Part 37 (1/2)
”It is stupid, not impossible. Very very stupid. He has broken his word.”
”No. He can't have done.”
”But he has. Ask him and judge for yourself. Tell him also that we do not react well to such behaviour.”
”What . . . What do you mean?”
”We shall telephone again twenty-four hours from now with instructions for the delivery of the remaining papers. If there is any further trickery, your daughter will be killed. Do you understand?”
228.
R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
”For G.o.d's sake-”
”For your daughter's sake, Mrs Abberley, make sure your husband does as he is told this time. It is your last chance. No more tricks. Good afternoon.”
There was a click, then silence. Charlotte looked up at Ursula, seeking rea.s.surance. ”Is it true? Did he hold some back?”
”What do you think, Charlie? You've known him longer than me.”
”He wouldn't. Not when Sam-”
”That was my reaction. As I put the 'phone down, I said to myself: Maurice couldn't have done this. Not to Sam. Not to me. He just couldn't. n.o.body could. Not with their daughter's life at stake. But I had to be sure, didn't I? You do see that, don't you?”
”Yes,” said Charlotte cautiously.
”Then come with me.”
Ursula led the way into the hall and marched up the stairs, with Charlotte following. They went straight into the master bedroom, where a leather briefcase stood open on the floor. Around it were scattered papers, pens and folders.
”That's the case Maurice took with him to New York,” said Ursula. ”I searched it, just to be sure.”
”What did you find?”
”Look in the inside zip pocket.”
Charlotte knelt beside the case. Along one side of the interior ran a zip-fastened pocket. She opened it, slipped her hand inside and pulled out an old frayed envelope. It was addressed, in a faltering hand, to Miss Beatrix Abberley, Jackdaw Cottage, Watchbell Street, Rye, East Suss.e.x, Inglaterra. And the barely legible postmark removed the last shred of doubt about who had sent it. Tarragona, Repblica Espanola, 17 Mar 38.
”It's the last letter Tristram sent to Beatrix,” said Ursula.
”Maurice must have hoped the kidnappers would think the sequence had ended one earlier. That way he could have his cake and eat it too.
Sam free. And one letter still left to prove Beatrix wrote the poems.
The b.l.o.o.d.y fool!”
”How could they know there was another?”
”How could they know any of it? But they do. Every single thing.
Every move we make. It's useless to try and deceive them. But Maurice had to, didn't he? He just couldn't help himself.”
”I'm sorry, Ursula. I really am.”
”Don't be. It's Maurice who should apologize. To all of us. And I H A N D I N G L O V E.
229.
mean to make sure he does. But first he's going to have to stop lying.
Once and for all.”
”May I read the letter?”
”Be my guest. Be Maurice's. After all, it's only thanks to him you have the chance.”
CHAPTER.
TWO.
Tarragona, 15 (or 16) March '38 Sis, I'm too weak to write much, so this has to be brief. I've been going downhill for several days now. Blood poisoning seems the problem. Not surprising, really. The Spaniards are stronger on honour than hygiene. Where there's life, etc., so don't despair yet, unless- Well, you know. What I want to say is this. I'm sending you a doc.u.ment I've been keeping for a friend. I promised him I'd pa.s.s it on to his relatives if I could find them, anyway keep it safe in case he managed to get out too. He thought I'd soon be on my way back to England, you see. So did I. Now I'm not so sure. And I must do my best to keep my word while I still have the strength. From what I hear, he's probably already dead. Maybe you can find out. I don't know. Anyway, I'm sending you my translation of the doc.u.ment as well. So decide what's best when you've read it. I know I can trust you to do that. I always could. The poems were your only real misjudgement, I reckon. We should never have let the world think I wrote them. Not when every word was yours. You should have had the credit. Maybe you will now. Claim it with my blessing, Sis. It all seems pointless now.
Such a foolish conceit, in both senses, eh? If this is my last word on the subject, I'm sorry it has to be so close to bathos, 230 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
but that's how I feel. Maybe hubris is nearer the mark. I don't know. And I'm too tired to write any more.
All my love, Tristram.
CHAPTER.
THREE.
F or your daughter's sake, Mrs Abberley, make sure your husband does as he is told this time. It is your last chance. No more tricks.
Good afternoon.”
As the recording ended, Maurice rose, walked slowly across to the hi-fi and switched it off. Charlotte saw him glance out through the window and clench his teeth before turning back to face Ursula. He had bought some time for himself by refusing to answer any questions till he had heard the tape. But now time had run out.
”There's no way they could have known there was another letter.”
The denial was as stubborn as it was futile. ”If I'd thought there was-”
”You think too much, Maurice, that's your trouble!” Ursula's interruption was almost a scream. ”You can't stop twisting and scheming and now Sam's life is in danger because of it.”