Hand in Glove

by Robert Goddard

  “And did you absolve him?”

  “As far as I could. I was shocked, of course, but I didn’t feel betrayed. I’d grown to know and like him for the man he was rather than the poet he wasn’t. The poems were just words, whereas he was flesh and blood. The fact he hadn’t written them couldn’t blot out our friendship or diminish the memory of him I was determined to hold. Tristram Abberley was a good man. Even then, I understood that was more important than being a good poet.”

  “But why? Why did they do it?”

  “It started as a joke, while Tristram was at Oxford. They submitted ‘Blindfold’ for inclusion in the anthology Auden edited as an experiment, to see whether it would be praised or derided. Beatrix had deliberately guyed the style of Auden’s circle and had predicted the poem would be well received by them so long as they thought it was the work of one of their own kind. Well, she was right. It attracted more favourable attention than either of them had anticipated. The title was part of the joke. ‘Bind the cloth tightly, lest you see too brightly.’ ‘Who faces the men? Who holds the pen?’ There were hints and double meanings in virtually every line, but nobody noticed them, or understood them if they did. The experiment was a complete success.”

  “Which they decided to repeat?”

  “No. It was meant to end there, as a joke they could relish and share. And so it would have, but for the rift between them and their father. When they were turned out of the family home without a penny in the winter of ’thirty-two, Beatrix thought poetry was worth trying as a way of keeping the wolf from the door. Tristram’s reputation at Oxford was all they had to capitalize on, so they put together The Brow of the Hill under his name. From then on, it was too late to turn back. Nobody wanted to hear that Beatrix wrote the poems when Tristram fitted the bill so much better. And he enjoyed the attention he received, whereas Beatrix wanted none of it. She wrote the second collection under protest. They were no longer short of money. It was only Tristram’s standing in the literary world which required him to go on producing poetry. Reluctantly, Beatrix obliged.”

  “Did my mother know?”

  “Not while Tristram was alive. And he asked me not to tell her after he was dead. In the end, it was Beatrix who broke the news, years later, at the time of Spanish Lines.”

  Charlotte’s reactions were lagging behind her understanding. Suddenly, she realized the publication of Tristram’s posthumous collection must have rested not on one lie, but on several. “There were no poems sent back to my mother from Spain, were there?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then…”

  “Money’s important. Only those who have never been without it will tell you otherwise. Well, in post-war Britain it was in short supply. Your father’s company was floundering and Tristram’s poetry was bringing in virtually nothing by then. Beatrix conceived the idea of Spanish Lines as a way of helping her relatives. And me. It wasn’t as good as the earlier stuff. Beatrix recognized that. Without her brother’s inspiration, what she produced was mechanical, somehow heartless. It’s a pity he couldn’t have known that. Known, I mean, that he really was a poet, or at least part of one. But Spanish Lines achieved its purpose. It revived Tristram’s reputation just when it seemed to be in irreversible decline. The earlier collections were reprinted. People started talking about him again, reading his work, making a cult of the poet who had died in Spain. With the proceeds, Ladram Aviation was put back on its feet, at least for a while. And Beatrix bought Hendre Gorfelen for me. So, you see, I’m party to the conspiracy.”

  The anxious family conferences Uncle Jack had reported made sense now. As did the delay in publishing Spanish Lines. Charlotte thought of her mother’s explanation that she had found it too painful at first to consider publication and flinched with the shock of realizing she had lied. There had been nothing to publish—until Beatrix had written it. How far did the lies run? she wondered. How many had been told her in the course of her life? “Who knew, Frank? You, Beatrix and my mother, obviously. But who else?”

  “Your father. Nobody else. Not then.”

  “But since?”

  “I don’t know. None of us had anything to gain from sharing the secret with an outsider. Your father and mother didn’t even know I was in on it. As far as they were concerned, it was between them and Beatrix.”

  Charlotte nodded, wrestling within herself to assemble and identify the consequences of what Frank had said. They would all have kept the secret. That was clear. Which meant Beatrix would never have told Emerson McKitrick about the letters. So, who had told him? Her mother? It hardly seemed likely, but who else was there? When she looked up, she found Frank’s eyes trained upon her, guessing it seemed the direction of her thoughts.

  “McKitrick was lying. I knew that as soon as I heard his story. Beatrix wouldn’t even have given him the train times to London. He was put up to it, by somebody who knew the letters existed but not where they were, who needed to find them but who couldn’t afford to let others know why.”

  “Who also broke into Jackdaw Cottage,” put in Derek, “and murdered Beatrix in search of the letters?”

  “I think so,” said Frank.

  Charlotte glanced first at Derek, then at Frank. Was it possible, she wondered, that they had already reached the conclusion she was approaching now with reluctance and distaste? The person they were referring to could only have learned about the letters from Ronnie or Mary Ladram. And he could only have recruited Emerson McKitrick to do his dirty work if he had visited the United States between the time of Beatrix’s death and Emerson’s arrival in England. “You mean Maurice, don’t you?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Well,” said Frank, “he is the only candidate, isn’t he? Your mother might have felt he was entitled to know the truth about his father.”

  “Yes, but—” Charlotte’s instinct was to defend Maurice, but she needed time to consider whether her instinct was correct. Was Maurice capable of such acts? If he was, what was his motive? If he had none, who else did? If Maurice was ruled out, who was ruled in? No sooner had she formed the questions in her mind than they dissolved into one determined assertion. “I refuse to believe my brother may be a murderer.”

  “Half-brother,” Derek corrected her.

  She turned and glared at him. “What difference does that make?”

  “Perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think.”

  “As well as you know your brother, you mean?”

  “Yes, I suppose you could—”

  “Maurice is a more honourable man than your brother, Mr Fairfax. Take my word for it. I’ve known him all my life. He’s kind, intelligent, hard-working and thoroughly admirable.”

  “Charlotte,” said Frank, “all I’m trying to—”

  “What possible reason could he have for doing what you’ve suggested? Why should he want to expose his father as a fraud? Why should he be prepared to murder his aunt in order to discredit the whole family? It’s preposterous, absurd, unthinkable.”

  Charlotte blushed at the vehemence of her outburst and Derek and Frank seemed at first too taken aback by it to speak. Those few occupants of the ward capable of doing so looked across at her and stared. Then Frank said calmly: “I know. It’s all the things you say. But Beatrix was murdered. And I am lying here with a gashed head. And the letters are missing. Those events aren’t imaginary. They won’t go away. How do you explain them?”

  “I can’t.”

  “No. And neither can I. But maybe Maurice can.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  As soon as she had reached Ockham House, Charlotte telephoned Ladram Avionics. To her immense relief, Maurice’s secretary had not yet left for the weekend.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Ladram?”

  “It’s about Maurice’s current visit to the United States.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “When’s he due back?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “In the morning?”

&
nbsp; “His flight’s due into Heathrow at…let me see…nine-thirty. I believe he’s coming straight on here.”

  “Thank you.” So, only four days separated her from the reassurance she was sure Maurice would give her. How she felt for him at the moment. Betrayed by Ursula. Traduced by Frank Griffith. And unaware of it all, unable to defend himself in any way. “I am correct in thinking, aren’t I,” she continued, “that he flew to New York yesterday?”

  “Of course. Didn’t you know?”

  “It’s a question of timing. Somebody…somebody we both know…thought they caught sight of him…in London…last night.”

  “Quite impossible, Miss Ladram. Mr Abberley flew out on Concorde yesterday morning at ten-thirty. I booked the seat myself.”

  “A mistake, then, obviously.” A wave of relief swept over Charlotte. The idea that Maurice had stolen the letters from Hendre Gorfelen had always been far-fetched. Now it was also a practical impossibility. “Thank you for the information. Goodbye.”

  She put the telephone down, walked into the lounge and poured herself a large gin and tonic, then added more gin. The first gulp took some of the pain away, the second some sharpness of memory. Emerson’s flowers still stood in brilliant blossom in several vases round the room, but, if she tried hard enough, she could blot out most of the words he had used and virtually all of the sounds she had heard. But not everything. Even if she emptied the bottle, the burning sense of her own gullibility would remain, the horrid squirming truth of his last gibe. “Shall I tell you what really disgusts you, Charlie?”

  “No,” she mumbled into her glass. “Please don’t.”

  The doorbell rang, magnified by the silence of the house, startling Charlotte so that she spilled some of her drink on the sleeve of her blouse and had to bite back a sudden inclination to cry. She put the glass down and hurried into the hall, hoping, whoever her visitor was, to be alone again soon.

  It was Derek Fairfax. He was smiling uncertainly. “Miss Ladram,” he began, “I’m sorry to…sorry if this is…”

  “What do you want?”

  “Could I come in?”

  “Why?”

  “I have something to say…to ask…It could be very important.”

  A weariness with argument of all kinds overcame Charlotte. “All right,” she said, opening the door wide. “Come in.”

  She led the way back into the lounge and turned to look at him, determined not to offer him a drink or a seat, or any other excuse to linger.

  “Well?”

  “I’m sorry if what I said…at the hospital…offended you.”

  “How could I not be offended by an accusation of murder against my own brother?” She paused. “Half-brother, as you pointed out.”

  “I only meant—”

  “As it happens, I’ve just confirmed he was already in New York when Frank was attacked. So, you’ll have to look elsewhere for a suspect, won’t you?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A possible explanation for all this came to me after you’d left. You won’t like it, but I think you ought to hear it.”

  “What explanation?”

  “How much in royalties does Tristram Abberley’s estate earn per year?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tristram’s poetry. What are the royalties worth?”

  Charlotte stared at him for a moment, trying to reconcile his presumptuousness with his timidity, then said: “What possible business is that of yours?”

  “Fifty thousand? Sixty? More?”

  “I repeat: what has that to do with you?”

  “You don’t deny it’s a considerable sum?”

  “No.”

  “Or that your half-brother receives the bulk of it?”

  “Of course he does. He’s Tristram’s son.” The death of Charlotte’s mother, followed by that of Beatrix, meant in fact that all royalties now went to Maurice. But Charlotte did not propose to tell Derek Fairfax so until she knew where his questions were leading. “What of it?”

  “Those royalties will run out soon, won’t they? Copyright in Tristram Abberley’s work expires at the end of next year. There’ll be an extension for the posthumously published poems, of course, but your brother will have to do without what the rest earn straightaway.”

  “So?”

  “So a large and regular source of income will dry up.”

  “Maurice is a wealthy man in his own right. Ladram Avionics is a highly successful company. He’ll scarcely notice the loss.”

  “My experience as an accountant, Miss Ladram, tells me that nobody could fail to notice such a loss. It also tells me that people’s finances aren’t always as secure as they lead others to believe. Perhaps he needs the money more than you think.”

  “I doubt it,” Charlotte snapped. “But even if he does, there’s nothing he can—”

  “That’s the point!” Fairfax was suddenly animated, gleeful almost at the chance to unveil his theory. “There is something he can do. Don’t you see? The letters prove Beatrix wrote—or at the very least co-wrote—all of Tristram’s poems. If they were made public, the literary world would have to acknowledge her role in their composition. As would the legal world.”

  “The legal world?”

  “I used to handle the tax affairs of a playwright who collaborated on some of his works with another playwright. As a result, I had to familiarize myself with the copyright laws, particularly those relating to cases of co-authorship.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “Copyright, Miss Ladram! A lucrative commodity where the poems of Tristram Abberley are concerned. And copyright expires fifty years after the death of the author. If there are two or more coauthors, it expires fifty years after the death of whichever one survives the longest. If Beatrix Abberley is recognized as the author or co-author of her brother’s poems, copyright in the work will be extended until fifty years after her death. Fifty years from now, in other words. Either way, your half-brother benefits. The royalties continue to flow for the rest of his life, to him and to him only. He’s the sole surviving heir of both Tristram and Beatrix, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte replied with bleak neutrality. “He is.”

  “If he knew from your mother that Beatrix wrote the poems, if he came to know she possessed the letters proving her responsibility for them, if he realized the advantage of making the fact public, if Beatrix refused to co-operate—”

  “But he was in New York last night. And he probably has an equally good alibi for the night of Beatrix’s death.”

  “Does Brian Spicer have an alibi?”

  “Who?”

  “Spicer. Your brother’s former chauffeur.”

  “What about him? He was sacked, months ago, for drunkenness.”

  “But he was seen in Rye on the twenty-fifth of May. What was he doing there?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Preparing to break into Jackdaw Cottage, do you think? What better way to suggest he had no connection with your brother than for him to be sacked? But was he sacked—or simply given a better paid job with the same employer?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It was your brother who told me Frank Griffith had the letters. By visiting Hendre Gorfelen and demanding to see them, I covered the tracks of whoever was planning to steal them. And I provoked Frank into fetching them from their hiding-place, which the thief was waiting patiently for him to do. Spicer again, do you think?”

  “No.” Charlotte turned away and stared through the window, concentrating on the trimmed and orderly section of the garden she could see beyond. To believe what Fairfax had suggested was unthinkable, but to dismiss it was impossible. She needed time and silence and solitude. Above all, she needed Maurice to lead her by the hand back to calm and sane normality. “My brother is incapable of doing such things. Or of paying others to do them. He’s not short of money. Even if he were, he wouldn’
t have Beatrix killed to…simply to…”

  “Remember what Frank Griffith said. Those events aren’t imaginary and they can’t be wished away.”

  At that she rounded on him, a stray thought renewing her confidence. “If you’re right, Mr Fairfax, we’ll soon know, won’t we? Maurice has only to make the letters public to prove your point.”

  “But he could wait more than a year before doing so. If necessary, he could even wait until copyright had lapsed. He can choose his moment. He can say he found the letters, stumbled across them by chance, received them anonymously through the post. He can explain himself in any way he pleases. Whatever I or Frank Griffith think—whatever you think—we won’t be able to prove anything. And my brother will stay in prison.”

  “You believe Maurice fabricated the case against him?”

  “I believe he may have done. The royalties are substantial, aren’t they? Was fifty thousand a year so very far out? If not, over ten years, that’s half a million. Invested at a modest rate of interest, it would—”

  “I don’t want to know!” She almost shouted the words and then, as soon as they were out, realized how horribly true they were. She did not want to know. But she would have to. “Did you tell Frank Griffith about this?”

  “No. I thought I should speak to you first.”

  “Thank you for that at least. Please don’t tell him. Not yet. Not until I’ve seen Maurice and satisfied myself that you’re wrong.”

  “He’s hardly likely to admit any of it.”

  “No. But I shall know if he’s lying.”

  “And if he is?”

  “Then my closest relative—in many ways my closest friend—is a thief and a murderer.”

  Fairfax stepped closer. “Miss Ladram, I…I’m…”

  “Please don’t say you’re sorry.”

  “But I am. To cause you this distress, to level accusations at those you love…”

  “Never mind.” Stubbornly, Charlotte smiled. “You must do what you can to help your brother. And so must I.” She could maintain this façade of self-control only a little longer, she knew. She had to be rid of this man with his mild questioning eyes, his hesitant surmising that was worse than the calling of names and slinging of mud, his unconscious displays of a nature similar to her own. “Maurice flies back from New York on Wednesday. I shall meet him off the ’plane and lay everything you’ve said before him. When I’ve heard his response, I shall tell you what my conclusions are. After that, you must act as you see fit. But, until then, will you promise to do and say nothing about any of this? There’s no reason why you should agree, but, as a personal favour…”