Hand In Glove Part 10

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lavishly appointed, it did not flaunt its architectural wares, but blended discreetly into the affluent landscape behind weeping willows and well-clipped hedges. Maurice had bought it twenty-one years ago as a glamorous new home for his glamorous new wife and he remained conspicuously proud of both acquisitions, as eager to protect them as he was to be envied on their account.

Aliki, the Cypriot au pair, answered the door and directed Charlotte to the garden, where the family-and their mysterious guest-were relaxing while she prepared lunch.

They were sitting on canvas chairs beneath a silver birch tree, with a tray of drinks standing on a table close at hand. Behind them the lawn, its flower-borders awash with colour, stretched to the bank of the river, where the weeping willows stirred serenely in a gentle breeze. Maurice, a smiling figure in panama and cravat, waved to Charlotte as she approached. To his right sat Ursula in a polka-dot dress, coolly remote behind dark gla.s.ses and cigarette smoke. Next to her, just outside the shadow of the trees, sat Samantha, stretching her legs and holding an iced gla.s.s against her cheek as she absorbed the heat of the sun. She was wearing an abbreviated pink swimsuit and an expression of calculated languor. To Maurice's left sat their guest, enjoying-as Charlotte felt sure he was intended to-a spectacular view of Samantha's bronzed and shapely limbs. He was square-shouldered, with a shock of dark hair and a beard, informally dressed in a pale green s.h.i.+rt and trousers. He rose as she drew near, shot her a flas.h.i.+ng smile and extended his hand.

"Hi. My name's Emerson McKitrick." He spoke in a subdued American accent and by the time she had released his hand, Charlotte had realized who he was.

"Tristram Abberley's biographer."

"The very same. We never did meet while I was researching the book, did we?"

"No, we didn't." It was twelve years ago-whilst Charlotte had been away on an ill-fated holiday in the Greek islands-that McKitrick had interviewed her mother. She had spoken afterwards of a polite and good-looking young man and Charlotte could see that this had been a considerable understatement. "What an unexpected pleasure, Mr McKitrick."

"It's Doctor McKitrick, Charlie," put in Maurice.

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

"Oh, I-"

"So why don't you call me Emerson and solve the problem that way?"

"Sit down and have a drink, Charlie," said Ursula. "We've left a chair for you-and a gla.s.s."

Charlotte found herself seated next to McKitrick, aware that she was blus.h.i.+ng for no good reason. "What . . . er . . . What brings you here . . . Emerson?"

"Research. Same as last time." He did have a winning smile.

There was no question about it. And enough laughter-lines at the edges of his eyes to suggest he was no dry and cloistered academic.

But he was altogether too tanned and muscular for that to be plausible anyway. Charlotte caught herself guessing his age and settled on forty. "My teaching schedule at Harvard means this is about the only time of year I can get away."

"And what are you researching?"

"Something I'm kind of hoping you can help me with."

"Me?"

"That's right. You in particular."

"While Emerson explains," said Ursula, "I really must go and see how Aliki's coping in the kitchen." She rose and smiled at McKitrick.

"Do excuse me."

"Sure."

Turning towards her daughter, Ursula said: "And it's high time you put some clothes on, young lady. Unless you're thinking of lunching in your swimsuit." Then she headed towards the house, leaving Samantha to grimace at the others before following. It really was, as became apparent when she left her chair, an extremely brief costume, cut as revealingly high at the hips as it was scooped daringly low at the back. McKitrick did not seem to mind Charlotte seeing him watch her curvaceous retreat across the lawn.

"A beautiful wife and a beautiful daughter. You're a lucky man, Maurice."

"Are you married yourself, Emerson?" asked Charlotte.

"No." He grinned. "Except to my work."

"Which you think I can help you with?"

"Perhaps I'd better come clean. My publisher's been pressuring me for a few years now to produce a new edition of Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography. I've been stalling them, mostly because I don't H A N D I N G L O V E.

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enjoy going over old ground. But there's a chance now of finding some fresh material that would make a new edition worthwhile."

"How so?"

"The chance arises from your G.o.dmother's recent death. As soon as I heard about it-from a friend at Oxford who pa.s.sed through Harvard at the end of last month-I tried to contact Maurice. When I found out he was in New York, I fixed up a meeting with him."

"And I told him the whole sad story," said Maurice.

"It is sad," said McKitrick. "She was a feisty old lady. I liked her."

"So did we all," said Charlotte. "But I still don't see-"

"I met with Beatrix twelve years ago, when I was doing the original research for the book, and got a whole ma.s.s of valuable information from her about Tristram's early years. In fact, she was pretty well my only source for his life before and immediately after Oxford. Up to about 1933, that is. But it was oral stuff. Straightforward recollection.

She had no papers that Tristram left behind. None, I should say, that she was prepared to let me use."

"Well," said Charlotte, "it was always my understanding that none existed. Apart from the poems themselves, of course. And a few letters. But surely my mother showed you those."

"She did. But when I was speaking with Beatrix about Tristram's last few months, in Spain, she told me he'd written to her regularly from there-right up to his death. And that she'd kept the letters."

"Really? Mother never mentioned such letters to me."

"Nor to me," put in Maurice.

"No. Because Beatrix didn't tell her. She evidently didn't want Mary to be jealous. It seems Tristram wrote more often to his sister than his wife. That could have been hard for a young widow to accept."

"And it would have been typical of Beatrix to want to protect Mother from any unnecessary pain," said Maurice.

"Right," said McKitrick. "That's how I saw it. And she was still protecting her nearly forty years later. So, I had to go along with it. I tried to persuade her to let me see the letters, but it was a waste of effort. You two know better than me she couldn't be s.h.i.+fted once she'd made up her mind. I had no choice but to go ahead without the material. And, anyway, she didn't leave me completely empty-handed. She said she'd give the letters to Maurice before her death on the understanding that, when Mary died, they could be made public. She was 62 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

a.s.suming, naturally enough, she'd die before Mary. And she was a.s.suming, I reckon, she'd have plenty of time to set her affairs in order. As it is, Mary predeceased her. If I'd known, I'd have contacted Beatrix straightaway, as you can imagine. But, instead, the first I heard was of Beatrix's own death. That's why I was so anxious to get in touch with Maurice. To find out what arrangements she'd made for the letters."

"I had to tell him she'd made none," said Maurice. "Maybe she thought she could postpone facing me with it. After all, she was in excellent health. Maybe she just forgot what she'd promised. Either way, she never breathed a word to me about it."

"I don't quite understand," said Charlotte. "If these letters exist, they'll be stored somewhere at Jackdaw Cottage. Surely that's obvious."

"Exactly," said Maurice. "And as I explained to Emerson when we met in New York, it means they're your property, under the terms of Beatrix's will."

"Which is why I said I needed your help." McKitrick smiled at her. "Whether we look for the letters-whether I use them if we find them-is down to you, Charlie. You and n.o.body else."

Lunch was more enjoyable than Charlotte had expected. McKitrick's ready wit and wide-ranging opinions kept everyone amused and involved. He had the ability to uncover people's particular enthusiasms and to talk entertainingly about them. Academic life, the aviation industry, equestrian sport, Cypriot cuisine, even Tunbridge Ware. It seemed he could speak divertingly and intelligently on virtually any topic. And he was, as Samantha remarked when she pa.s.sed Charlotte on the stairs, "a gorgeous hunk into the bargain."

Nothing more was said about the letters until the party had returned to the garden. Then, without seeming to engineer the situation, McKitrick walked to the river's edge with Charlotte and watched a squadron of swans pa.s.s majestically by before remarking: "A researcher's always a bit of a mendicant. Begging access. Borrowing quotations. I guess there'd be no more biographies if we weren't so shameless."

"There's no need to beg in this case. If Maurice is happy for you to look for these letters, so am I."

"I appreciate it, I really do."

"I'm only surprised he didn't come across them himself."

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"He wasn't looking for them. It makes all the difference."

"I suppose it does. When do you want to visit the cottage?"

"When could you show me round?"

"Oh!" She caught herself blus.h.i.+ng again. "You want me to come too?"

"I was hoping you would. Whatever we find is your property, remember. And it'll be for you to say what we do with it. Besides, a treasure hunt is more fun when there are two."

"A treasure hunt? Is that what this is?"

"In a sense. Academic research is a lot like prospecting for gold.

You're always hoping to hit a rich seam, but you hardly ever do. When shall we find out if this is to be an exception to the rule?"

His smile was conspiratorial and contagious. And Charlotte was powerless to do other than smile back. "Tomorrow," she said. "I don't honestly think I could wait any longer."

CHAPTER.

TWELVE.

Charlotte did not care to admit to herself just how excited she was by the prospect of a.s.sisting Emerson McKitrick with his research. To have done so would have been to admit how drab her life had become and how desperate she secretly was for some small measure of romance and adventure.

The signs were there, however, clear and incontrovertible. She slept poorly. She took exaggerated care over her hair and make-up.

She chose to wear a more flattering outfit than the occasion warranted. And she broached a bottle of Chanel perfume that had stood untouched in a cupboard since Christmas.

Emerson travelled to Tunbridge Wells by an early train from London, where he was staying, and Charlotte drove him on to Rye. They reached Jackdaw Cottage a little after ten o'clock. And there-bar a short break for lunch-they remained all day, proceeding methodically from room to room, checking carefully the contents of bureaux and bookcases, cupboards and cabinets. Every piece of paper in 64 R O B E R T G O D D A R D.

every drawer was examined, every book opened in case a letter had been slipped between the pages, every nook and cranny penetrated in search of a hidden bundle. The task, though time-consuming, was not difficult, for Beatrix had never been able to abide untidiness. Though she had acc.u.mulated a good deal in the course of a long life, she had always been strict and orderly in her domestic arrangements. Such papers and doc.u.ments as she had preserved were stored in the obvious places.

Even in the loft, to which Emerson ascended in mid-afternoon, disci-pline prevailed. Nowhere was a bulging suitcase or battered despatch-box to be found. Nowhere, indeed, were any caches of letters-let alone the ones they sought-waiting to be unearthed. No billets-doux from long-dead beaux. No birthday cards from years gone by. And nothing at all-neither sc.r.a.p nor jotting-from Tristram Abberley.

At six o'clock, they abandoned the task and retreated to the Ypres Castle Inn on Gun Garden Steps, where they sat with their drinks in the small garden and gazed out across the harbour towards the sea.

They were tired and despondent, though Charlotte was aware that Emerson was merely disappointed at having found nothing, whereas she was also fearful that their failure would bring an abrupt end to their a.s.sociation.

"I can't understand it, Charlie. I was so sure they'd be there, so confident."

"Because of what Beatrix told you?"

"Yuh. She didn't have to hide them. There was no need."

"But she appears to have done precisely that."

"I'm not sure. The housekeeper hasn't touched anything. Maurice has removed nothing apart from bank statements, cheque-books and a couple of bills."

"And all I've taken from the cottage is a Tunbridge Ware work-table. It contains thimbles, needles and a few b.u.t.tons, but no papers of any kind."

"Right. And we're sure-because Maurice has already checked it out as her executor-that she didn't deposit any packages with her bank or solicitor."

"Yes. Which appears to leave us back at Jackdaw Cottage."