Part 46 (1/2)
”Well, he hardly had a chance, did he?”
”He came to New York on the fourth. Didn't he see you then?”
”No. I last saw him in August. I had no idea he'd been since.” But she should have been more surprised than she sounded. She returned Charlotte's gaze and sipped her tea, apparently content to let the pretence go undisguised.
”He gave up the letters, Natasha. All of them. They were the ransom-or part of it.”
”What letters?” The arch of her eyebrows declared the pretence was to be total.
”Tristram's correspondence with Beatrix. The correspondence proving Beatrix wrote his poems.”
”You have me at a disadvantage, Charlie. I know nothing of any of this.”
”I'm not here to accuse you, Natasha. I suspect we're both well aware who telephoned Colin Fairfax-Vane in May, claiming to be Beatrix. But, since proving that person's ident.i.ty is impossible-”
”All of this is way over my head.”
”Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I hope you'll do what you can to help us rescue my niece.”
”Your half-niece, you mean.” Natasha smiled. ”I fail to see what help I can offer.”
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R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
”Then let me explain.” As Charlotte did so, she felt increasingly impatient with the veiled sarcasm to which she had been subjected.
Natasha gazed at her with an expression in which caution and disdain were perfectly balanced. It was impossible to tell if the plight of a girl she had never met made any impact on her at all. Even if it did, Charlotte sensed her response would be determined by a fine judgement of how her own interests might best be protected.
When Charlotte had finished, emphasizing how vital it was to find the doc.u.ment the kidnappers wanted, Natasha poured them both more tea before she made any remark. When she spoke, it was in a guarded tone. ”If Maurice did these . . . these terrible things . . . it was without my knowledge. He mentioned no letters to me. Nor any accompanying doc.u.ment. He left nothing here.”
”The terrible things you refer to were intended to ensure you could continue to live here-in the style you obviously do.”
”I own this apartment outright. A gift from Maurice, it's true, but not one I'm in any danger of forfeiting.”
”He spent a great deal on you, I imagine. He meant to go on doing so.”
”No doubt he did. I'm sorry he won't. Sorry for him and for me.”
”But at least you're alive.”
”Yes. I am.” A distant look came into her eyes. ”I never expected Maurice to die in such a way. Sacrificing himself for his daughter . . .”
She shook her head in puzzlement.
”Won't you help me prevent it being a pointless sacrifice?”
”If only I could.”
”He must have stored things here. Clothes. Books. Papers. Possessions of one kind or another.”
”Clothes only. And not many of those. You're welcome to search them, of course.”
”I'd be grateful.”
”Come this way, then.” They rose and Natasha led Charlotte out into a short pa.s.sage. At the end, through an open doorway, she glimpsed a bedroom, richly hung in peach-toned fabrics, expanded by yet more mirrors in one of which she could see the reflection of a large oil painting. The subject was a nude, reclining suggestively across a bed. The picture was of such clarity that it might even have been a photograph. As to the ident.i.ty of the nude, Charlotte was just too far away to be absolutely certain. Natasha moved ahead, closed the H A N D I N G L O V E.
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door and turned back, smiling faintly. ”Maurice used this.” She slid open a fitted wardrobe to their left to reveal a few suits and pairs of trousers hanging from a rail. ”They're all he kept here.”
As Charlotte checked the pockets, she knew she would find nothing. What she could not decide was whether there had ever been anything to find. She had pleaded for help as eloquently as she could. She had refrained from criticizing Natasha, far less condemning her. Yet her restraint had failed to achieve its purpose, perhaps because Natasha was genuinely unable to a.s.sist, perhaps because she was too frightened to do so. They returned to the lounge, but, this time, Charlotte made no move to sit down.
”I'm sorry if you've had a wasted journey, Charlie.”
”Is there nothing you can tell me?”
”Only that you could try the company apartment on Park Avenue.
Maurice might have stored some papers there.”
”I'm going there when I leave here. In fact, I intend to spend the night there.”
”Before flying back to England?”
”Not necessarily.”
”I shouldn't have thought you'd have any reason to stay longer.”
Suddenly, Charlotte's patience snapped. ”You know what this is all about, Natasha. Why pretend otherwise? Maurice took you into his confidence from the start.”
”How can you be so sure?”
”Beatrix is dead. Maurice is too. For G.o.d's sake give it up. There's an innocent man in prison and an innocent girl missing from home.
Don't they mean anything to you?”
”I've never met them.”
”What did Beatrix send you?”
”I beg your pardon?”
”She sent you a posthumous letter. What was in it?”
”You mean the bundle of blank paper? Maurice surmised it was from his aunt. It made no sense to me.”