Take No Farewell - Retail (36 page)

She stared at me with a calculated blankness as the chauffeur climbed out and opened the door for her. I felt again a swelling of pride at how well she contained her emotions, at how bravely she bore the despair her mother’s plight must have caused her. She was wearing a smart fur-trimmed coat and some kind of tam-o’-shanter that made her look even younger and smaller than she was. She paused as she stepped out of the car, pursed her lips and took a deep breath, reminding herself, I sensed, to display no sign of weakness, though whether her self-control was for my benefit or Imogen Roebuck’s I could not decide, since Miss Roebuck was watching her from the car as intently as I was from the pavement.

Jacinta started walking towards the church. Just when I thought she meant to pass me without acknowledgement, she stopped and looked up at me. ‘Good morning, Mr Staddon. How are you?’

‘I am well, Jacinta. I—’ Miss Roebuck was staring at me from the car. As I glanced up, our eyes met. The absurd belief came into my mind that she would be able to read my lips even if she could not actually hear what I said.

‘Are you still trying to help my mother, Mr Staddon?’

‘Yes. In every way that I can.’

‘Will you be able to save her?’

‘I hope so.’

‘I must go in now, Mr Staddon.’ She had flushed slightly and her chin, I saw, was trembling faintly. ‘Goodbye.’ She
was
gone then, in a rush, up the church steps and out of my sight.

I looked back at the car. The chauffeur was about to pull away, but Miss Roebuck tapped him on the shoulder. Obedient to a summons that had been issued only in my imagination, I walked round to her side of the car and waited for her to lower the window.

‘Good morning, Mr Staddon,’ she said calmly. ‘Victor forbade you to communicate with Jacinta, as I recall, some weeks ago.’

‘On the pain of losing most of my clients, something he claimed to be able to arrange.’

‘Do you doubt his claim?’

‘No. As a matter of fact, I don’t.’

‘Then why defy him so openly?’

‘Because the penalty he threatened to invoke means nothing to me. And because it isn’t Jacinta I came here to communicate with. It’s Victor.’

‘You will have to explain that remark.’

‘I wish you to deliver a message to him on my behalf.’

She arched her eyebrows. ‘What message?’

‘I want to see him. There are matters we have to discuss.’

‘I don’t think he’s likely to agree.’

‘Tell him I know how he stopped me taking Consuela from him, as I should have done, twelve years ago.’

Miss Roebuck’s eyebrows arched still higher. The chauffeur cleared his throat. ‘Such a message would represent a damning admission on your part, Mr Staddon. Are you sure it’s wise?’

‘I’m not interested in your assessment of what is or isn’t wise. Will you tell him?’

‘If you insist.’

‘I do. I’ll call at Clouds Frome at four o’clock this afternoon. I’ll expect him to see me.’

Miss Roebuck did not reply. Her gaze was ironic, almost amused, chillingly so given the gravity of the situation. She slowly wound up the window, keeping her eyes fixed on me
as
she did so. Then she leaned forward and murmured an instruction to the chauffeur. And the car glided away down the street.

I reached Clouds Frome some minutes before the time I had named, but remained in my car until my watch showed four o’clock. Then I walked to the gate and, finding it locked as expected, picked up the telephone and wound the handle.

‘Clouds Frome.’ It was Danby’s voice.

‘Danby, this is Geoffrey Staddon.’

‘Ah yes, sir. I was told to expect you.’

‘Good.’

‘I was also told to explain that Mr Caswell cannot see you.’

‘What?’

‘He desires me to say that, if there is anything you wish to convey to him, you should do so by letter.’

‘That’s not good enough!’

‘Unfortunately, sir, it will have to be.’

‘Put me through to him, damn it!’

‘His instructions were quite specific, sir. He does not wish to see you. He does not wish to speak to you. Now, if—’

I slammed the telephone back on to its hook and stalked away towards my car. So Victor would not grant me an audience. But he
would
see me, whether he liked it or not.

I drove north. There was something, I knew, behind all this, concealed by Clouds Frome and the Caswells, one with the cold still dusk, with the grey-green darkening countryside and the winding-sheet of cloud above my head. I had not seen it yet. I had not understood it. But soon I would.

Ahead of me on the narrow lane I had taken, a figure appeared, trudging towards me along the muddy verge. A tramp, I assumed, some homeless vagrant wandering where the mood took him. Then, as he grew nearer, the gangling frame, the ragged clothes, the matted hair and beard composed themselves into the likeness of somebody I knew. I
drew
to a halt beside him and waved for him to approach. Mechanically, he obeyed. Then, as recognition dawned, he stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Hello, Mr Doak. Remember me?’

He did not speak. Neither, on this occasion, did he turn and run. In his expression there was a mixture of shame and defiance. And he was sober enough this time for defiance to gain the upper hand.

‘Where are you going?’

He glanced towards Hereford. It was a reply of a kind and therefore a modest victory.

‘I’ll drive you.’

He shook his head, tightened his grip on his knapsack and seemed about to move off.

‘It’s cold. And it’ll be dark soon.’

He hesitated, licked his lips, then said: ‘I owe you. An’ I can’t pay you. But I won’t crawl.’

‘I’m not asking you to. Just get in.’

He walked slowly round the bonnet of the car, eyeing it suspiciously, and stared in through the passenger window. I opened the door for him. Still he hesitated. Then he climbed gingerly aboard. We started off. I offered him a cigarette, which he accepted, and smiled to myself as I saw him savour the first inhalation.

We covered half a mile in silence. Then, abruptly, he said: ‘Never bin in one o’ these afore.’

‘Do you approve?’

He ignored the question. ‘Seen ’
im
swan past in one often enough, though.’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘Who d’you think?’

‘Caswell?’

‘Ar. That’s ’im. ’E don’t know me any more. Leastways, ’e makes out ’e don’t. ’E thinks I’m nothin’ to ’im. ’E thinks I’m so much apple-mush under ’is well-’eeled feet. Seen what ’e’s done to Clouds Frome? Locks. Bolts. Bars. An’ broken glass for the likes o’ me to slash our ’ands to ribbons on.’

‘I’ve seen.’

‘What’s it all for, eh?’

‘Protection?’

‘Ar. Reckon so. Reckon ’e needs it.’

‘Really?’

‘I sees things, Mr architec’. I sees an’ I don’t forget. ’E thinks ’e’s safe there, thinks ’e can’t be got at. Well, that’s all ’
e
knows.’

‘You know better?’

‘I comes and goes as I please.’

‘At Clouds Frome? How?’

‘You should know. You built it. ’E can’t stop every ’ole.’

‘Are you saying you often enter the grounds?’

‘I’m saying nothin’. Mebbe I do and mebbe I don’t. Be no more ’n me rights if I did, though. Clouds Frome is Doak land. Still is by my reck’nin’.’

‘But I’m told he has a guard-dog roaming free at night.’

‘Dog’s don’t worry me. It’s men that worry me. Men like Victor Caswell.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cos ‘e thinks ’e can take what isn’t ’is an’ never suffer for it. Well, ’e’s wrong an’ the time’s comin’ when ’e’ll know it. I told you, Mr architec’, the day you first came to Clouds Frome. I told you Caswell’d live to regret takin’ that land from us Doaks. An’ ’e will. The Caswells crawled to us once. An’ I’ll live to see ’em crawl again.’

I dropped Doak on the outskirts of Hereford. He did not want to be taken to the centre. Perhaps he knew of some nearby billet for the night. At all events, he accepted a sovereign when I offered it to him, though very much in spite of himself. We both knew what he would do with it, but I did not begrudge him. He was a man defeated by life, crushed by circumstance, sustained only by stubbornness and empty prophecy. If there was one thing of which I was certain, it was that he would never get the better of Victor Caswell. And in my certainty I felt for him a dreadful affinity.

Still I did not return to my hotel. North again, along the night-blotted Shrewsbury road, as fast as the car could carry me, I drove with blank mind and suspended intent, till at last, long past Ludlow, cold and eerily alone, I came to rest, knowing that to continue was futile. Back, always and ever, I was bound to go.

‘Staddon! In here!’

The voice was raised and slurred, reaching me from the bar as I stood in the lobby of the hotel, waiting for my key. When I looked round, I saw Spencer Caswell grinning through the doorway at me. He raised a half-empty glass and winked.

‘Just the man I want to see! How about a nightcap?’

As much to silence him as for any other reason, I joined him at the bar. Unsteadily propped on a stool, tie askew, cigarette dangling crookedly from his fingers, he was even more detestable drunk than sober, manifestly a spoilt and unashamed child.

‘Bad pennies, eh Staddon? We get more than a few round here, I can tell you.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Just a chat. A bit of company. A sympathetic ear. It’s not much to ask, is it?’

‘It seems a great deal at this moment. Why don’t you go home to bed?’

‘Because it’s more fun here. We could discuss the many mysteries of life. To take but one example, how did I know you were here?’

‘I assume you didn’t.’

‘Well, you assume wrong. Did you have a pleasant spot of breakfast with Aunt Hermione this morning?’ He grinned more broadly still. ‘No need to look so shocked. The old bat’s an expert at giving herself away. Now, stand me a drink and be sociable and maybe – just maybe – I’ll keep it to myself.’

Mercifully, the only other customer was the thin fellow with the irksome cough and he was engaged in an animated discussion of racehorses with the barman. So, with a nod of
reluctant
consent, I ordered some drinks and piloted Spencer to the remotest table in the room.

‘Where have you been all this time, Staddon, eh? I’ve been waiting for you since they opened. I was beginning to think you’d let me down.’

‘If I’d known you were here, I would have done.’

‘Oh dear! That’s not very nice, is it? Want to know how I rumbled Aunt Hermione?’

‘No. But I expect you’ll tell me anyway.’

‘As a matter of fact, I believe I will. She announced last night that she’d be bustling down to the cathedral at sparrow’s croak for her devotions. Made too big a thing of it, though. She’d normally have gone without telling a soul. So, I reckoned my dear demented aunt must be up to something. A fling with one of the canons? Hardly. That’s when I remembered the brouhaha about her meeting you last time you were in Hereford. You were staying at the Green Dragon then, only a crozier’s throw from the cathedral. So, I looked in this afternoon and what should I find but your name on the register? You’re too predictable, Staddon. That’s your trouble, far too predictable.’

‘All this is wild guesswork. You have no proof I met your aunt.’

Suddenly, much of Spencer’s drunkenness seemed to fall away. ‘I don’t need proof,’ he said in an altogether steadier voice. ‘We’re not in a court of law. But Consuela will be soon enough. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’re still trying to pull the irons out of the fire for her.’

‘What’s it to you if I am?’

‘I might be able to help.’

‘I don’t think so. Even if you could, I doubt you’d bother to.’

Spencer’s smile tightened. ‘Sometimes I get the impression you don’t like me. But you should. At least, you should pretend to. Consuela’s other shining white knight did that if he did nothing else.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Her brother. The mad Brazilian. Rodrigo Manchaca de whatnot. He treated me very well, as a matter of fact.’

‘You mean he bought you drinks.’

‘Yes. And he smiled more than you. And he listened more respectfully to what I told him.’

‘What
did
you tell him?’

‘Oh, this and that. Tit-bits about my family. He seemed to find it all quite fascinating. Unlike you.’

‘But I’ve heard it all before. Remember?’

‘No you haven’t. You haven’t heard the half of it.’

I leaned forward and spoke slowly enough to avoid misunderstanding. I was tired and in no mood for Spencer’s game-playing. ‘If you have something to say, say it. I’m not going to beg for your two penn’orth of family gossip.’

‘Fastidious all of a sudden, aren’t we? You won’t save Consuela’s luscious little neck by striking poses, you know.’

‘Nor by listening to you, I’ll warrant.’

‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. I asked you last time we met how you hoped to prove Consuela hadn’t poisoned my dear departed sister. You didn’t have an answer then and I’ll bet you don’t have one now.’

‘And you do, I suppose?’

‘Maybe. Ask yourself this. What proves Rosemary wasn’t the intended victim?’

‘The fact that she arrived at Clouds Frome unexpectedly.’

‘Exactly. Otherwise it would have been
à bientôt
Uncle Victor. But what would it mean if she wasn’t unexpected?’

‘It would … Are you suggesting it was known she’d turn up that afternoon?’

‘I have it on reliable authority that Uncle Grenville telephoned Uncle Victor from Ross that afternoon
after
Rosemary and Mummy dear had left his house and
before
they reached Clouds Frome. Now, I don’t know what was said, but
if
Uncle Grenville just happened to mention that the ladies were thinking of looking in on their way back to Hereford, well, it would alter everybody’s calculations, wouldn’t it?’

He was right. Until now, I had been unable to sustain my suggestion that Victor might have staged the poisoning in order to rid himself of Consuela. As Imogen Roebuck had pointed out, he would have been taking an outrageous risk with his own life. Moreover, Consuela could only have been accused of attempted murder in such circumstances. Whether imprisoned or not, she would have remained his wife. If, however, Victor knew Marjorie and Rosemary were about to walk obligingly on to the scene, such objections fell away. He could have let his sweet-toothed niece gorge herself on the poisoned sugar and swallowed just enough himself to induce sickness. Then all he had to do was wait for Consuela to be charged with murder – and for the death penalty to free him from their marriage. Suddenly, timing was all-important. When was the telephone call made? How long did Victor have in which to set the trap?