Part 21 (1/2)

”No?”

Maurice sipped at his tea, then reclined in his chair, swivelling it slightly to face the window. ”It's an odd business. Confoundedly odd.

As I say, it may amount to nothing at all. On the other hand, it seems to me you should know about it. Then you can judge for yourself. And act accordingly.”

Derek listened attentively as Maurice continued. Beatrix Abberley, it appeared, had concealed for many years a friends.h.i.+p with a man called Frank Griffith, who had fought with her brother in Spain. She had also concealed certain letters sent to her by her brother from Spain and these she had arranged to be sent to Frank Griffith after her death with a request that he destroy them unread. This he claimed to have done. n.o.body could suggest any reason why Beatrix should have gone to such lengths to prevent the letters coming to light. Nor could they credit the notion that she had been killed because of them. Yet the fact remained that she had foreseen-even expected-her death. It seemed as if she had known her life was in danger and had prepared herself accordingly.

”It's hard for me to believe she was murdered on account of some fifty-year-old letters from my father, Mr Fairfax, very hard indeed. If my mother was still alive, I'd think Beatrix had been trying to keep something from her. A love affair Tristram had in Spain, perhaps. But my mother died last year, so that can't be it. Equally, it's hard now to believe Beatrix was murdered simply for a few antiques. There are too many other unexplained circ.u.mstances. If she thought her life was being threatened-by your brother, for instance-why didn't she H A N D I N G L O V E.

121.

go to the police? Or tell me about it? Why do nothing at all to protect herself ? And how did she know anyway? What made her so certain something was going to happen to her?”

”I may be able to point you towards an answer,” said Derek, suddenly eager to share his half-formed conclusions. ”Your aunt's conviction that she was going to be murdered fits with some information I've uncovered.”

Maurice's gaze intensified. ”What information?”

The sequence of events Derek sketched out was part known, part conjectural. Yet the force of its logic could not be denied and his belief in it strengthened as he spoke. When Colin visited Jackdaw Cottage on 20 May, Beatrix regarded him as a foot-in-the-door confidence trickster whose explanations were a tissue of lies. But a week later, when she telephoned him, she clearly believed his story and wanted to hear every detail of it. Only a few days afterwards, she travelled to Cheltenham, en route for Wales, firmly convinced her murder was already being plotted. Whatever convinced her must therefore have occurred during the days immediately following 20 May. And the only unusual event reported during that period was a sighting in Rye of Maurice's former chauffeur, who had been anxious to deny- ”Spicer?” exclaimed Maurice. ”Spicer was in Rye on the twenty-fifth of May?”

”Arnold Mentiply is adamant it was him.”

”Strange.” Maurice frowned. ”Very strange.”

”I gather you dismissed him because of drunkenness.”

”I had no choice. He was a good driver, but he couldn't be relied upon to remain sober. I let him go at Christmas.”

”Do you know where he works now?”

”No. In the circ.u.mstances, I could hardly give him a reference.

And I've heard nothing more of him. He lived in a flat in Marlow while he was with me. But I doubt he's still there.”

”What contact would he have had with your aunt?”

”Minimal. The odd word perhaps. He drove me down to Rye whenever I visited her.”

”He had no connections with the area?”

”None I was aware of. I simply can't account for him being seen there. Unless he works in the locality now, of course.”

”If he does, why would he pretend to Mentiply he was somebody else?”

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

”I don't know. But for that, I could regard it as a pure coincidence.”

”One of rather too many, surely?”

”Yes. That's the point, isn't it?” Maurice thought for a moment, then said: ”Spicer was a rough diamond in many respects. It's possible he could be involved in criminal activities. I can't deny it.”

”But you don't know where he is?”

”No. No idea at all.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. ”But I could ask around. His landlady in Marlow. The pub he used. He might have told somebody what his plans were.”

”I'd be very grateful if you could make some enquiries,” said Derek, detecting a pleading note in his voice as he spoke. ”I've done just about as much as I can on my brother's behalf.”

”I'll see what I can find out as soon as I return from New York,”

Maurice replied. ”Meanwhile, however, I should have thought there was something you could profitably do to help your brother.”

”What?”

”See Frank Griffith. Establish whether he's telling the truth.”

”You think he might be lying?”

”I don't know. I haven't met him, remember. Charlotte certainly believes him. But to destroy Tristram's letters, without even reading them first . . . I'm not sure I can believe anybody did that.”

”But . . . if he didn't . . .”

”He may still have them. Either way, he may know what they said.”

”And that might tell us why Beatrix was murdered.”

”Exactly.” Maurice looked Derek intently in the eye. ”I promised Charlotte I wouldn't bother Griffith. And I doubt I'd learn anything even if I did. But you're free to do as you please. And maybe-just maybe-your brother's predicament will persuade Griffith to reveal what he knows, where Charlotte's curiosity didn't.”

”It's certainly worth a try.”

”Yes.” Maurice smiled. ”I rather think it is.”

CHAPTER.

TWENTY-SIX.

Is it really a dead end?” asked Charlotte. ”To your research, I mean?” She had driven Emerson back to Swans' Meadow and they were standing together by the bank of the river, while behind them on the lawn Samantha lay prostrate on a sun-lounger, insulated against the world with dark gla.s.ses and Walkman.

”Looks that way.”

”But it seems so . . . unsatisfactory.”

”It is, Charlie. You're right. But what can we do? Your uncle Jack's reminiscences are intriguing, but they lead us nowhere. Beatrix seemingly didn't want anybody to read Tristram's letters. Well, Frank Griffith has made sure n.o.body will. And we don't have any way of knowing what was in them.”

Charlotte was suddenly tempted to contradict Emerson and tell him she was not sure Frank Griffith had destroyed the letters. But she knew why she was tempted, as well. Because, if Emerson's research was at an end, so was all hope of their acquaintance blossoming into something more. To betray Frank's trust on an emotional whim would be unforgivable. Therefore she must hold her tongue. ”When will you go back to Harvard?” she asked lamely.