I paid the bill and hurried into the corridor of the next carriage. There I lowered a window and leaned out, letting the cold night blast away some of my anger. Poor Clive. He could not be expected to understand. Everything my marriage had brought me seemed tainted by the deception of which it had been a consequence. The past was a wasteland, the future an unexplored continent. Behind me was regret, ahead only uncertainty. At least now I knew which was preferable.
I breakfasted early enough the following morning to avoid Clive and Celia and saw nothing of them at Calais. I suspect Celia may have insisted they wait for a later sailing rather than risk an encounter on the ferry. For that I was grateful.
At Dover, I bought all the national newspapers and scoured them for assessments of the case as the train bore me north towards London. The dramatic circumstances of Victor’s murder, Consuela’s reprieve and Gleasure’s confession had evidently been covered on previous days. Spencer’s arrest was made little of, as if it were a trifling postscript to more sensational events. There were a couple of editorials praising the police and the Home Office for their prompt rectification of an error, one article condemning the ease with which arsenic can be obtained and a smattering of letters calling for the abolition of the death penalty in poisoning cases. All in all, though, I detected a vein of embarrassment running through the reports. The newspapers had been as eager as most of their readers to see Consuela hanged. Now they realized how wrong they had been, all they really wanted to do was forget the subject as quickly as possible.
I did not go home when I reached London. Instead, I travelled out to Wendover, where Imry was waiting for me at Sunnylea to celebrate with well-chilled champagne the success of our endeavours on Consuela’s behalf. We had much to tell each other. As we did so, I tried to sound as jubilant as Imry obviously felt. For him, Consuela’s conviction and death-sentence were manifest injustices which he was delighted to see put right, the more so since he had not expected to. But, for me, they were also part of a creeping realization that every turn I had taken in life, every decision I had made, had been the wrong one. When I had spoken to Imry by telephone from Nice, I had shared his mood of grateful joy. Now, it was not quite the same. And soon, I sensed, all joy would be soured by the knowledge that Consuela’s salvation was not necessarily mine.
I stayed at Sunnylea overnight. When I returned to the flat in Hyde Park Gardens Mews the following day, its desolate character was borne in upon me as never before. How apt a symbol it was for the life I had willed upon myself I could scarcely bear to contemplate, so, without lingering, I walked out across the park and down through South Kensington to Brompton Cemetery. I had neglected Edward’s grave of late and made penance for that, as well as much else, by putting fresh flowers in the vase and cleaning the grime from the stone. Poor little Edward’s death was another proof, it seemed to me, that I should never have deserted Consuela. If I had stood by her, Edward might have been our second child, a brother for Jacinta. Then, I could not help but believe, influenza would never have claimed him.
I walked back towards Hyde Park past the Natural History and Science Museums, where indulgent parents were ushering their offspring in to while away a Sunday afternoon marvelling at dinosaurs and pendulums. Before I could arm myself against the vision, there the four of us were – Consuela, Jacinta, Edward and I – gambolling up the steps. Everywhere, it seemed, rebukes and reminders were waiting to surprise me.
According to Imry, Jacinta was now in London, staying with her uncle and his wife at Brown’s Hotel pending Consuela’s release. Telling myself that I had no destination in mind, but knowing full well I had, I wandered slowly east along Knightsbridge to Hyde Park Corner, then continued up Piccadilly with ever slower tread. I did not know what I would do when I reached Brown’s and suspected I should not go at all, yet on I went, less able to turn back than I was to proceed.
It was tea-time when I arrived. Waiters were bustling in and out of the lounge, bearing cakes and scones by the tray-load. Standing near the door, considering my next move, I suddenly realized that I could see Jacinta. She was sitting near the window of the lounge with Hermione and two other people whom I took to be Francisco Manchaca de Pombalho and Dona Ilidia.
As I watched, Dona Ilidia reached forward to pat Jacinta’s hand. She smiled and murmured something, at which all four of them smiled and exchanged glances. On Jacinta’s face there was a look of greater happiness than I had ever seen before. It was not hard to explain. She knew now – for the first time since our acquaintance had begun – that her mother was safe. Yet something in her expression – something in the trust she bestowed on her companions – told me I could play no part in her happiness, told me her welfare would never be my concern.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a waiter, interrupting the sombre train of my thoughts.
‘What? No. That is …’
‘Do you require tea, sir?’
‘No. Nothing thank you.’ I was hurrying towards the exit now, suddenly wanting to be away from this and every other evocation of what I had lost. But escape was impossible. As I reached the end of Albemarle Street and glanced across Piccadilly, what should I see but the arcade-entrance where I had leaned against an art dealer’s window one morning in the summer of 1911 and decided to accept Ashley Thornton’s commission. Summer fades. And time passes. But our actions can never be erased.
I returned, at length, to Hyde Park Gardens Mews. Night fell. I began to consider the merits of becoming extremely and deliberately drunk. Then, before I could act on the idea, there came a ring at the door. My first inclination was not to answer. But the caller was persistent. Eventually, I went down and opened the door. To my surprise, I found Hermione Caswell standing outside.
‘Good evening, Mr Staddon. May I come in?’
‘Why … Yes. Of course.’
I led her up to the sitting-room, took her coat and offered her a drink. She declined, then looked round at my sparse furnishings and disorderly possessions. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked.
‘A month or so. Since … Well, you may as well know. My wife threw me out. She’s suing for divorce.’
‘Because of your attempts to help Consuela?’
‘They brought matters to a head, certainly.’
She sat down. I put more coal on the fire and encouraged her to change her mind about a drink. She did not. ‘I saw you leave Brown’s this afternoon, Mr Staddon. Don’t worry: nobody else did. Why didn’t you speak to us?’
‘I’m not sure. I … didn’t like to interrupt.’
‘But the Pombalhos would have been charmed to meet you.’
‘Would they?’
‘And I know Jacinta wants to thank you for everything you’ve done for her mother. We visited her earlier today.’
‘How is she?’
‘Impatient to be released now that her innocence has been established. And immensely grateful to those of us – including you – who played a part in saving her life.’
‘I did nothing, except fail where others succeeded.’
Hermione frowned. ‘Self-pity does not become you, Mr Staddon. I had expected to find you in a more joyful mood. Consuela has been reprieved and exonerated. Doesn’t that gladden your heart?’
‘Of course it does. If you had seen me the day I heard the news, you wouldn’t doubt it, believe me.’
‘But since then you have considered the future?’
‘What?’ I felt for an instant she had seen to the core of my being. ‘How … How did you know that?’
‘Because I have done the same. The consequences of proving Consuela innocent are almost as grievous as the consequences of not doing so. Victor is dead as well as Rosemary. And Spencer is implicated in both murders. My family is in ruins. Whether Marjorie or Mortimer will ever recover from the shock I doubt. They refuse to admit Spencer is guilty, of course, though I suspect they know in their hearts he must be. None of this is easy, Mr Staddon. None of this is happy.’
Hermione was right. Many
more were oppressed now by fate than would have been the case if Consuela had been hanged and remembered only as a murderess. That, of course, was why so few had tried to save her. Truth and justice, for so long unattainable, had shown they were, in their way, as harsh as their opposites.
‘I would have come here tonight even if I had not seen you at Brown’s,’ Hermione continued. ‘I have a letter for you. From Consuela.’ She took the letter from her handbag and offered it to me. ‘They don’t censor her correspondence any more, you see. Nor do they mind her asking visitors to deliver things on her behalf.’
Numbly, I reached out and took it. There, on the envelope, was my name in Consuela’s handwriting, handwriting I had not seen for thirteen years but recognized as clearly as if I had seen it every day since. I tore the envelope open and unfolded the letter.
His Majesty’s Prison,
Holloway.
23rd February 1924
Dear Geoffrey,
I never expected to see this day. For that I give thanks. It is a gift from God, yet also a gift from those who have stood by me in my time of trial. You are one of those. Therefore I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Sir Henry and Mr Windrush have done their best to explain everything that has happened. I must admit that I still find it hard to believe. There is so much cause for sorrow as well as joy. I sit here in this comfortable cell to which they have moved me and wonder how we could all have been so blind. Poor Victor. Poor Rosemary. And poor dear Lizzie.
They tell me you will have been released by now. I am glad to hear it. They tell me I too will soon be released. I look forward to the day. And I have been settling in my mind, now I have time for such things, what I shall do when the day comes. That is why I am writing this letter to you.
As you know, I had decided to send Jacinta to Brazil in the event of my death. Now I have decided that she should still go to Brazil and that I should go with her. Only there can I hope to put what has happened behind us. Only there can I hope to build a new life – for Jacinta as well as for myself.
I shall tell her the truth one day, when she is old enough to understand it. I will not cut you out of her life. That I promise. When she is a young lady, I will tell her everything. Then, perhaps, she will want to know you better. If so, I will not stand in her way.
But that lies in the future. In the present, more knowledge than she already has would be too much for her. She has just lost one father. It is too soon for her to discover another.
We said our farewells nine days ago and no purpose can be served by saying them again. I forgive you and I thank you. What you have done for me settles any debt there ever was between us. Let it rest there. Do not try to visit me, I beg. It would only re-open wounds which our parting of last week did so much to heal.
I shall be seeing Hermione tomorrow. I will ask her to deliver this letter to you as soon as you return from France. It comes with my heart-felt thanks and my sincere good wishes for your future. Farewell, Geoffrey.
Consuela.
I folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope, then looked up at Hermione. ‘You know her plans?’
‘She told me this afternoon. She intends to leave for Brazil as soon as she’s free to do so, taking Jacinta with her. It’s quite the best thing for both of them, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. I suppose it is.’
‘Had you perhaps hoped she would remain? There would have been a chance then for …’
‘For what?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Hermione pulled herself upright with a little gesture of annoyance at her own sentimentality. ‘I should tell you about Ivor Doak before I forget. The police have put him in lodgings in Hereford so that they can be sure of finding him if they need him to testify. He’s more comfortable than he’s been in years.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Do send him my greetings – and my thanks – when you see him. It’s him we’ve ultimately to thank for Consuela’s reprieve. He’s repaid the money we gave him many times over now, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve thought about that a good deal in the past few days. Do you remember, Mr Staddon, how Victor warned you against lending him anything?’
‘Yes. He said I’d regret it. But he was wrong. Strangely enough, of all the things I did at Clouds Frome, that’s the one thing I never have regretted.’
‘And the one of which the greatest good has come. There’s a moral in that, surely.’
‘Indeed there is. A most compelling one. I only wish I’d heeded it sooner.’
I could not bear to remain in the flat after Hermione had left. My footsteps took me south, through the squares and crescents of Belgravia that made Cubitt his million. I came, as I knew I would, to Pimlico and the street where I lived before my marriage. I stood beneath a lamp-post opposite the entrance to the block, the same lamp-post where Consuela had stood one night in March thirteen years ago. I lit a cigarette and stared up at the window from which I had once stared down at her. The window was ajar. Inside, lights were blazing and jazz music playing on a gramophone. It wound slowly down till it had nearly stopped, then was rewound into energetic life. As I listened to it, I thought how oblivious the present occupant of the flat must be to all the segments of other people’s lives that had been led there before him. And then I thought how right he was to be so. Just as the past cannot be altered, so the present cannot be escaped. Consuela was looking to the future with a clear eye. Somehow, I would have to do the same.
I was welcomed back at the office the following morning with fragile good cheer. All were pleased that I was no longer suspected of murder and solicitous about how I had survived the ordeal. Reg, in particular, was full of apologies for not realizing the telegram was a forgery. Yet in Reg as much as in the others I also detected an air of disquiet. They had been besieged by reporters during the days following my arrest, but still knew little more than the newspapers had told them. Imry had done his best to re-assure them, but the effect of such publicity on the reputation of Renshaw & Staddon could only be guessed at. They did not blame me for what had happened, of course, but they were aware that it had rendered their futures less secure than they had previously seemed. Nor was there much I could do or say to bolster their confidence – or, if it came to the point, my own.
Windrush called to see me that afternoon and added his congratulations to everybody else’s. He explained the delicate state of Sir Henry’s negotiations with the Home Office regarding Consuela’s release, from which I gathered that the matter might drag on for some weeks. There could be no doubt what the conclusion would be, but how it was to be reached without undue loss of face in official circles was as yet uncertain. Windrush suspected that no decision would be taken until after the Home Secretary’s anticipated victory at the Burnley by-election, now only three days away.
Towards the end of our interview, Windrush mentioned, as casually as he could contrive, that Francisco Manchaca de Pombalho had insisted on taking responsibility for Consuela’s legal fees. It was assumed that I would permit him to do so, despite my earlier undertaking to pay them. The likelihood was that they would be awarded against the Crown once the basis on which Consuela was to be released had been settled, but, even if that did not happen, I sensed that nobody any longer wanted me to contribute. I raised no objection. I was not a member of the family, after all, hardly even a friend. Such generosity was unnecessary, almost unseemly. So it was that I took another step back towards the ranks of strangers.
My incipient estrangement from the affairs of the Caswell family was interrupted two days later by an unexpected telephone call. I had just returned to the office after lunch when Doris informed me that a Mr Caswell was on the line, wishing to speak to me. My initial incredulous reaction was that it was Mortimer. As soon as Doris put the call through, however, I realized my mistake.
‘Hello, Staddon. How’s tricks?’
‘Spencer? What are you—’
‘Released without a stain on my character. We
ll, no indelible ones, anyway. They were forced to admit they hadn’t sufficient evidence against me.’
‘But that’s not—’
‘Possible? ’Fraid it is. And here I am on the blower to prove it. But that’s not why I called. I wanted to thank you.’
‘To thank me? What the—’
‘I’m a rich man now, Staddon. Twice as rich as I expected to be. Thanks to the efforts of you and your chums, I won’t have to share Uncle Victor’s estate with an upstart valet. Gratifying, don’t you agree?’
I could not speak. Spencer’s face, as well as his voice, seemed close beside me, his eyes sparkling with glee, his mouth curving into a smile.
‘Cat got your tongue? Can’t say I’m surprised. People never take it kindly when I win. And I always do, you know. I win. And everybody else loses. Thanks again, Staddon.’
He rang off. Slowly, I put the telephone down and took several deep breaths, trying as I did so to force myself to believe that anger was as useless as resentment. Perhaps Spencer’s ownership of Clouds Frome would constitute a fitting judgement on its architect. Perhaps I should laugh at this crowning irony, not grind my teeth in pointless fury. Then the telephone rang again.
‘Mr Staddon, I have Chief Inspector Wright on the line for you.’
‘Put him through, Doris.’
There was a click, then Wright’s voice. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Staddon.’
‘You’ve called about Spencer Caswell, haven’t you, Inspector?’
‘Why yes, but … How did you know?’
‘He’s just ’phoned me.’
‘Has he? Impudent young … Well, perhaps that was only to be expected. He does like to crow.’
‘He said you’d admitted there was insufficient evidence to hold him.’
‘Quite true, I’m afraid, sir. I’d hoped he would disintegrate under questioning, but he’s too fly for that. As it is, all we have against him is Gleasure’s confession. And it’s a well-established principle of English law that nobody can be convicted solely on the uncorroborated testimony of an alleged accomplice.’
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