Take No Farewell - Retail (3 page)

The story they told was disjointed and unsatisfactory. The names of people and places I knew came to me as from a realm of dreams, with no fixed point to guide my thoughts. The issue of 13 September reported with neither prominence nor embellishment the death three days before, following a sudden illness, of Miss Rosemary Caswell, eighteen-year-old daughter of Mortimer Caswell, respected proprietor of the local cider-making firm. An inquest had been opened and adjourned pending a
post mortem
. By 20 September, however, sensational developments had intruded. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the celebrated Home Office forensic expert, had conducted the
post mortem
and had concluded that death was due to poisoning by arsenic. At the re-convened inquest it was revealed that Miss Caswell’s mother and her uncle, Victor, had both been ill with symptoms similar to though less acute than Rosemary’s following a tea attended by all three at Clouds Frome on Sunday 9 September. A verdict of wilful murder by unknown persons had been returned by the inquest jury and a police investigation set in motion. Officers from Scotland Yard were believed to be assisting the local constabulary and an early arrest was confidently anticipated.

As I already knew, an arrest had indeed followed. But why Consuela? What were the incriminating letters referred to
in
the report of her court appearance? And what, if any, was the evidence against her? As to that, I still had no clue. Yet one inconsistency at least had emerged for my thoughts to chafe on. If both Victor and his sister-in-law had been ill at the same time as Rosemary, why did the charge of attempted murder refer only to Victor? I cast my mind back to the day of my first meeting with Consuela, scanning all that I recalled of it in the frail hope that her guilt or innocence might even then have been apparent.

Between their return from South America and the completion of Clouds Frome, Victor and Consuela lived with Mortimer and his family in a large, gloomy Victorian house called Fern Lodge, a stuccoed pile of few architectural merits set amidst an excess of fir trees on a windy summit towards the northern edge of the city. It was there, on a day of raw greyness contrasting sharply with my previous visit to Hereford, that I made my way for tea at the appointed time, clutching a valiseful of perspective views and floor plans for the new house. I was pitifully eager to please, painfully proud of my proposals and horribly nervous lest any aspect of them should fail to win approval.

So much has changed since 1908 in the mood and fashion of society that my introduction to the Caswell family seems now to date from a far more distant era than fifteen years ago. Perhaps fifty would be nearer the metaphorical mark, so remote does the atmosphere seem that enveloped me in the drawing-room of Fern Lodge that Tuesday afternoon. Victor was the only person present whom I had met before; Mortimer, it was explained, was attending to his business. Awaiting me meanwhile in a semi-circle of brocaded armchairs heavily shaded by thick curtains and large-leafed pot plants was a quartet of Caswell womenfolk: Mrs Susan Caswell, mother of Mortimer and Victor and widow of the founder of Caswell & Co. – frail and fussy in voluminous grey; Mrs Marjorie Caswell, wife of Mortimer – sharp-faced and clearly the mistress of the occasion in severe but expensive
purple;
Miss Hermione Caswell, elder sister of Mortimer and Victor – less rigidly inclined than the others to judge by her mischievous expression and carelessly flounced dress; and Mrs Peto, wife of Marjorie’s brother, who now in my memory is no more than a cipher in washed-out turquoise.

Victor, whose heavy-lidded look suggested that afternoon tea with his female relatives was not a favourite pastime, explained that his wife would join us shortly. Then he perched himself glumly on a hard-backed chair and abandoned me to my fate, which was to unfold more plans than was wise amidst the teacups and cake-stands and to attempt the impossible feat of answering all the ladies’ questions accurately and politely. Old Mrs Caswell had the decency to smile more than she spoke, but Marjorie and Hermione were unrestrained in their competing curiosity and led me a merry dance through what they knew or thought they knew of aspect and proportion. I made the elementary mistake of treating their observations seriously, not realizing that they were actually more interested in putting each other down than interrogating me. What with this and the slice of seed cake I had foolishly embarked upon, I was in a fine state of confusion when the door opened and Consuela entered.

I heard the rustle of her dress from behind me and saw Victor rise. I rose too and turned towards the door, which clicked shut as I did so. Then she was before me. Consuela Evelina Manchaca de Pombalho, for so she was born, abundantly more than any Caswell could ever be. Clad in a clinging, shimmering tea-gown of maroon and gold satin, trimmed with lace and gauze, she wore the most delicate of flowered hats far back on her head, a single long string of pearls, a lozenge-shaped brooch by her left breast and a plain gold wedding-ring. Otherwise there was no adornment, no distraction from her perfect figure, her slender neck and her finely featured face. In all of this she might have been no more than an unusually beautiful Englishwoman, but her complexion was darker than any Englishwoman’s, her hair thicker, her lips fuller, her eyes more intense.

‘My wife, Staddon,’ said Victor, standing to one side as she approached. As he spoke, I thought I caught an unnecessary emphasis on the word
my
and, as I stooped to kiss her hand and drew back to look at her again, I could understand why. He had found this wild and troubling creature, he had tamed and married her, and now he had brought her home to parade on a satin chain.

I had muttered something about being her servant. Consuela looked at me directly for the first time and said, ‘My husband tells me you are to build a home for us, Mr Staddon.’ There was no more than the faintest hint of an accent in her voice. Her English was perfect, though more slowly spoken than a native’s, lightly pitched and reserved in stark contrast to the gabbling of her in-laws.

‘Yes, Mrs Caswell, I am. It will be my honour.’

‘An honour too for us, I feel sure.’

‘As to that …’

‘Come and see Mr Staddon’s plans, Consuela,’ put in Marjorie from behind me.

‘Yes, do,’ said Hermione. ‘They’re really most promising, aren’t they, Victor?’

‘It’s shaping well, certainly.’ But Victor sounded positively indifferent. It was a baffling change from the enthusiasm he had displayed during our visit to the site and only the first of many such changes of mood I was to grow used to during our association. He wanted a grand house to live in, a beautiful wife to live with and the respect of all who knew him, but sometimes I suspected that they were all only commodities to him, symbols of a success whose substance remained elusive.

Consuela sat down, accepted some tea and paid close attention to my explanations. Interruptions from Marjorie and Hermione were as frequent and banal as before, but Consuela’s presence had an unexpectedly calming effect on me. She seemed instinctively to understand what I proposed and displayed more insight by her few searching questions than did all of the others’ enquiries put together.

Hermione, when not competing with Marjorie for the conversational helm, revealed enough to suggest that a perceptive mind was being carefully veiled. During one of the brief liftings of that veil, she engaged me across the plan-strewn table and said, ‘As you can see, Mr Staddon, Consuela has more of an eye for artistry than the rest of us.’

Marjorie looked affronted, Mrs Peto giggled, old Mrs Caswell grinned and Consuela lowered her gaze, but the point was well made. More palpably than any words could render it, I detected a sympathy towards me in this cautious, perceptive young woman. At the time, I attributed it to nothing more than a highly developed artistic sensibility and, for the moment, that was enough.

‘Of course,’ I stumbled, ‘all of this can much more readily be appreciated when inspecting the site.’

‘Victor has not yet taken me to Clouds Frome,’ said Consuela.

‘Time enough for that,’ he put in, ‘when we have vacant possession.’

‘When you do,’ I said, ‘I’d be delighted to act as your guide, Mrs Caswell.’

‘That’s most kind, Mr Staddon. You must make a point of it.’

‘I will. Most certainly I will.’

Then, for the first time since joining us, Consuela smiled. And with that smile my heart took flight.

It was near the end of the first week following Consuela’s arrest when Giles Newsom, our senior assistant and aspiring partner, revealed that Kevin was not the only member of staff to have noticed the name of Clouds Frome in the papers. A good-looking young man noted for his elegance of dress and popularity with the fairer sex, Newsom was also a talented architect in the making. Imry had advocated taking him on when it became apparent that he would never be able to resume a full-time share of the business and, though there had always been something too damnably self-assured about
the
fellow for my liking, he had justified Imry’s confidence in the four years since.

Laziness, not incapacity, was Newsom’s besetting fault and it was in such a mood that I found him, alone in the office, when I returned there late on Friday afternoon, feet on desk, cigarette in mouth, a copy of
The Architect’s Journal
open before him. At other times I might have ventured a mild rebuke, but I felt too despondent on this occasion to make the effort.

‘Still here, Giles?’

‘Catching up with some reading, Mr Staddon.’ He smiled and lowered his feet to the floor, but seemed otherwise unabashed. ‘It always pays to keep abreast of developments, don’t you find? New styles. New designs. New ideas.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’

‘Not that we can’t learn as much from old ideas at times.’

‘No?’ I was beginning to suspect there was some purpose to his remarks that might make me regret this conversation.

‘Definitely not. As a matter of fact, I was admiring one of your earliest designs only the other day.’

‘Really? Which one?’ As if I needed to ask.

‘Clouds Frome. Reg showed me the article in that old copy of
The Builder
. It was the first time I’d ever seen it. I didn’t even know we had it on file.’

‘What of it?’

‘
What of it?
’ He looked at me in amused puzzlement. ‘Why, it’s just so good, of course. So simple, yet so effective. Function and style. For once, perfectly combined. I never knew—’

‘I was capable of it?’

‘Of course not.’ He laughed. ‘I’m trying to pay you a compliment, for goodness’ sake. The blending of baronial hall and drawing-room really does come off. The pentagonal bay reinforcing the four gables at the rear. And that flagstoned causeway reaching out across the orchard. What did they call it? “A pier in a sea of blossom”? It’s brilliant. Honestly, it is.’

‘Kind of you to say so.’

‘It’s nothing less than the truth. It’s just a pity …’

‘Yes?’

‘A pity commissions like that are so thin on the ground. I suppose before the war there were more clients to be found at the higher end of the market.’

‘Perhaps.’ I thought of Victor Caswell and reflected that clients like him had never been plentiful, which was probably just as well. ‘But you only need one.’

‘Do you mind if I ask you something about Clouds Frome, Mr Staddon?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Without wishing to cast aspersions on your other work, do you think it was the best building you ever designed?’

I sighed. ‘Yes, Giles. I rather think it was.’

I decided, the day after taking tea with the Caswells at Fern Lodge, to delay my return to London until the evening, so that I might inspect the Clouds Frome site without my client for company. Accordingly, straight after breakfast, I engaged a fly at my hotel and had it take me to the high road side of the farm, intending to walk the few miles back to Hereford after satisfying my curiosity on a number of points.

It was a brighter day than Tuesday and I found the keen edge to the wind invigorating as I started up across a sloping field towards the orchard Victor had pointed out to me from above. Already, I had begun to refine my ideas to appeal to Consuela’s sensitivity, to speculate how her comfort and convenience might at all stages be served. Already, I suppose, her approval had come to seem more important than the approval of any client’s wife really should.

There was a narrow wicket-gate leading through the hedge into the orchard, which looked to be quite empty now the harvest was over. Beyond it, I knew, lay the farm, but for the moment the trees screened the buildings from my view.

As I unlooped the string that held the gate shut and stepped through, I was startled by the sudden appearance
of
a figure only a few yards away, materializing, it seemed, from amidst the trees. A short, wiry man of middle years dressed in threadbare tweeds and a flat cap, cradling over his left arm a broken shot-gun, he must, I suppose, have been obscured by one of the trunks until we were very nearly face to face.

I was too surprised at first to speak. He was unshaven, with narrow, suspicious eyes set in a gaunt, prominently boned face. He had been chewing something and spat it out now without ceremony, then said, ‘Who might you be?’ His tone suggested that, whatever my answer, I would not be welcome.

‘My name’s … Staddon. I’m an architect.’

‘An architec’?’ He stared at me in silence, as if assessing the merits of the breed. ‘An’ who might you be an architec’ for, Mr Staddon?’

There seemed no point in prevarication. ‘Mr Victor Caswell,’ I said boldly.

‘Ar. I reckoned as much.’

‘I was just taking a look. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Be all the same if I did, wouldn’t it?’

‘Well, no. Strictly speaking, I do need your permission, Mr … Mr, ah, Doak, is it?’

‘’E told you me name, did ’e?’

‘Mr Caswell mentioned it, yes.’

‘Surprised ’e remembered.’

‘Do you have any objection to my … looking around?’

‘Objection?’ He spat again. ‘Come over ’ere aways, boy.’