Hand in Glove (26 page)

H A N D I N G L O V E

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“What might he say, Maurice?”

“That I told him about the letters. I couldn’t have done, of course,
because I didn’t know they existed. But he’ll try anything to wriggle out
of admitting how he found out about them.”

“You didn’t learn who put him up to it, then?”

“My bet is he put himself up to it. My bet is he stole the letters and
destroyed them and is prepared to blacken anybody’s name if he thinks
it’ll help to cover his tracks.”

“Blacken
your
name, you mean?”

“Exactly. He might even be able to persuade some people to believe
his story.”

Maurice had paused, waiting, it seemed, for Charlotte to assure him that she would not place a scrap of faith in anything McKitrick said. She stepped back from the mirror and turned off the taps remembering the momentary silence with which she had tortured him.

“Charlie?”

“I’m still here, Maurice. And don’t worry. If Emerson McKitrick
contacts me, I shall know how to deal with him.”

“Well, these Americans are great ones for conspiracy theories. They
can only thrive if people want to believe them.”

“Quite. I do understand, believe me.”

“That’s all I wanted to be sure of.”

“Then I’ll say good night. It’s late and I’m very tired.”

But she had not been tired. Her mind had teemed with competing thoughts, scrabbling and scrambling towards the truth. Fatigue, which dragged now at her every bone, had seemed then a condition she would never again experience. After bidding Maurice good night, she had scoured the house for records of her family’s past: snapshots, postcards, letters, greetings, books, papers, cuttings, jottings; the scraps and remainders left behind and overlooked wherein she had hoped to find, but had not, the answer she was still bound to seek.

Charlotte let her robe fall to the floor and lowered herself into the consoling warmth of the bath, closing her eyes and stretching back as the heat relaxed her muscles and the steam invaded her senses. There was no alternative to the course she had decided upon. They had left her none, with their lifetime of deceptions and evasions.
Her
lifetime, built on
their
lie. Now she had to know. She had to be certain. In her own mind, this one issue demanded to be settled.

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An hour later, cleansed and utterly calm, she descended to the hall, checked the time, then picked up the telephone and dialled Swans’

Meadow.

“ ’Ello?”

“Aliki, this is Charlie. Is Ursula there?”

“Oh, ’ello, Charlie. Yes, Meesus Abberley is ’ere. I put you through.”

A lengthy pause. Charlotte looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was a model of self-possession. So far, so good.

“Hello, Charlie. This is a surprise.” Only the choice of phrase, not its tone, hinted at irony on Ursula’s part. “What can I do for you?”

“You can have lunch with me.”

“Today?”
Shortage of notice, it seemed, was a greater obstacle than Charlotte having overheard her having sex with Emerson McKitrick. “I’m afraid I can’t. I have too much on.”

“You had nothing on last time I was at Swans’ Meadow. Unless you want me to tell Maurice exactly what I witnessed on that occasion, you
will
have lunch with me.”

Several seconds passed before Ursula replied. “Lunch it is then, Charlie. Such an unexpected pleasure.”

C

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THIRTEEN

Charlotte and Ursula met at the Inn on the Lake in Godalming.

The venue was ostensibly chosen because of its equidistance between Bourne End and Tunbridge Wells, but neutral ground seemed suitable for non-geographical reasons as well. Not that Ursula’s
sang froid
was in other than excellent repair. She contrived to sustain a monologue about the arrangements for Samantha’s twentieth birthday party, to be held at Swans’ Meadow on the first Saturday in September, until aperitifs had been consumed and they had been shown to their table next to the restaurant’s internal fish-pond, where the artful cascading of water conferred a heightened degree of privacy.

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Regarding her sister-in-law across the virginal tablecloth and winking crystal, Charlotte could not suppress a stab of admiration that disguised, she knew, a pinprick of envy. The highlighted hair; the plain but flattering suit; the discreetly glittering jewellery and extravagantly impractical clutch-bag: all these and the cherry red coordination of lipstick and nail-varnish signalled sophisticated sen-suality within, though only just, the confines of Home Counties etiquette.

“Enough of small talk,” Ursula disingenuously remarked as she swallowed a heart-shaped slice of avocado. “You didn’t ask me here to learn the price of hiring a marquee.”

“No.”

“Why, then?”

Charlotte took a sip from her glass of wine, reminding herself of the need for poise as well as precision. “I want to know the exact condition of Maurice’s finances.”

Ursula abandoned her fork where it was embedded in the next slice of avocado and stared at Charlotte. “You want to know
what
?”

“I believe you heard.”

“Of course I heard, Charlie. What I found difficult was to believe my own ears. Maurice’s finances? You know as much about them as I do, I should imagine.”

“Hardly.”

“You’re a shareholder in Ladram Avionics. Read the annual report and you’ll—”

“It’s his personal outgoings I’m interested in.”

Ursula’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward slightly. “Are you feeling quite yourself, Charlie?”

“I want to know how much he spends and what he spends it on. I want to know whether his present income is more than adequate to sustain his expenditure—or barely so.”

“I see.” She glanced at Charlotte’s plate, then at her own, then slid her fork free of the avocado and summoned the waiter. “I think we’ve finished this course, thank you.”

The plates were removed, their glasses recharged with chablis.

Ursula lit a cigarette and took several draws on it, rolling the smoke around her mouth like wine whilst gazing at Charlotte with a mixture of disdain, surprise and amusement.

“It’s hardly necessary for me to point out that my husband’s finances are none of your business.”

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R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“It’s hardly necessary for me to point out that he might be shocked to learn what occurred in his bedroom last Friday afternoon.

And several other afternoons, no doubt.”

“Just Friday, actually.” Ursula smiled. “Nothing improves with repetition.” The smile vanished. “Certainly not a threat.”

“I shall tell him if I have to.”

“Yes. I rather think you would.”

“Well then?”

The smile returned. “What makes you think I possess such information?”

“You’re his wife.”

“Ah, yes. His wife. I suppose that might make you think such a thing—you who have never been a wife.”

“Nor are likely to be? Is that going to be your next putdown, Ursula?” Charlotte’s face had coloured. Instantly, she regretted rising to the bait. But relief was at hand. Their main courses were arriving and a truce of several minutes was declared whilst vegetables were dispensed and glasses topped up. When the interlude was at an end, Ursula sampled some of her salmon and took a few sips of wine before breaking the silence.

“I think you must take after your father, Charlie. I never met him, of course, but according to Maurice he was wildly impractical and unbelievably naïve about other people’s motives. Rather like you.”

She consumed a baby potato. “Head either in the clouds or in the sand.”

“Are you going to tell me what I want to know?”

“I shall tell you what you
need
to know. Which is a lesson I learned when I was very young. Compromise is the key to success in life. Not perhaps the key to happiness, but I’ve found that to be an over-rated commodity. If you’ll take my advice—”

“I didn’t come here for advice!”

Ursula stared appraisingly at Charlotte for a moment, then said:

“No. No, of course you didn’t.” She smiled. “You came here because our mutual friend, Emerson McKitrick, has persuaded you that his allegations against my husband might just possibly be true. And because you’ve calculated that only financial desperation could have driven Maurice to do what Emerson alleges. Well, so be it. I have expensive tastes, as you must be aware. I do not stint myself.” The smile became almost wistful. “In anything.” Then her concentration seemed to step up a gear. “But Ladram Avionics is doing well, very

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well in fact. As its managing director, Maurice enjoys an income quite adequate to keep Sam and me in the manner to which we’re accustomed. Tristram’s royalties are strictly surplus to his requirements.”

“If that’s the case . . .”

“It is.” Her mouth curled in mockery. “Or would be. If Sam and I were Maurice’s only dependants. But we aren’t, you see.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve long suspected something of the sort, but only recently have chapter and verse come my way. In an envelope posted in Gloucester on the twenty-third of June, to be precise.”

“The letter from Beatrix?”

“Yes. It didn’t contain blank paper.”

“What, then?”

“A report from a private enquiry agency commissioned by Beatrix on exactly the same topic you asked me here to discuss: Maurice’s finances. It seems the old bitch—” She broke off with a grin. “I’m sorry. What I meant to say was that Maurice’s dear and charming aunt had been checking up on him. And evidently thought I should know the results. They were, to say the least, illuminating.” She paused. “Are you sure you want to hear what they were? They don’t paint Maurice in a flattering light. And since I know you’ve always had a high regard for his—”

“Just tell me!”

“Very well. Maurice spends a great deal of time in the United States on business. The company maintains an apartment for him in New York. But he makes little use of it. He already owns another apartment, it seems, on Fifth Avenue, and a weekend retreat in the Hudson Valley.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Neither did I. The report told me these things, along with what it costs him to run them. And to run the mistress he shares them with, of course. It appears she has even more expensive tastes than I have.

Her name is Natasha van Ryneveld.”

“Van Ryneveld?”

“Yes. Not van Ryan, as Lulu Harrington misremembered it. The report contained little in the way of personal details, for which I was grateful. It was only concerned with how Maurice funds such an extravagant commitment. The answer is by siphoning money from a range of personal investments, which are topped up from the royalty account.”

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“You mean—”

“I mean that, when copyright expires on his father’s work, Maurice is going to have to make some awkward decisions about what he can and can’t afford. He’s going to have to economize. But, believe me, I’ve no intention of doing any such thing myself. So, he’ll have to look elsewhere for savings, won’t he?”

Charlotte gazed at Ursula in mounting horror. It was inconceivable that the implications of what she had said were lost on her. The report proved Maurice really did have a compelling motive for forestalling the expiry of copyright, a motive, indeed, for murder. But this did not appear to interest Ursula. The security of her dress and lunching-out allowance was evidently much more significant. “Does . . . Does Maurice realize you know all this?”

“No. Though he may suspect it. I don’t think he was ever convinced by the blank paper story.”

“But if he doesn’t know . . .”

“Why am I telling you? To prevent you making a fool of yourself, of course. My little fling with Emerson hardly compares with Maurice’s standing arrangement in New York, does it?”

“Is that why you did it? For revenge?”

Ursula let out a peal of laughter, then leaned across the table.

“Sex is for pleasure, Charlie, not revenge. Didn’t anybody ever explain that to you? Emerson was actually rather good at giving pleasure. Better than I’d expected.” She lowered her voice to a whisper.

“Bigger as well.” Then, grinning mischievously, she swayed back.

“You should have found out while you had the chance. It would have been an education for you.”

Charlotte closed her eyes and told herself that Ursula did not matter. Nor, now, did Emerson McKitrick. All that mattered was whether Maurice had done what she could not help believing he had. She opened her eyes again. Ursula had pushed her plate aside and was lighting another cigarette. “Would you be prepared to show me the report?”

Ursula shook her head. “Don’t be silly, Charlie. It’s
my
insurance policy, not yours. I’ll use it if I have to, but otherwise not. That’s what I meant by compromise. Maurice may not be a faithful husband, but he’s a generous paymaster. As long as he remains generous, I shan’t quibble.”

“But don’t you see what the report proves? Don’t you see why Beatrix commissioned it? She must have feared . . . must have suspected . . .”

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“I see nothing. Unless I choose to. I shall tell Maurice we met—and why. But I shan’t tell him anything else. If he contacts you—as I suspect your curiosity about his financial circumstances will prompt him to—I advise you to assure him of your absolute confidence in his loyalty and integrity. That way, he won’t think you’re threatening him.”

“And if I ignore your advice?”

“You’d be very foolish. I have insurance, remember. You don’t.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. And dead aunts.”

Suddenly, she extinguished the cigarette and drained her wine-glass.

“Now, why don’t you ask for the bill? I have the strangest feeling neither of us wants a dessert.”

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FOURTEEN

Derek Fairfax’s lunch had been a frugal affair: cheese-and-tomato sandwiches followed by an apple, consumed on a bench in Calverley Park. Not that he would have enjoyed anything more lavish. He had too much on his mind to concentrate on what he ate or drank.

The same could not be said of David Fithyan, who returned from his own lunch shortly before three o’clock and clambered from his Jaguar with the clumsiness and flushed countenance of a man to whom food and drink were matters of considerable importance.

Watching him from his office window, Derek noted the characteristic scowl of impending liverishness and decided to avoid him for the rest of the day. Unfortunately for him, such a decision was not his to take.

Less than ten minutes later, he was summoned to Fithyan’s presence.

“I said nothing about your absence last week, Derek, did I?” He spoke in a slurred growl betokening indignation as well as intoxication. “You’ll agree that was generous of me.”

“Er . . . yes. I suppose it was. I—”

“
Exceedingly
generous of me.”

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