* * *
In Lincoln’s Inn Fields Oliver Goodbody had sent his staff home early – to celebrate the conclusion of the most important case the firm had ever conducted. But when they had gone, he was not alone in his room overlooking the gardens. Mr Rogers was seated at a table in the centre of the room. Oliver stood with his back to him looking out of the window.
‘They are all safely away?’ he asked.
‘They are.’
Oliver turned. ‘You have the affidavits?’
Mr Rogers pushed the bundle across the table. ‘Signed and sealed.’ He knew Goodbody regarded them as his insurance but there was no need to worry. They had been well paid. They would not renege, and if one of them did Goodbody had the affidavits and he himself would be far away.
‘The young woman, where is she?’
‘She and her friend left for the Continent the night after she visited Lady Caverel. Rutherford also sent a fax before they sailed. To his uncle’s office, saying he would not be returning.’ Mr Rogers smiled. ‘Apparently the news did not unduly distress his relative.’
‘Has he any money?’
‘His family is very rich. I presume they’ll marry or do whatever it is that young people do nowadays.’ He folded his hands over his round little stomach. ‘He’ll take her to Australia. She’ll be happier there. She won’t trouble you again.’ He paused. Then he said softly, ‘There remains only your humble and obedient servant.’ He got to his feet. ‘I shall use the Swiss account. See, if you please, that what we agreed is paid in tomorrow morning.’
‘Very well.’
Mr Rogers bowed and left.
The best, as Oliver had always known, never comes cheap. He walked back to the window. What was it that Andrea had told him the woman had said to her? ‘It’s better for you to have it.’ The young woman was right. It was better, far better. It would not have done to have had her presiding over the great table in the dining-room at Ravenscourt surrounded by Blake and his crew and the drunken grandmother. That was why, at great cost, he had done what he had. When Nicholas had complained about the vast sums he had to raise from the estate, Oliver had sold his house at Whitchurch and contributed personally. As for the young woman, he had no regrets. She would have a good life in Australia, a life for which she was altogether more suited.
* * *
It was late when he got to Anne Tremain.
‘Are you going to the country tonight?’ she asked as she brought him his whisky-and-soda.
‘No. I shall be remaining in London.’
‘So Julian did have a daughter after all?’
He nodded.
‘Then it was fortunate you managed to discover she had died.’
Oliver looked down at his glass. ‘It was.’
‘We should drink to your success – and to Ravenscourt.’
He raised his glass and smiled. ‘To Ravenscourt,’ he said.
* * *
Mr Rogers let himself into the suburban house with the neat front garden in Sanderstead. He tried to shut the door quietly behind him but he was heard.
‘Herbert,’ the voice called from the kitchen, ‘is that you?’
‘It is, my dear.’
‘Have you had your tea?’
‘I have, my dear.’
He hung his bowler hat on the stand and made for the stairs.
‘The grass needs mowing.’
‘Does it, my dear? I’ll just change,’ and he climbed slowly up the stairs.
‘The Websters are coming at eight to play bridge,’ she called after him. ‘There’s a clean shirt in the laundry cupboard.’
In his room Mr Rogers changed into his lightweight suit, the button of which strained across his stomach. He looked at himself in the looking-glass. A new suit would be his first extravagance.
He put the clean shirt, pyjamas, a toothbrush and a razor into his briefcase, gathered up his passport, the cheque book from Credit Suisse, his well-filled wallet, the books of travellers’ cheques and put them into his pockets. Briefcase in hand he went on tiptoe downstairs. He closed the front door quietly behind him and walked briskly to the railway station. At Waterloo he dropped the keys to the house and to the Ford Fiesta into a waste bin and took a taxi to Heathrow.
In the first-class lounge he sipped champagne. He had nothing to do now but enjoy himself. And Mr Rogers was determined that he would. Unlike the past months, the trip on which he was now embarking would, he was determined, last for the remainder of his days. But he was a sensitive soul. So, in all conscience, he felt he should avoid Australia.
Also by Peter Rawlinson
Non-fiction
Price Too High to Pay: An Autobiography
The Jesuit Factor: A Personal Investigation
Fiction
The Colombia Syndicate
Hatred and Contempt
His Brother’s Keeper
Indictment for Murder
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press
THE CAVEREL CLAIM. Copyright © 1998 by Peter Rawlinson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For infomation, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y., 10010
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First published in Great Britain by Constable & Company Ltd
First U.S. Edition: December 1998
eISBN 9781466884458
First eBook edition: September 2014
The Caverel Claim Page 25
