30th October 1937
Dear Sis,
The Aragon offensive is over and I’ve survived my first taste of action. With some distinction, I’m assured, 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, experience of military defeat. And I haven’t yet come to share their no doubt justifiably cynical view of the cabals and commissariats 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 cocktail 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 embarrassment, at worst a target. But he doesn’t seem to begrudge 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? 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.
10
‘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 glass, 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.
‘The idea that Beatrix wrote my father’s poems … Well, I’d have said it was about the craziest suggestion I’ve ever heard. Still would, if it comes to it. But if the letters leave no room for doubt …’
Derek Fairfax had kept his promise and Frank Griffith had gone home to Wales following his release from hospital. Charlotte was therefore confident Maurice had received no warning of what she had to tell him. She had spent four days preparing herself for their encounter, scouring her memory for hints of the truth Beatrix might have let slip, probing for flaws the logic that focused suspicion on Maurice. She had studied his face with the clarity of a searchlight, weighed his words with the zeal of an inquisitor. And still she was not sure. Was his dismay artificial? Was he a good enough actor to deceive her without even the opportunity to practise his lines? Or was he as taken aback as he appeared to be?
‘I can’t come to terms with it, Charlie. I can’t think through all the implications. I suppose Griffith’s explanation makes sense, but are you sure he’s to be believed?’
‘I believe him.’
‘Then that’s good enough for me.’ He let out a slow and thoughtful breath. ‘The question is: why would anybody want to steal such letters? What would they have to gain by it?’
‘I don’t know. But I know what Derek Fairfax would say.’
‘Quite.’ Maurice placed his hand over hers. ‘It was good of you to put the lid on that particular notion. I don’t need to tell you, of course, that it’s completely without foundation.’
‘Of course.’
His hand withdrew. ‘I can see why concern for his brother might make Fairfax want to believe it. After all, he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know us. It’s the way an accountant might reason. It adds up, even though it’s wrong in every respect. I haven’t seen Spicer since the day I sacked him. I don’t know anything about the letters. And the loss of the royalties won’t dent my finances in any way.’
The effort of concentration – of analysing every nuance of Maurice’s reactions while suppressing the desire to confide in him – was beginning to tell on Charlotte. She thought of all the generous acts he had performed, the stray kindnesses and magnanimous gestures. She thought of the many occasions he had comforted and consoled her, of the love he had always shown her. To harbour a secret doubt about him, to put it to the test while declaring her loyalty, was in itself an act of treachery.
‘But none of that’s really the point, is it? If I were reduced to my last penny, I still wouldn’t be able to do what Fairfax is suggesting. It’s a matter of breeding, isn’t it, Charlie? A matter of right and wrong. Conspiring to murder Beatrix? Can you imagine how many principles and instincts would have to be conquered in order even to consider the possibility? I can’t. I can’t begin to imagine.’
‘Because you never did consider it?’
‘Exactly. All I did was make the mistake of telling Fairfax about Frank Griffith. And why? Because I thought he was entitled to know. I wanted to give him a helping hand, for God’s sake. And what’s my reward? To be accused of murdering Beatrix for the sake of some paltry royalties I didn’t even know might be due to her.’ He was becoming angry, as was understandable. Astonishment was giving place to indignation. ‘My God, Fairfax has a nerve to try this on. Does he really expect to help his brother wriggle free by smearing me in this way?’
‘I think he may believe it, Maurice. As you said yourself, he doesn’t know you. And there’s so much … apparent corroboration.’
He frowned. ‘Such as?’
‘You prompted his visit to Hendre Gorfelen.’
‘I’ve just explained that. I was trying to help him.’
‘And it was you Emerson McKitrick contacted.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, he must have been lying, mustn’t he? About the letters, I mean. In view of what we now know they contain, it’s inconceivable Beatrix would have mentioned them to him.’
‘So it is.’ Maurice looked at her sharply. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Have you challenged him on the point?’
‘No. I didn’t want to do anything without consulting you first.’ Charlotte struggled to erase any hint from her expression that there might be other reasons why she should have wished to avoid Emerson McKitrick.
‘Good girl.’ Maurice grasped her hand and squeezed it. ‘He has some explaining to do. I’ll see him straightaway.’
‘You think he holds the key to all this?’
‘He may do. If there
is a key. If it isn’t just a huge coincidence.’
‘How can it be?’
‘Easily.’ He stared at her. ‘Isn’t it obvious? McKitrick may have been trying his luck. Talking vaguely about old letters to see what he could uncover for his blasted new edition of Tristram’s biography. By chance, there actually were some letters. At least, so Griffith claims. Until I see and read them, I won’t really believe they exist.’
‘You’re suggesting McKitrick stole the letters?’
‘Or Griffith dreamed the whole incident. Either way, it probably has nothing to do with Beatrix’s death. She died because a petty villain broke into her house, put up to it by Colin Fairfax-Vane.’
Maurice was retreating before Charlotte’s eyes, recoiling from the consequences of accepting any part of Derek Fairfax’s theory. This was natural, but it was also consistent with another interpretation of his behaviour. He had played for time when taken unawares. Now he had devised a strategy and meant to pursue it.
‘If Griffith is correct – and it’s a big if – McKitrick’s the obvious candidate for having stolen the letters.’ Did he have an alibi for Thursday night? Charlotte wondered. Was it one that would cause Maurice more pain than any of Fairfax’s accusations? ‘And since what they contain – what they supposedly contain – turns his account of Tristram’s career on its head, he’s probably already destroyed them.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No? Well, we’ll see.’ For the first time, Maurice smiled. His confidence was returning as Charlotte watched, bringing warmth to his gaze and fluency to his thoughts. ‘Leave this to me, old girl. I mean to put a few hares back in their traps.’
‘You really think you can?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Maurice was back to his self-assured best, neither as arrogant as Emerson McKitrick nor as hesitant as Derek Fairfax. This was what Charlotte had hoped he would be from the first. This was what she had been sure would rid her mind of doubt. How strange, then, that now it came to the point the doubt remained, as stubborn as it was insistent, greater indeed than it had been before. ‘You’ve done well, Charlie. And I’m grateful. But now I think I’d better take over. Don’t you?’
11
DEREK’S SECOND BOUT of absenteeism had been greeted by David Fithyan with a silence more ominous than any censorious interview. Derek had therefore beavered his way through the first three days of the following week, endeavouring never to be seen to be other than industriously engaged. He was well aware Charlotte Ladram was to meet her half-brother on Wednesday morning, but it was not until the early evening that he felt able to leave Fithyan & Co. with a clear conscience and proceed to Ockham House, high and cool in its leafy setting above the town.
When he drove up the drive, he saw Charlotte at once, seated on a wicker chair in the corner of the lawn where the setting sun still lingered. She was wearing a cream pinafore dress with a navy blue cardigan slung round her shoulders and a wide-brimmed straw hat that made her look younger and more carefree than he knew she was. In his rumpled office suit, he felt miserably shabby, unequal to whatever the occasion represented. But there was a second empty chair beside Charlotte’s and she seemed to be smiling as he approached. He was expected and, if not welcome, could at least be sure that on this occasion he would not be turned away.
‘Miss Ladram … I …’
‘You’re later than I thought you’d be, Mr Fairfax.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s been … difficult.’
‘Please sit down. Can I offer you a drink, perhaps?’
She was being too polite, too altogether reasonable, for his peace of mind. There was an awkwardness to her expression at odds with the relaxation of her tone. What it meant he could not discern. ‘No. Nothing to drink, thank you.’ He sat down. ‘You … er … saw your brother?’ He nerved himself to use the word without prefix, wondering whether she would notice or take it amiss if she did.
‘Yes. I saw him.’
‘When we spoke last Friday …’ But last Friday seemed an age ago. As did the truce they had come close to declaring. He had been certain then that she meant to be honest, with him and with herself. Now he was not so sure. ‘When we spoke, you undertook to put all the points I made—’
‘I did.’
They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then Derek said: ‘What conclusion did you reach … might I ask?’
‘Maurice is innocent of any wrong-doing.’ But her gaze had faltered. She looked down and away, squinting into the sunlight. ‘I’m sure of it, Mr Fairfax. Absolutely sure. He’s as unable to account for events as I am.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
A compression of her lips was the only sign of irritation. ‘I promised to inform you of my conclusions and that’s what I’ve done.’
‘But the circumstances, Miss Ladram. The circumstances are just too—’
‘Coincidence! Nothing more. I know you want to believe otherwise, but you’re wrong.’ Her outward show of calmness was what gave the game away, Derek realized. If she really trusted Maurice, she would defend him with spirit and vigour, not a cool veneer of reason. ‘I’m sorry, truly sorry, but there’s—’
‘Hi, Charlie!’ The voice, raised and drawled, reached them across the lawn. Derek looked round and saw a tall broadly built man striding towards them. Dark hair and a trimmed beard framed a handsome smiling face. He wore a loose fawn suit and open-necked shirt and was aiming his left hand at Charlotte in the likeness of a gun, thumb raised, index finger pointing. ‘Didn’t think I’d catch up with you, did you?’
‘Emerson!’ Charlotte’s exclamation and the American accent confirmed to Derek that this was Emerson McKitrick. As he towered above them, he gave every impression of being more than slightly drunk.
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Derek Fairfax.’
‘Oho! Buddying up with the enemy now, are we? Leastways, Maurice’s enemy.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. We’re simply—’
‘Save the denials for big brother, Charlie. I don’t need them.’
‘What are you doing here, Emerson?’ Charlotte’s voice cracked as she spoke.
‘Had the bum’s rush from Swans’ Meadow. Thought I’d spend a couple of nights here before flying back to Boston. I’m staying at the Spa Hotel. Why don’t you join me for dinner?’
‘I hardly think so.’
‘Your loss, sweetheart.’
‘I’m not your sweetheart.’
‘Wanted to be though, eh? Wanted to be another of my many conquests. I could have had you the first night we met.’
Charlotte’s flinch of shame at the words drove Derek from his chair. ‘That’s enough!’
‘Enough?’ bellowed McKitrick. ‘I haven’t even started yet. Why don’t you crawl back to your counting-house, Fairfax? Leave Charlie and me to bill and coo at each other like the pair of love-birds we aren’t.’ He was not only drunk, but angry, though whether with Charlotte or Derek or somebody else altogether was far from clear.
‘I don’t want you to leave,’ said Charlotte, looking up at Derek in direct appeal.
‘Don’t be too sure,’ said McKitrick. ‘You mightn’t want him to hear what I have to say. It’s time you learned the truth about brother Maurice, you see. And I’ll bet you won’t want to share it, let alone with your tame accountant.’
‘He’s not my accountant.’
‘No? Well, maybe he ought to be. You’ll surely need one in this affluent future Maurice has planned for you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t tell me you’re not taking a cut. Isn’t that how he means to shut you up?’
‘A cut of what?’
‘The royalties, Charlie. The royalties that won’t run out next year. Maurice has told me all about it. He had to, even though he knew it meant I’d realize what he’d been up to right from the start. He approached me, not the other way round. He told me about the letters. Beatrix never did. He knew I’d be
unable to resist the lure of fresh material on Tristram. That’s how he led me on. He said we’d have to keep his role in the whole thing secret to ensure your co-operation, which, as heir to Beatrix’s property, we had to have. I was happy to go along with it, of course. I was happy to do just about anything to lay my hands on those letters. For the sake of scholarship, I might add. 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 snatched them from under our noses. I’m not sure how, but I’m damn 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 sniggering 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? Hell, no. Not for 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.’
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