‘What did Beatrix send you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘She sent you a posthumous letter. What was in it?’
‘You mean the bundle of blank paper? Maurice surmised it was from his aunt. It made no sense to me.’
‘Blank paper?’
‘Yes. Weird, don’t you think? Quite incredible, really.’ Natasha grinned, admitting by her expression that she knew what Charlotte would conclude from this recycling of Ursula’s lie.
‘You stole Ursula’s husband. Won’t you raise a hand to prevent her losing her daughter as well?’
‘I stole nothing from Ursula, certainly not Maurice. He found me, not the other way around. And what he found was a woman who understood him a great deal better than his wife ever did.’
‘Perhaps so. But—’
‘If you think Maurice ever loved Ursula, you’re wrong. He never loved anybody except himself. Oh, and maybe you, Charlie. Maybe he loved you. I always reckoned so, anyway.’
‘What Maurice did – what you helped him do – was wrong. By helping me, you’d undo a little of that wrong.’
‘But I can’t help you, Charlie. I can’t and that’s the truth.’
‘Beatrix was a fine woman. She shouldn’t have died as she did. Fairfax-Vane is just a glib-tongued antique dealer. He doesn’t deserve to be facing a long prison sentence. And Sam is a lively girl on the brink of adulthood. She’s entitled to find out what it means, don’t you think? Rather than dying for a reason she doesn’t comprehend.’
‘I don’t comprehend the reason either.’
‘I’m not saying you do. But if you’d stop lying, for one second, we might—’
‘That’s enough!’ The real Natasha had found both her voice and her face. She was angry, trembling with rage – and maybe with guilt as well. ‘You’ve no right to come here – to my home – and call me a liar.’
‘I believe I have. I believe it’s my duty. As I believe it’s your duty to tell me whatever you know.’
‘Get out! Get out this minute!’ She marched into the hall and flung the front door open. ‘I should never have agreed to meet you. I shan’t make the same mistake again.’
It was futile to linger or protest. Charlotte could see from Natasha’s expression that losing her temper had been counter-productive. She walked slowly towards the door, struggling to regain her composure.
As they came alongside each other, Natasha said: ‘I once asked Maurice why he thought so highly of you, Charlie. Do you know what he said? “Because she’s retained a naïve faith in human nature.” Not much of a compliment, is it? But he meant it. And he did his best to keep your faith intact. Now he’s gone, I think it’s time you admitted how false it always was.’
‘Was it?’
‘Oh, yes. You see, you’re the liar, Charlie, not me. You keep insisting on what you know is impossible. You keep pretending something can be done. To rescue Sam. To free Fairfax-Vane. To redeem Maurice’s memory. But it can’t. Nothing can be done. About any of it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I am that you’ll leave New York as you arrived – empty-handed.’
16
THE APARTMENT MAINTAINED by Ladram Avionics on Park Avenue was small but comfortably fitted out in contemporary style. It was neither homely nor luxurious and Charlotte doubted if Maurice had done more than visit to check the mail in recent months. Nevertheless, she set about searching it in a methodical fashion, discovering in the process just what she had expected: nothing. She did find an Italian restaurant a couple of blocks away to dine in, however, and there made a point of drinking enough chianti to ensure a good night’s sleep, which her plans for the following day suggested she would need. For she was not yet willing to admit defeat and retreat to England. There was one stratagem left to try first.
* * *
She slept longer than she had intended and woke to the glare of full morning and the bleat of the telephone. As she grabbed for the handset, she guessed it must be Ursula and wondered if there was news of Samantha. But she had guessed wrong.
‘Charlie? This is Natasha. I’m glad I caught you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve been thinking over what you said and … Can we meet before you leave New York?’
‘Is there any point?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Then, yes, we can meet.’
‘Do you know the Frick Collection?’
‘I’ve heard of it, certainly.’
‘It’s on Fifth Avenue, at East Seventieth. Walking distance from where you are. I’ll meet you there in one hour.’
Only when she arrived did Charlotte realize that the Frick Collection was housed in nineteen separate rooms on the ground floor of the late collector’s mansion. Since Natasha had not specified which room they were to meet in, there was nothing for it but to progress through each, ignoring the paintings and studying only the other visitors.
She was halfway round and beginning to fret when she entered the Fragonard Room and was briefly transported to a French salon of the eighteenth century. Fragonard’s series of paintings, The Progress of Love, was displayed on the walls. Beneath one of them – in which a maiden seated by a statue was glancing about in fear of discovery as her lover scaled the garden wall to press his suit – stood Natasha, apparently lost in thought. She was wearing a short lilac dress and a pale cashmere jacket, beneath which the jet pendant glimmered in inky symbolism. Charlotte had to touch her elbow to gain her attention.
‘Why, Charlie!’ She smiled. ‘On time again, no doubt. Though for quite another kind of meeting than this.’ She nodded towards the anxious lovers.
‘What do you want, Natasha?’
‘I come here often. To this room, I mean, not the others. The French understand love. Better than the Americans, anyway, and for certain better than the British.’
‘I don’t have very long. Could we—’
‘You have long enough to lose yourself in Fragonard’s world, Charlie. We all have. Cherubs and doves frolicking in perpetual summer. Temptation. Pursuit. Consummation. Nostalgia. Regret. Abandonment. They’re all here in these canvasses.’
‘Quite possibly. But—’
‘Look around for one moment. Please.’
Irritably, Charlotte looked. On every wall, Natasha’s point was made. The man offering what the maiden affected not to want. The man winning her over with gifts and endearments. Then the maiden alone, with only her melancholy for company. But it was a point entirely lost on Charlotte. ‘If you have something to tell me, Natasha, I’d be grateful if—’
‘I am telling you. This is part of it. There are letters even here.’ She pointed to one of the paintings on the south wall, in which the maiden sat on a plinth beneath bowering trees, reading a billet-doux whilst its author wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head against her neck. ‘Is he really there? I sometimes wonder. Or is she imagining him as she reads? Is he already somewhere else, betraying her love, preparing to desert her? Hers is every woman’s fallacy and every woman’s fate. She’d do better to throw the letter away unread, wouldn’t she?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘As Beatrix should have done with Tristram’s letters from Spain.’
‘But she didn’t.’
‘No. And now others must suffer for it.’ She looked intently at Charlotte. ‘I don’t intend to be one of them.’
‘Why did you ask to meet me, then?’
‘To give you something. To act more charitably than I customarily do. Come with me and I’ll explain.’
Natasha led the way through several more rooms until they emerged into a pillared roof-lit court at the centre of the mansion, where a fountain played amidst tropical plants. They sat on a marble bench near the fountain, into whose splashing water Natasha stared as she spoke.
‘I was Maurice’s mistress for twelve years. He treated me well. As I’m sure you’re aware, he was a generous man. He made it clear he could
never acknowledge my existence to his family and I didn’t expect him to. I was his secret. Or one of them. He had many, of course. Many more than either you or I will ever know about. But I found out his real secret a long time ago. I found out what made him tick.’
‘What was it?’
‘Secrecy itself. The greatest pleasure I gave him was the fact that nobody knew about me. It was the biggest thrill for him in everything we did together.’
‘But Beatrix found out about you.’
‘Yes. She did.’ Natasha sighed. ‘I’m not going to admit anything, Charlie. I’m not going to incriminate myself. What Maurice did he did. You’ll never force me to say I was a party to it.’
‘I’m not trying to.’
‘Good. Then don’t challenge what I’m about to tell you. Any of it.’
‘All right. I won’t.’
‘Let’s walk.’ Natasha rose abruptly and began a slow circuit of the court, with Charlotte beside her. ‘If Maurice had possessed what the kidnappers want, he’d have given it up. I’m absolutely certain of that. He left nothing of the kind with me and never made any reference to such a document. You drew a blank at the Park Avenue apartment, I assume?’
‘Yes.’
‘There you are, then. No, I fear I can’t help you in this search.’ She glanced round at Charlotte. ‘Honestly. You can believe what I say.’
‘In that case—’
‘What do I have for you? Firstly, my apologies for becoming angry yesterday. We shouldn’t have met at the apartment. There were too many reminders of Maurice. Here I can remain calm. Secondly, to tell you what Beatrix really sent me. Not blank paper, obviously. But a tape, on which she recorded a conversation she had with Maurice a few weeks before her death. Their last face-to-face conversation, as a matter of fact. In it, she confronted him with evidence she’d unearthed of a conspiracy against her and accused him of being behind it. Maurice didn’t know their discussion was recorded, of course. And I never told him. I taunted him with the same lie Ursula used. He didn’t know which of us to believe or disbelieve. Now, I suppose I regret holding out on him. But perhaps it’s as well I did. He’d have destroyed the tape for sure.’
‘Why did you hold out on him?’
‘Because the tape was evidence I could use against him. If I needed to. Or wanted to. And mistresses always anticipate desertion. Unlike Fragonard’s star-struck damsels, we keep one eye permanently trained on the future. Beatrix must have known that. She was a clever old— Well, let’s just say she was cleverer than Maurice thought, though not as clever as she needed to be. Or maybe her friends weren’t. If they’d done exactly what she asked, she’d have outmanoeuvred Maurice completely, as she assumed she would. That’s why she sent me the tape. Because, without the royalties, he’d have abandoned me. But, with the tape, I’d have been able to extract a pretty pension from him, as Beatrix calculated. It would have been a double twist of the knife. Neat, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. But Beatrix was. Very neat.’
‘With the private detective’s report on Maurice’s finances and the tape, you should be able to clear Fairfax-Vane. I’m afraid he’s the only one of your innocents I can help. But the tape’s no use to me now, so he might as well benefit from it.’ She took a miniature cassette from her pocket and slipped it into Charlotte’s hand. ‘Maybe this will help me jump the queue in Purgatory.’
‘I’ll make sure it reaches his solicitor. This is … very good of you.’
‘It’s not such a big deal. There isn’t the ghost of a case against me in anything you have. I’m not stupid. But I’m not vindictive either.’ They paused by the bench they had left earlier, with one revolution of the court complete. Natasha licked her lips, uncertain, it seemed, how to conclude their encounter. ‘Where will you go from here, Charlie?’
‘Boston.’
‘Ah. To see Emerson McKitrick, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll be a wasted journey.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘But you’ll go anyway?’
‘Yes.’
‘Be careful.’
‘People keep telling me that.’
‘Because it’s good advice. On the tape, Beatrix says something I didn’t pay much attention to when I first heard it. She tried to warn Maurice he was playing with fire. But he wouldn’t listen. He didn’t take her seriously. Neither did I. But I do now. And so should you.’
‘I’m bound to do what I can to help Sam.’
Natasha gazed at Charlotte and shook her head. ‘Maurice always said you had his share of virtue as well as your own. I wish you luck.’
‘Thank you.’
‘For myself—’ She glanced wistfully into the fountain. ‘I think I’ll take another look at the Fragonards before I go. He died in poverty, like most artists. I don’t plan to. But I’m no artist. Be sure you don’t become one, Charlie – like Maurice’s father. It doesn’t pay in the long run. As Maurice found out. Just too late.’ She smiled, patted Charlotte’s arm and walked slowly away, the clip of her heels on the marble floor lingering even after she had turned a corner and vanished from sight.
17
BEATRIX:
Come into the lounge and make yourself comfortable, Maurice. Did you have a good journey?
MAURICE:
So-so. Too many Sunday drivers for my liking.
BEATRIX:
Of course, it’s Sunday. Do you know, I’d quite forgotten. One tends to at my age.
MAURICE:
Really? You hide it well, Aunt, I must say.
BEATRIX:
Now you’re flattering me. But it’s true. My memory’s failing. Names. Faces. Dates. They’re all going. For instance, is it the thirtieth of May today or the thirty-first?
MAURICE:
The thirty-first, as I suspect you know. You’re going to Cheltenham tomorrow. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten that.
BEATRIX:
No, no. It’s why I wanted you to come this afternoon. So we could meet before I went away.
MAURICE:
To discuss something important, you said.
BEATRIX:
Quite so. Oh! There’s the kettle boiling. Would you mind filling the pot, Maurice? There’s tea already in it. Then you can bring the tray in.
MAURICE:
Leave it to me.
BEATRIX:
Don’t forget the biscuit-barrel. I have some of those fruit Shrewsburys you like.
MAURICE:
(from a distance): I hope you didn’t buy them just for me. There was no need.
BEATRIX:
But I wanted to. And I always make a point of doing as I please. It’s one of the few privileges of old age.
MAURICE:
Are you trying to tell me something, Aunt?
BEATRIX:
Put the tray down here. Let me clear these magazines.
MAURICE:
When you phoned, I thought you might have changed your mind.
BEATRIX:
About what?
MAURICE:
You know full well.
BEATRIX:
Do I? As I explained, I’m growing more and more forgetful. I wouldn’t want us to find ourselves talking at cross-purposes. Why don’t you remind me?
MAURICE:
You don’t need reminding.
BEATRIX:
Humour me, Maurice.
MAURICE:
(sighing): I thought you might have changed your mind about publishing the letters.
BEATRIX:
Tristram’s letters, you mean? The ones he sent to me from Spain? The ones proving I wrote his poems for him?
MAURICE:
Yes, Aunt. Those letters.
BEATRIX:
Well, I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.
MAURICE:
There isn’t. Have you?
BEATRIX:
Have I what?
MAURICE:
Changed your mind!
&nb
sp; BEATRIX:
Pour me some tea, would you? I don’t want mine to stew … Thank you.
MAURICE:
Well?
BEATRIX:
It’s perfect. Just as I like it.
MAURICE:
For God’s sake!
BEATRIX:
Drink your tea, Maurice. And help yourself to a fruit Shrewsbury. Then listen to me. It’s important you shouldn’t interrupt me.
MAURICE:
Interrupt?
BEATRIX:
Quite so. I’m not a quivering junior at Ladram Avionics, you know. So, do I have your attention?
MAURICE:
Undividedly.
BEATRIX:
Excellent. It’s nearly six months since you broached your scheme to me. During those months you’ve frequently explained how we would both benefit from informing the literary world of the trick Tristram and I played on it. And I’ve frequently explained how fame and wealth mean very little at my age. Less, indeed, than my late brother’s good name, which I consider to be more important than any financial inconvenience you may be caused by the expiry of copyright. It’s not that I begrudge you your father’s royalties. Far from it. It’s simply that I’m not prepared to see him branded a fraud and a charlatan merely in order to prolong your receipt of them.
MAURICE:
You haven’t changed your mind, then?
BEATRIX:
I did ask you not to interrupt, didn’t I?
MAURICE:
(sighing): Sorry.
BEATRIX:
To proceed. About ten days ago, an antique dealer called Fairfax-Vane came to see me, claiming to have an appointment to value my Tunbridge Ware. He has a shop in Tunbridge Wells. You may remember him. Ah, yes, I see you do. In connection with some furniture poor Mary was ill-advised enough to sell him last year. Well, I’d made no appointment with him, of course. I assumed he was chancing his arm. So, I sent him away with a flea in his ear. Then, last Monday, who should I see skulking – yes, I think skulking is the word – around Church Square but your former chauffeur, the bibulous Mr Spicer. He beat a hasty retreat when he spotted me approaching, but it was not hasty enough. You look surprised, as well you might, though more by his incompetence than his presence in Rye. That, I feel sure, is scarcely news to you.
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