Take No Farewell - Retail (57 page)

‘I met Windrush on my way in.’

‘Then you know.’ She smiled faintly. ‘You see how much easier it is to be honest? Easier for yourself – and for others.’

‘There is still hope.’

‘There is none. I have long accepted that. Now, will you do as I have asked?’

‘Of course.’ I nerved myself to look at her without flinching. ‘You have my solemn promise.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I wouldn’t blame you if you reminded me what my last promise to you was worth.’

‘I shall not do that. You will keep your word this time, I think.’

‘Yes. I will.’

‘Francisco and his wife are due to arrive in Liverpool on Monday aboard the SS
Hildebrand
. I would like you to meet
them
and to escort them to Hereford. I trust Hermione explained that Jacinta is now at Fern Lodge, whilst Victor takes his ease at Cap Ferrat?’

This was the first trace of bitterness I had detected in her remarks. Whether she knew of Victor’s plan to marry Imogen Roebuck – whether it accounted for the absence of her wedding-ring – I did not dare to ask. ‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘She explained.’

‘How or when you tell Francisco what I have asked you to tell him I must leave you to decide. It will not be easy for you. I realize that and I am sorry for it. But who else can I ask? Who else knows what to tell him?’

Behind her, the wardress consulted the watch that hung at her breast. Instinctively, I drew out my own watch and started at the discovery that our half hour was nearly done. ‘We have only a few more minutes,’ I said, looking back at Consuela.

‘Minutes, hours, days. What difference does it make, Geoffrey? We have had long enough.’

‘But … There’s so much else …’

‘Let it pass. As I must let all things pass.’

She had made her peace with the world and the forces within it that had resolved to end her life. But it was a peace I could not subscribe to. ‘I have cursed myself more often and more bitterly than you could ever have done, Consuela. I have regretted what I did to you more deeply than I have regretted anything else in my entire life.’

‘Don’t say these things. Not now. Don’t torture yourself. It is pointless. I forgive you. I absolve you. What has happened to me is not your fault. It is not your responsibility.’

‘Yes it is. I don’t deserve to be forgiven. I won’t accept your absolution.’

‘You must.’

‘I ruined both our lives, Consuela. Yours and mine. I am married to a woman who despises me. My son is dead. The hotel I deserted you to build no longer exists. It was burned – as I wish to God I had burned that letter to you. And now,
thanks
to me, you sit here, in this foul and awful place, waiting—’

‘Time’s up.’ A hand touched my shoulder and the wardress’s shadow fell across the table. ‘Say goodbye now.’

Consuela smiled, more faintly even than before. ‘Do not fight against it, Geoffrey. You will not win. In gracious defeat lies our only hope of victory.’

‘Who’s behind this, Consuela? Who’s done this to you?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps Victor. Perhaps somebody else. Perhaps nobody at all.’

‘If I ever find out—’

‘Don’t try. Let it die with me.’

‘You must come with me now, Mr Staddon!’ interrupted the wardress. ‘At once!’

The other wardress stepped forward and drew back Consuela’s chair. She rose and nodded across at me. ‘Goodbye, Geoffrey.’

‘Is that what this is? Goodbye?’

‘It must be.’

‘But—’

‘You were with Rodrigo when he died, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then any risks he took for my sake you also took?’

‘I suppose so, but—’

‘In that case, I was wrong to call you a lapsed friend. I should have said “a friend restored”.’

‘Mr Staddon!’ snapped the wardress.

‘You will get them into trouble if you remain any longer. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Go now – without another word. Go in peace.’

‘Consuela—’

‘Farewell, Geoffrey.’ She raised her left hand with the palm open. The gesture was too slight for me to be sure of its meaning. A dismissal? A blessing? A valediction? I sensed it held something of all three, bound together by a final discharge of the debt I had never honoured.

I tried to speak but could find no words. Consuela lowered
her
hand to her side, looked at me an instant longer, then turned and moved away towards the bed. The wardress tugged at my elbow and I realized it was over. We had met and would never meet again. We had taken an overdue farewell. And now nothing remained but to do as Consuela had done: to turn and walk away.

I must have left the prison as I had entered it, been signed out in the gatehouse ledger, then discharged onto the Camden Road. I must have headed south and west through the failing afternoon, via Kentish Town to Primrose Hill, then across Regent’s Park as dusk and homecoming were settling over London. I must have followed such a route and been aware of the direction I was taking. Yet all I can remember – beyond the aching numbness of my thoughts – is the public house in Marylebone where I took refuge as soon as it had opened for the evening.

I had been there no more than half an hour – seated at a corner table, drinking scotch, eager for the oblivion it was bound in the end to bring – when I became aware that a man was standing behind me, tapping my shoulder. At first, I tried to ignore him. Then, when he persisted, I turned and looked up.

It was Spencer Caswell, lean and smiling, gin glass in one hand, smouldering cigarette in the other. ‘Thought I recognized that bowed back,’ he drawled. ‘How’s tricks, Staddon?’

‘Go to hell!’

‘Probably will, but not just yet, eh? Mind if I join you?’ Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down opposite me. ‘I’ve been up for the day on business. Going back on the seven o’clock. Thought I’d stop off for a snifter on my way to the station. Never expected to bump into you, though.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, we can pretend you didn’t.’

‘No call for sarcasm. But don’t worry. I won’t take offence. I’ll attribute it to the stressful time you’re having.’

‘What would you know about it?’

‘Oh, come off it. You’re drowning your sorrows, aren’t you? – on account of Consuela. Matter of fact, I’d have popped up to Holloway this afternoon to see her if I’d had time. Not for a fond farewell, of course, more for the novelty of seeing what a condemned cell’s like. They always have a concealed door, you know: the one the hangman uses when he comes calling on the dreaded day. But perhaps you do know. Been out there yourself, have you?’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

‘Really? Well, as you please. Heard about Uncle Victor’s bolt from the blue? He’s hopped off to France with that scheming tart of a governess. Means to marry her, apparently.’ He grinned. ‘As soon as the law obliges by making him a widower.’

‘Leave me alone, Spencer. I don’t want to hear anything you may have to tell me.’

He leaned across the table. ‘It’s all turning out very neatly for Uncle Victor and the Roebuck bitch, isn’t it? Mad Rodrigo despatched to the great coffee plantation in the sky – and Consuela to follow shortly. Yes, their plans have worked to perfection. You have to admire them, don’t you? Poisoning my sister and blaming Consuela for it was a master-stroke. Miss Roebuck’s idea, I reckon. Victor hasn’t the ingenuity for it.’

‘If you really believe that—’

‘Oh, but I do! Remember, I have an advantage over the others. I know Victor had prior notice that he’d be entertaining guests to tea on the fatal afternoon.’

Suddenly, the effects of the whisky drained from my mind. I had forgotten Spencer’s story about a telephone call to Victor from Grenville Peto. If we could prove such a call had been made, then, even at this late stage – ‘Who was your informant, Spencer?’

‘You asked me that once before and I told you I couldn’t reveal my source.’

‘It’s vital you should—’

‘But I suppose it can’t do any harm now. He’s out of the
country
and won’t be back until it’s far too late to save Consuela’s neck.’

‘Out of the country? You mean Victor?’

‘No, no. Gleasure. You’re not paying attention, Staddon. It was Gleasure who told me he took a ’phone call from Uncle Grenville a good half hour before Rosemary and Mummy dear turned up on the doorstep. He put the call through to Uncle Victor on his study extension. Well, no prizes for guessing one of the things that cropped up in their conversation. I imagine the two love-birds had been awaiting such an opportunity for weeks, arsenic at the ready. Even so, they must have moved smartly to slip it into the sugar without being seen. Whilst Consuela was in the garden, I reckon. That was the only chance they had.’

Of course. Gleasure was party to their secret. But he had been prepared to do their bidding by deceiving Rodrigo. Therefore, he must have been bought off. And there, in that hint of corruption, lay one recourse I had not yet tried. If Gleasure could be bribed to hold his tongue, he could be bribed to loosen it. And if he could be persuaded to speak out, Consuela would surely be saved. They would never dare to hang her in the face of such a doubt as this.

‘Planting the letters and the packet of arsenic must have been child’s play by comparison,’ mused Spencer. ‘They could have waited till the search was imminent before – I say, Staddon, are you off?’

Already I was hurrying towards the door. I had heard enough. It would take me two days to reach Cap Ferrat. By then, less than four would remain. But I was confident they were more than I would need to wrench the truth from Gleasure and nail Victor’s lies for good and all.

Walking fast through the sobering chill of Marylebone’s empty streets, I began to question my sudden access of confidence. Whatever Gleasure could be induced to say, Victor might yet escape, for something – bound up with the money I had found in the safe – suggested to my mind
that
Grenville Peto would still side with him. If so, the most I might achieve was a stay of execution. And to raise Consuela’s hopes only to dash them would surely be worse than not to raise them at all.

To compound my difficulties, I had promised Consuela I would meet her brother in Liverpool on Sunday, which I could not do if I were to follow a faint trail of last-minute salvation to Cap Ferrat. I was in a cleft stick of my own hewing. Either I abandoned her or I broke my word to her. I had done both before and now, it seemed, I was destined to do one or the other again.

A solitary letter was waiting for me at the flat. It was in a buff envelope, labelled ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE. At first, I took it for a tax demand. When I opened it, however, I saw that it was from the Home Office – grim and bureaucratic confirmation of what I already knew.

Home Office,

Whitehall,

LONDON SW1.

15th February 1924

Dear Sir,

I refer to your letter of the 11th inst regarding the convicted prisoner Consuela Evelina Caswell, now under sentence of death. I am directed by the Secretary of State to say that he has given careful consideration to all the circumstances of this case and that he has failed to discover any grounds which would justify him in advising His Majesty to interfere with the due course of law.

Yours faithfully,

Sir J. Anderson, KGCB

Permanent Under-Secretary of State

Strict and inflexible. So Sir Henry had warned me Anderson was and so he had shown himself to be. Though whether he had deigned even to dictate this reply seemed doubtful. His signature was a rubber-stamped replica. The
phrases
he had used could have been chosen just as easily by an obscure official. Such, I suspected, was the attention my plea had been deemed to merit.

I was still holding the letter in my hands a few seconds later, staring down at the type-written words, when the telephone rang. It was close enough for me to pick up before it had rung a second time.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Staddon? Reg here. I’m at the office.’

‘The office? What on earth are you doing there at this hour?’

‘Well, actually, I was waiting for you, sir. We expected you back this afternoon.’

‘Oh yes. I’m sorry. Something cropped up. But even so—’

‘The thing is, Mr Staddon, an overseas telegram came for you just after lunch. I only signed for it because I thought you’d be back soon. As it was, I didn’t like just to leave it until tomorrow.’

‘Who’s it from?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t opened it.’

‘Well, open it now please, Reg, there’s a good fellow.’ I was too impatient to speculate about its source or wonder whether he could be trusted with the contents. ‘Read it out to me.’

There was a pause. I could hear a rustling at the other end. Then Reg resumed. ‘It’s from your wife, sir.’

‘From Angela?’

‘Yes. Sent from a place called Bewley-sir-murr in France at nine o’clock this morning.’ He meant, of course, Beaulieu-sur-Mer. In the fraction of a second before he continued, I wondered why, if the message were as urgent as the use of a telegram suggested, Angela had gone to Beaulieu rather than the post office in St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. ‘It reads, “Have discovered disturbing information about Victor Caswell. Come at once.”’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes. I hope it’s not bad news, Mr Staddon.’

‘Bad? No, I don’t think you’d call it that.’

‘Will you be going? To Bewley-sir-murr, I mean. It’s a question of—’

‘You can take it I won’t be in on Monday, Reg, nor for several days thereafter.’

‘Very good, sir. If there’s—’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’ I put the receiver down then, knowing I could rely on him to cope in my absence and to be discreet about the reasons for it. Not that I cared about discretion anymore. All I knew was that action was more bearable than inaction and that, whatever the reason for Angela’s message, it could not go unheeded.

It was nearly ten o’clock when I reached Sunnylea, but Imry was still up, grim-faced and alert. He too had received a letter from the Home Office and he was clearly surprised that I was not as cast down by it as he was. When I explained why, he shared my optimism, but added a wary note of his own.