Hand In Glove Part 48

BEATRIX: Excellent. It's nearly six months since you broached your scheme to me. During those months you've frequently explained how we would both benefit from informing the literary world of the trick Tristram and I played on it. And I've frequently explained how fame and wealth mean very little at my age. Less, indeed, than my late brother's good name, which I consider to be more important than any financial inconvenience you may be caused by the expiry of copyright. It's not that I be-grudge you your father's royalties. Far from it. It's simply that I'm not prepared to see him branded a fraud and a charlatan merely in order to prolong your receipt of them.

MAURICE: You haven't changed your mind, then?

BEATRIX: I did ask you not to interrupt, didn't I?

MAURICE: ( sighing): Sorry.

BEATRIX: To proceed. About ten days ago, an antique dealer called Fairfax-Vane came to see me, claiming to have an appointment to value my Tunbridge Ware. He has a shop in Tunbridge Wells.

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You may remember him. Ah, yes, I see you do. In connection with some furniture poor Mary was ill-advised enough to sell him last year. Well, I'd made no appointment with him, of course. I a.s.sumed he was chancing his arm. So, I sent him away with a flea in his ear. Then, last Monday, who should I see skulking-yes, I think skulking is the word-around Church Square but your former chauffeur, the bibulous Mr Spicer. He beat a hasty retreat when he spotted me approaching, but it was not hasty enough. You look surprised, as well you might, though more by his incompetence than his presence in Rye. That, I feel sure, is scarcely news to you.

MAURICE: I don't know what you mean.

BEATRIX: Please be quiet, Maurice, and attend to what I'm saying. Mr Spicer was not in Rye for the purpose of a seaside holiday. I think we may take it as certain he had business here. Business which necessitated some preliminary reconnaissance. So I concluded, anyway. It was a conclusion reinforced by a subsequent telephone conversation with Mr Fairfax-Vane, who convinced me an appointment had indeed been made for him to come here-by a woman clearly younger than me, who spoke with a faintly American accent. And the appointment, I realized, was timed to ensure Mrs Mentiply would be here with me. As a witness, so to speak. I began to see a pattern to these puzzling events, a distinct and disturbing trend. Perhaps I might not have done but for information which has recently come my way concerning your financial circ.u.mstances. However, since- MAURICE: My what?

BEATRIX: Your financial circ.u.mstances. And kindly do not bellow. It really should not strike you as odd that I have been enquiring into your affairs-if I may so phrase it. Your persistence-nay, your vehemence-on the subject of Tristram's letters suggested your need of the royalties was greater than you were prepared to admit. When I hired a private detective to test this hypothesis- MAURICE: A private detective?

BEATRIX: There's no need to repeat everything I say. I feel sure you can hear and understand me. The report I commissioned on you makes for interesting reading. Particularly in respect of the mistress you maintain in New York. No doubt her charms are as considerable as they are expensive.

H A N D I N G L O V E.

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MAURICE: Good G.o.d, this is- BEATRIX: What you have driven me to. It is useless to beetle your brow in what you clearly believe to be a threatening fas.h.i.+on. I am only ensuring we both know where we stand. I have developed a theory to explain recent incidents in the light of what I have learned about you. Would you like to hear it? . . . I shall take your glowering silence to indicate you would. If Mr Spicer's dismissal for drunkenness last Christmas was a charade; if he is still in fact in your employment though not as a chauffeur; if your American mistress telephoned Mr Fairfax-Vane and lured him here; if I should happen to fall victim to a break-in apparently arranged by Mr Fairfax-Vane in order to lay his hands on my Tunbridge Ware but actually carried out by Mr. Spicer in order to bring about my death; if my demise should leave you in possession of your father's letters and free to publish them . . . Well, if I am right in all this-and I rather think I am-then you have decided to override my objections to publication in the most effective and heartless manner possible, haven't you?

MAURICE: Of course I haven't. This is all-every word of it-the most preposterous nonsense.

BEATRIX: Is it? Is it really?

MAURICE: Yes. And if the only reason you asked me here was to inflict this on- BEATRIX: But it wasn't. Not quite the only reason, anyway.

MAURICE: Why else, then?

BEATRIX: To ask for time to reconsider my position. I want to think the whole thing through, very carefully, while I'm in Cheltenham.

To weigh my principles against the risks I appear to be running.

MAURICE: You're running no risks!

BEATRIX: You should be pleased I think otherwise. It means you may get your way without having to resort to desperate remedies.

MAURICE: Well, if you're having a change of heart . . .

BEATRIX: Don't count on it. I'll telephone you when I return from Cheltenham with my final decision. There's a great deal to take into account. More than you realize. Far more. If your father's reputation were the beginning and the end of the matter, I might have been less intransigent all along. But it isn't, believe me. There are other dimensions to this. Other repercussions. You would do well to beware them.

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MAURICE: How can I beware what I know nothing about?

BEATRIX: You can't, so long as you remain as pig-headed as you have been all your life.

MAURICE: Now look here- BEATRIX: Out of interest, could you tell me what this is really all about? There has to be more to it than money. What is it? Simply your inability to accept that your wishes do not always take precedence over other people's?

MAURICE: Oh, for G.o.d's sake- BEATRIX: What? Leaving so soon?

MAURICE: I'm glad you're having second thoughts, Aunt, whatever the reason. I'll look forward to hearing from you after your holiday, hopefully with good news. But, meanwhile, I've no intention of swallowing any more of your insults.

BEATRIX: As you please. I believe we've both said what needed to be said. I believe we understand each other now.

MAURICE: Perhaps we do.

BEATRIX: Don't forget what I told you. There's more at stake here than you can possibly imagine.

MAURICE: That's eyewash and you know it.

BEATRIX: I know you think it is. But you're wrong. Not that I expect you to heed my warning. I'd be surprised if you did.

MAURICE: And surprises aren't good for delicate old ladies, are they?

BEATRIX: They're not as bad as nocturnal intruders.

MAURICE: No. But you can take precautions against them, can't you?

BEATRIX: By agreeing to your terms, you mean?

MAURICE: By being sensible.

BEATRIX: I shall certainly endeavour to be that.

MAURICE: Good.

BEATRIX: Can you see yourself out?

MAURICE: Yes. Of course.

BEATRIX: Goodbye, then.

MAURICE: ( from a distance): Thanks for the tea. I'll speak to you soon.

Have a nice thoughtful time in Cheltenham, Aunt.

BEATRIX: I'll be sure to.

MAURICE: ( from a distance): 'Bye.

BEATRIX: ( in an undertone): Goodbye, Maurice. Thank you so much for your co-operation. It's been invaluable.

CHAPTER.

EIGHTEEN.

Charlotte had bought a pocket ca.s.sette player before leaving New York and listened to the tape of Beatrix's conversation with Maurice over and over again during the five-hour rail journey to Boston. At times she could imagine she was in an adjoining room at Jackdaw Cottage, eavesdropping on what they said. At others the realization that both of them were now dead rendered their words distant and ethereal. But the meaning of those words never altered. Beatrix had set a trap for Maurice and he had walked straight into it. n.o.body who heard the tape could doubt his guilt. He had even specified the date of his unwitting confessional. Natasha was right. It would almost certainly be enough to acquit Colin Fairfax. He at least would go free.

But Samantha's freedom still seemed a long way off. "There's more at stake here than you can possibly imagine," Beatrix had said.

And subsequent events had shown just how much more. But what was it? What had she held for so many years in trust and secrecy? What had rendered her and Tristram's literary fraud trivial by comparison?

Charlotte longed to be able to ask her, to turn to her and have every question instantly answered, every problem magically solved. But she was no longer there. Only her voice lingered in Charlotte's ear. And what it said could never be altered. It could be heard at the press of a b.u.t.ton. But it would always be the same.

Charlotte booked into a hotel in the centre of Boston and hunted down the telephone directory in her room as soon as the porter had left. Emerson McKitrick's address was clearly shown, at a place called South Lincoln. Tomorrow, she would have to find him, there or wherever he was hiding. Tomorrow, she would have to forget the humiliation she had suffered at his hands and plead for his help in what threatened to be a hopeless task.

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When tomorrow came, Charlotte faced it with as much resolution and efficiency as she could muster. She bought a map, hired a car and drove nervously to Cambridge, where the opening week of Harvard's autumn semester was in frantic progress. At length, she located the literature department and, entering, asked the first student she came upon where she might find Dr McKitrick.

"Not here, ma'am. He works at home most Fridays. Do you want the address?"

"No thank you," Charlotte replied. "That won't be necessary."

She was, in fact, relieved to learn he was not there. Confronted in his domestic environment, he would find it more difficult to fob her off.

An hour later, she had reached Drumlin Hill, South Lincoln, a lushly wooded cul-de-sac of executive residences beyond Boston's western suburbs. McKitrick's house lounged on a maple-strewn ridge, sleek and contemporary, with a gable end sporting one huge circular window that stared down at her like an unblinking eye.

The door was answered by a slim blonde-haired woman of about her own age dressed in jeans, trainers and a candy-stripe s.h.i.+rt several sizes too big for her. Bending one knee to restrain an enthusiastic red setter, she unzipped a dazzling smile. "Hi! What can I do for you?"

"Good morning," Charlotte ventured. "I'm looking for Emerson McKitrick."

"He's not here right now."

"Will he be back soon?"

"Any minute, I guess. What . . . Is he expecting you?"

"No."

"You're English, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. My name's Charlotte Ladram."

"Ladram? Don't I know . . . Hey, Ladram Avionics, right? The corporation Maurice Abberley ran."

"Maurice Abberley is-was-my brother."

"Your brother? You'd better come in." She opened the door wide and held back the dog, whose tail was beating wildly on the wall behind it. "It's OK. He just gets overexcited. Come on in."

Charlotte stepped into the hall and grinned down at the dog.

"h.e.l.lo, boy."

"Go on through. I'll get rid of this brute." The woman led him away, leaving Charlotte to wander into a long pine-panelled room H A N D I N G L O V E.

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with a huge stone fireplace at the far end and a picture window to her right commanding a view of the terraced front garden and the curving drive up which she had walked. The seating was low and yielding, the decoration largely subordinate to a vast abstract oil painting on the longest wall. Charlotte was gazing at its aimless explosion of colour when her hostess returned, still smiling broadly, and extended a hand in formal greeting.

"Sorry about the dog. I'm Holly McKitrick, by the way." It was probably Charlotte's frown of puzzlement that prompted her to add: "Emerson's wife."

"Oh. I see." As soon as the handshake was complete, Charlotte turned away, eager to look elsewhere for the instant it took her to absorb the simple fact of his marriage. He had lied about this as about much else and she knew she should feel neither hurt nor surprised.

But in reality she felt both. "You have . . . er . . . a lovely house," she said, glancing back at Holly McKitrick to find her blue eyes trained studiously upon her.

"Glad you like it."

"I expect you're . . . er . . . wondering what brings me here."

"Well, we heard about your brother's death through Emerson's British publisher. It sounded awful. And his daughter's been kidnapped, hasn't she? She's your niece, right?"

"Yes."

"If you've come all this way at such a time . . ."

"It's because Emerson may be able to help us secure Sam's release."

"You made his acquaintance when he was over in July researching Tristram Abberley?"

"Yes. I did."

"Well, I'm sure he'd want to help any way he can, but I don't rightly see-"

"We have to try everything."

"Yeh. Of course." She smiled. "Would you like some coffee while you wait?"

"Er . . . Thank you."