Hand In Glove Part 8

But it was too late. She rose, stepped into her shoes and beckoned for him to follow her towards the house. He had no choice but to comply, certain though he now was that he had arrived at the worst possible time. A short flight of steps led up from the lawn to some open French windows. The woman paused as she reached them and waited for him to catch up. In the room beyond her, he could see four figures turning to look in his direction. They too were wearing black.

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

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It was Derek Fairfax. As Charlotte recognized him, a shaft of anger lanced through her. What could the man be thinking of ? To arrive at such a time was either cra.s.s insensitivity or a calculated insult. If he thought such an approach would aid his brother's cause, he was much mistaken.

"A visitor for you, Charlie," said Ursula. "I'm afraid I didn't catch the name."

"A friend of yours?" murmured Maurice.

"No. He's Derek Fairfax. Colin Fairfax's brother."

"Good G.o.d. What-"

"I'm sorry." Fairfax stepped into the room. "I really am sorry to intrude like this. I had no idea . . . that the funeral was . . ."

"Fairfax?" said Jack with a frown. "Isn't that . . . the name of . . ."

"The man responsible for Beatrix's death," said Charlotte. "I can't imagine what brings you here, Mr Fairfax."

"I came to express my condolences."

"You could have done that by letter if you thought it appropriate."

"Yes. But-"

"Have you come for some other reason?"

"Well . . . In a sense. But perhaps I could call back another-"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"If you have something to say," put in Maurice, "why don't you say it?"

Fairfax's eyes flashed around the room. He was licking his lips and there was a trickle of sweat at the side of his brow. In other circ.u.mstances, Charlotte might have felt sorry for him. But these were not other circ.u.mstances. She watched him struggle to compose himself. Then he said: "My brother a.s.sures me he had nothing to do with the break-in at Miss Abberley's cottage."

"He would, wouldn't he?" remarked Ursula, stepping past him to reach an ashtray.

"But I believe him. And if you heard what he had to say I think you might as well."

"Unlikely," said Maurice. "My mother was swindled out of some furniture by your brother last year. And I subsequently had the dubious pleasure of meeting him. Untrustworthy would be to put it mildly."

"But not a fool. That's the point. Only a fool would do what the police claim he did."

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

"Am I to take it," said Charlotte, "that your real purpose in coming here is to protest your brother's innocence? If so, I can't see how we can help you."

"He thinks-and so do I-that the real motive for the break-in was to murder Miss Abberley."

"Oh-ho," said Jack. "The plot thickens." He grinned, but n.o.body else seemed to find the situation amusing.

"The Tunbridge Ware was stolen," said Maurice. "And found in his shop. How does he explain that?"

"Planted by the murderer to cover his tracks."

"Oh, come on! He can't be serious."

"Besides," said Ursula, "why should anyone want to murder Beatrix?"

"I don't know. But I thought . . . perhaps you . . ."

"Might be hiding something?" snapped Charlotte.

"No. Not hiding. Just not realizing the significance of . . . of something . . ."

"Perhaps you think we murdered her. For her money."

"Of course I don't." He looked at her imploringly, urging her to yield just enough ground for him to take some kind of stand. But she would not.

"My sister and I are the princ.i.p.al beneficiaries under Beatrix's will, Mr Fairfax," said Maurice calmly. "For my own part, I am the chairman and managing director of Ladram Avionics, an internationally successful company of which you may have heard. My means are considerable.

Do you really think I care about a modest bequest from my aunt?"

"No. I never suggested you did."

"Charlie is also well provided for, as you can see. She owns this house. And a substantial shareholding in the company."

"There's no need to tell Mr Fairfax our business, Maurice," said Ursula.

"My point is that by no stretch of the imagination can we be said to have needed what we gained by Beatrix's death. And n.o.body else gained anything."

"I thought there was a nest-egg for Mrs Mentiply," remarked Jack.

"Do be quiet, Jack," said Ursula.

"Oh, well, all right." He a.s.sumed a contrite expression. "Only trying to help."

Fairfax was still looking at Charlotte, still silently pleading with H A N D I N G L O V E.

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her to be reasonable. And she was still determined not to be. "Miss Ladram," he said falteringly, "I'm not accusing anybody of anything, least of all you. I'm only trying to establish the truth of what happened. Don't you want to do the same?"

"We already have," she replied. "The only service you can render us is to identify your brother's accomplice."

"He didn't have one."

"If that's what you think, I'm sure we'd all be grateful if you left-and didn't come back."

Maurice put a protective arm round her waist. "I'll second that.

Time you left, Mr Fairfax. Bother me if you really must. But leave my sister alone."

Ursula moved across to Fairfax's shoulder. "Cue to depart," she murmured.

"What?"

"Shall I show you out?"

Ursula's smile and her condescending gesture towards the garden completed Fairfax's defeat. He stepped back and looked away, seeming to shrivel before them. Suddenly, Charlotte regretted their implacable show of unity. Perhaps, after all, he had meant well. But it was too late to find out. Already, he had turned and was hurrying towards the French windows. Ursula swayed out of his path with a little wave of dismissal.

"Goodbye, Mr Fairfax. So good of you to have called."

"There's no need for that," said Charlotte.

"Well, I'm sorry, my dear. I thought you wanted rid of him."

"I did. But not-" She broke free of Maurice and hastened into the garden. Derek Fairfax had reached the drive and was walking fast towards the gate. To recall him now-even had she wished-would have been pointless.

"What's wrong, old girl?" said Maurice, coming up behind her.

"Nothing. I just . . ."

"Don't worry. He'll give us no trouble."

"Perhaps we should have been less abrupt."

"He was the one who was abrupt."

"Even so, he's not responsible for his brother's actions, is he?"

"Then he shouldn't try to excuse them, should he?"

"He didn't. Not really."

Maurice's arm once more encircled her. "Let's forget him. And his brother. Let's forget all about the squalid crime that ended Beatrix's 50 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

life and remember instead the many happy years she had before Mr Fairfax-Vane crossed her path. She'd want us to, you know."

"Yes. She would." Fairfax was out of sight now. Charlotte told herself to put him out of mind as well. "Come on, Maurice. Let's go in and have another drink. I could do with one."

"That's my girl." With a beaming smile, he ushered her back to rejoin the others.

CHAPTER.

NINE.

Derek felt so ashamed by how he had managed-or mismanaged-his visit to Ockham House that for several days afterwards he could not think of the event without physically flinching. Colin had praised his diplomacy, but what would he say when he heard just how undiplomatic his brother had been?

Further contact with the Abberley family was, for the time being, out of the question. Derek's only immediate hope of learning more about them was to read Tristram Abberley's biography. This, with guilty zeal, he proceeded to do over the next three evenings.

The book was the work of an American academic, Emerson A.

McKitrick, first published in 1977. Derek, whose taste in literature seldom led him beyond the realm of light detective fiction, was surprised by how absorbed he rapidly became in the life-story of an avant-garde pre-war poet. Perhaps he should not have been, however, since Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography had a.s.sumed for him the characteristics of a convoluted whodunnit. The only real difference was that, in this case, the mystery did not begin until long after the book had ended.

From the first, Derek found himself sharing McKitrick's evident frustration. Who was Tristram Abberley? What manner of man was he? Sportsman; idler; intellectual poseur; spendthrift; communist; h.o.m.os.e.xual; womanizer; traveller; wastrel; husband; father; soldier; H A N D I N G L O V E.

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poet. He had apparently been all of these and more. Yet, at the end of his life, it was possible to believe that he had been none.

He was born at Indsleigh Hall, near Lichfield, in Staffordshire, on 4 June 1907, the third and youngest child of Joseph and Margaret Abberley. The other children were Lionel (born 1895) and Beatrix (born 1902). Joseph Abberley was a partner in a Walsall soap manufacturing business, Abberley & Timmins. He was a man of humble origins who had risen, thanks entirely to his own efforts, to considerable prosperity.

His aspirations for his children were that they should enjoy all the social and educational opportunities he had been denied. But what they made of those opportunities was, as such men often find, not what he had antic.i.p.ated.