Take No Farewell - Retail (41 page)

Imry had meanwhile been labouring industriously on my behalf. Martindale, Clutton & Fyffe had agreed that my belongings could be collected from Suffolk Terrace on Saturday morning; they would be packed and ready at eleven o’clock. As for accommodation, he had found a mews flat near Lancaster Gate which he thought would suit me and was, moreover, available immediately; I could view it the following morning. He had also made an appointment for me with Hugh Fellows-Smith, the partner in our solicitor’s practice who specialized in divorce.

That night, on the sofa-bed at Sunnylea, I lay awake for many hours thinking about Malahide, seeing again his yellow-toothed grin and sharp-eyed gaze, then, blotting them all out, the pale, drawn, sightless face that death had left him with. Who had killed him? The third buyer of his faked letter? Or the fourth accomplice in the Peto’s Paper Mill robbery of thirteen years before? If the latter, did that mean Major Royston Turnbull? I badly wanted to believe it did, but I was cautious of my own desire, rooted as it was in a jealousy I did not care to acknowledge.

Next morning, I travelled into London alone. I had bought a clutch of newspapers at Wendover station and it was on an inner page of the
Daily Telegraph
that I found the report I sought.

LOCKED ROOM MURDER MYSTERY

Mr Thomas Malahide, a fifty-four-year-old jobbing carpenter, was found shot dead at his lodgings in Buckley Street, Rotherhithe, yesterday afternoon. He had suffered a fatal rifle-wound to the head. No weapon was found on the premises, which were locked from the inside. The body was discovered by Mrs Alice Ryan, the deceased’s
daughter.
A police spokesman said that damage to a window of the Lodgings was consistent with Mr Malahide having been shot from a railway embankment on the other side of the road, probably under cover of darkness. The body is thought to have lain undiscovered for several days. Mr Malahide was last seen alive on Saturday. A more precise indication of the date and time of death and of the range from which the fatal shot was fired is expected to be yielded by the
post mortem
examination, but the police believe they are dealing with a case of cold-blooded murder. Mr Malahide is understood to have had criminal associations and to have served at least one term of imprisonment for robbery.

I had never liked Malahide, yet it seemed to me that he deserved a better obituary than these perfunctory lines. I thought of the room he had died in – its shape, its contents, its frowstily ominous odour – and of the way he had died – as sudden as it was violent, as brutal as it was unceremonious. Then I thought of the thousands who must idly have scanned the account of his death without carrying in their heads a close and graphic recollection of the scene. To them it was less significant than the mood their employer was in, the state of the weather, the prompt arrival of their train. To them every man
was
an island. And the bell always tolled for another.

As a
pied-à-terre
, the flat Imry had found for me in Hyde Park Gardens Mews seemed as good as any I was likely to find for myself; I rented it on the spot. Then I hurried to the office and from there telephoned Luckham Place. Bassett answered.

‘Bassett, this is Geoffrey Staddon.’

‘Oh, Mr Geoffrey.’ He sounded suitably embarrassed. ‘Good morning, sir.’

‘I’d like to speak to Major Turnbull.’

‘Ah. I’m afraid you can’t, sir. He’s no longer here.’

‘When did he leave?’

‘Um … Friday.’

‘With my wife?’

‘Well, I can’t … That is …’

‘But Angela
has
left?’

‘Yes, sir. She has.’

A Thursday afternoon which did not find my wife sipping tea and swapping gossip in Maudie Davenport’s drawing-room would be rare enough to warrant special mention in the almanacs. I calculated therefore that by loitering halfway along the route she invariably followed from Suffolk Terrace – a distance too short even for her to cover by taxi – I would have a better chance of speaking to her than by telephoning or calling at what I still thought of as my home.

Nor was I disappointed. Angela remained faithful to her habits if to nothing else and rounded the bend where I was waiting shortly before three o’clock. She was wearing the outfit in which she had gone driving with Turnbull at Luckham Place – doubtless in the hope of arousing Maudie’s envy – and a look of the most perfectly groomed contentment. Her expression altered, however, when she saw me.

‘Geoffrey! What is the meaning of this?’

‘I might have asked you the same when I found my own front door locked against me. But I didn’t get the chance, did I?’

‘Have you been lying in wait for me here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you’ve wasted your time. I’ve no intention of discussing our private affairs in the street.’ She made to walk past me, but I stepped into her path. She stared coldly at me for a moment, then said: ‘Kindly stand aside.’

‘Not until you answer a few questions.’

‘I shall call out for assistance if you persist with this, Geoffrey.’

‘Where’s Turnbull?’

She looked past me. ‘I can see a constable walking towards us. Do you want me to summon him?’

‘Just tell me where Turnbull is.’

‘You leave me no choice.’ She raised her hand and opened her mouth, as if to cry out. But then I grabbed her wrist so tightly that she was shocked into momentary silence.

‘He’s a murderer, Angela. He’s killed – or had killed – a man called Malahide, who was threatening to expose him as an accomplice in a robbery near Clouds Frome thirteen years ago.’

‘Major Turnbull? This is absurd.’

‘Ask him what he knows about the robbery at Peto’s Paper Mill. Ask him whether he’s still spending some of the proceeds.’

‘I shall do no such thing.’

‘I’m warning you for your own good. The man’s a thief and a murderer.’

‘Let go of me at once!’ She spat the words out, angry now where she had merely been alarmed before. Glancing over my shoulder and seeing the policeman bearing down upon us, I released her. ‘Major Turnbull has returned to Cap Ferrat,’ she said icily. ‘Happily, he will not need to be troubled by your ludicrous allegations.’

‘Are you sure they’re ludicrous?’

But there was no glimmer of doubt in Angela’s gaze, none at all events that was not eclipsed by the scorn she felt for me. ‘If I had any reservations about divorcing you, Geoffrey, this tasteless exhibition has entirely dispelled them.’

‘You won’t win on the grounds you’ve chosen. I don’t mind giving you a divorce, but I won’t be branded a wife-beater. I’ll counter-sue, citing Turnbull as co-respondent.’

‘You wouldn’t dare. You’d be laughed out of court.’

‘Would I? That depends on what the private detectives turn up between now and a hearing, doesn’t it?’ I saw her confidence falter fractionally. ‘It all becomes very grubby from this point on, Angela. Didn’t Turnbull warn you to expect that?’

‘This has nothing to do with Major Turnbull.’ As the policeman loomed alongside, she turned towards him. ‘Constable!’ He pulled up.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

She glanced at me, then back at him. ‘This gentleman is seeking directions to St Barnabas’ Church. I wonder if you could help him. I’m in rather a hurry.’ With that, and one more parting glance, she swept away.

The policeman frowned at me. ‘St Barnabas, did the lady say, sir?’

‘Yes. But don’t worry.’ I smiled. ‘I think I know my way from here.’

The truth, whatever I might pretend for the benefit of others, was that the future – and my part in it – seemed less hopeful than ever. My suspicions of Turnbull could not be substantiated and carrying out my threat of involving him in a counter-suit against Angela would only muddy the already murky waters. Besides, even if I could prove he had played a part in the Peto’s Paper Mill robbery, it would do precisely nothing to help Consuela. Her pending trial stood now at the centre of my thoughts. To its outcome my marital problems and Turnbull’s criminal past seemed wholly irrelevant. It was thus in a mood amounting almost to indifference that I kept my appointment with Fellows-Smith the following morning at his offices in Aldgate.

He was a small, precise, expressionless man of almost albino paleness, with a habit I found annoying of smoking a cigarette in such a way as to make his enjoyment of it unduly obvious. He had received a letter from Martindale, Clutton & Fyffe, and led me through its implications amidst many a savoured lungful of smoke.

‘The incident at Luckham Place on the, ah, thirty-first of December, Mr Staddon. You are alleged to have struck your wife to the floor. There were, ah, three witnesses. Is the assault admitted?’

‘If you mean did I hit her, the answer’s yes.’

‘Ah. Thank you. That simplifies the position.’

‘It’s the first time I’ve ever laid a hand on her.’

‘Not according to this letter. Complaints by Mrs Staddon to her family about your, ah, violence, over several years. And witnesses who are prepared to testify that they have seen her more than once with, ah, facial bruises.’

‘They’re lying.’

‘Quite possibly, but lies about minor assaults are apt to be believed when the major assault is admitted. You see our difficulty, I trust.’

‘It’s
my
difficulty.’

‘Quite so. Quite so. As to the, ah, major assault, would you wish to plead provocation?’

‘It was a disagreement.’

‘About what, might I ask? Your wife’s, ah, fidelity, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘We would need to be precise if pursuing this line, Mr Staddon.
Perhaps
would scarcely be adequate.’

‘I’d prefer to deny the charge without making counter-accusations.’

‘A noble sentiment, but imprudent, if you’ll permit me to say so. Given the admission of at least one assault—’

‘Mr Fellows-Smith!’ I interrupted. ‘When is this case likely to be heard?’

‘When? Well, that’s hard to say. Martindale’s no hare. More of a tortoise, if the truth be told. A date before Easter is unlikely. So, May or June would seem the earliest—’

‘Very well! These are my instructions. Inform my wife’s solicitors that the action will be contested. Then find a suitable barrister to represent me.’

A silence fell. He appeared to expect more. At last he said: ‘Nothing else, Mr Staddon?’

‘Not at this stage. I’m grateful for your advice. And now I’ll bid you good morning.’

May or June. What did I care about the events of two such distant months? What could I care when the trial opening in three days’ time would bring an end to matters of far greater moment than the survival of my marriage? I walked slowly back towards Frederick’s Place, oblivious to the steady rain, alone amidst the bustling, umbrellaed throng. Look where I might, the clouds showed no sign of breaking.

Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett’s chambers in Middle Temple Lane that afternoon seemed overhung with gloom. Sir Henry smiled as often and expressed as much optimism as before, but something had gone out of him, some breath of hearty combat that was vital to his success. At those moments when he thought nobody was looking at him, he sagged visibly, like a balloon losing air, and cast weary glances at the dusk settling on the courtyard beyond his window. Where still, without remorse, it rained. His strategy was in fact unaltered. Forensic minutiae were to be set aside in an unashamed appeal to the jurors’ hearts. Consuela’s own testimony would be the crux and essence of the case. As for my contention that Victor had had prior notice of the ladies’ arrival for tea on 9 September, Sir Henry was unimpressed. Without evidence to back it up, such a suggestion would create just the atmosphere of antagonism he would be at pains to avoid.

He and Windrush had visited Consuela earlier in the day; both were satisfied that she was well prepared for the ordeal that lay ahead. Yet clearly some aspect of their interview with her had perturbed them. There was an embarrassment in their account of it, an awkwardness which was only explained as our meeting drew towards a close.

‘The trial will be well attended,’ said Sir Henry, shuffling with his papers. ‘All-night queuing for places in the public gallery, I shouldn’t wonder. I have a small number of tickets for seats in the well of the court, however. In normal circumstances, Mr Staddon, you’d be welcome to one.’

‘But there’s a problem,’ put in Windrush. ‘Mrs Caswell
anticipated
you might wish to attend. This morning she instructed us to take all possible steps to prevent you doing so.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Sir Henry, ‘but my client’s state of mind must be my prime concern. For that reason, Mr Staddon, and for no other, I would urge you to comply with her request.’ Seeing the look of amazement on my face, he continued: ‘As I’ve explained, her testimony will be all-important. We cannot allow anything to prejudice it. Her comments left me in no doubt that your presence in court would have a deleterious effect on her behaviour and hence on the impression she creates. Of course, nobody can prevent you queuing for a seat in the public gallery, but if, as I firmly believe, you have Mrs Caswell’s best interests at heart, you will, I hope—’

‘Stay away?’ I looked at Sir Henry and Windrush in turn, but both avoided my eye. This was a distasteful duty for them and in their silence they appealed to me to make it as easy for them as possible. And what alternative, after all, did they or I have but to do as we were bid? To the end, and perhaps beyond it, Consuela would hold me to the evasion I had chosen to inflict upon her. ‘Very well,’ I murmured.

‘Of course,’ said Sir Henry, ‘if there is a friend – a representative, so to speak – who could make use of your ticket …’

‘Yes. I’ll take it if I may. You have my word I shan’t use it myself.’

Sir Henry rose, rounded his desk and pressed a small envelope into my hand. It had not been sealed and, as he stood over me, I raised the flap and slid the ticket out far enough to read. It was printed on yellow card, serial-numbered and headed in stark capitals: REX v CASWELL. Sir Henry touched my shoulder. ‘I shall do my best for her, Mr Staddon,’ he said. ‘My very best.’

I looked up at him and wanted for a moment to ask: ‘Will that be good enough?’ But something in his expression
warned
me not to. Something in the crumpled weariness of his face signalled more clearly than he would wish that his answer would not be what either of us wanted to hear.