Take No Farewell - Retail (16 page)

‘Why do you want to know when I was born, Mr Staddon?’

‘No reason,’ I murmured.

‘You think I am too young to know what I am talking about, don’t you?’ There was a flush of anger in her face. She jumped up from her chair and glared at me, her mouth tightening. ‘Everybody treats me as a stupid little girl. I didn’t think you would as well. I thought you were different. I thought that was why my mother told me to ask for your help. Well, it would be easier if you helped me, but I shall do it on my own if I have to.’

‘Sit down, Jacinta.’

‘I would prefer to leave. If you are not going to help me, there is no—’

‘But I am.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I am going to help you. You and your mother. To the best of my ability. In every way that I can.’ I would not have believed the relief that swept over me when I heard my own voice announcing my decision. I felt light-headed, almost intoxicated.

‘You mean it?’

‘Yes. I mean it.’

Then at last Jacinta smiled. It was her mother’s smile, warm, instinctive and hauntingly familiar. Time – and all I thought I had learned from life – was unravelling before me. We might have been in the drawing-room at Fern Lodge fifteen years in the past, with everything that had happened since held in eerie suspension. My reaction was the same, my confidence intact, my hope bewilderingly recaptured. This time, I would not desert her.

‘Sit down, Jacinta. We have plans to make, you and I.’

Chapter Six

WHEN I SET
off for Hereford, trailing lies and excuses in my wake, I felt no regret for the deceptions I had practised. I had given Angela and the office staff to understand that a Midlands businessman had asked me to view with him possible sites for a country residence in the Malvern area and that the task might occupy me for several days. I am not sure they believed me. Angela for one seemed sceptical when I explained the purpose of my journey. But I did not care. Whatever she may have imagined, it was bound to be a long way from the truth.

And what was the truth? It seems to me now that I was filled with a secret joy, a joy that had its root in the hour I had spent with Jacinta. There seemed no reason why Consuela should have urged her to contact me other than what I would once have been horrified to discover but now yearned to believe. She was our daughter. I felt sure it was so and equally sure Consuela would confirm as much when I spoke to her, which I was determined to do as soon as possible. I did not blame her for concealing Jacinta’s existence from me. She had no cause to think I would wish to acknowledge her. In the circumstances, it was only sensible to let Victor believe he had sired her. But for the perilous position in which she found herself, she would have told Jacinta nothing about me. But the fear of losing her had compelled her to act. If the girl was to be denied her mother, she must not be denied her real father.

I had mourned Edward for four years and Angela had made it clear throughout those years that she wished for no more children to cause her grief. Now, out of the wilderness of the lonely middle age that loomed ahead of me, Jacinta had come, small, brave and fair, to seek my aid and warm me with her trust. I could have reasoned and temporized till domesday and probably would have done, but Jacinta’s plea cut through my carefully assembled defences.

Perhaps the most bizarre aspect of my journey was that I was doing Jacinta’s bidding, following not my own directions but those of an eleven-year-old girl. Whilst she kept her father under observation in France, I was to gather as much information in Hereford as I could, using the authority of adulthood which she did not enjoy. She would write to me at Renshaw & Staddon, I to her
poste restante
at St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. We were to confide in nobody but each other. Of her family, including – indeed, especially – Victor, she spoke distantly and doubtfully. She loved only her mother and would trust only me – because her mother had said she could. What had forged her solemn, secretive nature I could not guess. Perhaps she felt herself no more a Caswell than Consuela did. Perhaps, all along, some instinct for the truth of her origins had embedded itself in her. The only certainty was her love for her mother, her absolute determination to help her in every way that she could.

I never once mentioned to Jacinta the gravity of Consuela’s plight. I never hinted at what might ultimately be at stake. But she knew well enough. What she could not alter she did not discuss. What she might yet alter she gave her undivided attention. Three weeks before, I might have found in her a playful, carefree little girl. But I doubt it. I doubt, indeed, if she was ever as other children are. And if I am right, I am also to blame.

Jacinta’s single-mindedness was contagious. It bred in me a superficial optimism that all would be well. But the delusion was brief. When I reached Hereford on the Tuesday evening following our meeting, it was already waning. I booked into
the
Green Dragon, where I had stayed so often before, and considered, over a solitary dinner, the task that lay before me. The interrogation of witnesses who had every reason to distrust me; enquiries which the Caswell family might well resent; intrusions into matters which were no concern of mine: I could expect neither aid nor welcome. But for the promises I had made Jacinta, I might have abandoned the attempt there and then.

The following morning was bright and mild. This, and a stroll round the cathedral after breakfast, as schoolchildren in their neat uniforms bustled about me, repaired my confidence. Normally, I would have been cut to the heart by the sight of so many young, excited faces. I would have remembered Edward and surrendered to melancholy. But not now. Not now Jacinta had entered my life and revived a dream of fatherhood.

As soon as nine o’clock had struck, I made my way to the offices of James Windrush, whom the newspapers had named as Consuela’s solicitor. They comprised two first-floor rooms above an ironmonger’s shop in Bridge Street, in the second of which I found a young man seated at a disordered desk, writing with an intensity that suggested he had already been there for some time.

‘Mr Windrush?’ I ventured.

He started violently and looked up at me. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’ His face was gaunt and unhealthily sallow. There was a look of slowly diminishing self-control about him which his snappish tone exacerbated.

‘You’re handling Mrs Caswell’s defence, I believe.’

‘Er … yes.’ He half-rose and proffered a hand in greeting, but withdrew it before I could respond. ‘What can I do for you, Mr …’

‘Staddon. Geoffrey Staddon.’

He frowned, signalling that the name meant nothing to him. He was extremely tall, I now saw, and spectacularly thin. His black suit was becoming shiny from wear. All in all, the last thing he seemed likely to inspire was confidence.

‘I’m an old friend of Mrs Caswell’s. I’d like to help if I can.’

‘Really?’ He sounded incredulous.

‘Yes. Is that so very strange?’

‘No. Unique. Do you live in Hereford, Mr Staddon?’

‘London.’

‘Hm. Well, hereabouts, my client is regarded as a cross between Lucrezia Borgia and Morgan le Fay. You’ll scour this city in vain looking for another friend of hers. But open my window and ask the first passer-by what they think and they’ll tell you hanging’s too good for her.’

‘Surely it can’t be as bad as that.’

‘Take it from me, it is.’

‘You don’t sound optimistic.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Why did you take the case, then?’

He slumped back into his seat and flapped a hand at the only other chair in the room. I removed a pile of papers from it and sat down gingerly. Windrush rubbed his forehead vigorously, then smiled. ‘To be honest, Mr Staddon, I need all the business I can get, but I’m likely to lose clients by accepting Mrs Caswell. According to my wife, it was an act of lunacy. Somebody had to do it, of course, though God knows who would have done if I’d refused. None of Hereford’s other solicitors, I’d venture to suggest. It’s not as if I was even Mrs Caswell’s own choice. The police gave her my name as somebody unlikely to turn work down. It’s not the highest of recommendations, is it?’

‘Do you believe she’s innocent, Mr Windrush?’ I was becoming impatient with his self-pitying tone.

‘For what it’s worth, yes.’

‘I should have thought it was worth everything.’

‘Hardly. The prosecution have a considerable fund of evidence, you see. The letters, which my client denies receiving. The arsenic, which she denies possessing. And the servants, who between them refute the proposition that anybody other than my client could have poisoned the sugar.
To
outweigh all of that, I need to do more than protest her innocence. I need to prove that somebody else could have committed the murder
and
falsified the evidence against her. Any suggestions?’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘Nor has Mrs Caswell. You see my difficulty? Denial will not suffice. If she is innocent, she must be the victim of a conspiracy. But who are the conspirators? The servants are patently honest and, besides, they don’t have the nerve or the intelligence to plan and carry out such a plot. Nor, as far as I can see, do they have anything to gain by it. That leaves the Caswell family. Good, solid, local stock who happen to employ a substantial proportion of Hereford’s adult male population. And three of them were poisoned, not just the deceased. It is unbelievable that they poisoned themselves. So who are we to accuse?’

‘I don’t know. But if I can help in any way …’

Windrush held up a placatory hand. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Staddon. I don’t mean to be rude. This case is the very devil, but that’s no fault of yours. Cigarette?’ After lighting one for me as well as himself, he resumed in calmer vein. ‘You say you’re an old friend of Mrs Caswell’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then perhaps there is a way you can help. I’ve tried to persuade her to tell me everything that could conceivably be relevant. Who might bear her a grudge. Exact details of the days and weeks preceding Sunday the ninth of September. What everybody did that afternoon. Who came, who went, who left the room, however fleetingly. Who, in short, could have had the chance, never mind the motive, to commit the crime and fasten it on her.’

‘And?’

‘And very little. She seems unable to accept the seriousness of her position. She denies everything and accuses nobody. She left the drawing-room between the delivery of the tea-tray and the arrival of her husband and daughter and supposes that somebody could have slipped into the room
and
poisoned the sugar during that time. The same person presumably planted the arsenic and the letters in her room. But she has no proof of her absence from the drawing-room and no suggestion to make concerning the identity of the poisoner. We need more, Mr Staddon, much more.’

The time had come to reveal a little of my strategy. ‘I’d thought of questioning some of the witnesses myself.’

‘The police take a dim view of that kind of thing. It could be construed as interference. You’d have to be extremely careful. And there’s another difficulty.’

‘What?’

‘Mr Caswell’s gone to France pending the trial, taking his daughter and her governess with him, as well as Gleasure, his valet, who testified at the hearing. He’s also dispensed with the services of Mrs Caswell’s maid, Cathel Simpson, who’s now working in Birmingham. The police know where she is, but they’ve not yet told me. So, as far as obtaining statements for the defence from these people is concerned, I’m hamstrung.’

‘But you
did
say I could help, didn’t you?’

‘If you’re an old friend of Mrs Caswell’s, I suggest you urge her to be more … forthcoming. This is no time for reticence. She must tell me everything, every secret of her marriage, every significant incident of her life. If you can persuade her to do that, we may yet turn up the evidence we need.’

‘I’ll gladly try. When can I see her?’

‘As a remand prisoner, she’s allowed daily visits. I’m due to visit her this afternoon.’

‘Then … tomorrow?’

‘Very well. I’ll tell her to expect you, Mr Staddon. And I’ll hope your efforts meet with more success than mine.’

It was as I was leaving shortly afterwards that I remembered to ask Windrush what he knew of Cathel Simpson’s predecessor. Jacinta had never heard of Lizzie Thaxter and I was beginning to wonder what had become of her. But Windrush was no help. To him also the name meant nothing. My messenger of former times seemed to have vanished.

‘You’ve not seen Mrs Caswell since before the war?’ Windrush asked as he showed me to the door.

‘No. We rather lost touch.’

‘She’s a beautiful woman and they say she was exquisite in her youth. I suppose that explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘How she can still command a friendship like yours. All this way, after all this time, to lend a helping hand. It’s commendable, Mr Staddon, truly commendable.’

There was a slant to Windrush’s words I did not care for. Declining to comment further, I bade him a cool good morning.

A cab would doubtless have been the quickest way to reach Clouds Frome, but I preferred the ten o’clock train to Stoke Edith. From there, through a landscape changed only by the season, I wound my way back up the lanes and years towards a place and time I had believed I would never re-visit. At the field-gate beyond Backbury Hill where I had smoked a cigarette and savoured my first view of the newly finished house twelve years before, I halted once more and turned to survey it.

Better even than fond memory had predicted, Clouds Frome met my gaze with calm, mellow assurance. For just this effect – just this firmly rooted sense of domain and purpose – I had planned and laboured. And my reward lay before me. Clouds Frome was a finer achievement than any I was now capable of. It stood upon a crest from which I had long since begun to descend. It mocked me with its perfection.

I did not linger. I could not bear to. Instead, I hurried on to the entrance and started up the drive. I had still not decided how to announce myself when I saw a group of men at work in the orchard, bagging up newly harvested apples and loading them on to a cart. Confident that none of them would recognize me, I called across to the nearest one.