Take No Farewell - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Not this time, Mr Staddon. I’ve seen through you now. That was the object of the break-in at Clouds Frome, wasn’t it? To murder Victor Caswell. But he was ready for you. Whether he meant to kill Pombalho – or both of you – I don’t know. But somehow you persuaded him to let you live. A big mistake on his part, as it turned out. Down here – safe as he thought – he let his defences slip. Perhaps he was taken in by the row you had with your wife. Perhaps he assumed you’d come to see her, not him. If so, he was as wrong as any man could be. Maybe he died regretting it.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Oh, but you did. You couldn’t know he’d drink enough whisky to kill himself, but that didn’t matter, did it? Even if he’d just been ill again, it would have looked like another attempt on his life and we might have felt obliged to call off the hanging.’

  ‘Why haven’t you, then?’

  ‘Because you were careless. It’s understandable. You didn’t have much time to play with. But the telegram was never going to pass muster, was it?’

  ‘There was a telegram. My chief assistant signed for it. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes. An honest man, Mr Vimpany. But gullible. The telegram was a forgery, Mr Staddon. Good enough to deceive Mr Vimpany but not good enough to deceive the GPO. Who was the delivery-boy? And how much did you pay him? He did a fine job, so I hope he’s not still waiting for his money. If he is, he’s going to be disappointed.’

  ‘If it was forged, it was forged by Gleasure. Like the letters. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. You’re prepared to do anything – and accuse anyone – if it will stop us executing Mrs Caswell. But it won’t. Because she’s guilty. And so are you.’

  ‘Gleasure was present when both murders were committed. Think about that, Inspector. Think what it means.’

  ‘It means he was Victor Caswell’s valet. Where would you expect him to be but wherever his master was? Why should he want to kill him? He’s out of a job now. What advantage is that to him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Neither do I, Mr Staddon. Neither do I.’

  ‘You have been charged with murder,’ put in Jospin. ‘Do you know the penalty for murder under French law?’

  ‘Death, I assume.’

  ‘Oui, monsieur. Death. But not by hanging.’

  ‘They do it differently here,’ said Wright.

  ‘La guillotine,’ Jospin continued. ‘La veuve.’

  ‘The widow,’ explained Wright with a smile. ‘That’s what they call the guillotine. Nasty way to go, I’d say, wouldn’t you? A broken neck’s one thing. But a severed neck? Too primitive for my liking.’

  ‘Do you think I care what method they use?’

  ‘You should do. Because the game’s up, you know. It was a bold try, I’ll grant you, but it won’t save Mrs Caswell. She’s for the drop. You ought to be thinking about yourself now, not her. Your best bet is to tell the truth.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing, Inspector. But you won’t listen.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve listened. But I haven’t heard the truth. Not yet. So, we’ll let you think it over for a bit longer. Then we’ll have another chat.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man—’

  ‘Silence!’ snapped Jospin. He looked up at the young policeman by the door. ‘Amenez le prisonnier à son cachot.’

  As the policeman’s hand touched my shoulder, Wright winked at me across the table. ‘Be seeing you, Mr Staddon.’

  Tuesday 19 February 1924

  I hardly know how to describe my reaction to the events of today. I thought I could not feel more anxious and powerless than I did, but I was wrong, as I realized the moment I stepped off the train at Hereford station this afternoon and saw what had been scrawled across a bill on the side of a news-vendor’s kiosk. VICTOR CASWELL MURDERED. That, of course, was merely astonishing. What I learned from the special edition of the Hereford Times on sale at the kiosk was, however, truly horrifying.

  Victor Caswell died in the early hours of yesterday morning. He had been poisoned, apparently with arsenic. And Geoff is now under arrest in Nice, suspected of his murder. Cutting through the editorial expressions of outrage and sympathy for a respected local family dogged by misfortune, this seems to be all that is accurately known. The evidence against Geoff amounts to his visiting the Villa d’Abricot under suspicious circumstances on Sunday and being found in possession of a substance believed to be arsenious oxide.

  I do not think I have ever felt less able to cope with events or grasp their meaning than I do at present. Geoff has stumbled into a trap. My misgivings about his journey to Cap Ferrat have been amply justified. But what kind of trap is it? What is its purpose? Has the person who tried to murder Victor Caswell last September struck again, pinning the blame on Geoff this time rather than Consuela? If so, why strike only three days before Consuela’s execution?

  I might be better placed to answer such questions if I had not had to expend so much time and energy today trying to explain the inexplicable to Senhor Pombalho and Dona Ilidia. When we reached Fern Lodge, we learned that Mortimer Caswell was with the police and his solicitor, Mr Quartan, trying to find out more about Victor’s death, and that Marjorie was so prostrated by shock that she could not speak to anybody. In the circumstances, it was probably just as well that we were received instead by Hermione, the one member of the family unlikely to hold my friendship with Geoff against me. She is as baffled as I am by what has occurred, but did much to strengthen my suspicion that Geoff is the victim of a conspiracy by revealing that mystery surrounds the current whereabouts of her nephew, Spencer. He visited London last Friday (the day he met Geoff) and was expected back the same evening, but has not returned. Hermione wanted to draw his absence to the attention of the authorities, but Mortimer forbade this on the grounds that the boy has gone missing for long weekends in London before and will be in touch as soon as he reads of his uncle’s death in the newspapers. Personally, I cannot believe his disappearance is a coincidence. He is in Cap Ferrat, I feel sure, involved in some way with what has taken place there. Hermione, now I have told her what he said to Geoff when they met in London, thinks the same.

  Jacinta is as brave and mature a twelve-year-old girl as it is possible to imagine. No doubt she cries herself to sleep every night in the arms of a favourite teddy, but to we adults she shows only a tearless face and a determined mind. She knows her father is dead, but is so unmoved by the fact that I could almost believe she had expected the news. She greeted us solemnly and with utter self-control. According to Hermione, she has not been told of Geoff’s arrest, but, even if she had been, I do not think it would dent her conviction on one point. Her mother is innocent and must be saved. Jacinta is so certain of this that she seems unable to believe she may not be saved, which is, perhaps, just as well. If, as I greatly fear, it is a delusion, it is at least a merciful one.

  While we were with Jacinta, Mortimer returned to the house. He was obviously suspicious of me, recognizing my name as that of Geoff’s partner, but he was obliged to remain polite in the presence of the Pombalhos. He is a stern, seething, buttoned-up man of sixty, who seems to have taken his brother’s death as one more undeserved assault by fate. As to what lies behind it, he is clearly reluctant to probe too deeply. The police version of events is to him quite bad enough without imagining conspiracies that might implicate other members of his family.

  An argument began at this point between Hermione and Mortimer, one I suspect has been brewing since they first had news of Victor’s death. Hermione maintains that the doubts and possibilities raised by the event mean we should all press the Home Office at least to postpone Consuela’s execution and that, if we presented a united front, we might be successful. I sided with her, as, somewhat hesitantly, did Francisco (and therefore Dona Ilidia). But Mortimer would have none of it. He wants us to observe what he calls ‘a dignified silence’. He has been harassed
by journalists and gossip-mongers for months. Now he wants an end of it, not a prolongation, which is all he thinks a public appeal for Consuela’s life will achieve. I do not know him well enough to judge whether there may be other reasons for him taking such a view. All I can say for the moment is that his attitude amounts to what will help Consuela least: a dogged insistence that nothing should be done.

  Not until early this evening, when I finally succeeded in installing the Pombalhos here at the Green Dragon, was I able to consider all the implications of what has occurred. I cannot believe Geoff is guilty and therefore I conclude that Victor was murdered by the same person who tried to murder him last September. We know Consuela cannot be that person, more certainly now than ever. The prevention of her execution must therefore be my sole aim in the short time left to her. That, I feel sure, is what Geoff would want.

  To this end, I telephoned Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett’s chambers in London, but could not obtain an answer. Eventually, I learned from Windrush’s wife here in Hereford which hotel in London he is staying at, only to find that he was out when I called. Then, as much in frustration as anything else, I put a call through to the Villa d’Abricot in Cap Ferrat. A servant answered and I asked to speak to Angela. After what seemed an inordinate delay, she came to the telephone.

  I had expected Angela to be shocked by the recent turn of events and was prepared to make allowances accordingly. What I had not expected was the malice she seems to feel for Geoff. Her tone implied that she not only thinks him guilty, but suspects he poisoned Victor merely to spite her. She said the telegram was pure fantasy, that Geoff has become dangerously irrational and that I would be well advised to dissociate myself from him completely.

  After this unpleasant conversation, it was a relief to speak to Windrush, who had since returned to his hotel. Not that he was able to offer me much encouragement. He has been in touch with Sir Henry, who is in Norwich handling a case at the Norfolk assizes. Acting on Sir Henry’s advice, he had pressed the Home Office to postpone Consuela’s execution pending clarification of how Victor met his death. Thus far, they have resisted, though he is not without hope that they may relent tomorrow. I did not press him to say what he thinks their decision will be. I secretly fear their resentment of attempts to interfere with what they called in their letter to me ‘the due course of law’ will make them frustrate such attempts even if they suspect they may be justified.

  Since bidding Windrush good night, a still more disturbing thought has come into my mind. I have only Geoff’s word that he met Spencer last Friday and received a telegram sent in Angela’s name. It is possible – much as I dislike entertaining the idea – that these were fabrications, designed as excuses for his journey to Cap Ferrat. If so, his real purpose might have been to poison Victor in the hope that this would raise sufficient doubt about Consuela’s guilt to bring about her reprieve. He saw and spoke to her for the first time in thirteen years last Friday – in the condemned cell at Holloway Prison. I can only guess what effect that meeting had on him. It may have driven him into desperate action to appease his conscience. It may have prompted him to risk his own life to save hers.

  I hope to God I am wrong. If Reg were on the telephone at home, I could ask him if he accepted an overseas telegram for Geoff on Friday afternoon. As it is, I shall have to wait until tomorrow to find out. I wonder what his answer will be.

  Wednesday morning in Nice. The sky beyond the window of my cell was deep blue, flawless and crystalline. I wondered what the sky above Holloway was like, what Consuela could see in it as she gazed out at the dawn of her last full day. For me there was still the consolation of uncertainty, but for her, as she prayed and washed and breakfasted, there was only the knowledge that when this frugal ration of daylight failed, the end – sudden, absolute and pre-ordained – would only be a single night away.

  Lucas returned, accompanied by Monsieur Fontanet, a local avocat who had been persuaded to accept my case. He seemed less than delighted to have done so and expressed his frustration when I declined to discuss the strategy we should adopt when I appeared in court to answer the charge of murdering Victor Caswell. This event was scheduled for Friday, but I was only concerned with what Thursday held. Had Lucas been in touch with the Home Office? No. He had sent a memorandum to the Foreign Office and they would take appropriate action. Had he spoken to Imry or Windrush or Sir Henry? Not as yet, but he would certainly be trying to find time to do so. I stared at him and listened to his words and realized that he had not understood – or had not wished to understand – anything I had said to him.

  Around midday, I was taken yet again to the interrogation room, where Chief Inspector Wright was waiting for me with his pipe, his ready smile and his patient gaze. Jospin was absent and there was at once a change in Wright’s attitude. The policeman who had brought me from my cell did not know any English. Therefore, Wright’s crumpled grin implied, we could speak freely, one Englishman to another.

  ‘As I told you yesterday, Mr Staddon, I wouldn’t wish the guillotine on anyone, least of all a fellow-countryman. I want to help you as much as I can.’

  ‘Then ask the Home Office to call off the hanging.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’d do no good. These affairs have a momentum of their own. Beyond a certain point, they can’t be stopped. Well we’ve passed that point where Mrs Caswell is concerned. But not where you’re concerned. Look at it this way. Denials won’t wash. There’s no way round the fact that you murdered Victor Caswell. But there might be a way round having to answer for it to a legal system you don’t understand that deals with convicted murderers in a way I think should have gone out with the Middle Ages.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Make a clean breast of it. That’s my advice. Admit you murdered Victor Caswell. And admit the part you played in trying to murder him last September.’ He smiled at the astonishment he must have been able to read in my face. ‘I don’t know why it didn’t come to me sooner. Perhaps it’s a sign of age. But that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the truth of the matter. Mrs Caswell tried to murder her husband in order to be free to marry you. And now you’ve finished the job. Unfortunately, there isn’t going to be a wedding.’

  ‘No. That isn’t the truth at all.’

  ‘The anonymous letters put me off the scent. They made me think Mr Caswell was the unfaithful partner, not Mrs Caswell. But then I remembered the emphasis Sir Henry put on her religion at the trial. Roman Catholics can’t divorce. That’s why it had to be murder. But you couldn’t persuade her to go through with it. So you sent her those letters. And they swayed her where you’d not been able to. Her scruples flew out of the window as soon as she read them. Clever, I call that. Very clever. But heartless as well. Cruel, I could almost say.’

  ‘I didn’t write the letters.’

  ‘What I can’t understand is why you wrote the last one – the one addressed to me. Was it because you wanted to make sure I didn’t suspect you of sending the first batch? If so, it was a mistake. Who else could know you were with Pombalho? Caswell had no wish to advertise the fact. No, it had to be you. A big mistake, as I say. I’m afraid you’ve been making quite a lot of those lately.’

  ‘Gleasure knew. He wrote them. He murdered Victor. It’s there in front of you, but you refuse to see it.’

  ‘The point is this, Mr Staddon. If you confessed your part in the murder of Rosemary Caswell, that would take priority over the later offence. We could apply for extradition. I expect the French authorities would be happy to get you off their hands. Then you could stand trial in England. Much better for your chances, that would be, don’t you reckon?’

  I stared at him, trying to will him to believe what I was about to say. ‘I don’t care about my chances, Chief Inspector. I only care about Mrs Caswell. If she hangs, you’ll regret it. One day, when the truth comes out, her case will be a cause célèbre. Everyone will know hanging her was a grotesque miscarriage of justice. Books will be w
ritten about it, inquiries demanded. She may even be posthumously pardoned. Somewhere, in the footnotes, you’ll be mentioned as one of those who let it happen, one of those who stood and watched while the state committed murder. You won’t be smiling then.’

  Nor was he smiling now. ‘I’ll speak to you again tomorrow, Mr Staddon. That’ll be your last opportunity to see reason. I hope you take it. By then, Mrs Caswell won’t need your help – or anyone else’s.’

  Slowly, the afternoon passed. The brilliance of the Mediterranean sky faded. The shadows lengthened. I wondered again what Consuela was doing. A walk in the exercise yard? A letter to Jacinta? An interview with her priest? She could not be expecting anything now but death, premature and undeserved. What she might once have regarded as mere precautions were now essential preparations.

  Night fell. I watched the colour being leeched from the sky until the very last glimmer of it had gone, knowing that in England it would have vanished even sooner. I was served a frugal meal. No doubt, at Holloway, they were more generous. But I ate nothing and nor, I suspected, would Consuela. The evening wore on. I had no way of keeping track of time. It would be different for Consuela. She would know, because they would tell her, when 9 p.m. came and the last revolution of the clock began.

  Wednesday 20 February 1924

  Big Ben has just struck 9 p.m. Those of us gathered in this cold and cheerless room all heard it clearly. That, I suppose, is a measure of the absolute silence in which we are waiting. We have sat here for barely twenty minutes, though it seems far longer, Windrush chain-smoking and fidgeting in the chair to my left, Pombalho pensive and immobile in the chair to my right. We do not know how long it will be before the door on the other side of the room opens and our vigil comes to an end, nor whether that end will be the one we fervently desire or the one we greatly dread. All we can do is wait and hope.