Hand In Glove Part 28

"I have something to say . . . to ask . . . It could be very important."

A weariness with argument of all kinds overcame Charlotte. "All right," she said, opening the door wide. "Come in."

She led the way back into the lounge and turned to look at him, determined not to offer him a drink or a seat, or any other excuse to linger.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry if what I said . . . at the hospital . . . offended you."

"How could I not be offended by an accusation of murder against my own brother?" She paused. "Half-brother, as you pointed out."

"I only meant-"

"As it happens, I've just confirmed he was already in New York when Frank was attacked. So, you'll have to look elsewhere for a suspect, won't you?"

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"Not necessarily."

"What do you mean?"

"A possible explanation for all this came to me after you'd left.

You won't like it, but I think you ought to hear it."

"What explanation?"

"How much in royalties does Tristram Abberley's estate earn per year?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tristram's poetry. What are the royalties worth?"

Charlotte stared at him for a moment, trying to reconcile his presumptuousness with his timidity, then said: "What possible business is that of yours?"

"Fifty thousand? Sixty? More?"

"I repeat: what has that to do with you?"

"You don't deny it's a considerable sum?"

"No."

"Or that your half-brother receives the bulk of it?"

"Of course he does. He's Tristram's son." The death of Charlotte's mother, followed by that of Beatrix, meant in fact that all royalties now went to Maurice. But Charlotte did not propose to tell Derek Fairfax so until she knew where his questions were leading. "What of it?"

"Those royalties will run out soon, won't they? Copyright in Tristram Abberley's work expires at the end of next year. There'll be an extension for the posthumously published poems, of course, but your brother will have to do without what the rest earn straightaway."

"So?"

"So a large and regular source of income will dry up."

"Maurice is a wealthy man in his own right. Ladram Avionics is a highly successful company. He'll scarcely notice the loss."

"My experience as an accountant, Miss Ladram, tells me that n.o.body could fail to notice such a loss. It also tells me that people's finances aren't always as secure as they lead others to believe. Perhaps he needs the money more than you think."

"I doubt it," Charlotte snapped. "But even if he does, there's nothing he can-"

"That's the point!" Fairfax was suddenly animated, gleeful almost at the chance to unveil his theory. "There is something he can do. Don't you see? The letters prove Beatrix wrote-or at the very least co-wrote-all of Tristram's poems. If they were made public, H A N D I N G L O V E.

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the literary world would have to acknowledge her role in their com-position. As would the legal world."

"The legal world?"

"I used to handle the tax affairs of a playwright who collaborated on some of his works with another playwright. As a result, I had to fa-miliarize myself with the copyright laws, particularly those relating to cases of co-authorship."

"I don't understand what you're getting at."

"Copyright, Miss Ladram! A lucrative commodity where the poems of Tristram Abberley are concerned. And copyright expires fifty years after the death of the author. If there are two or more co-authors, it expires fifty years after the death of whichever one survives the longest. If Beatrix Abberley is recognized as the author or co-author of her brother's poems, copyright in the work will be extended until fifty years after her death. Fifty years from now, in other words. Either way, your half-brother benefits. The royalties continue to flow for the rest of his life, to him and to him only. He's the sole surviving heir of both Tristram and Beatrix, isn't he?"

"Yes," Charlotte replied with bleak neutrality. "He is."

"If he knew from your mother that Beatrix wrote the poems, if he came to know she possessed the letters proving her responsibility for them, if he realized the advantage of making the fact public, if Beatrix refused to co-operate-"

"But he was in New York last night. And he probably has an equally good alibi for the night of Beatrix's death."

"Does Brian Spicer have an alibi?"

"Who?"

"Spicer. Your brother's former chauffeur."

"What about him? He was sacked, months ago, for drunkenness."

"But he was seen in Rye on the twenty-fifth of May. What was he doing there?"

"How should I know?"

"Preparing to break into Jackdaw Cottage, do you think? What better way to suggest he had no connection with your brother than for him to be sacked? But was he sacked-or simply given a better paid job with the same employer?"

"That's ridiculous."

"It was your brother who told me Frank Griffith had the letters.

By visiting Hendre Gorfelen and demanding to see them, I covered the tracks of whoever was planning to steal them. And I provoked 166 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

Frank into fetching them from their hiding-place, which the thief was waiting patiently for him to do. Spicer again, do you think?"

"No." Charlotte turned away and stared through the window, concentrating on the trimmed and orderly section of the garden she could see beyond. To believe what Fairfax had suggested was unthinkable, but to dismiss it was impossible. She needed time and silence and solitude. Above all, she needed Maurice to lead her by the hand back to calm and sane normality. "My brother is incapable of doing such things. Or of paying others to do them. He's not short of money. Even if he were, he wouldn't have Beatrix killed to . . .

simply to . . ."

"Remember what Frank Griffith said. Those events aren't imaginary and they can't be wished away."

At that she rounded on him, a stray thought renewing her confidence. "If you're right, Mr Fairfax, we'll soon know, won't we?

Maurice has only to make the letters public to prove your point."

"But he could wait more than a year before doing so. If necessary, he could even wait until copyright had lapsed. He can choose his moment. He can say he found the letters, stumbled across them by chance, received them anonymously through the post. He can explain himself in any way he pleases. Whatever I or Frank Griffith think-whatever you think-we won't be able to prove anything. And my brother will stay in prison."

"You believe Maurice fabricated the case against him?"

"I believe he may have done. The royalties are substantial, aren't they? Was fifty thousand a year so very far out? If not, over ten years, that's half a million. Invested at a modest rate of interest, it would-"

"I don't want to know!" She almost shouted the words and then, as soon as they were out, realized how horribly true they were. She did not want to know. But she would have to. "Did you tell Frank Griffith about this?"

"No. I thought I should speak to you first."

"Thank you for that at least. Please don't tell him. Not yet. Not until I've seen Maurice and satisfied myself that you're wrong."

"He's hardly likely to admit any of it."

"No. But I shall know if he's lying."

"And if he is?"

"Then my closest relative-in many ways my closest friend-is a thief and a murderer."

H A N D I N G L O V E.

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Fairfax stepped closer. "Miss Ladram, I . . . I'm . . ."

"Please don't say you're sorry."

"But I am. To cause you this distress, to level accusations at those you love . . ."

"Never mind." Stubbornly, Charlotte smiled. "You must do what you can to help your brother. And so must I." She could maintain this faade of self-control only a little longer, she knew. She had to be rid of this man with his mild questioning eyes, his hesitant surmising that was worse than the calling of names and slinging of mud, his un-conscious displays of a nature similar to her own. "Maurice flies back from New York on Wednesday. I shall meet him off the 'plane and lay everything you've said before him. When I've heard his response, I shall tell you what my conclusions are. After that, you must act as you see fit. But, until then, will you promise to do and say nothing about any of this? There's no reason why you should agree, but, as a personal favour . . ."

"I agree." He solemnly extended his hand. "You have my word, Miss Ladram."

It was strange, Charlotte thought as she put out her hand and let him shake it, that she should seek or accept a promise from anybody about anything after all she had recently endured. But seek one she had. And accept it she did.

CHAPTER.

NINE.

Albacete, 30th October 1937 Dear Sis, The Aragon offensive is over and I've survived my first taste of action. With some distinction, I'm a.s.sured, though believe me I've no wish to crow. I enjoy a big advantage over most of my comrades. This was my first, not umpteenth, 168 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

experience of military defeat. And I haven't yet come to share their no doubt justifiably cynical view of the cabals and com-missariats that govern our fate.

So, as we rest here and try to recuperate, there's time to reflect on the consolations of a soldier's life, whether he's on the winning or the losing side, the right or the wrong. The greatest of all is the peerless brand of friendship bred by danger and adversity. I spent the best part of a day trapped in no man's land with two men who I'd never have met but for each of us being caught up in this chaotic affair and, absurd as it may sound, I'm glad I volunteered for that reason alone.

You may meet Frank Griffith one day and I'm sure you'll like him if you do. He'll never be invited to a Bloomsbury c.o.c.ktail party-unless it's one I throw in his honour-but you could trust him with your life and not be disappointed.

There's not much higher praise than that, is there?

Vicente Ortiz is an anarchist, by party and inclination. But he recognizes his party's faults. He knows-and he's told me-the mistakes their leaders made and how they undermined their position in the Republican movement. He also knows his ideology makes him a marked man, at best an embarra.s.sment, at worst a target. But he doesn't seem to be-grudge the fact. It's all one to him. Fighting the Fascists is what he regards as important, not evening the ideological score. If only more Republicans thought the same! Remember what happened to the POUM?

But you don't want me to lead you into the tangled forest of Republican factions. Perhaps you knew the fervour we sensed in Madrid six years ago would lead to this. Perhaps you even told me so. It wouldn't have been like me to listen, would it?

With autumn well entrenched, my thoughts turn to Mary and the boy. How is the little chap? He must be seven months old now and growing fast. I worry about him more than I worry about his mother. I feel nervous about what sort of a man he'll grow to be, about how my example will influence him. It's not much of one, after all, is it? Not what you'd want anybody to model their life on. What do you think he'll say about me when I'm dead and gone? Will he thank me or curse me, respect my memory or revile it? If only we knew, eh, Sis?

H A N D I N G L O V E.

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If only we had the chance to alter the effect we have on the future and the people who inhabit it. Well, on reflection, perhaps it's best that we don't. We've plenty to put right in the here and now. Why waste energy on the yet to be?

Don't worry about me. I don't feel half as gloomy as this letter sounds. And I'll write again as soon as I can.

Much love, Tristram.

CHAPTER.

TEN.

It's astonishing, Charlie. Quite astonishing. I really don't know what to say." Maurice frowned and shook his head and sipped distractedly at his coffee. And Charlotte watched him.

They were in the air-conditioned lounge of one of the low-rise hotels on the northern perimeter of Heathrow Airport, seated in huge and squeaky leather armchairs, flanked by glossy-leafed pot-plants, walled in smoked gla.s.s, bathed in muzak. A more disorienting venue for their discussion Charlotte could not have imagined, but, having surprised Maurice by meeting him off his flight from New York, she had been in no position to object when he had offered to postpone his return to Ladram Avionics on her account.