Take No Farewell - Retail (68 page)

‘But you won’t have to wait until then for your sister to be freed,’ said Windrush to Pombalho.

‘Indeed not,’ continued Sir Henry. ‘Sir John and his political masters wish to right this particular wrong as discreetly as possible. They are anxious to avoid any publicity surrounding Mrs Caswell’s release. Therefore, they propose to set her free – though technically she will be on remand until the appeal is heard – on Monday morning.’

‘At nine o’clock,’ added Windrush.

‘
Esplendido!
’ exclaimed Pombalho, slapping his thigh. ‘You have done well,
senhores
.’

‘Thank you, Senhor Pombalho,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I’m glad you think so. Mr Windrush will collect Mrs Caswell by cab and bring her to meet you at Brown’s Hotel. I have had to assure Sir John that there will be no reception committee at the prison gate. I trust that meets with your approval?’

‘
Claro!
I want only for my sister to be free.’

‘Am I to understand, Senhor Pombalho,’ put in Quarton, ‘that Mrs Caswell intends to accompany you and your wife when you return to Brazil?’

‘Yes,
senhor
. Consuela and little Jacintinha will make their home with us in Rio de Janeiro.’

‘I hope I can speak to her about the estate before she goes. Presumably she will wish either to sell it or appoint a manager.’

‘It is her decision,
senhor
. But I think she will wish to sell.’

‘I see.’ Quarton looked across at me and smiled. ‘You appear puzzled, Mr Staddon.’

‘Yes. I thought … That is …’

‘You thought young Spencer was now the owner of Clouds Frome?’

‘Well, isn’t he? Surely, under Victor’s will …’

Quarton held up his hand. ‘An explanation is obviously called for. With your permission, gentlemen …’ He glanced round at the others, who nodded in assent. ‘Spencer visited me at my office two days ago, Mr Staddon, labouring under the same misapprehension as you: that he was Victor Caswell’s heir. Let me tell you now what I told him then. On the eleventh of this month, the day before his departure for Cap Ferrat, Mr Caswell called to see me, bringing with him the will I drew up for him in May 1912, under the terms of which Spencer was indeed his sole heir. Mr Caswell informed me that he intended to marry Miss Imogen Roebuck as soon as Mrs Caswell’s execution freed him to do so and that he and Miss Roebuck would therefore return from France as husband and wife. He then asked me to draw up a new will in favour of the new Mrs Caswell. The timing of his request struck me as being in singularly poor taste, but we solicitors are responsible only for the legality of our clients’ arrangements, not their seemliness. It was, however, on legal grounds that I was obliged to demur. I pointed out to Mr Caswell that marriage to Miss Roebuck would have the effect of revoking any will then in existence. To appoint her his sole heiress, it would be necessary to delay making the relevant will until after the marriage. This he accordingly resolved to do, instructing me to draw up such a document so that it might be executed upon his return from France.’ Here Quarton paused, almost, it seemed, for effect. ‘He also instructed me to destroy his existing will. I therefore burned it on the fire in my office in Mr Caswell’s presence.’

‘You burned it?’

‘Mr Windrush will confirm that destruction of a will in the presence and at the direction of the testator is an entirely proper method of revocation.’

‘Quite true,’ said Windrush.

‘So you see,’ continued Quarton, ‘when Mr Caswell died on the eighteenth of this month, he was intestate. His estate is therefore subject to the laws of intestacy. Under these, one third is inherited by his widow and the remaining two thirds by his daughter, to be held in trust until she marries or attains the age of twenty-one, whichever is the earlier. No provision of any kind is made for a nephew.’

‘Spencer receives nothing?’

‘Nothing whatsoever, except an expensive lesson in not counting chickens before they are hatched.’

‘Good God. What … How did he take it?’

‘Badly. I’ve seldom known Spencer lost for words, but this was such an occasion.’

Nor was Spencer alone in his speechlessness. I leaned back in my chair and reflected on the narrowness of his failure. If Victor had decided not to consult Quarton until after marrying Miss Roebuck, if he had simply left the will in the safe the day he went to see him …

‘A gratifying conclusion, I think, gentlemen,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Most gratifying all round.’ He rose and the rest of us began to do the same. ‘I’ll bid you good evening.’ Further hand-shakes were exchanged. There was a general donning of hats and coats. Quarton and Pombalho started towards the door. I made to follow them. ‘If you could spare a few more moments of your time, Mr Staddon …’ murmured Sir Henry in my ear.

‘Oh. Very well.’ The door closed behind Quarton and Pombalho, leaving me with Windrush and Sir Henry. I looked at them quizzically. ‘It’s all … come right in the end, hasn’t it?’ I remarked lamely.

‘Yes,’ said Windrush. ‘Astonishing, isn’t it?’ His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Sir Henry chuckled. ‘You shouldn’t cast aspersions on a member of your own profession, James.’

‘What?’ I looked from one to the other of them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There are certain inconsistencies in Mr Quarton’s
account,
it must be said,’ replied Sir Henry. ‘But the destruction of the will is highly advantageous to our client, so why should we quibble?’

‘What is there to quibble about?’

‘Victor Caswell wasn’t a fool, Staddon,’ said Windrush. ‘He must have realized that destroying the will would increase the chances, however slightly, of Consuela and Jacinta benefiting under the laws of intestacy. Why not simply leave the will in existence, since marriage to Miss Roebuck would have revoked it anyway?’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘When Quarton heard of Victor’s murder, he, more than anyone, knew Spencer would profit by it. Then he discovered that the police suspected Spencer of involvement in the crime. Well, it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to ensure that, even if Spencer wriggled out of a murder charge, he didn’t inherit the estate, would it? Only Quarton knew what Victor had instructed him to do at their meeting on the eleventh. If the will had simply been left with him pending Victor’s re-marriage …’

‘He could have burned it and nobody would be any the wiser?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But that’s—’

‘An outrageous breach of professional ethics,’ said Sir Henry, ‘of which none of us, I believe, can seriously suspect such a staid and honourable man as Arthur Quarton.’

I saw the glint in Sir Henry’s eyes and the reluctant smile forming on Windrush’s face. Quarton had served the Caswell family faithfully for more than a quarter of a century. He had observed their machinations and pandered to their whims without once raising his voice in protest. ‘
We solicitors are responsible only for the legality of our clients’ arrangements, not their seemliness
.’ Yes, he had abided by his own motto. He had bitten his tongue and kept his opinions to himself, even when Victor had chosen to disinherit his wife and daughter in favour of an undeserving nephew. But
Victor’s
last excess – announcing he would marry Imogen Roebuck as soon as Consuela was dead – gave Quarton an unexpected opportunity to thwart his client’s malicious intentions. I almost laughed at the thought of him tossing the will onto the fire and watching Spencer’s victory dissolve into smoke and ashes. And then another possibility occurred to me. ‘Do you suppose,’ I said, ‘that it was Quarton who placed the advertisement in the press seeking information about Rosemary Caswell’s murder?’

Windrush looked straight at me. ‘Who else could it have been?’

‘Then you mean—’

‘Alas,’ said Sir Henry, ‘these entertaining speculations are not why we asked you to remain, Mr Staddon.’

‘No,’ said Windrush with sudden seriousness. ‘We wanted to speak to you about Consuela’s release. Her brother and his wife will be waiting for her at Brown’s Hotel with Jacinta. Hermione Caswell will also be there.’

‘As will I,’ said Sir Henry. ‘It will give me great personal satisfaction to congratulate Mrs Caswell on the attainment of her liberty.’

‘But she’s asked us to ensure,’ said Windrush, ‘that you … Well, what I …’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘She’s written to me about it. She doesn’t want to see me. I quite understand. It’s for the best. Don’t worry. I shan’t gate-crash the celebrations.’

‘You have as much right as anyone to be there,’ said Sir Henry. ‘If not more. I find Mrs Caswell’s insistence on the point quite baffling.’

‘But I don’t.’ I nerved myself to look and sound philosophical. ‘My part in all this ends here, gentlemen. If I have acquitted myself honourably, if I have done as much as I could to help Consuela—’

‘As you have,’ put in Sir Henry.

‘Then I am content. It is all I set out to do. I cannot ask for more. Consuela will be free, to live as she sees fit. That is enough.’

‘Is it?’ asked Windrush.

‘It has to be.’ I forced a rueful smile. ‘And now, gentlemen, I’ll wish you both good night. Or should I say goodbye?’

Goodbye? Yes, it was that. Goodbye to five months which had seen my life disrupted beyond hope of restoration. And goodbye to Consuela and Jacinta. They would settle in Brazil and I would never see them again. It was not what I wanted. It was not what, occasionally, I had dreamt of. But it was how it would be. That knowledge went before me, through London’s storm-dark streets, to prepare its sombre greeting in the cold and empty flat I now called home.

Next morning,
The Times
reported that Arthur Henderson, the Home Secretary, had won the Burnley by-election with a majority of 7,037. Consuela’s name was not mentioned.

When I gave Imry the news about Consuela’s release, the satisfaction he expressed was muted compared with the jubilation he had shown at her reprieve. The storm had blown itself out and given place to a Saturday afternoon of cold and dazzling brightness. We sat drinking beer by the fire at Sunnylea, while weak sunlight shafted through the windows behind us. On Imry’s face there was the crumpled frown I had long recognized as a sign that he was worried about something. At last, after much chewing of his pipe-stem, he decided to unburden himself.

‘What are you going to do now this is all over, Geoff?’

‘I don’t know. Carry on as before, I suppose.’

‘But how can you? Things aren’t as they were. And they never will be.’

‘No. I suppose they won’t.’

‘The partnership, for instance. I’ve been wondering lately whether it has any legs left in it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m strictly supernumerary, aren’t I?’

‘I wouldn’t say—’

‘And you’re in need of a fresh challenge.’

‘Am I?’

‘Ever heard me talk about a chap called Phil Murray?’

‘Murray? Yes, I believe I have. Didn’t you serve with him?’

‘Yes. He was liaison-officer in a Canadian regiment we were supposed to support at Ypres in 1915. A fellow-architect, as it turned out. He had a practice in Toronto. Quite successful, I understand.’

‘And?’

‘And we still correspond. He’s often said he’d be interested in taking on an English partner. Me, if I felt up to it, which I don’t. Or somebody I could recommend.’

‘You mean
me
?’

‘I think you and Phil would work well together, certainly.’

‘You’re suggesting I uproot myself and start afresh in Canada?’

‘What is there to uproot, Geoff?’

I gazed into the fire for a moment, then smiled in concession of the point. ‘Not much.’

‘Then isn’t it worth considering?’

I was still considering Imry’s proposal when I returned to Hyde Park Gardens Mews that night to find a letter from Hermione Caswell waiting for me on the mat.

Brown’s Hotel,

Albemarle Street,

LONDON W1.

1st March 1924

Dear Mr Staddon,

I have hesitated more than is my wont before writing to you, since I know Jacinta’s uncle would disapprove and I suspect Consuela might also. But, as you know, I am not one to be swayed by the disapproval of others!

Jacinta has asked me more than once why, of all the people who contributed to saving her mother’s life, you have since been the least conspicuous. Frankly, I do not
know
how to answer her. If all goes according to plan, she will soon be leaving for Brazil, perhaps never to return. Do you intend to let her do so without having the opportunity to thank you and to say goodbye? Is that what Consuela asked of you in her letter? If it was, I am probably wrong to say what I am about to. But I shall do so anyway, since, in my opinion, a farewell is the least you and Jacinta deserve of each other.

I have promised to take her to the Zoo tomorrow afternoon. I shall ensure that we stop for tea in the café by the Mappin Terraces at three o’clock. If anybody we know chanced to be there at the same time, it would be a happy coincidence, do you not think?

I remain sincerely yours,

Hermione E. Caswell.

I fell asleep that night vowing I would not go. What was the point? What could it achieve, except to remind me of all I had lost and could never regain? Jacinta was my daughter, but I had forfeited the right to tell her so. Her life had begun where my past in it had ended. Time’s harshest lesson could neither be untaught nor unlearned. There was no turning back, no setting right. There was only the path I had chosen without realizing it.

And so, inevitably, I went. The afternoon was cold and bright, the sun low and glaring over Primrose Hill. I bought a pink balloon from a salesman in Regent’s Park and carried it with me through the Zoo, past the capering children with their doting nannies, the elephants with their keepers, the croaking ravens and the screeching gibbons, and Decimus Burton’s clock tower that showed me 3 p.m. had barely passed.

Hermione and Jacinta were at a table near the door of the café. Hermione was devouring a Chelsea bun, while Jacinta ate nothing, whereas, at every other table, children were gobbling cakes and biscuits whilst the adults fasted.