Take No Farewell - Retail (35 page)

Chapter Twelve

I LEFT LONDON
at dawn, preferring a long and arduous car drive to the comforts of train travel. Oxford, where I had frittered away a pampered portion of my youth, was grey and unyielding beneath cold, scudding cloud. In the Cotswolds, nothing moved across the bare fields save flights of rooks that might have been black rags blowing in the wind. All was grey and chill and grudging. All was as discouraging as only nature’s indifference could render it. And yet I was not discouraged.

From Gloucester the way grew more familiar, the shape and character of the land more reminiscent of what had formed Clouds Frome in my mind. Suddenly, the broad meanders of the Wye were visible in the valley below me. Suddenly, Mordiford was named on a finger-post and I knew, for all my earlier resolutions, that I could not pass it by.

I drove slowly through the village, past the field next to the church where Lizzie Thaxter lay buried, and so came, as I knew I should not, to Clouds Frome once more. I halted the car on the other side of the road, climbed out and gazed up at the house. It stood exposed by winter, robbed of all adornment, yet the conception held good. It triumphed, by setting and structure. It disregarded the austerities of the season, brushing them aside as if they were of no account.

Elated by what I had once achieved, yet bowed down by the conviction that I could never create its equal, I walked
slowly
along the road towards the entrance. And there stopped dead in my tracks with surprise.

There had never been gates across the drive. In the absence of a lodge, they had seemed neither practical nor necessary. Yet now there were. Between the pillars flanking the entrance had been erected a pair of stout wrought-iron gates with close-set palings reaching twelve feet in height and spiked at the top. They bore a large wooden sign, inscribed in bold letters: PRIVATE, KEEP OUT.

I crossed the road and stared in amazement at what I saw. The gates were locked and, in addition, a padlocked chain had been looped between them. Fixed to the right-hand pillar was a wooden box which had certainly not been there before, its outward face hinged as a door, and beneath it a sign, which read: NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. VISITORS PLEASE RING. I swung open the door of the box. Inside was a telephone and winding-handle, presumably for ringing the house. Victor had indeed made certain that he would see only those whom he wished to see.

I returned to the car, climbed in, lit a cigarette and stared up at Clouds Frome. The house seemed somehow more remote now I knew how difficult it was to reach. I could have demanded to be admitted, could have tried to insist that Victor speak to me, but I knew it was not yet time for such desperate measures. Not quite, at all events. I finished the cigarette, then started the car and drove away.

At the Green Dragon, a letter was awaiting me, delivered by hand earlier in the day. It was from Hermione.

Fern Lodge,

Aylestone Hill,

Hereford.

5th January 1924

Dear Mr Staddon,

Your letter arrived this morning and I shall deliver this reply when I go shopping. I would be happy to meet, but we must
be
careful in view of the consternation caused by our being seen together last time you were in Hereford. I occasionally attend the eight o’clock service of matins at the cathedral on Sunday mornings and it would arouse no suspicion if I did so tomorrow. It would be a simple matter to spend the hour at the Green Dragon instead. I shall therefore expect to find you breakfasting in the dining-room at eight o’clock sharp.

Sincerely yours,

Hermione E. Caswell.

I had not expected to meet Hermione as early as this and had therefore assumed I could defer until Sunday morning that most delicate of tasks: the composition of a letter to Jacinta. I had, alas, little idea what I could or should say in it and had made no sort of a start by the time Windrush arrived for our dinner engagement.

He looked more haggard and careworn than ever. A nervous blink and a jerkiness to his head movements were characteristics I felt sure he had not displayed previously. He drank and smoked greedily, but ate hardly at all, and wasted little time in explaining the cause of his anxiety.

‘This case has made me a marked man in Hereford, Staddon. It’s all right for you. You don’t have to live with these people. They blame me for getting the trial transferred, for denying them the pleasure of seeing the assize judge don the black cap.’

‘Is it really as bad as that?’

‘If anything, it’s worse.’

‘I passed Clouds Frome this afternoon. Caswell seems to have made some changes.’

‘You mean the gates? They were put up about a month ago. Broken glass was cemented along the top of the boundary wall at the same time. There’s even supposed to be a guard-dog that roams the grounds by night. Some say all the precautions are to keep out the press and sensation-seekers. Others say the poisoning’s unnerved him and he’s afraid somebody will try to murder him.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘Oh, I think it’s certainly more than a desire for privacy. Between you and me, I can’t help feeling our friend Pombalho may have rattled him. Last time he was here he uttered some pretty dire threats about what he’ll do if his sister hangs.’

‘Kill Caswell, you mean? Surely that’s not to be taken seriously.’

‘I’d take it seriously if I were Caswell. Have you seen Pombalho recently?’

‘Er … no.’

‘Well, count yourself lucky. He’s like a simmering volcano. If his sister does hang, he’ll erupt. I wouldn’t want to be in Caswell’s shoes then.’

I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. ‘Will she hang, do you think?’

‘You’d better ask Sir Henry. It’s largely up to him anyway. I’m due to meet him at his chambers next Friday for a last conference before the trial. Why don’t you come with me?’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘He’ll strike an optimistic note, of course. He has to. But I don’t think he has any basis for it. If you want my opinion, we’re no nearer assembling an adequate defence than we were two months ago.’

‘You hold out little hope, then?’

‘It’s in Sir Henry’s hands. He can’t refute the evidence. All he can hope to do is sow sufficient uncertainty – and sympathy – in the jury’s minds for them to give Mrs Caswell the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Does Mrs Caswell realize the seriousness of the situation?’

‘Oh, yes. But she’s completely unmoved by it. I have the impression that she’s already prepared herself for the worst. She’s a brave woman, Staddon, very brave. And I have a nasty feeling she’s going to need to be.’

Late that night, I sat alone in my room, pen in hand, a sheet of hotel notepaper laid before me on the desk.

My dearest Jacinta,

You are not yet old enough to understand what I am about to tell you, but I cannot delay the telling any longer. Victor Caswell, the man who has made your mother’s life a misery and who now holds you prisoner at Clouds Frome, is not your father at all. I am your father. That is why your mother sent you to me. Because you are my daughter and because your protection is the least, the very least, I owe to your mother – the woman I deceived and deserted. There is nothing I can say to excuse my conduct in the past, but there is at least something I can do in the present to—

I tore the letter into fragments and burned them. I had known, even as I had written the words, that Jacinta would never read them. They represented what I wanted to tell her, what one day I knew I would have to tell her, but for the moment they had to remain locked within the secrecy of my conscience. In their place I could find nothing with which to still her fears. According to Windrush, those fears were only too well founded. And therefore silence seemed the least hurtful of all the ways I could greet my daughter. I had written no letter, and prepared no message, when eight o’clock the following morning found me seated in the sparsely populated dining-room, awaiting my next visitor.

‘I will have a freshly brewed pot of tea,’ said Hermione to the waiter. ‘And a rack of toast. I do not expect the slices to be limp, mark you.’ Then, as the waiter made to leave: ‘And Mr Staddon looks as if he would like some more coffee.’

Hermione’s vitality was undimmed and instantly cheering. After glaring at the only other guest taking breakfast – a glum-faced fellow with an irritating cough and less fat on him than the bacon I had just consumed – she fixed me with a piercing look and said:

‘Why are you here, Mr Staddon?’

‘Because you wrote to me.’

‘Come, come. You could more easily have responded by post than in person.’

‘Not really. I’ve no letter for you to pass on. Only a message. Jacinta mustn’t lose hope. There’s still every cause for optimism.’

Hermione frowned. ‘You disappoint me, Mr Staddon. Surely you know Jacinta too well to think she can be satisfied with platitudes. Her mother’s life is in considerable danger – and she knows it.’

‘So do I. But there’s nothing more I can say to her.’

‘That sounds awfully like defeatism.’

‘I don’t mean it to. Indeed, I’ve come to Hereford in anything but a defeatist mood.’

‘What do you propose to do?’

‘I propose to confront Victor with certain facts that have recently come into my possession. And I hope thereby to discover the truth. Is that the sort of fighting talk you think Jacinta would prefer to hear?’

‘Yes, but we must tread carefully with her where Victor is concerned.’

‘Because he’s her father. Exactly. Hence my difficulty in knowing what to ask you to tell her on my behalf.’

Tea, toast and coffee arrived amidst an excessive rattling of crockery. Whilst they were dispensed, Hermione stared at me across the table with the intensity of one seeking confirmation of a questionable deduction. When the waiter had gone, she selected a slice of toast and began to butter it, then said: ‘I don’t think Victor is Jacinta’s father, Mr Staddon. And I don’t think you think so either.’

‘What … what do you mean?’

‘It’s clear enough, surely? Your determination to save Consuela. Her instruction to Jacinta that she should look to you for help. Jacinta’s date of birth. And your last visit to Clouds Frome. Even old ladies can count, Mr Staddon. Of course, I understand that you may not
know
, for certain I
mean,
but I feel sure you suspect it. Now, would you mind passing the marmalade?’

Dumbly, I pushed the pot across the table.

‘Don’t worry. Nobody else is likely to guess. If Jacinta had not asked me to act as your go-between, it would never have occurred to me. And I’m not going to tell anybody. Why should I? It’s really none of my business. But I thought you ought to know that I’d guessed. Is it, may I ask, one of the facts with which you propose to, confront Victor?’

‘I … Yes. In a sense.’

‘Well, you may find that difficult. Victor has become elusive of late. Casual visitors are no longer welcome at Clouds Frome. And he’s had some alterations made. The house resembles a fortress. Locked gates. Broken glass on the walls. A mastiff loose in the grounds. Bolts at all the windows. And those are only the precautions I know about.’

‘What’s he frightened of?’

‘I don’t know. The poisoning’s changed him, no doubt of that. And his holiday in France did him little good. He seems nervous, suspicious of everyone outside the household. The trial’s been preying on his mind, of course, but I rather think there’s more to it than that.’

‘Could it have anything to do with Consuela’s brother, Rodrigo Manchaca de Pombalho? I believe he’s been to Hereford.’

‘It may indeed. My only encounter with Senhor Pombalho suggested he would gladly wring Victor’s head from his body. And he obviously has the strength to do it. He is, to say the very least, a forceful gentleman.’

An unpleasant thought came suddenly into my mind. Could Hermione, wittingly or not, have alerted Rodrigo to the fact that Consuela and I had once been lovers? ‘Did you … Did you tell Rodrigo that you doubted Victor was Jacinta’s father?’

‘Good heavens, no. Apart from anything else, no such doubt had then formed in my mind. Even if it had, I would
not
have shared it with Senhor Pombalho. Whatever can have put that idea in your head?’

‘Oh … something he said to me. But I may have misunderstood.’

‘I think you must have done. Senhor Pombalho visited Fern Lodge some time in late November, as I recall. Mortimer felt obliged to receive him courteously, but there was nothing courteous about the way he left. Victor was still in France then, of course. It was only later that we learned Senhor Pombalho had threatened to kill him. It was a threat he repeated in still more violent terms when Victor returned. That was when the alterations began at Clouds Frome and Victor began living as a recluse, forcing Jacinta to do the same. He has so far found no excuse for forbidding me to visit her, but it would not surprise me in the least if he tried to. As for Senhor Pombalho, we have heard no more from him. There have been several reported sightings, but none of late. He is not, as you know, the most inconspicuous of men, so I assume he has left Hereford, probably for London. He may even have returned to Brazil, though I doubt it.’

‘So, could these … alterations … be intended to protect Victor from Rodrigo?’

‘If not, I cannot imagine what other purpose they serve.’

‘Will Victor refuse to see me?’

‘He may well. But that does not mean, of course, that he must necessarily have his way.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Your visit to Hereford is timely, Mr Staddon. Tomorrow afternoon, there is to be a directors’ meeting at Caswell & Co. I know, because, thanks to the provisions of my father’s will, I am one of the directors, as is Victor. He will most certainly attend the meeting, so, if all else fails, you will be able to speak to him then.’ Her expression suggested that, if I were forced to seek her brother out at the company offices, she would relish being present. ‘Now,’ she added, ‘I feel sure the tea has had sufficient time to draw. Would you mind pouring me a cup?’

It being Sunday, there was a way, I had realized, both to contact Victor and to reassure Jacinta that I had not abandoned her. According to Hermione, she was still permitted to attend Hereford Roman Catholic Church under Miss Roebuck’s supervision. Ten minutes before the eleven o’clock service was due to begin, therefore, I took up position outside and was soon rewarded when a sleek maroon Bentley glided to a halt a few yards away and Jacinta’s face appeared at the nearside rear window.