Hand In Glove Part 4

"Call me Lulu, please."

"Are you sure you're all right? This must have come as a terrible shock."

"Not really."

"What?"

"Forgive me. I mean simply that at our age-Beatrix's and mine-death can never be regarded as a surprise."

"But this is different . . . This was not . . ."

"Not natural. Quite so, my dear. The difference does not escape me, I a.s.sure you."

"Then how . . ." Charlotte stopped herself. The old lady was clearly wandering. It would be charitable to disregard whatever she said. "Will you wish to attend the funeral, Lulu? It's to be held next Monday, the twenty-ninth. It's a long way for you to come, of course, but I could offer you overnight accommodation if that would help."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you. But . . . I will think about it, Charlotte. I will think about it and let you know."

"Of course. Of course. Do that. Now, if you're certain you're all right-"

"Absolutely. Goodbye, Charlotte."

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

25.

"Good-" The line went dead before she could finish. And left her staring at her own puzzled frown in the mirror above the telephone.

CHAPTER.

FIVE.

Fairfax."

"Good morning. Is that Mr Derek Fairfax?"

"Speaking."

"My name's Dredge, Mr Fairfax. Albion Dredge. I'm a solicitor, representing your brother, Mr Colin Fairfax."

Derek felt the blood rush to his face. It had happened. What he had dreaded ever since Colin's arrival in Tunbridge Wells. A reversion to type, some might say. A stroke of bad luck, Colin would undoubtedly protest. A problem, unquestionably, that Derek did not need.

"Representing him in what, Mr Dredge?"

"I regret to have to tell you, Mr Fairfax, that your brother was arrested yesterday by the Suss.e.x Police and subsequently charged with serious criminal offences."

"What were the offences?"

"Handling stolen goods. Conspiracy to burgle. Aiding and abetting murder."

It was worse than he had imagined. Far worse. "Murder, you say?"

"An elderly spinster was found battered to death at her cottage in Rye on Sunday afternoon. You may have seen a report of it on the local television news."

"No. I don't think so."

"Then let me explain." As Dredge did so, Derek felt a clammy foreboding rise about him. Colin would have no truck with violence.

That was certain. But he had never been scrupulous about the prove-nance of what he bought and sold. He habitually sailed close to the wind. Sometimes too close, as the affair in St Albans proved. Could he have gone so far as to commission a burglary in order to obtain a collection of Tunbridge Ware? If he knew he could make enough out of 26 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

it, the answer had to be yes, especially if his finances were in a more than usually parlous state. Murder, of course, he would never have countenanced. Nor strong-arm tactics of any kind. But if he had misjudged his a.s.sociates, if he had trusted to luck and the good sense of those who had none, then the consequences could be precisely what the police had alleged. "He is currently being held at Hastings Police Station," Dredge concluded. "And will appear before the magistrates tomorrow morning."

"Does he . . . deny the charges?"

"Unequivocally."

"Then . . . how does he account for the Tunbridge Ware being in his shop?"

Dredge sighed. "He a.s.sumes it was planted there."

"You sound doubtful."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It's simply . . . well, in the perception of the police, it's exactly what he would say, isn't it?"

"He hasn't suggested they planted it, has he?"

"Mercifully, no."

"Then who . . . why should . . ."

"Mr Fairfax, I don't wish to be abrupt, but such questions are perhaps best considered at another time. My purpose in telephoning you today is to ask whether you would be prepared to act as surety in the event that the magistrates grant bail. If granted, the figure involved is likely to exceed your brother's means."

Derek could have told Dredge that himself. Colin's means had never to his knowledge kept pace with his expenditure. Too often in the past, indeed, Derek had been obliged to bail him out, literally as well as metaphorically. And each time he had sworn it would be the last. So had Colin, come to that. "What sort of figure are we talking about?" he asked defensively.

"It's hard to say. The police will oppose bail. The question may not arise."

"But if the question does arise?"

"Then it will be a substantial sum."

"How substantial?"

"I would imagine . . . somewhere between five and ten thousand pounds."

A woundingly large portion of Derek's savings, then, to be forfeited in the event that Colin decided a moonlight flit to an extradition- H A N D I N G L O V E.

27.

haven was in order. Even as Derek considered the possibility, he caught himself reflecting at the same time that it might almost be worth losing such a sum if it meant Colin could never again ask him for help.

"Your brother indicated you were the only person likely to be willing to a.s.sist."

"No doubt."

"And are you . . . willing to a.s.sist?"

"Yes. I suppose I am."

"Can you attend the court tomorrow morning?"

Derek glanced at the diary that stood open on his desk. Wednesday the twenty-fourth of June contained nothing that could not be re-arranged. "Yes. I can be there."

"The magistrates' court is in Bohemia Road, Hastings. Proceedings commence at ten thirty."

"Very well. I'll meet you there."

Derek put the telephone down, lifted off his gla.s.ses and began rubbing the bridge of his nose. When he closed his eyes, the present-his sombre suit, his desk, his office, his glazed vista of Calverley Park, his every proof and appanage of age and status-floated away like gossamer in the breeze. In their place, he and Colin were children again in Bromley, Colin six years the older, as fly and daring as Derek was shy and timid. Derek had often in those days taken the blame for his brother's antics and covered his tracks and falsified his alibis. And now he knew-if he had ever doubted it-that nothing had really changed.

He rose and crossed to the window. Tunbridge Wells was looking its best in the quiet midsummer weather, the pale faades of Regency villas dotted amidst the greenery, the hazy air seeming to weigh down still further the heavy-leafed horse chestnuts in the park. He had lived here for seven years now, seven good if scarcely glorious years of steady progress at Fithyan & Co. Barring catastrophes, a partnership lay within his grasp. But might not Fithyan consider his connection with a corrupt antique dealer-or worse still a murderer-just such a catastrophe? What would the clients say? What would the other partners think?

How he wished Colin had never settled in Tunbridge Wells. It had only been intended as a temporary move in the first place, a way of easing him back into the outside world. Instead he had found the Treasure 28 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

Trove and a swift road back to the profession that had already undone him. And now, it seemed, it had undone him again, with a vengeance that might be visited upon his brother as well as himself.

Maurice had set off early for Rye and was to return to Bourne End direct. For the first time since Beatrix's death, Charlotte was left to her own thoughts and devices. A morning of energetic gardening having failed to cure her restless mood, she went out in the afternoon, scouring the shops for half a dozen things she did not need.

As the working day drew towards a close, she found herself halfway down the High Street and realized with faint surprise that she was heading in the direction of Chapel Place. She could easily have turned aside and taken a more direct route back to her home in Mount Ephraim. But she did not. Curiosity-or something more complex-overcame squeamishness and she pressed on towards what she now knew was her destination: the Treasure Trove.

It was a narrow-fronted emporium with peeling paint around the windows, squeezed between a photographic studio and a second-hand bookshop. The Gothic script in which the name had been rendered over the door matched the style on the card Hyslop had shown her. To one side there was a separate doorway with a bell labelled simply FLAT. The interior of the shop was unlit and seemed cavernously dark by contrast with the brightness outside. There was no sign proclaiming opening hours and Charlotte, who had a.s.sumed that somebody would be standing in for the proprietor, felt slightly cheated.

Stepping closer, she shaded her eyes and peered through the window. Several bookcases and sideboards revealed themselves amidst the gloom. She glimpsed some shadowy oil paintings and dangling bra.s.swork, a pine chest and a cheval-gla.s.s towards the rear. Then, stacked in a tall corner cabinet, she noticed the Tunbridge Ware.

Small pieces for the most part, Fairfax's legitimate collection-if it was legitimate-looked thoroughly unremarkable. Perhaps, thought Charlotte, that explained- Suddenly, there was a movement close behind her, reflected in the cheval-gla.s.s. Glancing across to it, she saw a man standing almost at her shoulder, staring into the shop. He was of medium height, lean with thinning hair, dressed in a brown somewhat rumpled suit and wearing gold-framed spectacles on which the sunlight flashed.

She would have taken him for a disappointed customer but for the in- H A N D I N G L O V E.

29.

tensity of his expression. There was in his face a look almost of agony.

He did not shift his ground as she watched, merely gazed past her, apparently struck motionless by something he had seen or thought.

Charlotte turned and smiled at him. "I'm afraid it's closed," she said.

At first he did not respond. Then, as if her words had only just reached him, he looked at her and opened his mouth, but did not speak.

"It's closed," she repeated.

Still he said nothing. Then, abruptly, he swung on his heel and started back towards the High Street, walking with unnecessary speed, almost, it seemed to Charlotte, as if he wanted to run.

Derek reached the George & Dragon a few minutes after opening time. He was known as an occasional if scarcely regular customer, but was too distracted to do more than smile stiffly in response to the bar-maid's welcome. Taking his beer into the garden, he sat at a table and took several quaffs of it. He did not drink much as a rule, but he had every intention of breaking that rule tonight.

The first thing he must do, he told himself, was to stop behaving like the criminal his brother might not even be. Thanks to Colin's use of the name Fairfax-Vane, n.o.body was likely to realize Derek was related to the proprietor of the Treasure Trove. In court, of course, and in newspaper reports of the case, they would insist on using Colin's real name, but until then he was completely safe. The idea that the junior staff of Fithyan & Co. were already conducting a whispering campaign against him was therefore absurd. Though the idea that they might yet, he supposed, was not.

He swallowed some more beer, shaking his head at the thought of what the young woman outside the Treasure Trove was likely to have made of his conduct. He should never have gone there and did not really know why he had. She had only been trying to be helpful, after all.

Silently, he cursed Colin. What a strange thing brotherhood was.

They had nothing in common save an ever more distant past. They did not even like each other. And yet they were bound together by something stronger than either love or friendship, something irre-sistible and indissoluble. Derek did not understand it, but he knew he could not overcome it. Tomorrow, reluctantly and with an ill grace, he would stand by his brother.

CHAPTER.

SIX.

Maurice had telephoned Charlotte upon his arrival home to report what he had learned from Chief Inspector Hyslop: that Colin Fairfax had been charged and would appear before Hastings magistrates in the morning. The appearance would be a brief one, with the case adjourned until a later date. All that was likely to be settled was whether Fairfax would be remanded in custody-as Hyslop hoped-or granted bail. Accordingly, Maurice had decided not to attend, feeling that two days away from Ladram Avionics were quite enough.

Charlotte, however, had taken a different view. She wanted to see the man who was responsible for Beatrix's death. Doing so might satisfy her curiosity where peering into the window of the Treasure Trove had not. And so the morning found her at Hastings Magistrates'

Court, joining the throng of worried clients and hara.s.sed lawyers in its cheerless outer hall.