‘When the trial does open,’ I put in mildly, ‘how do you think it will turn out?’
‘Badly for Consuela. As far as I understand it, she has no answer to the charge. Motive, means, opportunity. She had them all, we’re told.’
‘You believe the evidence against her, then?’
‘I didn’t say that. They haven’t shown me the letters. And I wasn’t at the tea party. I’m no better informed than you are, if it comes to the point. But this I will say …’He crouched forward and lowered his voice. ‘Consuela’s never struck me as a fool. So why leave the letters and a packet of arsenic lying around amongst her silk pretties waiting to be found?’
‘You’re suggesting somebody else put them there?’
‘Not me. But you are, aren’t you? How else are you going to argue her innocence? Your problem is: who would do such a thing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Haven’t you wondered, though?’ His face was animated, his eyes aglow with enthusiasm for the mental game he had embarked upon. ‘If my much-lamented sister wasn’t the intended victim, Uncle Victor must have been. And if Consuela wasn’t the murderer, somebody else – for some other reason – must have wanted him dead. But he’s still alive, which means their attempt to kill him failed. Yet there’s been no second attempt. That could be because Consuela really is guilty, of course. Or it could be because fastening the crime on her was the real object of the exercise. It gets her out of the way, you see – most effectively.’
‘Out of the way of what?’
Spencer grinned and leaned back in his chair, as if arousing my interest in his theory was a cause of deep satisfaction. He blew a cone of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I haven’t taken the idea any further yet, but I turn it over in my mind quite regularly. It’s more challenging than your average crossword-puzzle, after all.’
‘And a great deal more serious,’ I snapped. ‘We’re discussing a woman’s life.’
‘I ought to care, I know, but I’m not going to pretend I feel things when I don’t. The beautiful bride Uncle Victor brought back from South America, aloof, exotic and unapproachable. That’s all she ever was to me. I take as much interest in her fate as she would in mine: none at all. But perhaps you know her better than I do. Perhaps that’s what’s brought you all this way. Some dalliance during the building of Clouds Frome, was there?’
‘That’s an unwarranted and offensive suggestion.’
But my words could not touch him. His grin remained, as infuriating as he meant it to be. ‘An entirely logical suggestion, I should have thought, but I’ll not press it if you object so strongly.’
‘I do.’ I rose from my chair, suddenly eager to be out of his company. ‘And I’ll bid you good evening.’
‘Cheerio, then.’ He glanced up at me but otherwise moved not a muscle. ‘Bear in mind what I said. Could be that somebody somewhere is rubbing their hands in glee at what’s happened to Consuela. All you have to find out is: who?’
I left him then, still grinning, reclining in his chair and enveloped in smoke. By the time I had reached the Green Dragon, much of my anger had dissipated, leaving in its wake regret that I had allowed myself to be riled by him and a growing suspicion that, for all his cynicism and sarcasm, he might have chanced upon the truth. Maybe it had not mattered to the murderer who their victim was so long as Consuela was blamed for the death. Maybe her incarceration and possible execution were what they had really desired all along.
Then, as I rounded a bend in the corridor leading to my room, the obvious conclusion came to me, so suddenly and climactically that I cried aloud, ‘Of course!’ and startled a maid who was pushing a basket of laundry. I blundered out an apology to her and, as she went on her way, leaned back against the wall and remembered what Hermione had said about Victor’s reaction to Rosemary’s death. He had not seemed surprised. She could almost have believed he had expected it to happen. ‘But that can’t be true, can it?’ Her words and Spencer’s blended in my mind. ‘It gets her out of the way – most effectively.’ And with the recollection of their words came a perverse sense of relief, breaking over me like a wave. Now, at last, I felt I knew the name and purpose of the enemy and what I must do to save Consuela from him.
Chapter Seven
‘A HOLIDAY, GEOFFREY? This is a most unexpected suggestion, I must say.’
‘Timely, I’d have thought. Winter’s drawing in. I feel in need of a tonic. And I haven’t much work on at present. So why not?’
‘Why not indeed? The French Riviera in November is vastly preferable to London, I won’t deny.’ Angela’s eyes drifted out of focus. She was looking past me at something that existed only in the pretence I was staging for her benefit. Suddenly, I cursed myself for letting her choose from all the obvious and flattering reasons why I might have proposed such a jaunt. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been abroad together since … well, since our honeymoon.’
‘High time we did, then. Base ourselves in Nice, I thought. Hire a car and explore the coast either side. Cannes. Monte Carlo. Cap Ferrat. Take two or three weeks about it. Relax. Enjoy ourselves.’
The smile on Angela’s face was genuine and radiant, testimony to the success of my ploy. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It really is an excellent idea. I can’t think why we haven’t done something like it before.’
‘It’ll take me a little while to make all the arrangements, of course.’
‘Never mind. It’ll be something to look forward to.’
‘Good. That’s settled, then.’ I returned to my newspaper and Angela to the latest of her mother’s multi-page letters. It was the Sunday following my return from Hereford and the moment I had judged most propitious for unveiling my plan. All I had to show for my visit was an assortment of stray hints that Victor knew more about his niece’s death than he had cared to reveal. Evidently, his were the complaints that had prompted Banyard to obtain an arsenic-based weed-killer. If he wanted to be rid of Consuela – and admittedly I had no evidence that he did – matters could not have turned out better for him. Seen in that light, his sojourn in Cap Ferrat looked like an attempt to avoid unwelcome questions. There was one glaring objection to my theory, of course. Rosemary’s death proved that the sugar at the tea party contained a fatal dose of arsenic. If she had not arrived unexpectedly to consume it, how could Victor have avoided doing so? Rehearse the events in my mind as often as I liked, I could find no answer. All I could cling to was the notion that, when I saw him and spoke to him, the truth would become clear.
Truth of another kind had begun to trouble me around this time. Who, I wondered, was I really trying to help? Consuela, whom I had not seen for twelve years? Jacinta, whose father I could not resist hoping and believing I was? Or myself? My conscience was in need of shriving, my life in need of direction. Now, in Consuela’s plight, I had found both a puzzle and a mission.
That afternoon, I walked to Brompton Cemetery, put some fresh flowers on Edward’s grave and told him what I was trying to do. Death had become my foe – little Edward’s, which I had failed to foresee or prevent, and Consuela’s, which loomed ahead at the far end of the law’s long and winding road. Edward said nothing, of course. He listened patiently, then watched as I walked away. He neither reproached nor approved. Yet he served faithfully as my confessor.
That night, I wrote to Jacinta, warning her of my plans and asking how we might arrange to meet by chance at Cap Ferrat and so bring Victor and me together. She would devise some cunning stratagem; of that I was certain. I made no reference to my suspicions about Victor. For all her precocity, even Jacinta was surely not ready to hear it suggested that her own father had brought about her mother’s downfall.
A few days later, Windrush visited me at Frederick’s Place. He had come straight from an audience with the eminent barrister, Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, and was happy to report that Sir Henry had agreed to lead Consuela’s defence. The dignity of her bearing and the firmness of her testimony at the hearing had evidently impressed h
im, although he was unable to express much optimism at this stage. He would meet his client as soon as possible and assess her prospects thereafter. At all events, he would do his best, which according to Windrush was the very best the English bar had to offer.
The following Saturday, I journeyed to Wendover and paid a call on Imry. To him at least I could risk revealing what was in my mind and there was, besides, much to tell him: Jacinta’s sudden appearance in my life; the details of my visit to Hereford; the frail theory I had formed to vindicate Consuela. To my surprise and disappointment, he seemed worried by what I had to say.
‘You really think this girl’s your daughter, Geoff?’
‘Why else would Consuela have sent her to see me?’
‘And you propose to let Angela meet her?’
‘There’s no reason why she should suspect anything. I could hardly go to Nice alone, could I?’
‘I’m not sure you should be going at all.’
‘What do you suggest I do? Give it up? Let justice take its course, even if that course is hopelessly misdirected?’
‘You’ve no real reason to think it is misdirected. If Victor Caswell administered poison to himself, how could he be sure he wasn’t going to swallow a fatal dose? And why should he be willing to take such an appalling risk?’
‘That’s what I intend to find out.’
Imry stared at me in silence for a moment, then said: ‘I wish you luck, Geoff. I hope you’re proved right, really I do, because if you’re not …’
‘Yes?’
‘Then I fear this business will end badly – for you as well as Consuela.’
Our departure was eventually fixed for 5 November. Angela’s enthusiasm for the trip heightened progressively as the day approached and, as it did so, grew harder for me to bear. She was more open and affectionate with me than at any time since Edward’s death, having convinced herself that I was making a genuine effort to bridge the gap that had grown between us. If I had known she would react in such a way, I believe I would have told her the truth at the outset, but now it was too late. My deception had succeeded – all too well.
On 1 November – just when I had begun to fear it would not reach me before we left – a letter came from Jacinta. I had been arriving deliberately early at the office all week, in order to intercept the mail before Kevin or Doris could cast an inquisitive eye over it, and it is hard to describe my relief at the sight of the French-stamped envelope nestling amongst the bills and the circulars in the cage that morning.
Jacinta’s handwriting was neat and precise, her prose style as measured and adult as her speech. As I read her letter, standing in my office with my hat and coat still on, it was as if she was once more sitting opposite me, her large eyes trained upon me, her small face set and serious.
Villa d’Abricot
Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat
Alpes-Maritime
FRANCE
28th October 1923
Dear Mr Staddon,
Your letter of the 21st was waiting for me at the post office when I called there yesterday. Tonight is the first opportunity I have had to reply to it. This is because my governess, Miss Roebuck, constantly interrupts me. But she has gone out this evening with my father and Major Turnbull.
I was sorry you did not find out more in Hereford. Time is short, you know. Really it is very short.
If you are sure coming here will help, then, of course, you must. Every morning at ten o’clock, Miss Roebuck takes me for a walk along Promenade Maurice Rouvier. This is a footpath which runs past the end of the garden, leading to Beaulieu-sur-Mer. Sometimes my father accompanies us. Sometimes we have to take Major Turnbull’s poodle, Bolivar. He is large, old, fat and disagreeable, like his owner. We normally take coffee at the Hotel Bristol in Beaulieu at about eleven o’clock. Then we walk back. We reach the villa a little after noon. This will give you a good idea of how easy it would be to meet. It will seem like a coincidence to the others. We will know differently, of course.
I do not like it here. The villa is very comfortable, but I want to be back in England, near my mother. I must not say too much about my mother, because it upsets me to think about her. I do think about her, of course, all the time. Have you seen her? How is she? Do tell me if you can.
Major Turnbull believes he is popular with children. He is not popular with me. I may as well tell you that I think he is completely obnoxious. He makes lots of jokes. My father hoots at them, but they are not at all funny. How can he laugh, I ask you, at a time like this? I do not like the effect Major Turnbull has on him. It is not nice. Since we arrived here, Miss Roebuck has behaved more and more like a fine lady than a governess. I do not like that either. It is not right.
I must stop now. One of Major Turnbull’s servants will be along soon to check that I have gone to bed. I will look forward to our meeting. Please, please have a safe journey.
Yours truly,
Jacinta Caswell.
When I had read the letter once, I sat down at my desk and read it a second time. The formal words, so carefully composed, conveyed to me a picture of a lonely and secretive girl, confined in a place of her father’s choosing, wanting only to be elsewhere, rebelling against every trivial element in the existence imposed upon her. She was even obliged to take morning constitutionals by the shores of the Mediterranean whilst her mother …
It occurred to me then, more bitterly than before, how different and vastly happier Jacinta’s life might have been, and Consuela’s, and mine as well, if I had not scuttled away from Clouds Frome one fugitive dawn twelve years before. The Hotel Thornton not built and not burned down, Angela not married to me but to another, Edward not born to die so young, Consuela not abandoned, Victor’s hold upon her not permitted to endure. All of it, every moment and every event, every failure and every tragedy, was in one sense my responsibility.
Poor Jacinta. I did not blame her for the annoyance she obviously felt at the paucity of my discoveries in Hereford. How was she to know, fretting through the days in the Villa d’Abricot, what I had come to suspect?
I thought of Victor Caswell, smiling, assured and relaxed. What was going through his mind as the days elapsed and Consuela’s trial drew closer? Was he pleased with himself? I wondered. Was he confident that he had achieved his purpose? If so, his confidence was about to receive a dent, for only a week separated us, he and I, only a week at the end of which I would confront him and know at last whether my suspicions were correct.
I reached out and seized the brass paper-weight that lay beside the blotter on my desk, tightening my grip upon it until I could tighten it no more. Only a week and then I would know.
Angela and I arrived in Nice just before midday on 6 November. We had left London the previous morning in cold, damp weather, but dawn had shown us the coast of Marseilles bathed in clear, pellucid sunlight. We had sat in the saloon-car of the train, sipping coffee and watching the Mediterranean roll its sparkling breakers up the beach between Cannes and Nice. An exhilaration born of being somewhere we had never been before seemed almost tangible. Angela smiled and chattered without prompting. The warmth and the brightness made her happy, happy for once to be with me. How I wished we had made such a journey before, free of ulterior motive. Then Angela’s mood could have been mine as well. As it was …
The taxi from the station bore us down through Nice’s crowded streets. High, shuttered buildings raised their façades to either side. Old men with weather-lined faces lounged in pavement cafes, pigeons pecking at their feet. Housewives bustled in and out of shops, arms laden with baguettes. An overloaded tram rattled past us at an angle. Then we reached the sea-front and, turning on to it, saw all the charm of the Riviera in an instant. Palm trees swayed above the idle and wealthy as they took their ease on the broad promenade, the Mediterranean glinted in sapphire welcome, and, ahead, a pink-hued dome marked our destination: the Hotel Negresco.
Within minutes, it seemed, we were standing on the balcony of our room, looking out acr
oss the Baie des Anges, the sun warm on our faces but the air cold and dry. Behind us lay an opulently furnished suite, beneath a city of leisure.
‘It’s wonderful,’ said Angela, as she leaned out over the railings. ‘I think I’m going to like it here.’ She threw back her head, closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Her hair, falling over her shoulders, was golden in the sunlight. She had done the same, I remembered, at our hotel on Lake Maggiore, when we had arrived for our honeymoon one mellow afternoon in June, 1913, the year before the war, the year before the completion of the Thornton and the birth of Edward. I had slid my hand down her back and kissed her on the neck, and she had laughed, and we had walked back into the room and slowly undressed, and now … I kept my hand in my pocket and said nothing, for still at my elbow that other motive hovered, biding its time.
It was not until our third day in Nice that I hired a motorcar. Schooling myself not to rush such preliminaries – in order that they should not later appear contrived – I let Angela lead me round an assortment of furriers, jewellers, perfumiers and confectioners. She never tired of such expeditions, nor of promenading by the bay and socializing with other English guests at the hotel.
Mobility suited her equally well, however. I obtained a splendid maroon Lancia with detachable hood and Angela was swiftly in her element, being driven along the Corniche road to Menton, wind tossing back her hair, or inland along switchback byways beneath snow-capped peaks. Every day we grew more contented with each other’s company. If I had hoped the trip would encourage a rapprochement, it could not have made a more promising start. For this reason – as much as nervousness about its outcome – I delayed the staged meeting with Jacinta beyond the date I had planned. We visited Beaulieu once, but took tea at the Metropole rather than coffee at the Bristol, and we did not stray along the footpath to Cap Ferrat. We drove out to the far end of the peninsula and back, passing many fine villas on the way. But none was the Villa d’Abricot.
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