Hand In Glove Part 24

"I don't know."

"Maurice?"

"Impossible. Besides . . ."

"McKitrick?"

"No. He wouldn't. They don't even-" She looked back at Frank, 142 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

insisting to herself that she must remain calm and logical. "I told Maurice and Emerson what you'd told me. It's possible they didn't believe you'd destroyed the letters. I didn't myself. As for Derek Fairfax, I've no idea how he heard about them."

"From one of you three."

"I suppose so. It just doesn't seem . . ." She shook her head. "Whoever told him, I find it hard to imagine he attacked you."

"So do I. But somebody did. Somebody who wanted those letters very badly. Fairfax because he thought they might help his brother.

McKitrick because he couldn't stand to be denied the insight they might give him into Tristram Abberley's mind."

"What insight would they give him?"

"One that would wreck his carefully worked out-" Frank stopped abruptly, mouth open, staring straight ahead.

"You read them, then?" Charlotte stepped closer. "What was in them, Frank? What was it Beatrix went to such lengths to hide?"

He looked at her. For a moment, she was sure he meant to tell her.

Then his jaw set in a determined line. "All I want to know is how to find Fairfax and McKitrick."

"I can't help you if I don't understand."

"What makes you think I understand? If I did, I'd have taken Beatrix at her word and burned . . . burned . . ." The sentence stumbled to a halt and Frank leaned back heavily against the work-top behind him. He had suddenly grown pale. His hand, as he raised it to his temple, was shaking.

"What's the matter?"

"I don't . . . don't quite . . ." He shook his head and blinked several times. "I'm sorry. I felt dizzy for a moment. But . . . it's pa.s.sed now."

"You need medical attention. Let me drive you to the hospital."

"No. I have to-" He took a step across the room, then pulled up and bent his head forward, grimacing as if in pain. It was as he began to sway on his feet that Charlotte hurried across to support him.

"You're going to the hospital. Now."

"I can't . . . can't . . ." The grimace faded. He raised his head and seemed to recover some of his colour. But still he was unsteady, his arm trembling as Charlotte held it. "Oh, G.o.d, I wish I was younger."

"Please let me take you to the hospital, Frank. All this can wait until you're feeling better."

"Can it?"

"It'll have to."

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143.

She could see the outward signs of his inner turmoil: the twitchings of his face, the darting of his eyes. But she could also sense the sudden weakness that was eroding his resolution. "All right," he murmured. "Have it your way."

Charlotte led him out through the door. As they moved slowly down the hall, he shook his head several times and once said "Sorry"

for no particular reason. Charlotte did not reply. She had the impression there was no need, that Frank Griffith's apology was directed not at her, but at somebody else altogether, somebody who was no longer alive to receive it.

CHAPTER.

THREE.

Colin Fairfax's second appearance before the Hastings magistrates was, if anything, more perfunctory than his first. He spoke just once, to confirm his own name. But for his position in the dock, he might otherwise have seemed uninvolved in the proceedings, a mere disgruntled observer of what was in reality another vital stage in his devourement by the law. He resembled the victim of some giant python, swallowed whole and helpless, conscious of his predicament yet aware that his every act of resistance only bears him further down to where the digestive juices wait.

Glancing across at him, Derek reflected on how quickly and easily he had forgotten all he had suffered at this man's hands over the years. The lies, frauds and deceptions. The ingrat.i.tude, mockery and condescension. They did not matter now. They had vanished and taken with them the bluff and bl.u.s.ter beneath which Colin Neville Fairfax, defendant, was simply one more weak and squirming human unable to comprehend his fate. As well as being, of course, Derek's only brother.

The charges were read. The Crown's solicitor requested committal, which Albion Dredge did not oppose. A bundle of statements was handed over. Reference was made to seventeen exhibits, namely the stolen items of Tunbridge Ware, which were standing on a side-table.

144.

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

And thereupon Colin was, in the words of the chairman of magistrates, "committed to stand trial before a judge and jury at Lewes Crown Court."

Before Derek had properly absorbed this development, Dredge had reapplied for bail in pessimistic tones and been refused. Colin was led away, the court rose and Derek found himself trailing out of the room amidst a clutch of lawyers and policemen. He had the vague impression that Dredge was trying to avoid him. Certainly the fellow showed no inclination to break away from a smiling conversation with his opposite number to speak to him. After lingering nearby for a few moments without catching Dredge's eye, Derek decided to leave him to it. He turned and made his way to the exit.

As he pushed the main door open, he noticed-without paying her much attention-a woman standing at the foot of the short flight of steps. She glanced up as he began his descent and, in that instant, he recognized her. It was Charlotte Ladram.

He pulled up. "Miss . . . Miss Ladram," he said lamely, struggling to identify what it was about her that was so different from his recollection of their earlier meetings. She was less elaborately dressed, it was true, in trousers and a plain blouse, and was wearing dark gla.s.ses, where before her large, brown, faintly startled eyes had been clear to see. But something else had altered too, something, much less obvious but, it seemed to him, far more profound. "I . . . I didn't . . ."

"h.e.l.lo, Mr Fairfax." She removed her gla.s.ses and looked directly at him, but did not smile. "Could you spare a few moments, please?"

"Of course."

"Perhaps we could talk in my car."

"Certainly."

She turned and began walking briskly towards the car park. He had to hurry to catch up with her.

"Is this . . . about my letter?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what?"

She countered the question with one of her own. "I take it your brother's been committed for trial?"

"Yes. He has."

"No last minute evidence was produced to save the day?"

"No." He frowned. "How could it be?"

"I gather you've been making efforts to unearth some."

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145.

Suddenly irritated by her tone, he snapped back: "Why shouldn't I?"

She glanced round at him, too briefly for him to read the thoughts behind her expression, then said, pointing ahead: "Mine's the Peugeot."

They reached the car and Derek moved to the pa.s.senger door.

Charlotte gazed at him momentarily across the roof, then turned her key in the lock. They climbed in alongside each other and Derek was about to fasten his seat-belt when he remembered they were going nowhere. Self-consciously, he slid it back into its harness.

"I meant what I said in the letter . . . you know."

"No doubt."

"All I'm trying to do is-"

"Who told you about Frank Griffith?" The question fell like a blade across his words.

"I . . . don't know what-"

"You visited him yesterday at Hendre Gorfelen and asked about Tristram's letters to Beatrix, didn't you?"

"Well . . . yes."

"So, who was the source of your information?"

Late, but not too late, his thoughts caught up with his reactions.

"Why should I tell you anything-when you tell me nothing?"

Her head drooped slightly. He heard her sigh, though whether from weariness or exasperation he could not judge. "I'm sorry," she said in a softer tone. "I've no right to interrogate you. Besides, I think I know the answer before I ask the question. You didn't steal the letters, did you?"

"Steal them? You mean they really do-"

"Exist? Yes. Unless the thief has already destroyed them."

"Then what . . . what do they contain?"

"I don't know. Frank Griffith arrived at my house early this morning in a bad state. He'd been attacked. It happened last night, while he was removing the letters from their hiding-place. Your visit had prompted him to burn them as Beatrix had originally asked. But he didn't get the chance. He's in the Kent and Suss.e.x Hospital now, suffering from concussion. He hasn't told me what's in the letters or why Beatrix should have wanted them destroyed, partly because he thinks I'm to blame for what's happened, as in a way I am." She had rested her hands on the steering-wheel and now, as Derek watched, 146 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

her grip tightened. "He trusted me and I betrayed that trust. Which is why I'd like to know who your informant was."

"I promised not to reveal his ident.i.ty."

"It was Emerson McKitrick, wasn't it?"

"Who?"

"Emerson McKitrick." She turned round and stared at him.

"But . . . you mean . . . Tristram Abberley's biographer?"

Incredulity was legible in Charlotte's expression. "Are you saying it wasn't?"

"Of course I am. I've never met him. I've read his book. But that's all."

Charlotte frowned. "Then . . . it must have been Maurice."

Whilst Derek was still debating whether to lie or not, he realized that to do so was pointless. His incapacity to deceive was never more evident within himself than now, when somebody whose trust he badly wanted to win defied him to throw away his chance.

"It was, wasn't it?"

"Yes. He asked me up to Ladram Avionics on Wednesday and told me all about Frank Griffith and the letters."

"Why? What reason did he give?"

"He said he was no longer certain my brother was guilty, but couldn't do anything about it without arousing family opposition."

"From me, you mean?"

"I suppose so. Among oth-"

"That's ridiculous!" She slapped the steering-wheel in irritation. "Ow!"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She winced and shook her right hand, then inspected it. "Well, a bruise perhaps. I probably deserve it for letting Maurice think I wouldn't-" She broke off, then resumed in an altogether different vein. Derek had the disquieting impression that she was talking more for her own benefit than his. "Other than you, only Emerson McKitrick had a compelling reason to steal those letters.

That's true whether or not Maurice put you up to visiting Hendre Gorfelen. And I was the one who told Emerson I believed Frank had hidden them there. So, either way, I'm still to blame. For letting him make a fool of me. For breaking my word. For-" She stopped and leaned back in her seat, ma.s.saging the heel of her hand as she stared out through the windscreen of the car.

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