Part 7 (1/2)
”What did you have in mind?”
”Contact Beatrix Abberley's family. Try to persuade them I'm telling the truth. They must want the real murderer caught as badly as I do. And they must know what his motive was, even if they're unaware of it at the moment.”
Derek thought of Charlotte Ladram speeding out of the car park in Hastings. ”I don't think they'd welcome such contact.”
”You can win them over. I know you can. Diplomacy's always been your forte.”
”I'm not so sure. Didn't you have a dispute with them last year over the price of some furniture? The police think that's how you got to hear about the Tunbridge Ware.”
”They're wrong. I'd forgotten all about it. I didn't know the woman I bought the furniture from was related to Miss Abberley until the police told me.”
”Maybe not. But the family obviously think otherwise. And it's bound to prejudice them against you.”
Colin sat back in his chair, stared intently at Derek for a moment, then said: ”I don't underestimate the difficulties. I'm only asking you to try.”
”All right. I'll see what I can do. But it may not be much.”
”Anything's better than nothing. And nothing is what I have to go on at the moment. Apart from this.” Colin reached into his pocket, took out a sc.r.a.p of paper and slid it across the table. On it was written, in pencilled capitals, TRISTRAM ABBERLEY: A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY, BY E.A. MCKITRICK.
”What's this?”
”Beatrix Abberley was the sister of Tristram Abberley, the poet.
Heard of him?”
”Vaguely.”
”I'm reading his collected works at the moment, courtesy of the prison library.”
42.
R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
”You? Reading poetry?”
”I've not much else to do, have I? Being accused of aiding and abetting his sister's murder has done wonders for my poetic sensibility. Unfortunately, I can't follow his kind of stuff any better now than when I was at school. But biography's a different matter. The library doesn't hold a copy, but the librarian favoured me with these details.”
”You want me to buy a copy for you?”
”No. I want you to buy a copy for both of us. It's bound to say something about his family, isn't it? It'll give you the background you need. Maybe even a clue. Or maybe nothing at all. We won't know until we try, will we?”
”It seems a bit of a long-shot.”
”It's the only kind of shot we have.”
Derek shook his head doubtfully and reached forward to pick up the piece of paper. As he did so, Colin stretched across the table and pressed his hand over Derek's. ”I'm relying on you. You know that, don't you?”
”Yes.”
”I won't say you owe it to me to do this, because it wouldn't be true. But there's no one else I can turn to. Not a soul.”
”Is that what I am, then? Your last resort?”
Colin smiled. ”I suppose so. But isn't that what brothers are for?”
CHAPTER.
EIGHT.
Beatrix's funeral was conducted with the chilling seemliness reserved for such occasions. On a pluperfect summer's day, a score of mourners gathered at St Mary's Church, Rye, for a short but eloquent service and were then conveyed by a flotilla of gleaming limousines to Hastings Crematorium for the conclusion of the ceremony.
Mrs Mentiply wept openly. One or two of Beatrix's neighbours dabbed at their eyes. Otherwise, the affair pa.s.sed off with a lack of emotional display of which Charlotte was sure Beatrix would have H A N D I N G L O V E.
43.
approved. Lulu Harrington did not attend, having sent Charlotte a brief note explaining that she did not feel equal to the journey. But there was a full turn-out of family members, Samantha having arrived home for the summer from Nottingham University the day before and Uncle Jack having done his best to sober up as well as smarten up for the occasion.
Eyeing her relatives across the crematorium chapel, Charlotte caught herself thinking what a typically English amalgam they were of restraint and indifference. As soon as she had decided to exempt Maurice and herself from this charge, however, she realized how unfair she was being. Why should Ursula and Samantha express more than they felt at the death of an old and not always companionable woman? The manner of her death was not their fault and could not be altered by any amount of conspicuous grieving.
Besides, they played the parts allotted to them with commendable diligence. Ursula a.s.sumed her decorous place beside Maurice in the garden of remembrance, shook hands with all the mourners and thanked them for coming. Jack refrained from cracking a single joke.
And Samantha's distant expression could easily have been taken for pent-up emotion, so winsomely affected did a black dress and hat make her appear.
Afterwards, the family adjourned to Ockham House for tea. At first, it was clear that none of them knew whether to strike a note of sorrow or of celebration. Had Beatrix died in her sleep, her age and mental alertness would have been counted as reasons to take comfort from her pa.s.sing. As it was, one violent moment cast its shadow over a lifetime of serenity. At all events, Charlotte supposed Beatrix's life had been serene, although the truth was that n.o.body had known her well enough to be absolutely certain.
For once, Jack's waggish ways were welcome. He it was who prompted Charlotte to offer the scotches and gins everyone was silently craving and, from that point on, conversation and affectionate reminiscence flowed. The need to function as a group faded as the stilted mood of the funeral ebbed away. Jack began to monopolize Samantha's attention with his lubricated and faintly lecherous wit.
Ursula drifted out on to the lawn to smoke a cigarette. And Maurice sought to rea.s.sure Charlotte about his stewards.h.i.+p of her inheritance.
”I think I can safely claim to have put everything in order, Charlie.
Not that it was difficult. Beatrix ran her affairs very efficiently.”
”I'm sure she did.”