Hand In Glove Part 19

Emerson swore loudly and instantly apologized. "I'm sorry. News like this is a real body-blow to a biographer."

"I'm sorry too."

"Destroyed them," said Maurice musingly. "Well, well, well."

Then he looked quizzically at Charlotte. "How, exactly?"

"He didn't say. Burned, I suppose."

"But you do believe him?"

"Yes." Charlotte knew she should meet Maurice's gaze as she replied, but something prevented her, something that turned what should have been a confident a.s.sertion into a stubborn protestation. "I believe him."

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

Nothing Maurice and Emerson said during lunch implied that either of them doubted Charlotte's account. They were both disappointed, of course, especially Emerson, for whom it represented a frustrating end to his quest for further insights into the mind of Tristram Abberley.

But Charlotte suspected anything beyond disappointment existed only in her over-sensitive imagination. She was also aware that Maurice was even more awkwardly placed than she was. Since her visit to Swans' Meadow, Ursula had been obliged to tell him about Beatrix's letter. Whatever he really thought, he had to sound as if he believed her, which is exactly what he did. In the circ.u.mstances, his loyalty was admirable and Charlotte's heart went out to him.

In the final a.n.a.lysis, however, burnt letters were as unsatisfactory as blank pages. They hid their secrets with terrible certainty. Which left those unwilling to abandon the search with little alternative but to sustain it for its own sake. In Charlotte's case, the reluctance to give up had more to do with Emerson McKitrick than Tristram Abberley.

But the effect was the same. When Maurice cast around for other av-enues they might yet explore, she responded eagerly.

"I'm off to New York again on Thursday," he announced as they awaited their coffees on the sun-dappled terrace behind the hotel.

"And I'll see if I can track down a Miss Van Ryan on Fifth Avenue while I'm there; though, with no number, I'm not optimistic."

"Will you go too, Emerson?" asked Charlotte.

"Reckon not. Maurice has generously invited me to stay at Swans'

Meadow for a spell and there's some unrelated research I want to do in Oxford."

"I've also suggested, Charlie," said Maurice, "that you might be willing to introduce him to Uncle Jack."

"Uncle Jack? Well, certainly. But why?"

"Because he was living with Mother and me when Tristram died-and when Frank Griffith came to see her. I was just a babe in arms. But Jack was in his early teens, nosing into everything. So, it's just possible he might be able to shed some light on what Tristram did or didn't send back from Spain."

"I can't see how. The real question, surely, is what he sent to Beatrix.

And you didn't go to live with her until after the war broke out."

"True enough. Maybe it's not worth inflicting the old bore on yourselves after all."

"My training says otherwise," put in Emerson. "Check every H A N D I N G L O V E.

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loose end in case it's a thread leading to the truth. That's how we academics get by. I'll risk being bored by Uncle Jack if you will, Charlie."

Charlotte smiled more broadly than she had intended. "I can't refuse then, can I?"

Later, when Emerson went to summon their bills, Maurice dropped his affable guard for a moment and said to Charlotte, without any preamble: "I don't suppose you believed Ursula's story, did you?"

"I . . . Of course I did."

"I wouldn't have, in your shoes. It seems too utterly fantastic.

That's one of the reasons why I came here. To rea.s.sure you. It is true.

The letter contained nothing but blank pages. I saw them myself."

"You saw them? But Ursula said-"

"She hadn't shown me the letter? I know. That's true too. I came across it in her bedside cabinet while I was trying to find some cuff-links. I just couldn't resist taking a peek inside. Well, I didn't know what to make of it, as you can imagine. But I couldn't ask Ursula.

She'd have thought I was spying on her. She must have thrown it away shortly afterwards, because it wasn't there next time I looked.

Of course, I had no idea it was from Beatrix. I still can't begin to imagine what she meant by it." He glanced round to make sure Emerson was not bearing down on them, then added: "The thing is this, Charlie. Ursula doesn't know I ever saw the letter and I don't want her to-for obvious reasons. So, can I rely on you to keep it to yourself ?"

There was a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, a hesitant edge to his smile. Suddenly, Charlotte realized she had been outmanoeuvred again. By agreeing to stay silent, she was also agreeing to accept Maurice's version of events without question. Yet to refuse was inconceivable. "Of course," she said, expunging every trace of reluctance from her tone. "Your secret's safe with me."

Emerson travelled in Maurice's car when they left the hotel that afternoon. It was only sensible, since he would be staying at Swans'

Meadow henceforth, but it meant Charlotte had to face the long drive back to Tunbridge Wells alone. Initially, the prospect depressed her. But, after setting out, she began to think it was probably for the 110 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

best. With Emerson for company, she might have let slip some un-guarded remark hinting at what she was beginning more and more to suspect: that everybody she had questioned about Beatrix was holding something back; that all of them, in one way or another, were lying.

CHAPTER.

TWENTY-THREE.

David Fithyan, son of the founder of Fithyan & Co., was a ruddy-faced sandy-haired man in his mid-forties who devoted what little time he could spare from playing golf and flirting with the office girls to ensuring that none of the company's more significant clients had cause for dissatisfaction. The moment Derek had been summoned to see him, he had known his error-strewn audit of Radway Ceramics was going to be the subject under discussion and so it had inevitably proved.

"George Radway cornered me at the club last night and gave me a real earful, I can tell you." For which, Derek did not doubt, he would be made to suffer. "I had a word with Neil this morning and according to him this isn't the only example of slipshod work by you recently."

"There have been . . . one or two problems."

"That's putting it mildly. Most of your accounts have fallen behind schedule. Hardly a week goes by without you taking a day or two off. And when you are here you seem too distracted to be of much use."

"I'm very sorry if . . . well . . . if I haven't been pulling my weight."

"Sorry's not good enough, Derek. What I want to know is what you propose to do about it."

"You have my a.s.surance there'll be no repet.i.tion of the difficulty with Radway's."

"Do I? Do I really?" Fithyan sighed and smoothed down his hair with an elaborate elbow-c.o.c.ked movement of his left arm, designed, Derek suspected, to expose his wrist.w.a.tch beneath his cuff so that he H A N D I N G L O V E.

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could check if their encounter had yet exceeded its allotted span. "Is all this . . . this inefficiency . . . because of your brother, may I ask?"

Derek flushed. "Ah. You know about that, do you?"

"Of course I know, man. Everybody knows. You didn't seriously expect to keep it dark, did you?"

"Well . . . No. No, I suppose not."

"You have my sympathy. It can't be pleasant to find your brother's a criminal."

"He . . . um . . . hasn't been convicted yet, actually."

"No. But he will be, won't he? At least, so I'm told."

"Told? By whom?"

Fithyan frowned. "Not by anybody specifically. It's just . . . common knowledge."

"Ah. I see."

"Now, Derek, what it comes to is this. We can't afford pa.s.sengers at Fithyan & Co. We all have to compete and perform." He stressed the two words as if by emphasis alone he could do both himself. "We realize members of staff are bound to have personal problems from time to time. We're not heartless or unfeeling. But we can't allow those problems to affect the company's reputation. You appreciate that, I'm sure."

"Of course."

"Very well. So, can I a.s.sume you'll be putting this . . . preoccupation . . . this . . . this embarra.s.sment . . . behind you?"

"Yes." Derek tried to inject some eagerness into his response.

"Yes. I honestly think you can."

Fithyan smiled clammily. "Splendid, splendid." He glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch. "Sorry I've had to wield the big stick, Derek. It's for your own good, really it is."

"Yes. I know."

"After all, none of us is our brother's keeper, as the poet said."

"It wasn't a poet, actually. It's in the Bible. As a question. Am I . . .

my brother's keeper?"

Fithyan's grin crumpled into puzzlement, then became a glare.

"Really? Well, whatever, the point is made." And their interview, his expression declared, was at an end.

Derek returned to his office as to a haven. There he could close a door against the world, at least for a while, and ponder the disarray to 112 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

which his life had lately been reduced. Through no fault of his own, of course. Through no fault of Colin's either. Yet it had happened.

And Fithyan had served notice that it could not remain so for much longer.

Derek subsided into the chair behind his desk and noticed three messages left for him on separate pieces of paper, all in the huge childlike hand of his secretary, Carol. Please ring Mr Hamlyn , VAT Office. Please ring Ann Nicholson , Radway Ceramics. Please ring . . .

Maurice Abberley, Ladram Avionics. Derek gaped at the words for several seconds before he found it possible to believe that they were what he thought. Maurice Abberley had contacted him. Of his own volition. Of his own choosing. Why-and especially why now- Derek could not imagine. Neither did he try. Obedient to the instinct of the moment, he picked up the telephone and tapped out the number.

A blandly polite receptionist; then a honey-toned secretary; and then, with bewildering suddenness, Derek found himself talking to Maurice Abberley in person.

"Mr Fairfax. Thanks for calling back." He sounded neutral, almost affable, as if he were conversing with a business acquaintance.

"Mr Abberley, I . . . I was somewhat . . ."

"Surprised to hear from me? I thought you might be. I suppose you wrote to me more in hope than expectation."

"Er . . . Yes . . ."

"Some recent developments have made me think you may have a point, however. About your brother being less guilty than he appears, I mean. Perhaps not guilty at all, if it comes to it."

"Really? Well, I'm-"

"Why don't we meet and talk about it, Mr Fairfax? Compare notes, so to speak."

"Yes. Yes, I'd like to."

"I have to fly to New York on Thursday. So, how would tomorrow suit you?"

Another absence from Fithyan & Co. so soon after a reprimand would be to invite serious trouble, as Derek well knew. Yet how could he refuse? This was the Abberley family's first gesture that could not be called implacably hostile. "Yes. Tomorrow would be fine. When and where?"

"Four o'clock. Here at my office."

"Fine. I'll be there."

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

113.

Derek put the telephone down and leaned back slowly in his chair, too confused by the turn of events to summon a reaction. Just as he had despaired of being able to pursue the mystery of why Maurice's former chauffeur should have been in Rye a few days after Colin's visit to Jackdaw Cottage, a way of doing so had obligingly presented itself.

Just as he had virtually agreed to abandon his brother to his fate, it had become impossible not to make one last effort on his behalf. The ironies and contradictions persisted. And he was helpless to resolve them.

CHAPTER.