Hand in Glove (19 page)

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“So do I.”

“What?”

“So do I, Charlie.” She made out his smile in the darkness. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“You’ve known all along?”

“Suspected.”

“He won’t give them up. I’m sure of that.”

“So am I.”

“Then what—”

Another kiss silenced her. “Then it doesn’t matter, does it?” he murmured. “We’ll keep Frank Griffith’s secret. You and I. Together.”

“Together?”

“Don’t you want to take one of those emotional risks we were talking about?”

“Yes.” She lowered her head against his shoulder. “I do.”

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

TWENTY-SEVEN

At seven o’clock the following morning, Derek telephoned Fithyan & Co. and recorded an apology for his absence on the answering machine. Any risk of having to explain himself to David Fithyan was thereby avoided, or at any rate postponed. Two hours later, he was in Llandovery, seeking directions to Hendre Gorfelen. By half past nine, he was driving along the curving hillside track towards the farm. Within a few minutes, he had arrived.

He stopped the car in front of the house and wound down the window. He could hear a distant bleat of lambs and, closer to hand, a susurrous movement of tree-tops in the breeze, but no sound to suggest Frank Griffith was nearby. He climbed from the car and looked around, relieved no dog had yet hurled itself from a barn. None of the windows of the house were open. This, and the fact that anybody inside would have heard him arrive, convinced Derek nobody was at home. Nevertheless, he walked up to the door and knocked. There was no response.

H A N D I N G L O V E

127

He retraced his steps to the car and sat back in the driving seat.

Although Griffith might be away for some time, he would eventually return, whereas to scour the hills in search of him carried no guarantee of success. There was nothing for it, then, but to sit tight.

Derek sighed and closed the window. Idly, he reached across to the glove compartment and took out his copy of
Tristram Abberley:
A Critical Biography
. In the index,
Griffith, Frank
warranted just one entry. Derek turned to it and ran his eye down the page until he came to Griffith’s name.

When Abberley died, semi-conscious and probably too delirious to be in much pain, in the early hours of Sunday 27th March, a sergeant from his own platoon, Frank Griffith, was loyally in attendance. It was the same man who, shortly after the poet’s perfunctory funeral in Tarragona Cemetery, delivered his papers to the British Consul for onward transmission to his widow. It was a simple and no doubt unconsidered act, yet, had Griffith not carried it out, the whole corpus of Abberley’s Spanish poetry might easily have been lost.

As it was, the belief commonly held for many years after Abberley’s death, that he had written no poems at all whilst in Spain, was shown to be a fallacy when, in 1952—

A sudden rap on the glass reverberated in Derek’s ear. He started so violently that the book slipped from his grasp. When he turned, it was to see a face staring in at him, a lined and expressionless face which, even though Maurice Abberley’s description had been second-hand, he recognized instantly.

“Good morning,” he ventured, as he wound down the window.

“Frank Griffith?”

“And you would be?”

“Derek Fairfax.” He opened the door an inch or so, which was all Griffith’s position made possible. “Let me . . . er . . . introduce myself.”

Now, late enough to have made some kind of point, Griffith stepped back, allowing Derek to climb out. “You may have heard of my brother, Colin Fairfax.” He grinned uneasily. “Also known as Fairfax-Vane.”

“You’re right. I
may
have.” There was nothing in Griffith’s gaze to encourage communication of any kind, let alone discourse. “What do you want?”

128

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“I understand . . . Well, that is . . . Perhaps we could discuss this indoors.”

“We could not.” He glanced into the car and Derek wondered if he could see what he had been reading.

“I’m told you have some letters, Mr Griffith, sent to Beatrix Abberley from Spain in the ’thirties by her brother, the poet Tristram Abberley.”

“Told by whom?”

“I . . . I’d rather not say.”

“Then maybe I’d rather not answer your questions.”

“I’m here to appeal to you on my brother’s behalf. I wouldn’t be prying—or even curious—but for the position he’s in. He may go to prison for something he didn’t do. Perhaps for a long time. He’s not a young man. I—”

A touch of Griffith’s stick on Derek’s shoulder silenced him. “If the letters you referred to existed—if I had them—what difference could they possibly make to whether your brother is convicted or not?”

“I don’t know. But Beatrix Abberley was anxious to make sure they didn’t fall into the wrong hands, wasn’t she? If we could find out why—”

“What would you say if I told you I’d burned the letters—with-out reading them?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

Griffith’s eyebrows twitched up, his first facial reaction of any kind. “I can’t help your brother, Mr Fairfax.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Is there a difference?”

“I think so. All I’m asking you to do is show me the letters—or tell me what they contain that could make his sister a target for murder.”

“You’re asking more than you know.”

“You admit you know what’s in them, then?”

“I admit nothing.”

“Are you prepared to stand idly by and let an innocent man be sent to prison?”

Griffith did not reply. Instead, he wedged his stick in the handle of the car door and pushed it wide open. “This is my farm. I’d like you to leave it.”

H A N D I N G L O V E

129

“Mr Griffith—”

“Leave me alone!” His voice was raised to a sudden bellow. A dog barked and loped into view round the end of the car. “That’s all I ask.” His tone had reverted to normal now. He turned and signalled the dog to sit, then looked back at Derek. “There’s nothing for you here, Mr Fairfax. Not a thing.”

“What about my brother?”

“Exactly.
Your
brother. Not mine.”

“You fought in the Spanish Civil War, didn’t you? Wasn’t that for universal brotherhood?”

“Some thought so. Some still do. I don’t.”

“Isn’t there anything—”

“No. There isn’t. I paid my dues a long time ago. I’m not paying any more. Get into your car. Drive back to your own world. Leave me in mine.”

Griffith’s gaze reached Derek as if he truly was peering out at a world he had renounced. His mouth was set in a firm line. He was breathing quickly but steadily. His shoulders were braced. His determination not to yield—not to reveal any part of the secret he had promised to keep—was palpable. And Derek realized in that instant that against it he was helpless.

“Goodbye, Mr Fairfax.”

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

TWENTY-EIGHT

It had been a morning of departures at Swans’ Meadow: Maurice, soon after dawn, bound for New York; Emerson, somewhat later, travelling to Oxford for the day; Ursula, later still, destined for an appointment with her beautician in Maidenhead; and lastly Charlotte, setting off back to Tunbridge Wells shortly before noon.

Only Samantha was there to see her off and she did not supply a cheerful farewell. Charlotte found her consuming a laggardly breakfast, downcast and
déshabillé
, in the lounge.

130

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“Not dressed yet, Sam? Your mother will not approve.”

“She doesn’t approve of very much at the moment, does she? Why should I be the exception?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Haven’t you noticed the prickly atmosphere round here? Mum and Dad have been stalking each other for days like two alley-cats who can’t decide to strike first.”

“You’re imagining it.”

“No. You’re just too dazzled to have noticed.”

“Dazzled? By what?”

“By who, you mean. Did he take you somewhere swish last night?”

Charlotte leaned close to Samantha’s ear and whispered: “Mind your own business.”

Samantha blushed, then giggled. “I’m sorry, Charlie. You’re right.

What’s it got to do with me? Emerson’s a gorgeous guy. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you,” said Charlotte with a sarcastic curtsy.

“But tell me, do you know what’s gnawing at Mum and Dad?

Something is.”

Charlotte could easily have guessed. Perhaps Ursula had told Maurice what was really in Beatrix’s letter. Or perhaps she had not.

Either way, the fact of it could not be wished away. How they coped with that knowledge was their affair. One Charlotte was too preoccupied to concern herself with. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam. And now I must be going.”

Derek reached Tunbridge Wells in the middle of the afternoon. He was tired and dispirited, filled with a sense of his own inadequacy. To go home was as unthinkable as a late appearance at Fithyan & Co.

He was a fugitive lacking direction as well as purpose. And so, with a kind of logic he thought Colin might applaud, he found himself at the Treasure Trove, repository for much else that was worthless and unwanted.

He let himself in with the key Colin had given him and gazed around at the dust that had settled on every horizontal surface. The place had always been somewhat down-at-heel. Now the stale air of neglect was there to compound the effect. The gilt-framed hunting scenes; the Hogarth prints; the antique maps; the horse-brasses; the

H A N D I N G L O V E

131

bust of Cicero; the grandfather clock; the stuffed bear; the elephant’s foot; the
chaise-longue
; the cheval-glass; the pine chest; the sparsely filled cabinet of Tunbridge Ware: all bore the same grey blur in testimony to their owner’s absence.

Derek leaned back against a table and surveyed the scene. Beyond the window, no passers-by paused to peer into the shadowy interior.

The Treasure Trove was closed and was not expected to open. Tomorrow, Colin Fairfax-Vane, proprietor, would be committed for trial on charges he could not hope to rebut. Tomorrow, the hollowness of his last pretence would be exposed. And his brother would watch it happen. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing, at all events, that a stuffed bear and a dead Roman could not match.

Charlotte had only been back at Ockham House a few minutes when the doorbell rang. Answering it, she found a girl standing on the step with an enormous bouquet of flowers: lilies, dahlias, carnations and chrysanthemums, riotously coloured and scented in a haze of gyp-sophila.

“Miss Ladram?”

“Yes. But there must be—”

“For you.” The girl lowered the bundle into Charlotte’s arms.

“There’s a note attached.” She smiled and turned to go, leaving Charlotte to close the door and carry the flowers to the kitchen before she could spare a hand to open the tiny envelope pinned to the cello-phane.

There was nothing on the card save Emerson’s Christian name, signed with a flourish. But there did not need to be. Leaning back against the sink, Charlotte could fill her lungs with the heady aroma of a future she had never till these last few weeks anticipated. Out of Beatrix’s death might come her happiness. And the possibility dis-pelled all sense of irony, let alone of doubt. She raised the card to her lips and kissed it.

C

H

A

P

T

E

R

TWENTY-NINE

Midnight. And at the twelfth stroke of the clock, Frank Griffith stirred wearily in his chair. He had delayed long enough, he knew. If he delayed any longer, he might never do it at all. Yet do it he must. To have held back when he first received Beatrix’s letter was understandable. To stay his hand once more when Charlotte found him was excusable. But now understanding and excuses had run out. Fairfax’s visit had proved what he should have recognized all along: that Tristram’s secret would not be safe until his letters to Beatrix were destroyed.

Frank leaned forward to tap out his pipe against the fender, then rose and rubbed some of the stiffness out of his lower back. In front of him, dimly reflected in the clock-glass, he could see his lined and hollow-cheeked face. He had been strong and lithe and handsome once, striding the cobbled streets of Swansea while white horses rode the bay and factory hooters blared out their summons. So young and confident of his place in the world, with a tireless body and an inexhaustible mind, hard as the steel he forged, bright as the sun on the hills. All that was gone and wasted now, shed and shattered in dole queues and hunger marches, sloughed like a flayed skin on the snowy heights above Teruel.

This should have been done years ago. They should have been buried with Tristram in Tarragona. Or consigned to flame somewhere far back along the road that ended here, in his old age and solitude. But they had not been. So now, as the new day inexorably advanced, he would have to ensure that at long last they were.

He made his way to the kitchen, moving slowly and quietly so as not to rouse Bron. There he put on his boots and a jacket and took down the torch from its nail beside the range. He opened the back door and stepped out into the garden, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the moonlight. He shivered and chuckled faintly at how frail he had grown. He felt cold even on a balmy midsummer night, whereas once—

Stifling such futile thoughts, he walked round to the wicket-gate

H A N D I N G L O V E

133

and let himself into the yard, raising and lowering the latch with punctilious care, for he saw no sense in taking any risks, even if in truth there were none to be run. He gazed about him and breathed deeply. All was still and silent. The wind had died with the day, leaving the moon to preside in pale and ghostly splendour over the empty black gulfs of field and moor. He knew them all. He knew them well.

Every peak and slope, every rain-hewn cleft. Every boulder, every blade. This was home. This, he supposed, was where, one day not far off, he would die. And at least, after this night’s work, he would die with a clear conscience.

Old age craves reassurance as well as rest. He waited longer than necessary for certainty to creep upon him through the chill. Then he marched across the yard and entered the barn, slipping in through the half-open door. And there he stopped once more. The darkness was absolute, but silence did not impose itself until a fraction of a second after his entrance. No matter. The scratching had been unmistakable. It was a dormouse. Nothing more and nothing larger. It would not move again while he remained. And he would not remain long.

He switched on the torch and ran its cone of light along the upper half of the left-hand wall, counting the trusses as he went. There was the ladder, propped against the wall. And there, he knew, wedged between the fifth beam and the thatched roof, was what he had come for. Tristram’s letters from Spain and fifty years ago. His confessional.

His apologia. His secret.

Frank stepped across to the ladder and moved it to a position just short of the fifth beam. Clutching the torch in his right hand and trailing its light on to his feet, he began to climb, placing both feet on each rung before moving to the next. Five rungs took him to within reach of the hiding-place. Raising the torch, he shone it into the gap and made out the familiar shape and metallic sheen of the biscuit tin he had used. It had once contained shortbreads, a Christmas present from Beatrix. Now it contained a fragment of his own past, and the lie of another’s, preserved in ink and paper, bound in string and secrecy.

Transferring the torch to his left hand, he reached out with his right and picked up the tin, then started back down the ladder. So light his burden, so simple his task: soon it would be safely done. The next rung was the last. Then it only remained—

He was pulled off the ladder so suddenly and violently that he hit the straw-scattered floor before he was aware of what was happening.

134