Part 17 (1/2)
”Yes.”
”And was this year different in any way?”
Griffith's gaze narrowed. ”In retrospect I see it was. She was 96 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
distracted, often to the point of irritability. I blamed old age, which only irritated her the more.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
”She said nothing about fearing for her life. If she had- Well, let's just say I had no inkling of any such thing.”
”How did you hear of her death?”
”By her own hand. The letter Lulu sent me made it clear its despatch meant she had died suddenly and unnaturally-as I subsequently confirmed.”
Charlotte could hear her own heart beating rapidly as she asked: ”What was in the letter?”
”A note from Beatrix and a sealed package. The note told me what I've just told you-and asked me to burn the package without opening it. She said it contained letters from Tristram-”
”From Tristram? Then Emerson's right. She did keep them.”
”Presumably.”
”Presumably? Surely you didn't-”
”Burn it?” He looked directly at her. ”What else do you think I did? It was Beatrix's last request. I owe her the peace I enjoy here.
How could-” He turned away and his voice faltered. ”How could I not do as I was asked?”
Charlotte stared at him for a moment, then up into the sky above their heads, where a bird of prey was circling slowly in the void. Had Beatrix stood here a few short weeks ago, she wondered, and planned all this? A paper-chase in which the prize could never be found. Blank pages for Ursula. An unopened package for Frank Griffith to burn.
And who knew what else besides? ”Were you aware she left three other letters with Lulu?”
”I was not.”
”One to Ursula, Maurice's wife.”
”I know who she is.”
”Well, would you like to know what her letter contained?”
”No.”
”Not even to satisfy your curiosity?”
”I'm not curious.” He looked back at her. ”I know and understand as much as Beatrix wanted me to. That's enough.”
”But why should she want you to destroy her brother's letters?”
”If I could tell you why, there'd have been no point to her request, would there? Can't you simply accept that she had the right to decide how they should be disposed of ?”
Faced with such a direct challenge to her inquisitiveness, H A N D I N G L O V E.
97.
Charlotte fell silent. Beatrix's wishes deserved to be respected. There was no disputing that. Yet they were so inextricably bound up with the mystery of her death that to obey them blindly was also to conspire at a suppression of the truth. Just as to defy them was to be dis-loyal to her memory. Neither choice was beneath contempt and neither wholly honourable.
”Have you had any breakfast, young lady?” asked Griffith with disarming gentleness.
”What . . . ? Well, no, I . . .”
”Come down to the house and I'll cook you some. You look as if you need it.”
CHAPTER.
TWENTY.
The aroma of bacon, mushrooms and tomatoes sizzling in a pan reminded Charlotte of breakfasts she had had in her childhood, mopping up the molten fat on her plate with a soldier of bread whilst her father grinned and winked at her across the kitchen table. ”Be good, squirt,” he would say, rising hurriedly to go after a glance at the clock. A lock of his hair would always flop on to her forehead as he stooped to kiss her and he would invariably add in an artificial growl: ”See you later . . .”
”Alligator,” she murmured, more than twenty years on from the last time she had finished his sentence.
”What was that?” Frank Griffith frowned across at her from the range, spatula in hand.
”Nothing.” She shook her head, as if to dislodge what she had remembered. ”Nothing at all. I'm sorry.”
”No need to apologize to me. I talk to myself all day long. It's a hazard of living alone.” He began distributing the contents of the frying-pan on to plates. ”You have lived alone, haven't you, since your mother died?”
”Yes. How did-” She broke off, then added: ”Beatrix would have told you, of course.” Breakfast was placed before her. Griffith sat 98 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
down with his own on the other side of the table. ”Thank you. It's rather strange, I must say, to meet somebody for the very first time and to find they've known all about you for years.”
”Beatrix didn't tell me that much.”
”Just enough?” She smiled, but he did not respond. They ate in silence for a moment, then she said: ”And you're quite certain you don't know who the other two recipients of Beatrix's letters are?”
”Beatrix never mentioned a Miss van Ryan in New York or a Madame V in Paris.”
”Do you think they might also have known Tristram?”
”Old girlfriends, you mean? Or mistresses?”
”Perhaps. You spent several months with Tristram in Spain. He might have said something . . . let a similar name slip one day . . .”