Take No Farewell - Retail
Page 4
So Jacinta was their daughter’s name. It sounded as beautiful as I might have expected. It also sounded more Portuguese than English, which surprised me. I would have expected Victor to insist upon an English name for any child of his.
Neither Consuela nor Jacinta had been ill. That was the point which prosecuting counsel had been at pains to stress. And, what was more, Consuela had summoned no assistance for her sick husband until Dr Stringfellow had volunteered to proceed to Clouds Frome straight from Fern Lodge.
Marjorie’s testimony had concluded with a harrowing account of Rosemary’s last hours and a tribute to ‘the sweetest and most loyal of daughters a mother could ask for’, by which, evidently, the court had been much moved. Whether I would have been as well I could not tell. It was doubly odd to read the statements of people I knew and yet not to know how they appeared as they made them, what expression they wore, what tone they adopted. Marjorie Caswell had always seemed stiff-necked and unyielding to me, but that was no justification for denying her the sentiments natural to a grieving mother. The fact that I did not want to believe Consuela capable of murder was no reason to think all her accusers were liars.
Nevertheless, Victor’s testimony would have struck a false note with me whether or not I had a personal interest in the case. Encouraged by the prosecuting counsel, he had emphasized that he would have preferred not to give evidence against his wife. (The right of spouses not to bear witness against each other evidently did not apply where one of them was accused of violence against the other. This, I began to suspect, was what lay behind the additional charge of attempted murder. Without it, Victor would not have been able to parade his misgivings on the point.)
Victor had confirmed the essentials of Marjorie’s account. As to events prior to her arrival at Clouds Frome, he said tea had already been laid when he joined his wife in the drawing-room. Shortly afterwards, Jacinta had been brought down by her governess. And shortly after that Marjorie and Rosemary had presented themselves at the door. He saw no significance in the fact that he rather than Consuela had invited them to stay, but he did agree that, if they had not arrived, he alone would have taken sugar from the bowl because his wife and daughter habitually took nothing but lemon with tea.
At the tail-end of the proceedings, a vital issue had been touched upon by prosecuting counsel.
‘We will hear later that the police found certain letters in your wife’s possession – anonymous letters, that is, of the poison-pen variety – which could have caused her to suspect you of infidelity. Was there, in fact, any justification for such suggestions being made to her?’
‘None whatever.’
‘You are and have always been a faithful husband?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have thought of your marriage as a happy one?’
‘I have.’
His protestations had doubtless created a good impression on the court, as they were intended to. And who was there, after all, to contradict him – beyond Consuela, silent in the dock, and I? For I knew he was lying. Not about the letters, not yet at any rate. But about his marriage. Faithful? No. Happy? A thousand times no. About recent events at Clouds Frome I was as ignorant as any other newspaper-reader. But about the marriage of Victor and Consuela Caswell I knew as much as they did themselves.
During the months following Consuela’s first visit to Clouds Frome, my conscious mind devoted itself to the solution of practical problems. Grand conceptions and artful designs are ever at the mercy of wind, weather and human error. Success as an architect, I learned then and never forgot, involves scurrying between quarries and woodyards, clambering up scaffolding and stabbling through mud, usually at ungodly hours, and always in the pursuit of an elusive excellence. I was never again as meticulous, never as tireless, as I was when Clouds Frome began to rise, and my dreams with it, from its peerless site between the woods and river on the hills above Hereford.
It must have been a year or more before I was aware of how inextricably my ambitions for the house had become wound up with my emotions concerning those who were to live in it. If anything, I saw more of Consuela than of Victor. She would visit the site every couple of weeks in the company of Hermione, Marjorie or Victor himself, or on rare occasions with Mortimer. Invariably, it was with Consuela rather than her companion that I found myself discussing progress and, also invariably, other subjects would rapidly intrude: why I had become an architect, what she thought of England and the English. She told me once that she was more forthcoming with me than with any of Victor’s family, that it was refreshing to be able to spend time with somebody whose horizons extended beyond Hereford and the economics of cider-making.
I had supposed Victor would share such a broader view. After all, he had made his mark in another continent, had seen and experienced more of the world than any of his relatives. Strangely, however, Consuela implied that this was not the case and I too noted the grudging, secretive side to his nature. He was, in many ways, the perfect client – prompt to pay and slow to interfere – but he was also the most forbidding of men: unpredictable and uncommunicative, with no warmth of character, no humanity of spirit. The more I knew him, the less I understood him. The more time I spent with him, the less I wanted to. Superficially, or at a distance, he might seem the most handsome and accommodating of men. But beneath the veneer, apparent at close quarters, there was a personality in which scorn and malice churned away to some purpose of its own. According to Hermione, the gossip of the family, he had been sent to South America by his father to prove himself after failing to make the grade in the cider trade, initially to work in the Brazilian branch of a London bank. Quite how he had moved so successfully into the rubber business she seemed not to know, but certain it was that he had returned to England with the air – and the money – of a man who had proved a point and did not intend to let anyone forget it, a point which included being able to acquire and to keep a wife like Consuela.
My feelings for Consuela passed through several stages. They began with an undeniable attraction. Then, as she revealed more of herself to me, I came to pity her for the dull and empty life Victor obliged her to lead. Next, my disapproval of his treatment of her turned into an active resentment. There was envy there too, of course, and frustrated desire, but it was his dominion over her personality rather than her body that truly sickened me. By the spring of 1910, I had begun to suspect that the house I was building was to be little more than a decorative prison in which he could confine and control her more effectively than ever.
I recall a particular occasion from that time which brought to the surface many strands of the dislike I felt for Victor Caswell. The slaters had just begun work on the roof and Victor had warned me that he would be bringing a friend to see the progress they had made. It was the sort of interruption I was well used to, but the sort I found easy to bear only when Consuela was its cause. As it was, when the Mercedes growled up the track and I went down to meet it, all I felt was a vast unwillingness to be as pleasant and informative as I knew I should.
Victor’s friend was introduced to me as Major Royston Turnbull, though when he had last seen a parade-ground was anybody’s guess. He was tall – well over six feet – and running to fat, clad in a generously cut mushroom-coloured suit, with a paisley-patterned waistcoat beneath, and a huge-brimmed fedora. He was smoking a cigar in a holder and this, combined with the quantity of gold glittering about him in watch-chain, tie-pin and signet ring, created in my mind more the impression of a dubious Latin business-man than any officer in even the slackest of regiments. Not that there was anything Latin about his features. His hair was fair, his face firm and ruddy-cheeked, his eyes grey-blue and sparkling. They were old acquaintances, Victor explained, from South America; Major Turnbull was now domiciled in the South of France and had insisted on visiting Clouds Frome during a fleeting return to England. I can say without hesitation that I have never felt a more instinctive aversion to any man than I felt to Major Royston Turnbull.
It will be apparent from my description that no set of visitors could have been more calculated to oppress my already flagging spirits. Victor, perhaps for his friend’s benefit, was in one of his expansive, glad-handed moods, striding around the site and chatting to the workmen with a warmth that must have made them think they were dreaming. He even tried to jolly young Spencer out of his glumness, insisting that the lad accompany him on an ascent to the slaters’ platform.
This left Major Turnbull and me to sit on a couple of camp-stools in the sunny lee of the site office, discussing not architecture but, to my surprise, the Caswells. To a man he had only just met he seemed willing to volunteer the most intimate observations of his friend’s family, a willingness which at first I found quite baffling.
‘You’re highly spoken of at Fern Lodge, Staddon.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘Not that I envy you. Working for Victor can’t be a bed of roses.’
‘I’ve no complaints.’
‘You wouldn’t have though, would you?’ He glanced round at me. ‘Tell me, what do you make of him?’
‘What do you make of him, Major? He’s your friend, not mine.’
Turnbull laughed. ‘Neatly evaded. Very neatly.’ Then he looked up at the scaffolded house, where we could see Victor bouncing along a lofty platform of planks with Spencer beside him. ‘I think Victor’s made a mistake by settling here. An understandable mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I know him, Staddon, better than he knows himself. Met him first more than ten years ago, in Santiago. We found ourselves in a few tight spots together, I don’t mind admitting, but they were the sort of spots to test a man’s mettle, so I think I can claim to know the stuff Victor’s made of. Travel. Risk. Variety. They’re what he needs, and they’re what he can’t find here. He should have grubbed up his roots, not returned to them.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do. Above all, he shouldn’t have brought Consuela here to be buried in his past.’ Another glance in my direction. ‘She has a high regard for your talents, I’m told.’
Deliberately, I did not meet his eyes. ‘Told? By whom?’
‘Not by the lady herself. She’s too cautious for that. But by Victor. He resents her ease in your company. It seems you’re able to find a response in her which he never has.’
‘I don’t know what you—’
‘An intellectual response, that is. Consuela has a fine brain as well as a fine body. Not that I need to—’
‘I don’t think we should be discussing Mrs Caswell like this.’ I was making a show of my own anger now to mask any hint of an admission.
‘You’re probably right,’ said Turnbull, undaunted, ‘but I hold that no topic should be taboo between two men of the world. Victor does not require or expect imagination in women, only compliance. He married Consuela for two reasons: to possess her and to be seen to possess her. Making her happy did not figure in the list.’
‘Perhaps it should have.’ Instantly, I regretted saying as much.
‘It wouldn’t be difficult of course, would it?’ Suddenly his voice was softer and more confidential, as if he were whispering in my ear, though in fact he had not moved.
‘What wouldn’t?’
‘Making her happy, Staddon. What else? Haven’t you dreamed of doing so? I have, I freely confess. Not just for the infinite pleasure of increasing her knowledge of the sexual arts, but—’
‘I won’t listen to any more of this!’ I leapt to my feet and glared down at Turnbull, who puffed on his cigar and smiled benignly. ‘How dare you speak of Mrs Caswell in such a way?’
‘Don’t be so touchy, Staddon. I’ve only said what you’ve thought often enough, I’ll be bound.’
‘You most certainly—’
‘Besides, if lust were all there was to it, there’d be no problem, would there?’
‘What the devil do you mean?’
He rose slowly to his full height, which was a full six inches above mine. Looking up into his eyes, I realized for the first time that everything he had said had been carefully judged, every implication delicately gauged – and my reaction with it. ‘I mean,’ he said softly, ‘that it may have crossed your mind – or may yet cross it – that you would be a worthier companion in life for Consuela than Victor could ever be. You would be correct, of course, but you would also be immensely unwise. You would be courting great danger as well as great beauty, you see, and I should not like to think of your doing so merely for the want of a warning from me.’ And with that, to my astonishment, he winked at me.
‘You should have come too, Royston!’ It was Victor’s voice, from only a few yards away. I swung round and saw him striding towards us, with Spencer trailing dejectedly in the rear.
‘No head for heights,’ Turnbull responded.
‘I trust Staddon’s been entertaining you?’
‘Why, yes. Mr Staddon and I have had a most diverting discussion, haven’t we?’
‘Er … yes,’ I mumbled.
‘It transpires that we have a great deal in common.’
‘Can’t think what,’ said Victor with a frown.
‘It’s a question of philosophy, my friend.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Royston. Only hope Staddon does.’
But Victor’s protestations, then as on a subsequent occasion, did not deceive me. He had become jealous of my standing in his wife’s eyes and had recruited Turnbull to warn me off. The warning was premature and all the more offensive because of it, but I knew in my own mind that it was not entirely undeserved. And I also knew that, for a host of common-sense reasons, it was a warning I would do well to heed.
‘Case ’ottin’ up nicely I see, Mr Staddon.’ It was the Thursday morning of Consuela’s hearing in Hereford and, in London, Kevin Loader was insisting that I should have the benefit of the Daily Sketch’s perspective on events. ‘They got a photo of the party today, y’know. Seems I was right.’
‘About what, Kevin?’
‘’Er looks, o’ course. See what I mean?’
He thrust the newspaper towards me and there, blurred but instantly recognizable, was Consuela’s face. She was being bustled into court by two policewomen and appeared scarcely to be aware of the camera lens, staring dreamily ahead as if her thoughts were on anything but the proceedings that awaited her. She was wearing a long fur-trimmed overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat with a feather in the band. She looked thinner than I remembered, but otherwise little altered by the years.
‘Stirrin’ up an ’ornet’s nest in ’Ereford, by all accounts,’ Kevin went on. ‘Crowds bayin’ for ’er blood. That sort o’ thing. Shockin’, ain’t it?’
But the vicious moods of a mob were no shock to me. Whether in Hereford or the Place de la Concorde, they could always be relied upon to shame humanity. And, according to Kevin’s Sketch, those drawn to Consuela’s hearing were performing to type.
The small number of them admitted to the court on Wednesday had heard a day of medical and police evidence. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the famous Home Office forensic expert, had explained the findings of his post mortem examination of Rosemary Caswell. Analysis of the samples he had taken from her vital organs had shown enough arsenic to have killed everybody present at the Clouds Frome tea party of 9 September. There was no doubt whatever that she was the victim of acute arsenical poisoning. As to the samples of urine Dr Stringfellow had supplied from his other two patients, these had also been found to contain arsenic, although the quantity was trivial compared with that present in the deceased. He had notified Scotland Yard and the Herefordshire constabulary of h
is findings on 17 September, four days after carrying out the post mortem.
Chief Inspector Wright of Scotland Yard had then taken up the story. He had proceeded to Hereford on 18 September and assumed control of the local constabulary’s investigation. It was clear from the first that the tea party at Clouds Frome was the only occasion on which poison could have been administered to all three of those afflicted. The house had therefore become the focus of his enquiries. By a process of elimination, he had established that the only item of food or drink consumed by Rosemary, Marjorie and Victor but not by Consuela or Jacinta was sugar. Since this was white and granulated, it was an ideal medium in which to conceal arsenic. And since Rosemary and Marjorie had arrived unexpectedly after the presumed concealment of arsenic, it followed that Victor – the only other habitual consumer of sugar – was the intended victim. Rosemary had been the first to spoon some from the bowl. According to her mother, she generally took three spoonfuls per cup of tea. It could therefore be assumed that she had unluckily helped herself to the bulk of the arsenic, leaving only traces for her mother and uncle.