Take No Farewell - Retail (25 page)

‘Do you know what the connection is, Mr Staddon? You last saw Consuela twelve years ago. You have told me so yourself. And I know you attended a house-warming party at Clouds Frome on the fourteenth of July 1911. The visitors’ book still bears your signature, you see. I remember noticing it. Was that your last visit? If so, it is an interesting coincidence that it took place but a few days before Lizzie Thaxter’s suicide. According to her gravestone, she died on the twentieth, only six days after the party. I am assuming, of course, that it is no more than a coincidence. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you would care to tell me if I am wrong. Or perhaps you would not.

‘What I think you should understand is that the making of unwelcome enquiries is not your exclusive prerogative. Moreover, once embarked upon, there is no knowing
where
those enquiries may lead. Mystery lies all about us. We should, in my judgement, leave such mystery inviolate. The tragedy of Consuela Caswell is her own. We should not interfere. If we do, the consequences may be unpredictable – and deeply disagreeable.

‘Go home, Mr Staddon. That is my earnest advice to you. Go home and take your wife with you, while she is still yours to take. Leave Victor to repair his life as best he can. Leave me to help him. And leave Consuela to answer for what she has done in the way that she has chosen.’

I could have confessed then and yearned, indeed, to do so. If Imogen Roebuck was right, then I knew what nobody else knew: the origin of Consuela’s insanity. My desertion of her burned as searingly within my conscience as it ever had. But I could not speak of it. To do so would lay at my door the death for which Consuela was to stand trial.

The cigarette slipped from my grasp. I turned slowly round. Miss Roebuck’s face was in shadow. Silent expectation seemed everywhere about us in the still, cold air. I searched my brain for words with which to refute what she had said. And found none.

‘I am sorry we had to meet in this way,’ she said softly. ‘At another time, in another place … Go home, Mr Staddon.’

I may have nodded. Aside from that, I made no parting gesture, but walked swiftly away, my pace quickening as I climbed the steps towards the Casino.

‘Go home? Immediately? I really don’t know what you can be thinking of, Geoffrey.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased. A few days ago, you were urging me to stop harassing Victor Caswell.’

‘That is beside the point. I happen to be enjoying myself here. I have no intention of cutting our visit short on a whim of yours. Quite the reverse, as a matter of fact.’

‘What do you mean – quite the reverse?’

‘I mean that I may well stay on – after your departure.’

‘Really? Why, may I ask?’

‘I have already told you. To enjoy myself.’

Angela smiled and drew on her cigarette. It was the late morning of the day following our visit to the Casino. I had called at her room to announce my decision and had found her still breakfasting, clad in a silk
peignoir
and luxuriating in the sunlight that was flooding through the high balcony windows. On a side-table stood a vase of richly coloured orchids and, beneath it, the florist’s envelope, torn open and addressed in a firm hand
Angela Staddon, Hotel Negresco, Nice
. I did not need to ask whose writing it was and Angela, looking across at me, seemed almost to dare me to remove the note inside and read it.

‘Besides,’ she resumed, ‘I have certain commitments. I cannot simply leave.’

‘What commitments?’

‘Major Turnbull has asked me to visit the Casino with him again tomorrow night.’

‘He said nothing to me.’

‘He assumed you would not wish to join us, in view of your conduct last night. Did Miss Roebuck prove diverting company?’

‘We had matters we wished to discuss. That was all.’

‘You do not have to explain yourself to me, Geoffrey. What you do – and with whom – is a matter of indifference to me.’

‘I think we should leave. It’s as simple as that.’

‘I’m afraid it isn’t. I have already agreed to take tea at the Villa d’Abricot one day next week. And Major Turnbull has undertaken to obtain tickets for the opera.
Don Giovanni
is opening here on the twenty-seventh. I understand it’s not to be missed.’

‘You know very well I’m expected back in the office before then.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to attend. You hate opera.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Very well. I’ll go alone. When may I expect you to follow?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She stubbed out her cigarette, rose and walked across to me. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll think I’ll have a bath.’

She left me standing by the vase of orchids, the sunlight falling brazenly on their bright, waxy petals. I picked up the envelope and held it for a moment between my fingers. Water began to gush in the bathroom. Then I let the envelope fall and turned away.

The bathroom door was open and I glanced in as I walked past. Angela was standing by the bath, pouring some lotion in as the water rose, steam pluming about her. She was naked and, as my eyes rested on her for a moment, I could not help wondering if, after all this was over, my hands would ever again touch her pale, familiar flesh.

‘Goodbye, Geoffrey,’ she said, setting down the lotion bottle and moving away towards the hand-basin. ‘Let me know when you decide to leave.’

I watched her for one more second, then turned and hurried from the room.

Two days passed. I filled them with aimless drives into the mountains. I saw nothing of Angela and gave Cap Ferrat and Beaulieu a wide berth. I was marking time, waiting and hoping for some signal or event that would break the disabling hold Imogen Roebuck’s version of events had taken upon me. When a letter from Imry arrived, I thought it might herald my release. But its contents only made that release seem more remote.

Sunnylea,

WENDOVER,

Buckinghamshire.

15th November 1923

Dear Geoff,

I returned from York today with little to show for my enquiries on your behalf. Having agreed to go, I cannot, I suppose, complain, so here, whilst it’s all fresh in my
mind,
is what I discovered, or, more correctly, what I didn’t discover.

Colonel and Mrs Browning are a respectable, rather stuffy pair with a thirteen-year-old daughter – a late and only child. I told them I was a friend of the Caswells and gave my name as Wren. (May his shade forgive me.) Mercifully, they seemed to know nothing of Consuela’s court appearance and responded with righteous indignation to my suggestion that they might not have been completely frank about Miss Roebuck’s suitability as a governess. They’d been sorry to lose her and claimed to know of no specific reason for her departure aside from the attraction of a salary they couldn’t afford to match. She was with them nearly two years, arriving in the spring of 1921 with impeccable references from a family in Norfolk.

Colonel Browning is a drinking man. Ensconced in his favourite watering-hole and free of his wife’s starchy influence, he proved more forthcoming, but not in a way that will please you. He couldn’t have spoken more warmly of Miss Roebuck. Indeed, I began to suspect he might have made certain overtures towards her. Perhaps that’s what prompted her to seek another post. Certainly there was nothing to suggest she’d offered him any encouragement.

I have the name and address of her previous employer – the family in Norfolk – but I really don’t think you would gain anything by approaching them. The fortune-hunting seductress is a cap that will not fit.

Come home, Geoff. That’s my advice. And the sooner the better. I had Reg on the blower this afternoon and I virtually promised him you’d be back with them next week. If not, I shall have to put in an appearance. So, does one good turn deserve another?

Yours aye,

Imry.

A cold rain was falling as I drove to Cap Ferrat. The Mediterranean was grey and churning. Suddenly the Côte
d’Azur
had become a place I did not want to be. I wished I had listened to Imry and never come at all. I wished turning back seemed easier than going on.

The gates of the Villa d’Abricot stood open. I sped up the curving drive and pulled to a halt in front of the house. Then I jumped out and hurried towards the front door, my collar turned up against the rain. Before I reached the door, however, it was wrenched open from the inside and a figure burst out past me, striking my shoulder as he went.

I caught only a glimpse of him, but the glimpse was a memorable one. He was several inches broader and taller than me, dressed in a dark, travel-stained suit and cape. He was bare-headed, with unusually long hair that had once been jet-black, but was now streaked with grey, and a piratical moustache of the original shade. His face was distorted by a grimace of pain or fury – I could not tell which – and he was muttering under his breath, though what he was muttering – or in what language – I could not catch.

I watched him for a minute or so as he marched away down the drive. He was talking to himself quite loudly now, slapping one hand against his thigh and flinging out indecipherable oaths, throwing his head back and mouthing at the sky as the rain slanted down around him. Suddenly, I realized Turnbull’s Italian man-servant was standing beside me, straining to afford me the shelter of an umbrella.

‘
Buon giorno, Signor Staddon
.’

‘Good morning. Who’s that?’

‘I do not know. He has been to see
Signor
Caswell.’

‘Caswell’s here?’

‘In the drawing-room. With
Signorina
Roebuck.’

‘Good. I’ll go straight through. Don’t bother to announce me.’

They were on opposite sides of the room, Miss Roebuck sitting calmly in an armchair, whilst Victor was wheeling and pacing on the hearthrug, smoking frantically. He was speaking, almost shouting, as I entered.

‘No, no. He damn well meant it. I could—’ He broke off at sight of me. ‘Staddon! What the devil do you want?’

‘A brief word, that’s all.’

‘If you’re looking for your wife, you’ll find her lunching with Royston at La Réserve.’

‘I was looking for you.’

‘Well, you’ve found me.’

‘Would you like me to leave?’ put in Miss Roebuck.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’d prefer you both to hear what I have to say.’

‘Spit it out, then,’ snapped Victor.

‘I wanted you to know: I’m going back to England.’

‘Royston will be sorry to hear that. He seems to enjoy your wife’s company.’

‘Angela may not be coming with me.’

‘Really?’ The thought that his friend might be making a cuckold of me seemed to cheer Victor. His tone shifted from the irritable to the sarcastic. ‘Well, wives can be damnably fickle, Staddon. I know that to my cost.’

‘My marriage isn’t something I want to discuss with you.’

‘No? You amaze me. You seemed eager enough to discuss
mine
.’

‘Victor!’ said Miss Roebuck, mildly but with a hint of reproof. ‘Would it not be simpler to let Mr Staddon say what he has to say?’ She looked across at me. ‘Am I correct in thinking you’ve seen the merit of the advice I offered you last week?’

‘Not exactly. I—’ Her gaze was coolly ironic. She knew I was defeated and she knew also how impossible it was for me to admit as much. ‘You won’t hear from me again. That’s all I’m saying. Unless I discover—’

‘Unless you discover what?’ barked Victor.

‘That I’ve been misled.’

‘You haven’t been,’ said Miss Roebuck, gazing at me in solemn assurance.

‘In that case,’ I continued, ‘you’ll hear no more from me.’

We stared at each other for a silent moment, then she said: ‘Thank you, Mr Staddon.’

I turned towards the door. ‘You’ll get no thanks from me,’ said Victor.

When I looked at him, I realized for the first time that his resolution ran no deeper than mine. His hostility was eggshell thin. Beneath, lay an uncertainty horribly akin to my own. ‘I expected none,’ I said, hurrying from the room before he could reply.

The hallway was quiet, so quiet I could hear the rain falling against the porch windows and a clock ticking somewhere deep in the house. At the top of the curving stairs stood a small, motionless figure in a pale blue dress with matching ribbons in her long dark hair. She was standing still and upright, her hands held rigidly by her sides. Her face was expressionless, but in her eyes, as they met mine, there was something fierce and reproachful.

She had been there all the time, I felt certain. She had heard my every word through the open drawing-room door. She had heard and she had understood, only too well. ‘Jacinta—’ I broke off, suddenly aware of Imogen Roebuck standing behind me, looking past me and up the stairs.

‘If you’re ready, Jacinta, we’ll resume our lesson,’ she said. ‘Wait for me in your room.’

Without a word, Jacinta turned and walked away. As soon as she was out of sight, I moved towards the front door, eager for mobility and the open air, eager for the refuge they seemed to offer.

‘Mr Staddon—’

I looked back at her.

‘I am grateful, you know.’

‘You needn’t be.’

‘You won’t regret your decision.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Oh I am, believe me.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye.’

But the handshake at least I could deny her. We had sealed no pact and I would do nothing to imply that we had. ‘Goodbye,’ I said, starting for the door in fugitive haste.

As Victor had said I would, I found Angela at a luncheon table of La Réserve, Beaulieu’s most exclusive restaurant, communing with Royston Turnbull over oysters and champagne.

‘Well, Staddon, this
is
a surprise.’

‘I’ve come to speak to my wife, Major, not you.’

‘What do you want, Geoffrey?’ Giggling and girlish the moment before she noticed me, Angela was now stern and cold.

‘I’m leaving Nice tomorrow. Will you be coming with me?’

‘You know very well that’s impossible.’

‘You refuse?’

‘Let’s say I decline.’

‘When can I expect you home, then?’

‘When you see me there.’

There was nothing left to say. Angela’s unyielding gaze confirmed as much. Turnbull swallowed an oyster, dabbed his chin with a napkin and grinned up at me. ‘Don’t worry, Staddon. I’ll take good care of her.’