Hand In Glove Part 15

"We need your help, Mr Griffith. Beatrix was a friend of yours, wasn't she? She was my G.o.dmother. Perhaps you know that." A disturbing thought flashed across her mind. "I suppose . . . you do realize . . .

Beatrix is . . ."

"Dead." Griffith had spoken for the first time, but his expression had not altered. "I know."

"You admit you were friends, then?" said Emerson.

"Admit?" Griffith raised one eyebrow just enough to signal his disgust at the choice of word.

"Pardon me," said Emerson. "Why don't we come clean? We know Beatrix came here at least once a year, using visits to Lulu Harrington as cover. And we know she left a letter with Lulu this H A N D I N G L O V E.

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year, to be mailed to you in the event of her death. All we're trying to find out is what was in the letter."

Griffith stepped past the dog and walked across to join them by the bookcase. Emerson was still clutching the copy of his biography of Tristram Abberley. Griffith lifted it gently from his grasp and slid it back into its place. "Researching for another book, are we?" he murmured.

"Maybe. I know Beatrix kept some letters Tristram had sent her from Spain, which she wouldn't show me twelve years ago. Now they're missing."

"Are they?"

"Did she have Lulu send them to you, Frank?"

"My friends call me Frank, Doctor McKitrick. Most of them are dead. And you were never one of them."

"There's something I should explain, Mr Griffith," said Charlotte, trying to strike a conciliatory note. "Beatrix bequeathed all her possessions to me. You could argue that anything she left behind is rightfully mine."

"Could you, indeed?"

"But there's more to it than that. Beatrix was murdered and she seems to have known she was going to be. Surely you can understand my wish to find out what lies behind her death. I owe it to her to do everything in my power to learn the truth. As her friend, won't you help me?"

He stared at her for a moment, then replied. "I've always acted according to my conscience, Miss Ladram. I'm not going to stop now."

"Then . . . will you help?"

"I'll do what I think best. That doesn't include satisfying your curiosity." He nodded at Emerson. "Or your friend's."

"See here-"

"I've a question for you, Doctor McKitrick." Griffith tapped Emerson on the chest with his stick. "What makes you think Tristram Abberley wrote to his sister from Spain?"

"She told me so."

"Is that a fact? Did she tell you as well, Miss Ladram?"

"Well . . . No."

Griffith glanced from one to the other of them. Then he grunted, as if some point had been confirmed to his satisfaction. "I read about Beatrix's murder in the papers. They said an antique dealer had been 88 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

arrested and charged. Seemed certain he was guilty. You agree, Doctor McKitrick?"

"Open and shut, far as I know."

"And you, Miss Ladram?"

"I'm not sure. Fairfax-Vane may be a scapegoat."

"Who for?"

"I don't know. It's one of the reasons why I wanted to speak to you." Previously, Charlotte would have said no such thing. Now, confronted by just one of the secret figures in Beatrix's life, she realized it was true: the explanations she had hitherto accepted were no longer sufficient. "How long have you lived here, Mr Griffith?"

"What's that to you?"

"It's just I wondered if . . . You do own this farm, don't you?"

"I'm n.o.body's tenant, if that's what you mean."

She decided to back her judgement. "Did Beatrix help you buy the place?"

His eyes widened slightly, but he displayed no other reaction. He looked at Emerson, then back at Charlotte. "A scapegoat, you reckon?"

"It's possible."

"Many things are." He turned, walked to the window and gazed out into the yard. "Many things." He seemed lost in thought, hunched slightly beneath the burden of whatever he was hiding.

Then, without turning round, he added: "I need to think about what you've said. I need time, you understand?"

"Of course. We're staying locally. There's no hurry."

"Write down the 'phone number for me."

Emerson exchanged glances with Charlotte, then took his note - book from his pocket, tore out a page and handed it to her. She picked up a pencil from the desk and recorded the number. "I'll leave it here, shall I?" she asked.

"Do that. Then go. Both of you."

"How do we know you'll call?" put in Emerson.

"You don't." Still he did not turn to face them. "I may not. It's up to me, not you."

"But we can't just-" Charlotte's raised hand and shake of the head silenced him. Bluff and bl.u.s.ter would not help their cause. Of that she was certain.

"All right, Mr Griffith," she said. "We're going. Think about what I said." She hesitated, in case he was moved to respond. Then, when it had become obvious he would not, she led Emerson from the room H A N D I N G L O V E.

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and out into the yard. When they reached the car and she glanced back at the window, Frank Griffith was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER.

EIGHTEEN.

Over dinner that evening, Charlotte and Emerson discussed their visit to Frank Griffith and wondered if they would hear from him. Whether or not he made contact, Emerson agreed that Charlotte's had been the correct tactics.

"I reckon he may trust you, Charlie, whereas reading my book doesn't seem to have given him a very high opinion of me. Perhaps he thinks I got Tristram Abberley all wrong and, who knows, maybe I did.

His last months in Spain, anyway. But then, if I did, Frank Griffith could put me right, couldn't he? If he wanted to. Beatrix knew where he was, but she didn't tell me. He must have wanted to stay hidden even then. Why? Why so badly? That's what I can't understand."

"So he could forget about Spain-and what he did there?"

"But he hasn't. That's the point. He hasn't forgotten a d.a.m.n thing. All those books. All those memories locked up in his head.

Everything's there-if only I could prise it loose."

"You think he knows something valuable about Tristram?"

"Maybe. He was there-beside his bed in the hospital at Tarragona-when he died. And he was the one Tristram trusted to send back his last poems to your mother. n.o.body else was so close to him at or near the end."

"But that doesn't explain why Beatrix should help him buy Hendre Gorfelen-as I'm sure she did-or visit him there every year."

"No. It doesn't. But the letter Lulu mailed to him might. And he might be willing to tell you what it contained. What you said about discovering the truth behind Beatrix's death got to him, I'm sure of it.

It was a clever ploy."

"It wasn't just a ploy."

"But this guy Fairfax was caught red-handed according to Maurice."

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R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

"So he was."

"Then where's the room for doubt?"

"I don't know. Perhaps there isn't any. Let's wait and see what Frank Griffith has to say."

"If anything, you mean."

"Yes. If."

Charlotte fell asleep that night rehearsing in her head all the ifs and buts and maybes Beatrix's death had led her into. If Fairfax-Vane was innocent, as his brother claimed . . . But how could he be . . . ? Maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth . . . If he was, Beatrix had been murdered for an altogether different reason than they thought . . .

But what reason . . . ? Maybe, just maybe, Frank Griffith knew the answer . . .

Early the following afternoon, Derek Fairfax faced his brother across a bare table in the grim and echoing visiting room at Lewes Prison.

Colin was nearing the end of his fourth week in custody and had visibly deteriorated since Derek had last seen him. There were dark bags under his eyes and his face had lost its normal high colour and acquired instead a grey and clammy pallor. More worrying still was the faint but detectable tremor in his hand as he rubbed at his unshaven chin.

"You don't look well, Colin."

"I might perk up if you brought me some good news."

"I only wish I could. But so far my letters have been ignored."

Colin snorted. "b.l.o.o.d.y letters! Of course they've been ignored."

"Well, if you've a better idea . . ."

"Maybe I have. Give it up, Derek. I'll be committed for trial next week. Just let it happen. Wash your hands of the whole thing."

"You can't mean that."

"Unless you already have. Is that it?" Colin's tone had altered now, self-pity giving way to sarcasm. "Perhaps you're just stringing me along. Telling me you're straining every sinew on my behalf when in reality you're sitting back and rubbing your hands with glee at the thought of being rid of me for good and all. Well, don't worry.

You'll get your wish. Ten or more years in this or some other h.e.l.l-hole will be the finish of me, no question."

H A N D I N G L O V E.

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