Part 14 (1/2)
R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
”Of course. But what is it?”
”I'd sooner say nothing till I'm sure. But, if I'm right, there might be a way to track Mr Frank Griffith to his lair.”
CHAPTER.
SIXTEEN.
It was Thursday morning and Derek had calculated that this was the first day when he might hope for a reply to one of his letters.
Accordingly, he delayed setting off for Fithyan & Co. in case the postman brought some response from either Maurice Abberley or Charlotte Ladram.
As he waited, the thought crossed his mind that they might simply ignore his appeals altogether. What would he do then? The prospect of another unsolicited visit to Ockham House appalled him, yet, without the help of those who had known Beatrix Abberley, he could gain no glimmer of an insight into why she had been murdered. Without that, Colin's cause was lost. And Derek, though not threatened with imprisonment, stood to lose something only slightly less important than his liberty. For he believed Colin was innocent. And Colin was relying on him to prove it. If he failed to do so, no excuses would suffice. If he could not save his brother, he could not save his self-respect either.
At that moment, the rattle of the letter-box announced the arrival of the post. He hurried into the hall to find nothing but a flimsy card lying on the mat. He grabbed it up and read: Dear Mr Fairfax The book you ordered- Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography-is now to hand and awaiting your collection.
Please bring this- Derek screwed the card into a tight ball in his hand and let it fall to the floor. Another day was bound to pa.s.s now with nothing achieved.
Another day would be wasted when every moment was crucial.
H A N D I N G L O V E.
81.
Emerson McKitrick refused to tell Charlotte what he hoped to find at Jackdaw Cottage until they arrived there later that morning. Then he led the way to the bureau in the drawing room.
”Beatrix kept some maps here, Charlie, remember?”
”Yes. What of it?”
”Here they are.” He slid four Ordnance Survey maps out of one of the pigeon-holes. ”It struck me as weird when I first saw them. But it didn't seem important till you told me about Frank Griffith. See?” He laid them out across the flap of the bureau.
”I don't understand,” said Charlotte, staring down at their unremarkable pink covers.
”Three of them are local, right? Sheet 189 covers Rye, Sheet 188 Tunbridge Wells, Sheet 199 Eastbourne and Hastings. But look at the fourth. Sheet 160 is the odd one out.”
”The Brecon Beacons,” said Charlotte, reading the t.i.tle.
”You got it. Central Wales. Why should Beatrix want a map of that area?”
”Because it's where Griffith lives?”
”That's what I reckon.” He unfolded Sheet 160 and spread it out on the floor. Crouching over it, Charlotte saw no obvious clues, merely the bunched contours and green polygons of an afforested upland landscape. But Emerson saw rather more. ”This is the Dyfed boundary, look.” He traced a line of dots and dashes across the left-hand side of the map. ”We can ignore everything east of that.”
”Even so-”
”I reckon Beatrix went to see Frank Griffith during her fortnights with Lulu. Cheltenham's a handy staging post on a journey from Rye to Dyfed, wouldn't you say?”
”Yes. I suppose it is.”
”OK. And we know she travelled by train. So, where's the rail-road?”
”There.” Charlotte pointed to a firm black line snaking across the north-west corner. She was excited now, sure that Emerson was right.
”And the biggest settlement served by the railway is-”
”Llandovery.” Emerson grinned at her. ”I think we've found him, don't you?”
CHAPTER.
SEVENTEEN.
The following morning found Charlotte driving fast along the main road that skirts the northern fringes of the Brecon Beacons, with Emerson McKitrick navigating in the pa.s.senger seat beside her. They had arrived in Wales the previous evening and had stayed overnight at a country house hotel north-east of Brecon. Emerson, it appeared, was used to the best and had insisted that his newly recruited a.s.sistant should travel in style. Charlotte, for her part, had not cared to a.n.a.lyse too closely the exhilaration she felt.
Was it the thrill of the chase or the glamour of the company? To be entertained to dinner in a candlelit restaurant by a handsome American was for her a novel and intoxicating experience. To a.s.sume the role of equal partner in his endeavours-however briefly-raised in her mind more alluring possibilities than she felt able to cope with.
Emerson was the perfect gentleman, as charming as he was considerate. Entranced by his gallantry, Charlotte was also confused by it.
Was he merely humouring her? Or was he, perhaps, growing to like her as much as she was growing to like him? He was such an altogether grander type of man than those with whom she had previously been entangled. Not that there was any question of entanglement where she and Emerson were concerned. To let her frail hopes and fragile emotions run away with themselves would be, she knew, the sheerest folly.
And yet, when she had been dressing for dinner, and had glanced from the window of her room and seen him strolling in the hotel garden, champagne-gla.s.s in hand, she had allowed herself to imagine for a few heady moments what it would be like if they were there for no reason but the pleasure each could give to the other. And what she had imagined she blushed now to recall.
Llandovery was a grey huddle of a town occupying a wedge of flat land where three rivers met beneath rolling mountain slopes. The beauty of its setting was in stark contrast to the grim reality of its H A N D I N G L O V E.
83.
three princ.i.p.al streets, where none of the pa.s.sers-by seemed willing to reciprocate Charlotte's smile.
Emerson, however, was undaunted. In every shop they came to, he enquired after Frank Griffith and seemed able to extract more helpful responses than Charlotte had expected. There were, it transpired, several Griffiths known to the proprietors, but none of those in their seventies was called Frank.
As noon approached, they decided to try the pubs. Of these there were far more than the size of Llandovery appeared to justify and most of them were as cheerless and unwelcoming as Charlotte had feared. They had treated the landlords of half a dozen similar establishments to various tipples-and learned precisely nothing-when they entered the inaptly named Daffodil Inn, bracing themselves to consume yet more mineral water they did not want. But this time their efforts were not to be wasted.
”Frank Griffith?” said the man behind the bar. ”Oh, yes, I know him. Seventy if he's a day, I should reckon. He comes in here most market days. Farms a few sheep, see, up at Hendre Gorfelen, beyond Myddfai. If you've a map, I can point it out for you. What would you be wanting with him, might I ask?”