Hand In Glove Part 30

Not for money." He grinned. "Well, not just for money." At that he paused and leaned against the back of Charlotte's chair for support.

"You're saying Maurice put you up to this?" Charlotte was staring up at him, eyes wide with fear of what he might yet reveal.

"Sure, Charlie. You've got it. He claimed he wanted to make his father's biography as complete and accurate as possible. I never swallowed that, of course. I expected a trade-off when we found the letters. If we found them. What I didn't expect was that Maurice was playing a deeper game, for bigger odds than I'd ever imagined. We found the letters for him, you and me. And now he's s.n.a.t.c.hed them from under our noses. I'm not sure how, but I'm d.a.m.n sure why. So he doesn't have to go short after the expiry of copyright. Because it won't expire, will it? Not now he can prove Beatrix was the real poet. Not now he can show up my study of his father's life as a sham, built on a lie it'll suit him to expose. Do you know what this will do for my reputation, my academic standing? Do you have any idea? I'll be a laughing-stock. Students sn.i.g.g.e.ring in my seminars. Colleagues whispering behind my back. My whole career may go down the tube.

And why? To serve the truth or honour the dead? h.e.l.l, no. Not for 176 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

anything as high-minded as that. Just to keep Maurice's royalty account topped up for the rest of his life." He pushed himself away from the chair, swayed slightly, then clapped a hand to his brow. "I've been taken for a fairground ride, Charlie. And kicked out of the chair at the top of the ferris wheel. So you'll have to excuse"-he glared at Derek-"any lack of courtesy."

Charlotte had screwed her eyes tightly shut as McKitrick spoke.

Now she slowly opened them and looked at Derek, her face pale, her lips parted, her knuckles white where she clasped the arms of her chair. Then her gaze shifted past him and she said: "I had no idea . . . I didn't know . . . anything about this."

"Then you're a bigger fool than I took you for," said McKitrick.

"Though not as big a one as I'll look. In time, that is. In Maurice's own sweet time."

Derek stared at each of them in turn. McKitrick was not lying and Charlotte knew it. And the truth of what he had said dictated another truth, greater and more hideous by far. In Charlotte's expression he could see its realization. In his own mind he could sense it spreading. "Why did Beatrix go to such lengths to hide the letters?"

he asked.

"Because she must have known what Maurice was planning," said McKitrick. "Known and refused to go along with it. Maybe she didn't want to sully Tristram's reputation or expose her part in the fraud. Or maybe she just wanted to spite Maurice. Either way, she wouldn't give in. So Maurice decided to . . . over-ride her objections."

"Murder her, you mean?"

"Reckon so, don't you? He must have thought it was just a question of knocking the old lady on the head and faking a break-in, then blaming it on your brother and pocketing the letters. Only Beatrix had put them out of his reach, so he had to use me to find them. And you, of course, Charlie. You were one of his p.a.w.ns as well. How does it feel?"

Charlotte did not look at McKitrick as she responded. "What do you propose to do now?" she murmured.

"There's nothing I can do. That's the worst of it. Or the best of it, from Maurice's point of view. My evidence wouldn't stand up in a thesis, let alone a court of law."

"Then why are you telling me all this?"

"So you'll know, when he unveils the letters a year or so from now, H A N D I N G L O V E.

177.

and claims he found them, or was sent them, or was sold them, or whatever d.a.m.n story he comes up with-so you'll know then, and ever after, what the truth of it is. That Beatrix was beaten to death, and this man's brother was jailed, and I was ruined, just to feather Maurice's nest. And yours, of course. I don't doubt he'll be generous.

He can afford to be now, can't he?"

"Please go." Still she did not so much as glance at either of them.

"Please go now, both of you."

"It'll be a pleasure." Unexpectedly, McKitrick stepped forward, raised Charlotte's hand from the arm of the chair, and kissed it. "So long, sweetheart." With that he turned and strode away across the lawn. Derek heard Charlotte release a deep breath she had been holding and watched her slowly wipe the hand McKitrick had kissed against her dress.

"You want me to leave as well?"

"I would be grateful." She spoke softly and precisely, stressing each syllable equally.

"Without further discussion?"

"What is there to discuss?"

"You heard what he said. It proves I'm right."

"Perhaps."

"How can you doubt it?"

"Maurice is a wealthy man." She seemed almost to be in a trance, hypnotically convinced that such phrases, if repeated often enough, would hold his guilt at bay. "He didn't need to do this. Any of it."

"But he did do it. You know he did."

At last she looked at him. "What now, Mr Fairfax? What next?"

"I . . . I shall inform my brother . . . and his solicitor . . . but . . ."

"Yes?"

"Nothing can be proved. McKitrick said so. And he's right."

"Exactly. Nothing can be proved." She raised one hand to her forehead. "Don't you see why that's as awful for me as for you?"

"Frankly, no."

"Because nothing can be disproved either. Nothing, one way or the other, can be known for certain. Your brother's not the only one in prison, Mr Fairfax. From now on, we all are."

CHAPTER.

TWELVE.

Summer rain, gentle but insistent, smeared the world grey and green. Charlotte stood at her bedroom window, watching it fall and wishing it would continue for ever, listening to its peck and patter against the gla.s.s, wanting the stain of every sunny day washed from her memory.

Hope Cove, at the dawn of her childhood recollection: the sand between her toes; the tiny crabs scuttling in the rock pools; her mother warmly scented and ever smiling: her father boisterous and laughing; and Maurice in his late teens, self-conscious and wary, uncertain whether he wanted to join the game on the beach or stand apart and scoff. It had been sunny then, the whole fortnight. And already the lie had begun.

Charlotte lowered her chin to meet the soothing coolness of the bathrobe and closed her eyes, prising apart the tangled undergrowth of long-ago incidents in search of the discrepancies she should have noticed, the inconsistencies and contradictions which must have formed the fabric of the lie. But there were none. They had remained loyal to each other. They had let nothing slip, nothing show, nothing reveal the falsehood upon which they were set. "This is a photograph of Tristram Abberley, Charlie." "This is a book of his poems." "These are the verses that feed and clothe you, Charlie." "These are the secrets we will never tell."

She turned and walked into the bathroom, where already the water was halfway up the tub. She looked in the mirror and cursed her weakness that showed in the br.i.m.m.i.n.g redness of her eyes. She could not free her throat of the constricted urge to sob, to weep and surrender to the bitterness she felt. A night had pa.s.sed since Emerson McKitrick had forced her to confront the possibility that everything alleged against Maurice might be true, a night since Maurice had telephoned her in a fluent yet flawed attempt to set her mind at rest.

"It's possible you might hear from McKitrick, Charlie. He's in a vindictive mood and I wanted to warn you not to take what he says seriously."

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

179.

"What might he say, Maurice?"

"That I told him about the letters. I couldn't have done, of course, because I didn't know they existed. But he'll try anything to wriggle out of admitting how he found out about them."

"You didn't learn who put him up to it, then?"

"My bet is he put himself up to it. My bet is he stole the letters and destroyed them and is prepared to blacken anybody's name if he thinks it'll help to cover his tracks."

"Blacken your name, you mean?"

"Exactly. He might even be able to persuade some people to believe his story."

Maurice had paused, waiting, it seemed, for Charlotte to a.s.sure him that she would not place a sc.r.a.p of faith in anything McKitrick said. She stepped back from the mirror and turned off the taps remembering the momentary silence with which she had tortured him.

"Charlie?"

"I'm still here, Maurice. And don't worry. If Emerson McKitrick contacts me, I shall know how to deal with him."

"Well, these Americans are great ones for conspiracy theories. They can only thrive if people want to believe them."

"Quite. I do understand, believe me."

"That's all I wanted to be sure of."

"Then I'll say good night. It's late and I'm very tired."

But she had not been tired. Her mind had teemed with competing thoughts, scrabbling and scrambling towards the truth. Fatigue, which dragged now at her every bone, had seemed then a condition she would never again experience. After bidding Maurice good night, she had scoured the house for records of her family's past: snapshots, postcards, letters, greetings, books, papers, cuttings, jottings; the sc.r.a.ps and remainders left behind and overlooked wherein she had hoped to find, but had not, the answer she was still bound to seek.

Charlotte let her robe fall to the floor and lowered herself into the consoling warmth of the bath, closing her eyes and stretching back as the heat relaxed her muscles and the steam invaded her senses. There was no alternative to the course she had decided upon. They had left her none, with their lifetime of deceptions and evasions. Her lifetime, built on their lie. Now she had to know. She had to be certain. In her own mind, this one issue demanded to be settled.

180.

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

An hour later, cleansed and utterly calm, she descended to the hall, checked the time, then picked up the telephone and dialled Swans'

Meadow.

" 'Ello?"

"Aliki, this is Charlie. Is Ursula there?"

"Oh, 'ello, Charlie. Yes, Meesus Abberley is 'ere. I put you through."

A lengthy pause. Charlotte looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was a model of self-possession. So far, so good.

"h.e.l.lo, Charlie. This is a surprise." Only the choice of phrase, not its tone, hinted at irony on Ursula's part. "What can I do for you?"

"You can have lunch with me."

"Today?" Shortage of notice, it seemed, was a greater obstacle than Charlotte having overheard her having s.e.x with Emerson McKitrick. "I'm afraid I can't. I have too much on."

"You had nothing on last time I was at Swans' Meadow. Unless you want me to tell Maurice exactly what I witnessed on that occasion, you will have lunch with me."

Several seconds pa.s.sed before Ursula replied. "Lunch it is then, Charlie. Such an unexpected pleasure."

CHAPTER.

THIRTEEN.

Charlotte and Ursula met at the Inn on the Lake in G.o.dalming.

The venue was ostensibly chosen because of its equidistance between Bourne End and Tunbridge Wells, but neutral ground seemed suitable for non-geographical reasons as well. Not that Ursula's sang froid was in other than excellent repair. She contrived to sustain a monologue about the arrangements for Samantha's twentieth birthday party, to be held at Swans' Meadow on the first Sat.u.r.day in September, until aperitifs had been consumed and they had been shown to their table next to the restaurant's internal fish-pond, where the artful cascading of water conferred a heightened degree of privacy.

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

181.

Regarding her sister-in-law across the virginal tablecloth and winking crystal, Charlotte could not suppress a stab of admiration that disguised, she knew, a pinp.r.i.c.k of envy. The highlighted hair; the plain but flattering suit; the discreetly glittering jewellery and extravagantly impractical clutch-bag: all these and the cherry red coordination of lipstick and nail-varnish signalled sophisticated sen-suality within, though only just, the confines of Home Counties etiquette.

"Enough of small talk," Ursula disingenuously remarked as she swallowed a heart-shaped slice of avocado. "You didn't ask me here to learn the price of hiring a marquee."

"No."

"Why, then?"

Charlotte took a sip from her gla.s.s of wine, reminding herself of the need for poise as well as precision. "I want to know the exact condition of Maurice's finances."

Ursula abandoned her fork where it was embedded in the next slice of avocado and stared at Charlotte. "You want to know what?"

"I believe you heard."

"Of course I heard, Charlie. What I found difficult was to believe my own ears. Maurice's finances? You know as much about them as I do, I should imagine."

"Hardly."

"You're a shareholder in Ladram Avionics. Read the annual report and you'll-"

"It's his personal outgoings I'm interested in."