational events. There were a couple of editorials praising the police and the Home Office for their prompt rectification of an error, one article condemning the ease with which arsenic can be obtained and a smattering of letters calling for the abolition of the death penalty in poisoning cases. All in all, though, I detected a vein of embarrassment running through the reports. The newspapers had been as eager as most of their readers to see Consuela hanged. Now they realized how wrong they had been, all they really wanted to do was forget the subject as quickly as possible.

I did not go home when I reached London. Instead, I travelled out to Wendover, where Imry was waiting for me at Sunnylea to celebrate with well-chilled champagne the success of our
endeavours
on Consuela’s behalf. We had much to tell each other. As we did so, I tried to sound as jubilant as Imry obviously felt. For him, Consuela’s conviction and death-sentence were manifest injustices which he was delighted to see put right, the more so since he had not expected to. But, for me, they were also part of a creeping realization that every turn I had taken in life, every decision I had made, had been the wrong one. When I had spoken to Imry by telephone from Nice, I had shared his mood of grateful joy. Now, it was not quite the same. And soon, I sensed, all joy would be soured by the knowledge that Consuela’s salvation was not necessarily mine.

I stayed at Sunnylea overnight. When I returned to the flat in Hyde Park Gardens Mews the following day, its desolate character was borne in upon me as never before. How apt a symbol it was for the life I had willed upon myself I could scarcely bear to contemplate, so, without lingering, I walked out across the park and down through South Kensington to Brompton Cemetery. I had neglected Edward’s grave of late and made penance for that, as well as much else, by putting fresh flowers in the vase and cleaning the grime from the stone. Poor little Edward’s death was another proof, it seemed to me, that I should never have deserted Consuela. If I had stood by her, Edward might have been our second child, a brother for Jacinta. Then, I could not help but believe, influenza would never have claimed him.

I walked back towards Hyde Park past the Natural History and Science Museums, where indulgent parents were ushering their offspring in to while away a Sunday afternoon marvelling at dinosaurs and pendulums. Before I could arm myself against the vision, there the four of us were – Consuela, Jacinta, Edward and I – gambolling up the steps. Everywhere, it seemed, rebukes and reminders were waiting to surprise me.

According to Imry, Jacinta was now in London, staying with her uncle and his wife at Brown’s Hotel pending
Consuela’s
release. Telling myself that I had no destination in mind, but knowing full well I had, I wandered slowly east along Knightsbridge to Hyde Park Corner, then continued up Piccadilly with ever slower tread. I did not know what I would do when I reached Brown’s and suspected I should not go at all, yet on I went, less able to turn back than I was to proceed.

It was tea-time when I arrived. Waiters were bustling in and out of the lounge, bearing cakes and scones by the tray-load. Standing near the door, considering my next move, I suddenly realized that I could see Jacinta. She was sitting near the window of the lounge with Hermione and two other people whom I took to be Francisco Manchaca de Pombalho and Dona Ilidia.

As I watched, Dona Ilidia reached forward to pat Jacinta’s hand. She smiled and murmured something, at which all four of them smiled and exchanged glances. On Jacinta’s face there was a look of greater happiness than I had ever seen before. It was not hard to explain. She knew now – for the first time since our acquaintance had begun – that her mother was safe. Yet something in her expression – something in the trust she bestowed on her companions – told me I could play no part in her happiness, told me her welfare would never be my concern.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a waiter, interrupting the sombre train of my thoughts.

‘What? No. That is …’

‘Do you require tea, sir?’

‘No. Nothing thank you.’ I was hurrying towards the exit now, suddenly wanting to be away from this and every other evocation of what I had lost. But escape was impossible. As I reached the end of Albemarle Street and glanced across Piccadilly, what should I see but the arcade-entrance where I had leaned against an art dealer’s window one morning in the summer of 1911 and decided to accept Ashley Thornton’s commission. Summer fades. And time passes. But our actions can never be erased.

I returned, at length, to Hyde Park Gardens Mews. Night fell. I began to consider the merits of becoming extremely and deliberately drunk. Then, before I could act on the idea, there came a ring at the door. My first inclination was not to answer. But the caller was persistent. Eventually, I went down and opened the door. To my surprise, I found Hermione Caswell standing outside.

‘Good evening, Mr Staddon. May I come in?’

‘Why … Yes. Of course.’

I led her up to the sitting-room, took her coat and offered her a drink. She declined, then looked round at my sparse furnishings and disorderly possessions. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked.

‘A month or so. Since … Well, you may as well know. My wife threw me out. She’s suing for divorce.’

‘Because of your attempts to help Consuela?’

‘They brought matters to a head, certainly.’

She sat down. I put more coal on the fire and encouraged her to change her mind about a drink. She did not. ‘I saw you leave Brown’s this afternoon, Mr Staddon. Don’t worry: nobody else did. Why didn’t you speak to us?’

‘I’m not sure. I … didn’t like to interrupt.’

‘But the Pombalhos would have been charmed to meet you.’

‘Would they?’

‘And I know Jacinta wants to thank you for everything you’ve done for her mother. We visited her earlier today.’

‘How is she?’

‘Impatient to be released now that her innocence has been established. And immensely grateful to those of us – including you – who played a part in saving her life.’

‘I did nothing, except fail where others succeeded.’

Hermione frowned. ‘Self-pity does not become you, Mr Staddon. I had expected to find you in a more joyful mood. Consuela has been reprieved and exonerated. Doesn’t that gladden your heart?’

‘Of course it does. If you had seen me the day I heard the news, you wouldn’t doubt it, believe me.’

‘But since then you have considered the future?’

‘What?’ I felt for an instant she had seen to the core of my being. ‘How … How did you know that?’

‘Because I have done the same. The consequences of proving Consuela innocent are almost as grievous as the consequences of not doing so. Victor is dead as well as Rosemary. And Spencer is implicated in both murders. My family is in ruins. Whether Marjorie or Mortimer will ever recover from the shock I doubt. They refuse to admit Spencer is guilty, of course, though I suspect they know in their hearts he must be. None of this is easy, Mr Staddon. None of this is happy.’

Hermione was right. Many more were oppressed now by fate than would have been the case if Consuela had been hanged and remembered only as a murderess. That, of course, was why so few had tried to save her. Truth and justice, for so long unattainable, had shown they were, in their way, as harsh as their opposites.

‘I would have come here tonight even if I had not seen you at Brown’s,’ Hermione continued. ‘I have a letter for you. From Consuela.’ She took the letter from her handbag and offered it to me. ‘They don’t censor her correspondence any more, you see. Nor do they mind her asking visitors to deliver things on her behalf.’

Numbly, I reached out and took it. There, on the envelope, was my name in Consuela’s handwriting, handwriting I had not seen for thirteen years but recognized as clearly as if I had seen it every day since. I tore the envelope open and unfolded the letter.

His Majesty’s Prison,

Holloway.

23rd February 1924

Dear Geoffrey,

I never expected to see this day. For that I give thanks. It is a gift from God, yet also a gift from those who have stood
by
me in my time of trial. You are one of those. Therefore I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Sir Henry and Mr Windrush have done their best to explain everything that has happened. I must admit that I still find it hard to believe. There is so much cause for sorrow as well as joy. I sit here in this comfortable cell to which they have moved me and wonder how we could all have been so blind. Poor Victor. Poor Rosemary. And poor dear Lizzie.

They tell me you will have been released by now. I am glad to hear it. They tell me I too will soon be released. I look forward to the day. And I have been settling in my mind, now I have time for such things, what I shall do when the day comes. That is why I am writing this letter to you.

As you know, I had decided to send Jacinta to Brazil in the event of my death. Now I have decided that she should still go to Brazil and that I should go with her. Only there can I hope to put what has happened behind us. Only there can I hope to build a new life – for Jacinta as well as for myself.

I shall tell her the truth one day, when she is old enough to understand it. I will not cut you out of her life. That I promise. When she is a young lady, I will tell her everything. Then, perhaps, she will want to know you better. If so, I will not stand in her way.

But that lies in the future. In the present, more knowledge than she already has would be too much for her. She has just lost one father. It is too soon for her to discover another.

We said our farewells nine days ago and no purpose can be served by saying them again. I forgive you and I thank you. What you have done for me settles any debt there ever was between us. Let it rest there. Do not try to visit me, I beg. It would only re-open wounds which our parting of last week did so much to heal.

I shall be seeing Hermione tomorrow. I will ask her to deliver this letter to you as soon as you return from France. It comes with my heart-felt thanks and my sincere good wishes for your future. Farewell, Geoffrey.