Hand in Glove

by Robert Goddard

  Derek listened attentively as Maurice continued. Beatrix Abberley, it appeared, had concealed for many years a friendship with a man called Frank Griffith, who had fought with her brother in Spain. She had also concealed certain letters sent to her by her brother from Spain and these she had arranged to be sent to Frank Griffith after her death with a request that he destroy them unread. This he claimed to have done. Nobody could suggest any reason why Beatrix should have gone to such lengths to prevent the letters coming to light. Nor could they credit the notion that she had been killed because of them. Yet the fact remained that she had foreseen—even expected—her death. It seemed as if she had known her life was in danger and had prepared herself accordingly.

  “It’s hard for me to believe she was murdered on account of some fifty-year-old letters from my father, Mr Fairfax, very hard indeed. If my mother was still alive, I’d think Beatrix had been trying to keep something from her. A love affair Tristram had in Spain, perhaps. But my mother died last year, so that can’t be it. Equally, it’s hard now to believe Beatrix was murdered simply for a few antiques. There are too many other unexplained circumstances. If she thought her life was being threatened—by your brother, for instance—why didn’t she go to the police? Or tell me about it? Why do nothing at all to protect herself? And how did she know anyway? What made her so certain something was going to happen to her?”

  “I may be able to point you towards an answer,” said Derek, suddenly eager to share his half-formed conclusions. “Your aunt’s conviction that she was going to be murdered fits with some information I’ve uncovered.”

  Maurice’s gaze intensified. “What information?”

  The sequence of events Derek sketched out was part known, part conjectural. Yet the force of its logic could not be denied and his belief in it strengthened as he spoke. When Colin visited Jackdaw Cottage on 20 May, Beatrix regarded him as a foot-in-the-door confidence trickster whose explanations were a tissue of lies. But a week later, when she telephoned him, she clearly believed his story and wanted to hear every detail of it. Only a few days afterwards, she travelled to Cheltenham, en route for Wales, firmly convinced her murder was already being plotted. Whatever convinced her must therefore have occurred during the days immediately following 20 May. And the only unusual event reported during that period was a sighting in Rye of Maurice’s former chauffeur, who had been anxious to deny—

  “Spicer?” exclaimed Maurice. “Spicer was in Rye on the twenty-fifth of May?”

  “Arnold Mentiply is adamant it was him.”

  “Strange.” Maurice frowned. “Very strange.”

  “I gather you dismissed him because of drunkenness.”

  “I had no choice. He was a good driver, but he couldn’t be relied upon to remain sober. I let him go at Christmas.”

  “Do you know where he works now?”

  “No. In the circumstances, I could hardly give him a reference. And I’ve heard nothing more of him. He lived in a flat in Marlow while he was with me. But I doubt he’s still there.”

  “What contact would he have had with your aunt?”

  “Minimal. The odd word perhaps. He drove me down to Rye whenever I visited her.”

  “He had no connections with the area?”

  “None I was aware of. I simply can’t account for him being seen there. Unless he works in the locality now, of course.”

  “If he does, why would he pretend to Mentiply he was somebody else?”

  “I don’t know. But for that, I could regard it as a pure coincidence.”

  “One of rather too many, surely?”

  “Yes. That’s the point, isn’t it?” Maurice thought for a moment, then said: “Spicer was a rough diamond in many respects. It’s possible he could be involved in criminal activities. I can’t deny it.”

  “But you don’t know where he is?”

  “No. No idea at all.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. “But I could ask around. His landlady in Marlow. The pub he used. He might have told somebody what his plans were.”

  “I’d be very grateful if you could make some enquiries,” said Derek, detecting a pleading note in his voice as he spoke. “I’ve done just about as much as I can on my brother’s behalf.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out as soon as I return from New York,” Maurice replied. “Meanwhile, however, I should have thought there was something you could profitably do to help your brother.”

  “What?”

  “See Frank Griffith. Establish whether he’s telling the truth.”

  “You think he might be lying?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t met him, remember. Charlotte certainly believes him. But to destroy Tristram’s letters, without even reading them first…I’m not sure I can believe anybody did that.”

  “But…if he didn’t…”

  “He may still have them. Either way, he may know what they said.”

  “And that might tell us why Beatrix was murdered.”

  “Exactly.” Maurice looked Derek intently in the eye. “I promised Charlotte I wouldn’t bother Griffith. And I doubt I’d learn anything even if I did. But you’re free to do as you please. And maybe—just maybe—your brother’s predicament will persuade Griffith to reveal what he knows, where Charlotte’s curiosity didn’t.”

  “It’s certainly worth a try.”

  “Yes.” Maurice smiled. “I rather think it is.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Is it really a dead end?” asked Charlotte. “To your research, I mean?” She had driven Emerson back to Swans’ Meadow and they were standing together by the bank of the river, while behind them on the lawn Samantha lay prostrate on a sun-lounger, insulated against the world with dark glasses and Walkman.

  “Looks that way.”

  “But it seems so…unsatisfactory.”

  “It is, Charlie. You’re right. But what can we do? Your uncle Jack’s reminiscences are intriguing, but they lead us nowhere. Beatrix seemingly didn’t want anybody to read Tristram’s letters. Well, Frank Griffith has made sure nobody will. And we don’t have any way of knowing what was in them.”

  Charlotte was suddenly tempted to contradict Emerson and tell him she was not sure Frank Griffith had destroyed the letters. But she knew why she was tempted, as well. Because, if Emerson’s research was at an end, so was all hope of their acquaintance blossoming into something more. To betray Frank’s trust on an emotional whim would be unforgivable. Therefore she must hold her tongue. “When will you go back to Harvard?” she asked lamely.

  “Why? Do you want to get rid of me?”

  “Of course not.” She blushed. “You know I don’t.”

  “I’ve been one hell of a nuisance since I arrived, haven’t I? Dragging you all over the country. Cross-questioning you at every turn.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it. Really.”

  “So have I.” He smiled. “Matter of fact, I was wondering whether I could persuade you to join me on a couple more trips while I’m here.”

  “What sort of trips?”

  “No more research, I promise.” He let his gaze engage hers for a playful instant. “Purely for pleasure, this time.”

  Charlotte’s own smile was as much one of relief as of eagerness. “I’d love to,” she said.

  “Then why don’t we start with dinner this evening? Restaurant of your choice.”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  “Great.” He lowered his voice and nodded towards Samantha’s recumbent form. “But don’t tell Sam, eh? It’s possible she might feel jealous.”

  Derek did not return to Tunbridge Wells that afternoon. Instead, he drove on to the motorway and headed towards Wales, intent on pursuing the hope Maurice Abberley had planted in his mind. Their second encounter had been infinitely more encouraging than their first. Maurice struck Derek as a man willing to confront unpalatable facts even when they flew in the face of his own prejudices. Derek did not delude himself into believing there was any real affinity betwe
en them. All that united them was a desire to learn the truth, in Maurice’s case in order to avenge his aunt, in Derek’s in order to exonerate his brother.

  He stopped for the night at a pub near Abergavenny and sat alone in a corner of the bar, plotting how best to approach the unapproachable Frank Griffith. To plead? To demand? To reason? His choice might be crucial, yet it could not be made until he had met and taken stock of the man. Even then, it might be in vain. Griffith could easily prove immovable or genuinely unable to help. He could—

  There Derek stifled the last of his speculations. They were as pointless as they were dispiriting. And, tomorrow, he would have no need of them.

  Charlotte dined in vastly different circumstances at an award-winning restaurant beside the Thames. She was a stranger to such extravagance, not because she could not afford it, but because she had never seen any purpose in spoiling herself. Her boyfriends—such as they had been—would not have displayed any of Emerson McKitrick’s social accomplishment, nor would they have attracted—as he did—admiring glances from ladies at other tables. Charlotte was elated by the thought of being envied on his account, by the host of unspoken possibilities that clustered around their ever greater familiarity with each other.

  “How come you’ve never married, Charlie?”

  “I’ve never been asked.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “It’s true. What’s your excuse?”

  “Indecisiveness, I guess.”

  “I can’t believe that either.”

  “Well, it doesn’t necessarily mean not being able to make up your mind. It can also mean not taking risks with your emotions.”

  “In that case, I know the feeling.”

  “I thought you might. It doesn’t pay in the long run, does it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Don’t wait to be sure, Charlie. Not every time. If you do, you’ll just go on waiting.”

  “Will I?” Their hands touched and briefly engaged. And Emerson’s only answer was a smile.

  Later, with their meal over and the restaurant emptying, they strolled down to the river’s edge and watched the dining room lights shimmer on the black surface of the water while a restless moorhen splashed and clucked among the reeds on the opposite bank. Charlotte was to sleep at Swans’ Meadow that night, but she was reluctant for them to return there, knowing that, once they had done so, Emerson’s company would no longer be exclusively hers. She was reluctant, indeed, to break in any way the spell under which she had fallen. The silk of her dress felt cool against her skin, the clasp of his arm warm around her waist. When he kissed her, she was neither prepared nor surprised. It had been bound to happen. Only her self-doubt had made her think it might not.

  “Nothing’s ever wasted, Charlie,” he whispered. “On a wild goose chase, you may find a swan.”

  “Don’t flatter me too much. I might come to expect it.”

  “Why shouldn’t you—when you deserve it?”

  “But I don’t.” She was going to tell him. She knew that now. It was too late not to. “I’ve deceived you.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true.” Too many years of loneliness and vulnerability were stored within her for judgement or deliberation to stand a chance. She wanted to surrender herself to Emerson, body, soul, secrets and all. She did not want to be alone any more. “I don’t think Frank Griffith really destroyed those letters. I think he still has them at Hendre Gorfelen.”

  “So do I.”

  “What?”

  “So do I, Charlie.” She made out his smile in the darkness. “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

  “You’ve known all along?”

  “Suspected.”

  “He won’t give them up. I’m sure of that.”

  “So am I.”

  “Then what—”

  Another kiss silenced her. “Then it doesn’t matter, does it?” he murmured. “We’ll keep Frank Griffith’s secret. You and I. Together.”

  “Together?”

  “Don’t you want to take one of those emotional risks we were talking about?”

  “Yes.” She lowered her head against his shoulder. “I do.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  At seven o’clock the following morning, Derek telephoned Fithyan & Co. and recorded an apology for his absence on the answering machine. Any risk of having to explain himself to David Fithyan was thereby avoided, or at any rate postponed. Two hours later, he was in Llandovery, seeking directions to Hendre Gorfelen. By half past nine, he was driving along the curving hillside track towards the farm. Within a few minutes, he had arrived.

  He stopped the car in front of the house and wound down the window. He could hear a distant bleat of lambs and, closer to hand, a susurrous movement of tree-tops in the breeze, but no sound to suggest Frank Griffith was nearby. He climbed from the car and looked around, relieved no dog had yet hurled itself from a barn. None of the windows of the house were open. This, and the fact that anybody inside would have heard him arrive, convinced Derek nobody was at home. Nevertheless, he walked up to the door and knocked. There was no response.

  He retraced his steps to the car and sat back in the driving seat. Although Griffith might be away for some time, he would eventually return, whereas to scour the hills in search of him carried no guarantee of success. There was nothing for it, then, but to sit tight.

  Derek sighed and closed the window. Idly, he reached across to the glove compartment and took out his copy of Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography. In the index, Griffith, Frank warranted just one entry. Derek turned to it and ran his eye down the page until he came to Griffith’s name.

  When Abberley died, semi-conscious and probably too delirious to be in much pain, in the early hours of Sunday 27th March, a sergeant from his own platoon, Frank Griffith, was loyally in attendance. It was the same man who, shortly after the poet’s perfunctory funeral in Tarragona Cemetery, delivered his papers to the British Consul for onward transmission to his widow. It was a simple and no doubt unconsidered act, yet, had Griffith not carried it out, the whole corpus of Abberley’s Spanish poetry might easily have been lost. As it was, the belief commonly held for many years after Abberley’s death, that he had written no poems at all whilst in Spain, was shown to be a fallacy when, in 1952—

  A sudden rap on the glass reverberated in Derek’s ear. He started so violently that the book slipped from his grasp. When he turned, it was to see a face staring in at him, a lined and expressionless face which, even though Maurice Abberley’s description had been second-hand, he recognized instantly.

  “Good morning,” he ventured, as he wound down the window. “Frank Griffith?”

  “And you would be?”

  “Derek Fairfax.” He opened the door an inch or so, which was all Griffith’s position made possible. “Let me…er…introduce myself.” Now, late enough to have made some kind of point, Griffith stepped back, allowing Derek to climb out. “You may have heard of my brother, Colin Fairfax.” He grinned uneasily. “Also known as Fairfax-Vane.”

  “You’re right. I may have.” There was nothing in Griffith’s gaze to encourage communication of any kind, let alone discourse. “What do you want?”

  “I understand…Well, that is…Perhaps we could discuss this indoors.”

  “We could not.” He glanced into the car and Derek wondered if he could see what he had been reading.

  “I’m told you have some letters, Mr Griffith, sent to Beatrix Abberley from Spain in the ’thirties by her brother, the poet Tristram Abberley.”

  “Told by whom?”

  “I…I’d rather not say.”

  “Then maybe I’d rather not answer your questions.”

  “I’m here to appeal to you on my brother’s behalf. I wouldn’t be prying—or even curious—but for the position he’s in. He may go to prison for something he didn’t do. Perhaps for a long time. He’s not a young man. I—”

  A to
uch of Griffith’s stick on Derek’s shoulder silenced him. “If the letters you referred to existed—if I had them—what difference could they possibly make to whether your brother is convicted or not?”

  “I don’t know. But Beatrix Abberley was anxious to make sure they didn’t fall into the wrong hands, wasn’t she? If we could find out why—”

  “What would you say if I told you I’d burned the letters—without reading them?”

  “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  Griffith’s eyebrows twitched up, his first facial reaction of any kind. “I can’t help your brother, Mr Fairfax.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “I think so. All I’m asking you to do is show me the letters—or tell me what they contain that could make his sister a target for murder.”

  “You’re asking more than you know.”

  “You admit you know what’s in them, then?”

  “I admit nothing.”

  “Are you prepared to stand idly by and let an innocent man be sent to prison?”

  Griffith did not reply. Instead, he wedged his stick in the handle of the car door and pushed it wide open. “This is my farm. I’d like you to leave it.”

  “Mr Griffith—”

  “Leave me alone!” His voice was raised to a sudden bellow. A dog barked and loped into view round the end of the car. “That’s all I ask.” His tone had reverted to normal now. He turned and signalled the dog to sit, then looked back at Derek. “There’s nothing for you here, Mr Fairfax. Not a thing.”

  “What about my brother?”

  “Exactly. Your brother. Not mine.”

  “You fought in the Spanish Civil War, didn’t you? Wasn’t that for universal brotherhood?”

  “Some thought so. Some still do. I don’t.”

  “Isn’t there anything—”

  “No. There isn’t. I paid my dues a long time ago. I’m not paying any more. Get into your car. Drive back to your own world. Leave me in mine.”