Take No Farewell - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Have you spoken to Consuela since the hearing?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her since the day of Rosemary’s funeral, more than a month ago. That, of course, was before we received confirmation that the poor girl had been poisoned. As soon as Consuela was arrested, Mortimer made it clear that none of us was to visit her or make any statements in support of her. Victor echoed this wish. I’ve never known my brothers so united before in anything. That alone should have made me suspicious, but Victor’s display of grief for a niece he had always ignored was what really decided me. A lifetime’s experience of my brothers’ behaviour enables me to see through them at a glance. Whilst Mortimer’s response to Rosemary’s death is perfectly understandable, Victor’s seems altogether more contrived. Amidst all the mourning and wringing of hands, he has failed to exhibit the one emotion such a dreadful experience might be expected to inspire: surprise. He has been everything he has needed to be, except taken unawares by events.’

  ‘What are you implying – that he knew this was going to happen?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I have sometimes thought so, Mr Staddon. But that can’t be true, can it?’

  Evensong in Hereford Cathedral that day was sparsely attended. Leaning back in one of the stalls, listening to the choristers’ voices rising and fading into the darkness above my head, I was grateful for the tranquillity their rituals imposed. Amidst the candle-light and priestly vestments, lulled by plainsong and prayer, I found it possible to believe there really was order and meaning in life. Surely the chaos of Consuela’s arrest and pending trial was capable of resolution. It was only a mistake, after all, only a colossal misunderstanding to which her accusers would eventually awake.

  Or was it? When the choristers filed away at the end of the service, I could not help wondering if Consuela had glimpsed any of their angelic faces in the jostling throng that had bayed for her neck outside the court every day of her hearing.

  Consuela was now more than ever the centre of my thoughts. How would she receive me? How would I explain myself to her? In less than twenty-four hours, I would have to meet her gaze across a bare room in Gloucester Gaol, stern wardresses hanging on our every word, bleak recriminations tugging at my conscience. I yearned to see her again and make my peace with her. And yet I dreaded it also. Barely kept at arm’s length there still remained my craven instinct for flight and hiding. Had it not been for the severity of Consuela’s plight, a second desertion might have followed the first.

  But it was too late to turn back now. Indeed, the information she might give me was about all there was left to sustain my hopes of helping her. I walked slowly back to the Green Dragon reviewing the harvest of my first day’s endeavours on her account and admitting to myself that it was dismally meagre.

  At the desk, the clerk told me a gentleman was waiting for me in the bar. It was Windrush. He had pulled his chair close to the fire, for all that it was a mild night, and was smoking frantically. He looked even more harassed and dejected than when I had seen him in the morning. He was chewing at his fingernails between each drag on the cigarette and looked up at me anxiously as I approached.

  ‘I’ve just got back from Gloucester,’ he said, without waiting for me to sit down. ‘She won’t see you, Staddon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s quite adamant. Perhaps you know just how adamant she can be when she wishes. That’s the worst of representing her. Either she’s hardly concentrating at all or she’s telling you exactly what to do.’

  I took the chair beside him and pulled it close to the table, clinging to the frail hope that I had misunderstood him. ‘What are you saying?’ I whispered urgently.

  ‘It’s quite simple. I visited her this afternoon, as I told you I would, and warned her that you would do so tomorrow. The news seemed to take her aback. I’m bound to say it had a greater impact on her than anything I can recall. I’ve never seen her so ruffled before. Normally there’s this monumental calm resting on her, as if she’s unaware of what’s happening. But not when I mentioned your name. She said that on no account were you to visit her. If you attempt to do so, she’ll refuse to see you. And she will. Of that I’m certain.’

  ‘But … why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I did ask, but all she would say was that you’d understand her reason.’ He turned his head to look at me. ‘Do you?’

  In that instant I understood all too well. Why should she see me at a time of my choosing? It was I, after all, who had broken our last engagement – and had shrunk from seeing her ever since. ‘No,’ I heard myself say with heavy emphasis.

  ‘Really? She seemed sure you would.’

  ‘Well I don’t!’ I turned away and summoned the barman. Windrush’s arched eyebrows suggested, however, that the distraction was useless. I had lied and he knew it. But he did not pursue the point. Instead, when our drinks had arrived and I had accepted his offer of a cigarette, he expressed regret at his client’s behaviour.

  ‘I’d hoped you might persuade her to be more reasonable, but clearly it’s not to be. As matters stand, the preparation of a defence is virtually impossible.’

  ‘Why?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Mrs Caswell has negligible financial resources and, in the circumstances, can scarcely look to her husband for assistance. She’s also refused to alert her family in Brazil, who might help her, to what is happening. I think she’d do well to apply for the trial to be transferred to London, where her chances of an impartial jury would be greatly enhanced, but such a transfer would be very expensive and pointless unless we could secure the services of a top London barrister, whose fee would match his reputation. You see my problem?’

  What I saw was what Windrush wanted me to see: an opportunity to render Consuela a practical service. She would have forbidden him to tell me of his difficulties if he had asked her permission to do so, but clearly he had not. What he had in mind was a private agreement between us of which she need know nothing, an agreement to help her in spite of herself. ‘Let me pay,’ I said quietly.

  ‘I can give you no definite idea of the scale of such expenditure. You must realize that. The cost of a transfer to London will be considerable.’

  ‘But you think such a transfer would be advantageous?’

  ‘It’s essential. Hereford’s already tried the case and found her guilty. Mrs Caswell would be happy to stand trial in London, but I haven’t told her of the expense involved.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  He nodded. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Who will you ask to defend her?’

  ‘If money were no object, I would approach Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett. He’s soft-hearted enough to take the case and hard-headed enough to make something of it in court. But his basic fee is five hundred guineas. Then there are the—’

  ‘Ask Sir Henry and leave his fee to me.’

  He nodded again. ‘Very well.’

  ‘But Mrs Caswell must be kept in ignorance of my contributions.’

  ‘Of course. That shouldn’t be difficult to arrange.’

  ‘It’s agreed, then?’

  He eyed me curiously, realizing, I suspect, that in me he had stumbled on some secret from his client’s past, and realizing also that neither of us would ever tell him what the secret was. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s agreed.’

  Windrush’s meaning had been clear. Consuela would not see me. And I had no intention of trying to see her against her will. Yet still the following morning found me walking slowly past the gate of Gloucester Prison and back again, staring up at the high brick walls and the barred windows of the cell-blocks. What was she doing? I wondered. How was she passing this one day among the many she had already spent there? What thoughts – what hopes and doubts and fears – were revolving in her head? And could she see – if she cared to look – the solitary figure pacing to and fro in the street? Could she guess – and would she welcome – the little he was trying to do to help her?

  I returned to Hereford feeling more despond
ent than at any time since leaving London and convinced that acting as Windrush’s paymaster was the limit of what I could accomplish on Jacinta’s behalf. At the Green Dragon, however, a surprise awaited me. Mr Mortimer Caswell had telephoned and asked me to call on him at the premises of Caswell & Co. as soon as possible. It was a strange summons, from an unexpected source, but not one I was about to ignore.

  The cider-works comprised a vast low-roofed warehouse with a tall smoking chimney at one end and piles of recently harvested apples covering most of the yard. An army of men was busy loading the apples into carts and transferring them to a conveyor-belt that led up to the first floor of the warehouse. When I eventually persuaded one of the men to spare me a moment, he directed me to the office entrance in the corner of the yard.

  Mortimer received me in the board-room. An oil-painting of his founding father and a host of framed cider-making certificates adorned the wood-panelled walls, sunlight glinted warmly on the directors’ table and three high windows looked out on the scene of industry below. Mortimer sat behind his desk at the far end of the room, looking small and hunched, more like a put-upon clerk than master of all he surveyed. He wore black, though whether from habit or mourning I could not decide, and he rose to greet me wearily, as if troubled in body and soul. His handshake was cold and fleeting, his face lined and doleful. In his eyes there was something unfathomable, something as scornful as it was cautious, as censorious as it was despairing.

  ‘I’m obliged to you for coming, Mr Staddon,’ he said. ‘I won’t keep you long. Take a seat.’

  ‘Please accept my condolences on your recent loss,’ I said as I sat down.

  He stared at me for a moment, one eyebrow raised, before lowering himself into his chair. Then he leaned forward across the desk, fingertips joined, as if about to explain a disappointing set of accounts to his board. ‘Danby telephoned me yesterday and told me of your visit to Clouds Frome. I gather you were questioning Banyard about the evidence he gave at the hearing. In Victor’s absence, Danby felt he ought to advise me of such a curious turn of events.’

  ‘Is it so curious?’

  ‘I should have said so. What prompted it, Mr Staddon? I’m unaware that you’ve had anything to do with my family since you finished Clouds Frome.’

  ‘That’s true, but—’

  ‘I also gather you met my sister yesterday afternoon and spent some time with her.’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘She admitted it when challenged. You were seen at Castle Pool. It’s not a good place for secret rendezvous.’

  ‘It wasn’t secret.’

  ‘No? Then what was its purpose? Hermione was reticent on the point, which is unlike her – as you probably know.’

  I sat back in my chair and tried to appear unconcerned. ‘I had business in these parts. I met your sister by chance at the Copper Kettle. We took a stroll to Castle Pool. Among other things, we discussed Mrs Caswell’s trial. I think you’d agree it would have been strange if we hadn’t. Your sister has doubts about Mrs Caswell’s guilt. So have I. We simply shared some thoughts on the matter.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mortimer pushed out his lower lip and stared at me in silence for a moment, then said: ‘Is your … business in these parts … complete?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘A pity.’

  ‘For whom?’

  Again the silent stare, then: ‘Danby had the impression that you knew Victor was away from home. Is that true?’

  I countered with a question of my own. ‘Why has he gone to France?’

  ‘I hardly think my brother’s movements – or the reasons for them – need concern you.’

  ‘I could say the same of you about my movements.’

  His eyes narrowed. For a moment, I thought his self-control might be about to snap. But it did not. Instead, he rose from his chair, moved to the nearest window and turned to look at me. ‘My daughter is dead, Mr Staddon. It was a ghastly and shocking experience for those of us who witnessed it. My wife and my brother were also seriously ill. They too might have died. When the medical experts announced that they had been poisoned, do you suppose any of us wanted to believe that my brother’s wife was responsible?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘In that case, I suggest you leave those who do know in peace. Victor has gone to France to escape speculation and tittle-tattle of the kind my sister should know better than to encourage. If it were not for my commitments here, I believe I would join him.’

  ‘Do you think Mrs Caswell is guilty?’

  ‘The evidence uncovered by the police is irrefutable. But I am content to leave a final judgement to the court appointed to try her. And I strongly suggest—’

  ‘That I do the same?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly so, Mr Staddon. Leave it to those whose business it properly is.’

  A few minutes later I was making my way out across Caswell & Co.’s yard, wondering if I had intruded too far on Mortimer’s grief, when I noticed a figure ahead of me, leaning against one of the pillars of the main gate. He was a slightly built young man, wearing a chalk-stripe suit and rakishly angled fedora. He was smoking a cigarette and gazing about him with a languid, disdainful air. I felt at once that I knew him, but, before I could put a name to the face, he flashed a smile at me and said: ‘It’s Staddon, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You probably don’t recognize me in long trousers. I’m Spencer Caswell.’

  As soon as he said it, I realized that he could be nobody else. For all the well-cut clothes and worldy mannerisms, his small, hard little eyes still conveyed the inarticulate resentments of the child he had been. He would have been counted handsome by some and that only intensified the aversion I felt for him. Something in the lofty pitch of his voice, in the arch of his brow and the coldness of his gaze, conveyed a presumption of superiority that instantly antagonized me – and was all the more galling because I sensed it was meant to.

  ‘Been to see the old man?’

  ‘If you mean your father—’

  ‘Saw you going in. Felt sure it was a command appearance. Bit of a brouhaha at home last night. Your name was mentioned. But then I expect you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure I—’

  ‘Walk back to your hotel with you?’ He did not wait for me to reply, but pushed himself away from the gate-pillar and moved to my shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t mind a bit of a chin-wag, actually. I’m in no hurry to get back to Fern Lodge. You wouldn’t call the domestic atmosphere congenial at present.’

  ‘Would you not?’

  He sniggered and offered me a cigarette. I shook my head. We walked on in silence for a few yards, then he said: ‘Gather Aunt Hermione’s been speaking out of turn. Always was inclined to. What brings you to sleepy Hereford, by the way?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘Not Consuela’s trial?’ The way he used her first name without preface seemed calculated to sound disrespectful.

  ‘I’ve read about it, like most people. And I spoke to your aunt about it. Our opinions happen to coincide.’

  ‘So you think Consuela’s innocent?’

  ‘I think it’s possible, yes.’

  ‘The old man won’t have thanked you for saying that.’

  ‘I didn’t expect him to.’

  ‘Must be twelve years since we met. That ghastly cricket match at Mordiford. Remember?’

  ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘Who’d have thought then that my little sister would end up being poisoned – or that Consuela would be accused of murdering her?’ He spoke almost light-heartedly, as if reflecting on the mild ironies of life. ‘Fancy a drink before you go back to your hotel?’ He glanced at his watch and smiled. ‘They’ve just opened.’

  ‘I’ll press on, thanks all the same.’

  ‘As you please. Only …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you’ve pumped Aunt Hermione, why not pump me as well?’ He flicked his cigarette into the
gutter and grinned. ‘I’ve been known to be indiscreet in my cups.’

  The more time I spent with Spencer Caswell, the more baffling his motives became. At first, I thought he was just short of a drinking companion. But in the nearby pub he led me to there were half a dozen bored young men who seemed to know him and would have been glad to stand him a round; even the barmaid looked disappointed when he ushered me away to a corner table. So, clearly, there was more to it than that.

  With his long legs stretched out in front of him, a glass cradled on his chest and a cigarette casting smoke-patterns in time to his gestures, he seemed to require nothing more than an audience for his jaundiced assessment of Hereford in general and his own family in particular. Twenty-three years old and just too young to have enlisted before the end of the war, he had come down from Cambridge in 1922, destined to join Caswell & Co. for sheer lack of a practical alternative. He did not trouble to disguise his scorn for business, or ‘trade’ as he called it. His talents, he claimed, lay elsewhere, though his besetting tragedy was that he did not know where. Shallow, self-centred and arrogant, he appeared to possess all the worst characteristics of pampered youth. In ordinary circumstances, I would have cut our meeting as short as possible and spared Mortimer a grain of sympathy for fathering such a son. But these were not ordinary circumstances. Spencer’s egotistical maunderings offered me a badly needed insight into the realities of Caswell family life and therefore he found in me the eager listener he seemed to desire.

  ‘Fact is, Staddon, I’m finding this whole business a bit of a bore. I mean, sister walks under a bus, we all say what a pity. Much weeping into handkerchieves, long faces at the funeral, then we get over it. Life goes on. But sister swallows arsenic in her tea and dies, aunt-in-law’s arrested and facing trial, then there’s just no end to it. Reporters thick as flies, gossip circulating round Hereford faster than the plague, ordinary activities suspended. Mother sits in a darkened room the livelong day and Father forbids light conversation, for God’s sake. It’s all very well for Uncle Victor – he can hide himself away in France – but what am I supposed to do? I don’t even know how long it’s going to go on. There’s no date fixed for the trial yet. We could be talking about months.’