Stooping to gather up an accumulation of mail from the mat, she presses on into the hall, encountering at once that smell unique to every building which is neither aroma nor odour and which only several days of emptiness can reveal. Its effect is to remind Charlotte of returning to the house as a child after family holidays of seemingly unalloyed happiness. Resenting the effect as much as the memory, she deposits the mail on the telephone table and begins to sort through it in search of some, indeed any, distraction.
But the distraction she comes upon is, in many ways, worse than what drove her to seek it. A letter, posted three days ago, addressed to her in Ursula’s unmistakable hand. Normally a punctilious wielder of the paper-knife, she resorts on this occasion to her thumb, tearing the envelope nearly in half as she pulls out the contents.
It is an expensively printed invitation to Samantha’s twentieth birthday party, to be held at Swans’ Meadow on Saturday week. Until now, Charlotte has succeeded in forgetting the event. Until now, she has assumed that many weeks, if not months, will pass before she is obliged to meet Maurice face to face and to pretend all is well between them. But not so. A confrontation is close at hand. And there is Ursula’s scrawled note in the corner of the invitation to prove it. Charlie – Hope you can make it – Love, U.
* * *
The instigator of Charlotte’s distress is presently inspecting herself in a fitting-room mirror towards the rear of an exclusive boutique in Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge. Several dresses lie over a chair-back, but the clinging petrol-blue concoction in which she is precariously clad is, her expression implies, the one she will take. It is both dramatic and flattering and should attract a good deal of attention from the handsome young men who bulk so large on her daughter’s guest-list. Yes, she is going to enjoy this party. Of that there can be no question.
As Ursula steps out of the chosen dress, she pauses to inspect the price-tag and smiles approvingly. Had it been too cheap, she would have been tempted to discard it, however ideal it seemed. But it is far from cheap, even by her standards. And that, she concludes, is as it should be. If Maurice is prepared to go to such lengths to safeguard his royalty income as it seems he has, the least she can do is to ensure his efforts are not wasted.
What else, then, may be required to complete her outfit? She considers the point as she takes the skirt she came in from its hanger. A pair of those extremely brief ivory silk knickers that caught her eye earlier, perhaps, with matching suspender belt and strapless bra? If so, the sheerest of stockings will also be required. Why bother when the evening may be warm enough to go bare-legged? Because, of course, there just is no knowing what opportunities may arise. Beatrix’s thoughtfulness in bringing Maurice’s New York arrangements to her attention has given Ursula a delectable sense of irresponsibility, a licence, as it were, to exploit the unpredictable. Accordingly, the fifth of September, and its every possibility, cannot come soon enough for her liking. It is as much as she can do not to lick her lips at the prospect.
* * *
As Ursula ponders the lubricious potential of silk lingerie, her daughter Samantha takes the momentous decision to turn over on her sun-bed in the garden at Swans’ Meadow. She does so in a practised movement that ensures her dark glasses and Walkman remain undisturbed. Then she reaches behind her back to unfasten the strap of her bikini top.
As she does so, she looks up, taking in the vista of weeping willows and placid river, with the roofs of Cookham beyond. There are some children on the opposite bank, feeding the ducks, and also a solitary dark-haired young man in jeans and a white shirt. He is holding what looks like a pair of binoculars in his right hand and is gazing vacantly in her direction.
Samantha stares at the man for several seconds, wondering if he could be the muscular foreigner who stopped her in Station Road yesterday and asked her for directions to Cookham Dean. His accent and olive skin suggested he was from a Mediterranean country – Italy perhaps, or Spain. Yes, she concludes, it could indeed be him. Presumably, he is spending a holiday in the district. Has he, she wonders, been training his binoculars on her? If so, she hopes he approves of what he has seen. Not that it matters. The chances of meeting him again are remote. She lowers her head on to her arms and surrenders herself to the music pounding in her ears.
Half an hour has passed since Beatrix Abberley began amending her brother’s poem. She is still engaged upon the task when the conservatory door opens and Tristram Abberley walks in, smiling blandly.
He is a slim, good-looking man of twenty-one, clad in baggy cream flannels, a white shirt and a striped cravat. His hair is boyishly unruly, but already he has the raised eyebrows and cocked chin of the aspiring aesthete, though whether his manner declares or disguises his personality it is impossible to tell.
‘Well, Sis,’ he remarks, ‘what’s the verdict?’
‘You tell me,’ Beatrix replies, handing him the sheet of paper on which she has been working.
Tristram subsides languidly into a chair and scrutinizes the document, his eyebrows descending and bunching into a frown as he does so. ‘You … You’ve changed it.’
‘Improved it, I hope.’
‘But … But it was …’ His words trail into silence. A minute or so passes, then he looks up and says: ‘I call this the bally limit.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have improved it. Incomparably. It … Well, it’s … It’s very good, isn’t it?’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘It makes my effort look quite pitiful.’
‘Not really. The idea is all yours. Without it, I’d have had nothing to improve.’
‘Maybe not, but … What do I say to the chaps now? “I’m a duffer, but I have a sister who can knock spots off the lot of you”?’
‘I don’t think that would go down at all well, Tristram. You’re what they think a poet should be. I’m not.’
‘You won’t let me show them this?’
‘Oh, you’re welcome to. As long as you take the credit. Or the blame, of course.’
‘But it’s not mine.’
‘What does that matter? They need never know.’
‘Never know?’ Tristram contorts his face in mock outrage. ‘I’m surprised at you, Sis. Your suggestion is positively dishonest.’
Beatrix smiles. ‘Well, I shan’t force you to take it up. If it offends your artistic integrity, feel free to—’
‘I never said that. No, no.’ Tristram rubs his chin reflectively. ‘After all, what harm can possibly come of a little collusion between brother and sister?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
Tristram grins. ‘Then … Why don’t we see what happens?’ And Beatrix grins back at him. ‘Why not indeed?’
Part Three
1
SIX WEEKS HAD passed since Charlotte’s last visit to Swans’ Meadow. The simple act of starting out on the route from Tunbridge Wells to Bourne End was nevertheless sufficient to call to her mind every detail of what she had seen and heard that afternoon. She could only hope – with little confidence – that the riotous atmosphere of Samantha’s twentieth birthday party would help her to suppress the memory.
The weather was warm and sunny, with the merest hint of a breeze. Charlotte found herself resenting even this element of her relatives’ good fortune. For others the clouds might gather and the rains fall, but never for Maurice and those around him. For them high summer was a permanent condition. Whereas for her— She gripped the steering-wheel tighter and managed to block out the thought. Anger was useless, she knew, unless it led to a solution. And to her predicament there was no solution.
She had timed her arrival for half an hour after the party was due to commence, calculating that this would find the host and hostess busy with other guests, leaving her free to mingle and, with any luck, to slip away early. She had deliberately chosen an outfit likely to reinforce the general perception of her as Samantha�
�s frumpish maiden aunt – floral-patterned dress and plain cardigan. She did not want to be liked or admired. She especially did not want to enjoy herself.
So absorbed was she in the effort of preparing herself mentally for what lay ahead that she did not glance upstream as she drove across Cookham Bridge and wonder why there were no party-goers gathered round a marquee on the lawn of Swans’ Meadow, why indeed there was no marquee pitched on the lawn at all. The silence and emptiness of the scene did not become apparent to her until she turned into the drive of the house and realized there were no other cars parked there, no gaily clad groups tripping towards the garden, no jazz band to summon them nor hired flunkeys to greet them, no pop of champagne corks nor buzz of conversation, no bunting, no balloons, no merriment of any kind.
When she had stopped the car and climbed out, she wondered for a moment whether she had come on the wrong day or at the wrong time, though she was sure she had not. She took the invitation out of her handbag and confirmed as much. Mr and Mrs Maurice Abberley request the pleasure of your company at a party in celebration of their daughter’s twentieth birthday, to be held at Swans’ Meadow, Riversdale, Bourne End, Buckinghamshire at three o’clock on the afternoon of Saturday 5th September. RSVP. And here she was, at Swans’ Meadow, on the day in question. And, when she glanced at her watch, she saw that the time was thirty-two minutes past three. But of a party there was no sign.
Suspecting some bizarre practical joke, Charlotte marched up to the front door and rang the bell. There was no response. She rang again and was about to ring for a third time when the door was pulled abruptly open.
‘Charlie!’ It was Ursula, dressed in slacks and a loose cotton top. She was wearing neither jewellery nor make-up. Her hair was tousled and looked in need of brushing. And she had been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy and the remnant of a tear was still moistening her left cheek. She was so unlike the groomed and unemotional woman Charlotte knew that, for a second, she thought she might actually be somebody else.
‘Ursula … What … What’s happening?’
‘I wish I knew.’ Ursula dabbed at her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘Why are you here?’
‘For the party.’
‘Oh, Christ! Didn’t we … Hell, I forgot the family. If you can call it a family.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘There’s no party, Charlie. You may as well go home. You’ll be better off there, believe—’ She broke off and turned away, her face gripped by a sob.
‘What’s the matter?’ Charlotte stepped forward, uncertain whether to offer comfort where it had never previously been needed. She ended by placing one hand tentatively on Ursula’s shoulder.
‘The matter?’ Ursula retreated into the hall, distancing herself from the gesture, imposing a fraction of her normal self-control. ‘The matter is Maurice. What a bloody fool I was to trust him even in this.’
‘In what? I don’t understand.’
‘No. You don’t, do you? Well, perhaps you should. He’s your brother. And do you know what kind of a brother you’ve got, Charlie? I mean, really know?’ She stumbled away towards the lounge, neither forbidding nor encouraging Charlotte to follow. But follow she did.
Once there, Ursula poured more gin than tonic into a tumbler and drank at least a quarter of it in one gulp. Then she snatched a cigarette from a box, her hand shaking so much she laughed at the difficulty she had in lighting it. Charlotte stared at her in utter amazement, she had never seen – nor dreamt of seeing – her sister-in-law in such a condition.
‘I have to tell somebody,’ she said, drawing deeply on the cigarette. ‘Who better than you? Perhaps not letting you know the party was off was a Freudian slip. Perhaps I wanted—’ She whirled away towards the window and stared out at the garden. ‘Christ, what a bloody mess!’
‘Why was the party cancelled, Ursula?’
Because Sam isn’t here.’
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody knows. Except—’
‘Except who?’
‘She’s been kidnapped.’
‘What?’
‘Kidnapped. Abducted. Carried off. Call it what you bloody like. Taken by some devils Maurice has managed to call up with his too-clever-by-half pat little schemes. It’s his fault, all of it. Unless it’s mine, for letting him—’ She swung round and stared at Charlotte, who could see her jaw muscles straining with the effort of ensuring she did not cry. ‘Sit down, Charlie. Sit down and I’ll tell you in joined-up sentences what your brother has managed to inflict on us.’
Charlotte lowered herself into the nearest chair and watched Ursula lean slowly back against the window-sill, one hand grasping the edge tightly while the other held her cigarette.
‘Sam went missing on Tuesday. I was in Maidenhead and Aliki was out shopping. She left a note, saying she’d be away until Friday, but not why or where she was going. She’d taken some clothes, though scarcely enough, even for three days. I phoned all her friends, but none of them knew anything. Maurice suggested some mystery boyfriend and I thought … Well, maybe so. What else was I to think? I was worried, of course, but I assumed she’d explain herself when she came back. It was only three days. Young girls like to rebel a little. So, don’t fight it. That’s what Maurice said. That’s what I said as well. Don’t fight. Just wait. And everything will be all right. But it isn’t, is it? It’s not all right. It’s all wrong. And Maurice — Sorry. You want the facts, in their proper order. Well, on Thursday afternoon, Maurice was phoned at the office by a man with a foreign accent who said he wanted to talk to him about Sam. You can hear their conversation if you like. Maurice has a gadget to record any telephone calls he wants to. He has one fitted here as well as at the office, so he need never be in doubt about agreements he reaches or deals he makes. I’ll play you the tape.’
Ursula crossed to the hi-fi cabinet, removed a small cassette from one of the units and slipped another one in, then pressed a button.
‘He switched on after they’d started talking, but you’ll soon catch the drift.’
There was a crackle, then Maurice’s voice in mid-sentence: ‘—this is all about.’
‘It is about your daughter, Mr Abberley.’ The other man was certainly foreign, but he spoke excellent English, in a tone devoid of all expression. ‘I represent those who are holding her.’
‘Holding her? What do you mean? She’s—’
‘Our captive, Mr Abberley.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Then believe your own ears. Listen to this.’
The quality of the recording declined suddenly, but not enough for Charlotte to doubt it was Samantha’s voice she heard next. ‘Mum and Dad, it’s me, Sam. I’m all right. I don’t know where I am or who these people are, but they haven’t harmed me. They just … won’t let me go.’ She sounded frightened but not hysterical and somehow much younger than usual. ‘Do as they say and they’ll release me. I don’t know what they want, but give it to them, Dad, please. I just—’
The man’s voice cut in. ‘Do you believe me now, Mr Abberley?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Ah, you are going to be sensible. That is better still.’
‘How much do you want?’
‘Not money. We know you have a lot. But we do not want any of it.’
‘What, then?’
‘The papers you stole from Frank Griffith, Mr Abberley. They are what we want.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. The papers you stole from Frank Griffith.’
‘You mean … my father’s letters … to my aunt?’
‘Everything he sent to her. Everything you have. All the papers. Every one.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘But we are. Extremely.’
‘There’s been some … mistake. I don’t have … I’ve never had …’
‘Do not deny stealing them, Mr Abberley. W
e know you have them. If you refuse to give them up, your daughter will be killed.’
‘Good God.’
‘Do we understand each other, Mr Abberley?’
Maurice did not answer.
‘Mr Abberley?’
‘Yes. All right. I understand.’
‘We think you are storing the papers in New York. Is that correct?’
‘How did you— Yes. It’s correct.’
‘Then this is what you will do. Fly to New York tomorrow morning. Collect the papers. Return on the Pan Am flight scheduled to reach Heathrow at seven fifty on Saturday morning. Go to the chemist’s shop in Terminal 4 called Waltham Pharmacy at nine o’clock. Stand by the external display of sunglasses. A man will approach you. He will hand you an envelope containing a photograph of your daughter, which will prove she is alive and well.’
‘How? How will it prove that?’
But Maurice’s interruption was ignored. ‘In return, you will hand him the papers, packed in a plain buff envelope. You will then leave. Your daughter will be released within twenty-four hours.’
‘What if the flight’s delayed?’
‘We shall know if that is the case and we shall expect you to be late for our appointment. But no other excuse will be accepted.’
‘How can I be sure you’ll release Sam?’
Once again the interruption was ignored. ‘If you go to the police, she will be killed. Is that clear?’
‘Wait a minute. I must have—’
‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes. Of course it’s clear.’
‘Do you agree to our terms?’
‘Yes. Dammit, yes I do.’
‘Then our business is concluded. Good afternoon, Mr Abberley.’
There was a click as the machine switched itself off. Ursula stubbed out one cigarette and lit another while Charlotte stared straight ahead, trying to assemble in her mind all the consequences of what she had heard. In the end, the only question she could frame was the simplest one of all: ‘What have you done about this?’
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