“And what are you researching?”
“Something I’m kind of hoping you can help me with.”
“Me?”
“That’s right. You in particular.”
“While Emerson explains,” said Ursula, “I really must go and see how Aliki’s coping in the kitchen.” She rose and smiled at McKitrick. “Do excuse me.”
“Sure.”
Turning towards her daughter, Ursula said: “And it’s high time you put some clothes on, young lady. Unless you’re thinking of lunching in your swimsuit.” Then she headed towards the house, leaving Samantha to grimace at the others before following. It really was, as became apparent when she left her chair, an extremely brief costume, cut as revealingly high at the hips as it was scooped daringly low at the back. McKitrick did not seem to mind Charlotte seeing him watch her curvaceous retreat across the lawn.
“A beautiful wife and a beautiful daughter. You’re a lucky man, Maurice.”
“Are you married yourself, Emerson?” asked Charlotte.
“No.” He grinned. “Except to my work.”
“Which you think I can help you with?”
“Perhaps I’d better come clean. My publisher’s been pressuring me for a few years now to produce a new edition of Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography. I’ve been stalling them, mostly because I don’t enjoy going over old ground. But there’s a chance now of finding some fresh material that would make a new edition worthwhile.”
“How so?”
“The chance arises from your godmother’s recent death. As soon as I heard about it—from a friend at Oxford who passed through Harvard at the end of last month—I tried to contact Maurice. When I found out he was in New York, I fixed up a meeting with him.”
“And I told him the whole sad story,” said Maurice.
“It is sad,” said McKitrick. “She was a feisty old lady. I liked her.”
“So did we all,” said Charlotte. “But I still don’t see—”
“I met with Beatrix twelve years ago, when I was doing the original research for the book, and got a whole mass of valuable information from her about Tristram’s early years. In fact, she was pretty well my only source for his life before and immediately after Oxford. Up to about 1933, that is. But it was oral stuff. Straightforward recollection. She had no papers that Tristram left behind. None, I should say, that she was prepared to let me use.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, “it was always my understanding that none existed. Apart from the poems themselves, of course. And a few letters. But surely my mother showed you those.”
“She did. But when I was speaking with Beatrix about Tristram’s last few months, in Spain, she told me he’d written to her regularly from there—right up to his death. And that she’d kept the letters.”
“Really? Mother never mentioned such letters to me.”
“Nor to me,” put in Maurice.
“No. Because Beatrix didn’t tell her. She evidently didn’t want Mary to be jealous. It seems Tristram wrote more often to his sister than his wife. That could have been hard for a young widow to accept.”
“And it would have been typical of Beatrix to want to protect Mother from any unnecessary pain,” said Maurice.
“Right,” said McKitrick. “That’s how I saw it. And she was still protecting her nearly forty years later. So, I had to go along with it. I tried to persuade her to let me see the letters, but it was a waste of effort. You two know better than me she couldn’t be shifted once she’d made up her mind. I had no choice but to go ahead without the material. And, anyway, she didn’t leave me completely empty-handed. She said she’d give the letters to Maurice before her death on the understanding that, when Mary died, they could be made public. She was assuming, naturally enough, she’d die before Mary. And she was assuming, I reckon, she’d have plenty of time to set her affairs in order. As it is, Mary predeceased her. If I’d known, I’d have contacted Beatrix straightaway, as you can imagine. But, instead, the first I heard was of Beatrix’s own death. That’s why I was so anxious to get in touch with Maurice. To find out what arrangements she’d made for the letters.”
“I had to tell him she’d made none,” said Maurice. “Maybe she thought she could postpone facing me with it. After all, she was in excellent health. Maybe she just forgot what she’d promised. Either way, she never breathed a word to me about it.”
“I don’t quite understand,” said Charlotte. “If these letters exist, they’ll be stored somewhere at Jackdaw Cottage. Surely that’s obvious.”
“Exactly,” said Maurice. “And as I explained to Emerson when we met in New York, it means they’re your property, under the terms of Beatrix’s will.”
“Which is why I said I needed your help.” McKitrick smiled at her. “Whether we look for the letters—whether I use them if we find them—is down to you, Charlie. You and nobody else.”
Lunch was more enjoyable than Charlotte had expected. McKitrick’s ready wit and wide-ranging opinions kept everyone amused and involved. He had the ability to uncover people’s particular enthusiasms and to talk entertainingly about them. Academic life, the aviation industry, equestrian sport, Cypriot cuisine, even Tunbridge Ware. It seemed he could speak divertingly and intelligently on virtually any topic. And he was, as Samantha remarked when she passed Charlotte on the stairs, “a gorgeous hunk into the bargain.”
Nothing more was said about the letters until the party had returned to the garden. Then, without seeming to engineer the situation, McKitrick walked to the river’s edge with Charlotte and watched a squadron of swans pass majestically by before remarking: “A researcher’s always a bit of a mendicant. Begging access. Borrowing quotations. I guess there’d be no more biographies if we weren’t so shameless.”
“There’s no need to beg in this case. If Maurice is happy for you to look for these letters, so am I.”
“I appreciate it, I really do.”
“I’m only surprised he didn’t come across them himself.”
“He wasn’t looking for them. It makes all the difference.”
“I suppose it does. When do you want to visit the cottage?”
“When could you show me round?”
“Oh!” She caught herself blushing again. “You want me to come too?”
“I was hoping you would. Whatever we find is your property, remember. And it’ll be for you to say what we do with it. Besides, a treasure hunt is more fun when there are two.”
“A treasure hunt? Is that what this is?”
“In a sense. Academic research is a lot like prospecting for gold. You’re always hoping to hit a rich seam, but you hardly ever do. When shall we find out if this is to be an exception to the rule?”
His smile was conspiratorial and contagious. And Charlotte was powerless to do other than smile back. “Tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t honestly think I could wait any longer.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Charlotte did not care to admit to herself just how excited she was by the prospect of assisting Emerson McKitrick with his research. To have done so would have been to admit how drab her life had become and how desperate she secretly was for some small measure of romance and adventure.
The signs were there, however, clear and incontrovertible. She slept poorly. She took exaggerated care over her hair and make-up. She chose to wear a more flattering outfit than the occasion warranted. And she broached a bottle of Chanel perfume that had stood untouched in a cupboard since Christmas.
Emerson travelled to Tunbridge Wells by an early train from London, where he was staying, and Charlotte drove him on to Rye. They reached Jackdaw Cottage a little after ten o’clock. And there—bar a short break for lunch—they remained all day, proceeding methodically from room to room, checking carefully the contents of bureaux and bookcases, cupboards and cabinets. Every piece of paper in every drawer was examined, every book opened in case a letter had been slipped between the pages, every nook and cranny penetrated in search
of a hidden bundle. The task, though time-consuming, was not difficult, for Beatrix had never been able to abide untidiness. Though she had accumulated a good deal in the course of a long life, she had always been strict and orderly in her domestic arrangements. Such papers and documents as she had preserved were stored in the obvious places. Even in the loft, to which Emerson ascended in mid-afternoon, discipline prevailed. Nowhere was a bulging suitcase or battered despatch-box to be found. Nowhere, indeed, were any caches of letters—let alone the ones they sought—waiting to be unearthed. No billets-doux from long-dead beaux. No birthday cards from years gone by. And nothing at all—neither scrap nor jotting—from Tristram Abberley.
At six o’clock, they abandoned the task and retreated to the Ypres Castle Inn on Gun Garden Steps, where they sat with their drinks in the small garden and gazed out across the harbour towards the sea. They were tired and despondent, though Charlotte was aware that Emerson was merely disappointed at having found nothing, whereas she was also fearful that their failure would bring an abrupt end to their association.
“I can’t understand it, Charlie. I was so sure they’d be there, so confident.”
“Because of what Beatrix told you?”
“Yuh. She didn’t have to hide them. There was no need.”
“But she appears to have done precisely that.”
“I’m not sure. The housekeeper hasn’t touched anything. Maurice has removed nothing apart from bank statements, cheque-books and a couple of bills.”
“And all I’ve taken from the cottage is a Tunbridge Ware work-table. It contains thimbles, needles and a few buttons, but no papers of any kind.”
“Right. And we’re sure—because Maurice has already checked it out as her executor—that she didn’t deposit any packages with her bank or solicitor.”
“Yes. Which appears to leave us back at Jackdaw Cottage.”
“Empty-handed. We’ve searched the place as thoroughly as we can short of lifting floorboards or climbing up the chimney. There’s nothing there. Like I say, she had no need to hide the letters. Nobody but me knew they even existed.”
“So what do you think? Did she destroy them?”
“Her dead brother’s last letters? No. Nobody would do that. Besides, she’d promised me she wouldn’t. And she wasn’t a lady to break her word.”
“Then what did she do with them?”
“I don’t know. Unless—” He broke off and frowned thoughtfully.
“What is it?”
“Unless she was afraid they’d go astray. Be overlooked after her death. Trashed before anybody realized what they were. Is it possible she left them with somebody for safe-keeping? A friend, perhaps?”
“Of course it’s possible. But why would she trust a friend with the letters if she wouldn’t trust Maurice or me with them?”
“Because she might have wanted to use a neutral party—somebody outside the family. Not that I’m saying it’s what happened. I’m just trying to cover every eventuality. Hell, I don’t even know if she had such a friend.”
“Oh, but she did!” Suddenly, Charlotte smiled. “You’re right. It’s obvious. Her oldest friend of all. She was the neutral party. Lulu Harrington.”
They drove back to Tunbridge Wells, Charlotte having to restrain herself from exceeding all known speed limits, so impatient was she to put her theory to the test. Her first action on entering Ockham House was to seize the telephone and dial Lulu’s number. Relief swept over her when it was answered in Lulu’s familiar tone.
“Lulu? This is Charlotte Ladram.”
“Charlotte? What a delightful surprise. How are you?”
“Fine, but—”
“I really was so very sorry to miss Beatrix’s funeral. I trust my wreath was safely delivered?”
“Yes. Yes, it was. Forgive me, but this call is rather urgent. I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me.”
“I’ll be happy to, if it lies within my power.”
“I think it may. Tell me, did Beatrix ever leave anything with you for safe-keeping? A parcel or packet of some kind?” She paused and waited for an answer, but there was none. “Lulu?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. I heard. A parcel or packet. What makes you ask?”
“That’s a little difficult to explain.”
“I see.” She sounded pensive, almost apprehensive.
“So what’s the answer?”
“Are you phoning on somebody else’s behalf?”
“No.”
“Not perhaps on your sister-in-law’s?”
“You mean Ursula?”
“She will have to accept I did not know what it contained. And that I was bound by a solemn promise. What else could I do?”
“Lulu, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you must.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“No. No, I haven’t, have I?”
“Are you going to?”
There was no reply. Charlotte thought she could hear Lulu’s slightly wheezy breathing at the other end and decided this time to let her choose when to break the silence. At last she said: “I think we must meet, my dear. This matter has been preying upon my conscience. And I can think of no one better than you to confide in. There is no one else, indeed, in whom I could confide. So, let us meet. The sooner the better. I see now that I must make a clean breast of what I have done. Without further delay.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
To Charlotte, Cheltenham seemed like a less hilly version of Tunbridge Wells. There was the same abundance of Regency architecture, the same bustling but well-ordered gentility. She arrived in the heat of early afternoon and spent an uncomfortable half hour locating Park Place, where Lulu lived among the many similar tree-lined residential roads south of the centre. She had come alone, having persuaded Emerson that his presence might alarm Lulu. Indeed, though she had not told him so, she did not propose to mention his interest in Beatrix’s affairs. She did not even know yet whether she would relay to him everything Lulu had to say. Their telephone conversation had left her confused and uncertain about what to expect of her visit. Vapid anti-climax or astounding revelation. Either was possible. And, to tell the truth, she was not sure which she was hoping for.
Courtlands was one of a terrace of white-rendered Regency dwellings where, according to the array of bells at the entrance, Miss L. Harrington occupied the ground floor only. Charlotte had barely time to remove her finger from the buzzer when the door opened and a tiny white-haired old lady with twinkling blue eyes smiled out at her.
“Charlotte?”
“Yes. I…I’m sorry if I’m late.”
“You’re not, my dear. Do come in.”
Lulu led her down the hall and into a high-ceilinged drawing room crowded with books, paintings, photographs, figurines and a seemingly limitless number of different tea-sets displayed in glass-fronted cabinets. It would be difficult, Charlotte felt, to cross to the fireplace without accidentally kicking a china rabbit or upsetting a pile of knitting patterns. And what looked like the most comfortable armchair was occupied by the dormant mound of a huge Prussian blue cat. Of cats and clutter in general Beatrix had never approved and it seemed odd to think of her spending a contented fortnight there every year.
Lulu bustled about preparing tea and Charlotte followed her into the kitchen to help. The window looked on to a well-kept garden where two teenage boys were playing with a frisbee. Seeing Charlotte glance out at them, Lulu said: “They live in the first-floor flat. I have tenants above and beneath me. To be honest, I am glad of their company. We schoolmistresses like to have the young about us even in our dotage, you know.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Since I retired from teaching. Twenty years ago this month. How time does fly. The College had accommodated me till then. I was a housemistress, you understand. What I should have done afterward
s without Beatrix’s help I cannot imagine. It would certainly have been beyond my means to buy this house.”
“You mean Beatrix lent you some money towards it?”
“Not lent. Gave. Beatrix was, as you must know, exceedingly generous. Too generous, I sometimes thought.”
“Yes. She was.” Suddenly, Charlotte flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s perfectly all right. I know exactly what you meant. She was generous and discreet. I felt sure she would never have mentioned the assistance she gave me to anybody else. I only mention it now because it has, in some sense, a bearing on what has occurred.”
“And what has occurred?”
“Come into the drawing room, my dear. Drink some tea and humour me by eating some cake. Then I’ll explain everything.”
Before Lulu offered any explanations, Charlotte was obliged to offer one of her own. Meeting the old lady’s mild but perceptive gaze across the tea-tray, she had the impression that the lie she had prepared was no longer sufficient. But it was too late to prepare another.
“Beatrix once told Maurice and me she had letters from her brother, sent to her from Spain in the months before his death, that should not be made public while my mother was alive. We were puzzled we couldn’t find them at Jackdaw Cottage and thought she might have left them with you for safe-keeping.”
“She may have done. It is possible.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. But you are about to, whereas I may never.” Lulu smiled. “Forgive me. I do not mean to tease. But am I to take it you did not telephone me at the request of Ursula Abberley?”
“You are. Ursula doesn’t even know I’m here.”
“Extraordinary.” She shook her head in evident bemusement. “Beatrix and I met at Roedean, as I’m sure you’re aware. More than seventy years ago. A very long time. Long enough, you might think, for me to know her mind better than anyone. Well, if I do, it means nobody knew her mind at all. For I did not, I freely confess. She was and is to me an enigma.”
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