Part 50 (1/2)
”So's Sam, in case you've forgotten.”
”I haven't. But this has nothing to-”
”How do you think she'll feel when she knows you helped brand her father a murderer?”
”Badly. As I did when I found out what he'd done.”
”But the report was mine. Beatrix sent it to me, not you!”
”And you were prepared to let Fairfax-Vane go to prison despite having the means to prevent it. That might have been forgivable while Maurice was alive. But not now.”
”This has nothing to do with Maurice.” Ursula's voice dropped.
Her eyes narrowed. ”Or some washed-up antique dealer. You've done this to hurt me, haven't you?”
”Of course I haven't.”
”Yes you have. This is your way of getting back at me for Emerson.”
”Don't be ridiculous. I'm simply trying to repair some of the damage caused by Maurice's greed.”
”And I suppose you know nothing about greed. Or envy. Or l.u.s.t.
They're total strangers to you, aren't they, Charlie? They've never crossed your virtuous path through life.” She stepped closer. ”What a nauseating little Miss Perfect you are.”
300.
R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
”Insulting me isn't going to help Sam.”
”No. But nor is letting your conscience govern my life. I trusted you with that report-and with the information it contained. If I'd known what you intended to do with it, I'd never have told you it existed.”
”Then I'm glad you didn't know.”
A stinging blow from the back of Ursula's hand caught Charlotte round the mouth before she was aware of it being aimed. She rocked back on her heels and clutched at the bureau for support. ”What . . .
What are you doing?” she cried.
”Get out of this house, Charlie! Get out of my b.l.o.o.d.y sight!”
”But . . . We need . . . We need to talk.”
”I don't need to talk to you. That's the very last thing I need to do.
Now, for Christ's sake, get out!”
”What about Sam?”
”Let me worry about her!”
”But there's so much-”
”I'll handle this on my own, as I should have done all along, without any interference from your b.l.o.o.d.y conscience!” They stared at each other for a moment, then Ursula added, emphasizing every word: ”Please leave my home. Now!”
Charlotte could find no answer. There suddenly seemed to be nothing between them except the hatred flaring in Ursula's eyes. The pact they had silently concluded after Maurice's death stood exposed as a sham. Their alliance was at an end. If, indeed, it had ever begun.
Without another word, Charlotte turned and hurried from the room.
She drove across the bridge into Cookham, scarcely able to see for tears of shock and anger. There she stopped in a car park to dry her eyes and dab the blood from the tear at the corner of her mouth. She guessed Ursula's diamond-encrusted eternity ring had inflicted the damage and recalled being shown it for the first time nearly ten years ago.
”Look what Maurice has given me,” Ursula had cooed, displaying her ring finger for Charlotte's admiration. ”He's such a darling, isn't he?”
Everything about those distant days had been false and fraudulent-every gift, every smile, every declaration of love and loyalty. Yet at times such as this Charlotte wished she could still believe all the lies she had been told. They were so much more comfortable than the truth she was left with in place of them. And had now to face. Alone.
CHAPTER.
TWENTY-ONE.
Derek collected Charlotte from Ockham House early on Sunday morning. He had looked forward to the long drive to Wales as an opportunity to push out the boundaries of their friends.h.i.+p, to gauge whether it might flourish in more normal circ.u.mstances than those in which it had begun. But the opportunity proved to be illusory. Charlotte seemed too distracted to give him much attention. Every word had to be prised from her, every smile coaxed. In the end, he fell victim to her gloom and lapsed into silence.
On nearing Hendre Gorfelen, however, Charlotte was suddenly transformed into the alert and confident young woman Derek thought he knew. She even apologized for having been poor company on the journey. ”I've a lot on my mind. Too much, I sometimes feel, for it to hold.” Derek a.s.sured her he understood. And so he did. But still it was clear that, amidst her preoccupations, there was scarcely room to think of him as anything more than a temporary ally. Hardly a friend at all.
The dog was in the yard and barked a desultory warning of their arrival, but made no attempt to stop them approaching the house.
The door was open and orchestral music could be heard from a radio somewhere within. Charlotte knocked, then shouted: ”Frank!” The radio was switched off, but there was no other response. The sound had come from the kitchen and Charlotte led the way through to where Frank Griffith sat smoking over the remains of a bread and cheese lunch. He stared at them without speaking, conveying his meaning by the blank coldness of his gaze.
”The doc.u.ment the kidnappers want was written by Vicente Ortiz,” said Charlotte in a rush. ”We've come for your help.” Frank's eyebrows bunched into a frown at the mention of Ortiz's name, but still he did not speak.
”It's true,” said Derek. ”They've specified a doc.u.ment written in Catalan by a friend of Tristram Abberley. Who can it be but Ortiz?”
”Vicente's dead,” Frank responded at last. ”Let him rest in peace.”
”He may not be dead,” put in Charlotte, drawing from Frank a withering glare.
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R O B E R T G O D D A R D.
”If you're trying to link poor Vicente with your niece's abduction . . .”
”n.o.body's trying to do that,” said Derek. ”But we have to do everything we can to find whatever it was he gave to Tristram before October the eleventh.”
”The date they say they'll kill Sam,” explained Charlotte, ”unless the doc.u.ment is delivered to them.”