Hand In Glove - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘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 pawns 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, and claims he found them, or was sent them, or was sold them, or whatever damn 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.’

  12

  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 glass, 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 secret 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 the weakness that showed in the brimming 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 passed 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.’

  ‘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 assure him that she would not place a scrap 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 scraps 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.

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

&nbs
p; ‘’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.

  ‘Hello, 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 sex 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 passed before Ursula replied. ‘Lunch it is then, Charlie. Such an unexpected pleasure.’

  13

  CHARLOTTE AND URSULA met at the Inn on the Lake in Godalming. 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 Saturday in September, until aperitifs had been consumed and they had been shown to their table next to the restaurant’s internal fishpond, where the artful cascading of water conferred a heightened degree of privacy.

  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 pinprick 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 sensuality 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 glass 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.’

  Ursula’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Indeed.’ She lowered her voice and leaned forward slightly. ‘Are you feeling quite yourself, Charlie?’

  ‘I want to know how much he spends and what he spends it on. I want to know whether his present income is more than adequate to sustain his expenditure – or barely so.’

  ‘I see.’ She glanced at Charlotte’s plate, then at her own, then slid her fork free of the avocado and summoned the waiter. ‘I think we’ve finished this course, thank you.’

  The plates were removed, their glasses recharged with chablis. Ursula lit a cigarette and took several draws on it, rolling the smoke around her mouth like wine whilst gazing at Charlotte with a mixture of disdain, surprise and amusement.

  ‘It’s hardly necessary for me to point out that my husband’s finances are none of your business.’

  ‘It’s hardly necessary for me to point out that he might be shocked to learn what occurred in his bedroom last Friday afternoon. And several other afternoons, no doubt.’

  ‘Just Friday, actually.’ Ursula smiled. ‘Nothing improves with repetition.’ The smile vanished. ‘Certainly not a threat.’

  ‘I shall tell him if I have to.’

  ‘Yes. I rather think you would.’

  ‘Well then?’

  The smile returned. ‘What makes you think I possess such information?’

  ‘You’re his wife.’

  ‘Ah, yes. His wife. I suppose that might make you think such a thing – you who have never been a wife.’

  ‘Nor are likely to be? Is that going to be your next putdown, Ursula?’ Charlotte’s face had coloured. Instantly, she regretted rising to the bait. But relief was at hand. Their main courses were arriving and a truce of several minutes was declared whilst vegetables were dispensed and glasses topped up. When the interlude was at an end, Ursula sampled some of her salmon and took a few sips of wine before breaking the silence.

  ‘I think you must take after your father, Charlie. I never met him, of course, but according to Maurice he was wildly impractical and unbelievably naïve about other people’s motives. Rather like you.’ She consumed a baby potato. ‘Head either in the clouds or in the sand.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what I want to know?’

  ‘I shall tell you what you need to know. Which is a lesson I learned when I was very young. Compromise is the key to success in life. Not perhaps the key to happiness, but I’ve found that to be an over-rated commodity. If you’ll take my advice—’

  ‘I didn’t come here for advice!’

  Ursula stared appraisingly at Charlotte for a moment, then said: ‘No. No, of course you didn’t.’ She smiled. ‘You came here because our mutual friend, Emerson McKitrick, has persuaded you that his allegations against my husband might just possibly be true. And because you’ve calculated that only financial desperation could have driven Maurice to do what Emerson alleges. Well, so be it. I have expensive tastes, as you must be aware. I do not stint myself.’ The smile became almost wistful. ‘In anything.’ Then her concentration seemed to step up a gear. ‘But Ladram Avionics is doing well, very well in fact. As its managing director, Maurice enjoys an income quite adequate to keep Sam and me in the manner to which we’re accustomed. Tristram’s royalties are strictly surplus to his requirements.’

  ‘If that’s the case …’

  ‘It is.’ Her mouth curled in mockery. ‘Or would be. If Sam and I were Maurice’s only dependants. But we aren’t, you see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve long suspected something of the sort, but only recently have chapter and verse come my way. In an envelope posted in Gloucester on the twenty-third of June, to be precise.’

  ‘The letter from Beatrix?’

  ‘Yes. It didn’t contain blank paper.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘A report from a private enquiry agency commissioned by Beatrix on exactly the same topic you asked me here to discuss: Maurice’s finances. It seems the old bitch—’ She broke off with a grin. ‘I’m sorry. What I meant to say was that Maurice’s dear and charming aunt had been checking up on him. And evidently thought I should know the results. They were, to say the least, illuminating.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure you want to hear what they were? They don’t paint Maurice in a flattering light. And since I know you’ve always had a high regard for his—’

  ‘Just tell me!’

  ‘Very well. Maurice spends a great deal of time in the United States on business. The company maintains an apartment for him in New York. But he makes little use of it. He already owns another apartment, it seems, on Fifth Avenue, and a weekend retreat in the Hudson Valley.’

  ‘I didn’t know—’

  ‘Neither did I. The report told me these things, along with what it costs him to run them. And to run the mistress he shares them with, of course. It appears she has even more expensive tastes than I have. Her name is Natasha van Ryneveld.’

  ‘Van Ryneveld?’

  ‘Yes. Not van Ryan, as Lulu Harrington misremembered it. The report c
ontained little in the way of personal details, for which I was grateful. It was only concerned with how Maurice funds such an extravagant commitment. The answer is by siphoning money from a range of personal investments, which are topped up from the royalty account.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘I mean that, when copyright expires on his father’s work, Maurice is going to have to make some awkward decisions about what he can and can’t afford. He’s going to have to economize. But, believe me, I’ve no intention of doing any such thing myself. So, he’ll have to look elsewhere for savings, won’t he?’

  Charlotte gazed at Ursula in mounting horror. It was inconceivable that the implications of what she had said were lost on her. The report proved Maurice really did have a compelling motive for forestalling the expiry of copyright, a motive, indeed, for murder. But this did not appear to interest Ursula. The security of her dress and lunching-out allowance was evidently much more significant. ‘Does … Does Maurice realize you know all this?’

  ‘No. Though he may suspect it. I don’t think he was ever convinced by the blank paper story.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t know …’

  ‘Why am I telling you? To prevent you making a fool of yourself, of course. My little fling with Emerson hardly compares with Maurice’s standing arrangement in New York, does it?’

  ‘Is that why you did it? For revenge?’

  Ursula let out a peal of laughter, then leaned across the table. ‘Sex is for pleasure, Charlie, not revenge. Didn’t anybody ever explain that to you? Emerson was actually rather good at giving pleasure. Better than I’d expected.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Bigger as well.’ Then, grinning mischievously, she swayed back. ‘You should have found out while you had the chance. It would have been an education for you.’

  Charlotte closed her eyes and told herself that Ursula did not matter. Nor, now, did Emerson McKitrick. All that mattered was whether Maurice had done what she could not help believing he had. She opened her eyes again. Ursula had pushed her plate aside and was lighting another cigarette. ‘Would you be prepared to show me the report?’