Take No Farewell - Retail (7 page)

Next came a servant whose name I recognized: John Gleasure. A footman at Fern Lodge who had moved with Victor to Clouds Frome, Gleasure had since become his valet. Concerned to hear from the butler, Danby, that his master had not felt well enough for dinner, he had gone up to Victor’s room to see if there was anything he required. Finding him sick and in considerable pain, he had reported his concern to Consuela, but she had not thought it necessary to call for a doctor so late. Thanks to Marjorie’s telephone call, of course, Dr Stringfellow had shortly arrived. A tentative enquiry from the prosecuting counsel had elicited a firm denial from Gleasure that Victor had been having an affair. ‘Inconceivable, sir. I should have been sure to know of it. And I did not.’

So much for the loyal valet. Banyard, the gardener, was clearly a less respectful character. Responding to a suggestion from the bench that the storage of arsenic on unsecured premises was irresponsible, he had contested that that was
for
his employer to decide – and he never had. As for who might know that he used
Weed Out
, he had agreed that Consuela took more of an interest in the garden than did Victor. It was even possible that he had mentioned it to her during one of their regular discussions. ‘I couldn’t say as I did and I couldn’t say as I didn’t.’

The last witness of the day had been Consuela’s maid, Cathel Simpson. (What, I wondered, had become of Lizzie?) She was the person best placed to judge Consuela’s reaction to the anonymous letters, but she had resolutely refused to admit any knowledge of them, insisting that they and the twist of arsenic had almost certainly not been in the drawer where they were found when she had last opened it for the purposes of removing or replacing items of her mistress’s underclothing, which she thought she had done the previous day. As to Consuela’s state of mind, this had been entirely normal before, during and after the tea party of 9 September.

There was small comfort in any of this for Consuela. None of the servants had maligned her. Indeed, the impression created by the report was that they all liked her. But that did not matter. What mattered was the weight of evidence being piled up against her. Alone when tea was served. In receipt of letters questioning her husband’s fidelity. Aware of
Weed Out
’s poisonous contents. Aware also of how easy it was to remove some. And found in possession of the letters as well as a quantity of arsenic. I did not believe she had tried to murder Victor, but clearly most of the citizens of Hereford did. A Brazilian-born wife seeking to poison her Hereford-born husband and killing his innocent niece by mistake: it was enough to excite their worst prejudices. And according to
The Times
those prejudices were now apparent in the unruly scenes being witnessed daily outside the court. The odds against Consuela were lengthening. Wherever her thoughts turned in the lonely darkness of her cell, she can have found no hope.

In the immediate wake of Consuela’s departure for Brazil, I gave way to self-pity. I was still too young then to understand that the path to happiness cannot always be trodden and too self-centred to realize that others could suffer more grievously than I. In my more rational moments, I accepted the necessity of what Consuela had done, but such moments were outweighed by the memories of her that I cherished: the sight of her approaching along a path, the sound of her voice close to my ear, the cautious intimacies exchanged, the tremulous hopes embraced.

Some of this I poured out in a long letter to her. I wondered how it would find her, in what mood, on what occasion, at the House of Roses in distant Rio. I did not expect a reply, for she was likely to return as quickly as any letter could reach me, but still I found myself sifting through my mail every morning in search of her handwriting beneath a Brazilian stamp.

I could hardly ask Victor when Consuela was expected back and it was, in fact, Hermione who told me that they had received a telegram reporting her father’s death on 22 January; it was thought she would stay for a week or so after the funeral, then return to England. By now, I was finding it ever more difficult to know how I should react when she was within reach once more: whether to obey her parting instruction or seek to recover what we had once enjoyed.

Perhaps it was as well, in the circumstances, that I had other matters to occupy my mind. In early February, 1911, one of the carpenters at Clouds Frome, Tom Malahide, was arrested for complicity in a robbery at Peto’s Paper Mill in Ross. To my astonishment, I learned that his confederate was none other than Lizzie Thaxter’s brother, Peter. He had been stealing bank-note printing plates for some months from the mill, where he worked on the maintenance of the plate-making machinery, and passing them to Malahide, who then conveyed them to a corrupt engraver in Birmingham to complete a potentially highly lucrative counterfeiting racket. Random stocktaking at the mill had revealed the
discrepancy
and the police had soon identified Thaxter as the thief. He and Malahide had been arrested during a handover of plates and the engraver shortly afterwards.

Lizzie had accompanied Consuela to Brazil, which was as well, for Victor would probably have dismissed her simply for being related to one of the gang had she been in Hereford at the time. As it was, he assuaged his feelings by criticizing me and the builder for employing suspect characters and so dragging his name and that of his new house through the mud. No matter that Malahide had come to us with an exemplary character. Nor that Peto’s should have taken better precautions. I was still required to do penance over an agonizing luncheon at Fern Lodge attended by Marjorie’s brother – the outraged mill-owner himself, Grenville Peto. I can remember with awful clarity stumbling out an apology I did not owe to this dreadful, inflated bullfrog of a man, whilst Marjorie and Mortimer looked on censoriously and Victor squirmed with an embarrassment I knew he would make me suffer for later.

That episode made me glad to think how soon the house would be finished. There was, indeed, no reason why it should not be ready for occupation by Easter. I could feel well pleased with what I had achieved. Its final appearance really did match its promise, the stolid gables and elegant chimneys couched perfectly between orchard and wooded hilltop. All had been done to the highest of standards and even Victor had grudgingly to admit that it was a job well done.

The first weekend of March found me at my flat in Pimlico, contemplating the lonely existence I had led in London since my commitments in Hereford – both professional and emotional – had come to bulk so large. It was Saturday night and Imry had urged me to accompany him and his decorative cousin Mona to the latest Somerset Maugham play at The Duke of York’s. But I had declined the invitation, preferring to check and re-check the plans and schedules of Clouds Frome. I had commissioned some photographs
at
Victor’s request and now, sifting through the prints, I reassured myself that the house was all I had envisaged that day, two and a half years before, when I had seen the site for the first time. And so it was, all and more; there was no doubt of that. I should have felt proud and exhilarated. I should have been out celebrating my success. Instead, I sat absorbed in dimension and proportion, poring over measurements and lists of materials, peering at every photograph in the brightest of lamplight, seeking the flaw in the design that my heart told me was there. And knowing I would not find it. For the flaw was in me, not Clouds Frome at all.

I recall now every detail of that night, every facet of its colour and shade: the purple barrel of the pen I wrote with, the amber hue of the whisky in my glass, the grey whorls of cigarette smoke climbing towards the ceiling – and the blackness of the London night, pressing against the windows.

A few minutes after eleven o’clock. I can remember checking how late it was by my watch, stubbing out a cigarette, massaging my forehead, then rising from the couch and walking to the window. The panes were misty: it was growing cold outside. But coldness, in that moment, was what I most desired. I pulled up the sash and leaned out into the chill darkness, breathed in deeply and glanced down into the street.

She was standing beneath a lamp-post on the opposite pavement, a slight and motionless figure staring straight up at me as I felt sure she had been staring up at the window before I had even reached it, a figure in mourning black whom I knew well. What had brought her there I could only guess, what she was thinking I did not dare to. There was something of doubt as well as scrutiny in her gaze – and something also of hope. Half a minute of silent appraisal passed that seemed to compress within it all the weeks of her absence. Then I signalled that I would come down and raced to the door.

She was standing on my side of the road by the time I
reached
the front steps of the block. At closer range, her anguish was unmistakable. Her dark eyes scoured my face, her lips quivered uncertainly. As I descended towards her, she moved back a pace. There must be space between us, her expression conveyed: there must be a frontier across which the first tokens could be exchanged.

‘I didn’t know you were in England,’ I said after another silent interval.

‘Nobody knows I am.’ Her voice was breathless and strained. ‘Except Lizzie.’

‘Has Lizzie heard—’

‘About her brother? Oh yes. We had a telegram from Victor just before sailing. I’ve sent her to see her family in Ross.’

‘Then you’re alone?’

‘Yes. We docked this afternoon. Five days earlier than I told Victor to expect us.’

‘You … over-estimated the passage?’

‘No, Geoffrey. I did not over-estimate the passage.’

The implications of her remark assailed me. What had happened? What did she mean? ‘Won’t you come in?’ I stumbled.

‘I’m not sure. To be honest, I think I hoped you wouldn’t be at home.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then I’d have to return to Hereford straightaway.’

‘And you don’t want to?’

In her eyes I had my answer. She walked up the steps and halted beside me. Now her gaze was averted, her voice scarcely rising above a whisper. ‘I told my mother, and my father before he died, that life with Victor is a torment to me, that I can never love him, that he can never make me happy. I pleaded with them for help, for advice, for refuge at the very least.’

‘What did they say?’

‘They spoke of duty. They spoke of
their
honour and
my
obligations.’

‘As
you
did, when last we met.’

‘Yes.’ Now she looked at me, some dart of lamplight catching her eyes beneath the brim of her hat. ‘But that was before I watched my father die and saw what his code amounted to: a dutiful death and an honourable grave. They’re not enough, Geoffrey, not enough for me.’

‘Consuela—’

‘Tell me to go away if you like. Tell me to go back to my hotel and take the first train to Hereford tomorrow. You’d only be following the advice I gave you. And it was good advice, it really was.’

‘Was it? I’m not sure. And neither are you.’

‘But we must be sure, mustn’t we? One way or the other.’

The truth was that certainty lay beyond our grasp. But neither of us wanted to admit as much, dallying as we were with more unpredictable futures than there were stars in the sky above our heads. ‘Come inside, Consuela,’ I urged. ‘We can—’

As on that last occasion, three months before in Hereford, she silenced me with one hand laid softly against my mouth. But this time she said nothing and, this time, she had removed her glove. I felt the touch of her bare fingers on my lips more intensely, it seemed, than I would have felt even a kiss. Then I reached up, took her hand in mine and led her up the remaining steps towards the door.

HEREFORD POISONING CASE

Mrs Consuela Caswell was yesterday committed for trial on charges of murder and attempted murder at the conclusion of a five-day hearing at Hereford magistrates’ court. Mr Hebthorpe, prosecuting counsel, summed up the Crown’s case in a two-hour speech in which he reviewed all the evidence and contended that it represented the very strongest
prima facie
case against Mrs Caswell. Her jealousy had been aroused, he said, by malicious suggestions that her husband had been unfaithful to her. She had then set out to poison him in a ruthless and
calculating
manner, only to see her husband’s young and totally innocent niece consume the poison in his place. She had made no attempt to intervene and had allowed Miss Caswell to proceed to an agonizing death. She had then continued to hoard arsenic against the day when she might make another attempt on her husband’s life.

After a brief retirement, the magistrates announced that they were minded to commit Mrs Caswell for trial at the next assizes. Mr Windrush, her solicitor, indicated that she wished to reserve her defence.

Unruly scenes followed outside the court when Mrs Caswell was taken to a police van in order to be driven to Gloucester Prison. There was much shouting and jostling by the crowd. Objects were thrown and an egg struck Mrs Caswell on the arm. Three people were arrested. Mrs Caswell’s foreign origins and the wide respect in which her husband’s family are held in Hereford, compounded by the distressing circumstances of the case, are thought to explain the animosity felt towards her.

‘Are you going in to the office today, Geoffrey?’

It was Saturday morning in Suffolk Terrace, dull and grey with a fine drizzle falling beyond the windows. Angela, whose silence on the subject of Consuela’s hearing was still unbroken, eyed me in a way that was peculiarly hers: satirical, superior, playful as it might seem to others and had once to me. ‘No,’ I replied, turning the page of the newspaper.

‘I told Maudie Davenport I’d go with her to Harrods. The autumn fashions are in, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘And Maudie’s a great one for beating the crush. So I must dash.’

‘Of course.’

‘What will you be up to?’ Already she was halfway across the room, oblivious to whatever answer I might give.

‘This and that.’