Chapter Two

KNOWING ANGELA’S CURIOSITY would be revived as soon as Consuela’s next court appearance was reported in the press, I took care to ensure that I had to leave the house uncommonly early the following Tuesday. I had secured a ten o’clock appointment in Whitstable with the secretary of a golf club aspiring to grander accommodation, so was obliged to set off for Victoria station whilst Angela was still in bed.

I had slept poorly since first hearing of Consuela’s plight, unable to rid my mind of the contrast between all that I remembered of her and the privations of a police cell in Hereford. Greater knowledge of the charges against her seemed likely to afford some kind of relief, so it was with eager haste that I bought a copy of The Times in Kensington High Street and sat on a bench to study the legal page.

A full hearing, it transpired, had now commenced in Hereford magistrates’ court. It was reported in detail and with a prominence which suggested that public interest in the case was heightening. Prosecuting counsel had addressed the bench at length, setting out the basis of the charge. It would be shown, he had said, by reference to certain letters found in the accused’s possession, that she had reason to harbour malice against her husband. It would be further shown that a quantity of arsenious oxide had been found in her possession along with the letters. On Sunday 9 September she had been due to take tea as usual with her husband and their daughter—

I broke off. They had a child. I had never supposed, never guessed, that they might have. It was an unremarkable discovery, yet a devastating one. It seemed suddenly to make everything far worse. Consuela and Victor had a child, whereas Angela and I … I forced my attention back to the newspaper.

Consuela, Victor and their daughter (whom the report did not name) had been about to commence tea in the drawing-room at Clouds Frome when unexpected visitors had arrived: Marjorie and her daughter Rosemary, who had called by on a whim whilst returning from a luncheon engagement with Marjorie’s brother and his family in Ross-on-Wye. The tea party had lasted about an hour, then Marjorie and Rosemary had pressed on home to Hereford. Several hours later, both Marjorie and Rosemary had been taken ill at Fern Lodge with symptoms of acute food poisoning, whilst Victor had fallen ill with identical symptoms at Clouds Frome. Rosemary’s was much the most serious case of the three, vomiting and diarrhoea giving place to paralysis, unconsciousness and death late the following evening.

The Crown’s contention was that the accused had placed sufficient arsenic in the sugar-bowl to kill her husband, who, unlike his wife and daughter, regularly took sugar in tea, but that Marjorie and Rosemary, who also took sugar, had inadvertently shared the dose and that Rosemary had somehow consumed the major part.

The prosecution’s first witness was Dr Stringfellow, who had attended all three patients. No impurity or tainting of food or drink could have accounted, in his judgement, for the severity of Rosemary Caswell’s illness. He had therefore felt obliged to withhold a death certificate until a specialist in the detection of poisons could carry out a post mortem. He had also taken specimens of the other two patients’ urine for the specialist’s examination. The subsequent discovery of arsenic in these samples and in the body of the deceased had not surprised him; he had feared from the start that it would be so.

With Dr Stringfellow’s testimony the first day of the hearing had ended.

Poison has always seemed to me the most sinister of threats to life, lurking unsuspected in food or drink, masked by other tastes, then striking hours later when the meal is half-forgotten. Perhaps that is what Ivor Doak meant about Victor’s acquisition of Clouds Frome: that something in the land and place was bound to resist him and, in the end, do its best to destroy him.

Yet was it possible to see Consuela as the agent of that destruction? Surely not. She was no poisoner. The cold, scheming intelligence required for such a crime was alien to her nature. Clearly, however, the police believed otherwise and had evidence to support them in that belief. And what did I have? Nothing, except my distant memories of Consuela to stumble after in vain.

It was a few days after Easter, 1909, when I welcomed Consuela on her first visit to Clouds Frome. The builders had only been on the site for a fortnight and there was consequently little to see but mud and trench work. The last load of rubble from the farm had, however, been removed and I, at least, could begin to envisage the splendour of the finished house. The question was whether I could persuade others to do so, though even this can hardly explain the anxiety I felt about Consuela’s reaction.

She arrived in mid-afternoon, accompanied by her sister-in-law Hermione, in Mortimer Caswell’s chauffeur-driven motor-car, a high-roofed limousine with closed seats at the rear lacking the joie de vivre of Victor’s Mercedes. I had been talking to the foreman, George Smith, when I heard the sound of it approaching up the rutted track from the road and suddenly felt conscious of my shabby, mud-spattered appearance as I hurried down to meet them.

It was a perfect spring day and Consuela, as she stepped lightly down from the car, was in every sense its perfect complement. The simplicity of her dress was remarkable in that era of opulence: cream skirt and coat with the faintest of stripes, pale yellow blouse fastened by a brooch, straw hat delicately trimmed with feathers, white gloves and fringed parasol; but no boa, no veil, no conspicuous jewellery or unnecessary ornament. She smiled as if it was a genuine pleasure to see me and I could not help hoping it was.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Staddon.’

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Caswell.’ I held her hand briefly in mine. ‘I can’t tell you how delighted I am that you came.’

She looked at me intently for a moment and said softly, ‘I promised I would.’

At that instant Hermione completed her descent from the car. She was costumed in tweed, with a scarf fastened round hat and throat, taking no risks, it seemed, with fickle April warmth. She tolerated my courtesies with good-humoured impatience, then demanded to know when the tour would begin.

The tour comprised my attempts to explain where and to what effect the different rooms of the house would be located and how the gardens would be laid out. I had planned the house to face north, with the drive curving up past the orchard to reach the front. To the rear were to be ponds and ornamental gardens, with a pergola of wisteria or clematis leading out along a flagstoned causeway into the orchard, which fell away below with the slope of the land. Wilder, wooded gardens would lie north of the house on climbing ground, walled kitchen garden, glasshouses and gardener’s cottage to the sheltered east. The house itself was to be a compressed H, with two gables to the front and four to the rear supplemented by a pentagonal bay, kitchens, stables and garage adjoining to one side. By loading corridor space to the front, I ensured that all the principal rooms and most of the bedrooms had good southern views. The bay, moreover, gave light and grandeur to the drawing-room as well as the master bedroom. The materials were to be local sandstone and slate, the overall effect one of solidity and grace.

How much of this was apparent to Hermione I could not tell. She evidently preferred the method of things to their meaning. To my surprise, she found a soul-mate in Smith and was content to ply him with questions whilst I escorted Consuela up to the fringes of the wood north of the site, from where the best panorama was to be obtained. We stopped beneath the spreading branches of a horse chestnut and looked back down at the strew of cart-tracks and boardwalks, at the builders’ muddy gougings and the sea of apple blossom beyond – Doak’s last crop, which he would never harvest.

‘I thought,’ I ventured cautiously, ‘that a summer-house on this spot might—’

‘It would be perfect,’ she interrupted, glancing round at me. Sunlight and shade were dappled across her face, blurring her expression. But of her beauty there could be no blurring.

‘I’m glad you like the idea.’

‘It seems to me, Mr Staddon, that I like all your ideas. Victor was very lucky to find such a talented architect.’

‘You’re too generous. I’m only doing the best I can.’

‘I should like roses in the gardens,’ she said, her mood seeming to change suddenly. And, equally suddenly, I felt that nothing could be allowed to stand in the way of any request she might choose to make.

‘An arbour, perhaps,’ I said, thinking rapidly. ‘Or a rose-seat.’

‘They would remind me of home.’ Her voice was wistful and nostalgic. ‘Of the warmth and sweetness of the Brazilian sun.’

‘Where was your home, Mrs Caswell?’

‘A Casa das Rosas.’ She smiled. ‘The House of Roses. Rua São Clemente, Rio de Janeiro. The house where I was born. The house my father built when he had made his fortune.’

‘Is it as delightful as it sounds?’

She made no reply and I sensed that the subject of her distant home was one best not preyed upon. Yet I could not let the opportunity to learn more about her slip from my grasp. I felt a sudden need to trespass upon her secret thoughts.

‘Do you miss it very much?’

She looked away and her gloved fingers tightened round the handle of the parasol. ‘How long will it take to build this house, Mr Staddon?’ she asked in a murmur.

‘Two years will see you and Mr Caswell in residence.’

‘Two years?’

‘No doubt that seems a long time, but I can assure you—’

She raised her hand to silence me. ‘It does not seem a long time.’ Her gaze drifted up into the woods behind us. ‘In some ways …’ She stopped and I knew she would not continue. In that instant there seemed more sadnesses and longings locked within her than one person could bear, far less one as beautiful as she.

‘Your sister-in-law is waving to us, Mrs Caswell. Perhaps we should rejoin her.’

Consuela flashed a glance at me that seemed to convey an immense impatience with the proprieties she was expected to observe. Then, as quickly, it was gone, replaced by lowered eyes and the faintest of smiles. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course we should.’ And with that she set off down the slope.

One of Angela’s most infuriating characteristics is her facility for unexpected changes of mood and tactic. She can summon anger from placidity at a moment’s notice and revert just as quickly. When one confidently anticipates a terrier-like pursuit of an unwelcome topic, she displays only a consuming indifference. So it was with the newspaper reports of Consuela’s hearing. For all Angela said about them one might have supposed she had not even noticed them. Though, somehow, I did not believe that was the case.

The second day of the hearing had been devoted to the testimony of the two people who had survived the alleged poisoning: Marjorie and Victor. Marjorie described returning from Ross-on-Wye with her daughter on the afternoon in question. They had decided to call at Clouds Frome on their way. Victor – not Consuela, she stressed – had invited them to stay for tea. Marjorie had noticed nothing unusual in anything that was said or done. Consuela was subdued, but not abnormally so. Marjorie had consumed two cups of tea with milk and sugar and a slice of fruit cake. Rosemary had consumed about the same. Tea had already been laid when they arrived and Consuela had waited upon them. She had poured the tea and sliced the cake, leaving her guests to help themselves to milk, lemon or sugar. Rosemary had, to the best of Marjorie’s recollection, been the first to spoon sugar from the bowl. They had left after about an hour. Later that evening, they had both begun to feel unwell. Neither had eaten any dinner. By ten o’clock Rosemary was being violently and repeatedly sick, Marjorie scarcely less so. Dr Stringfellow had been summoned. He had expressed concern about Rosemary’s condition in particular and had spoken of food poisoning as the likeliest explanation. A telephone call to Clouds Frome had established that Victor was also ill, but neither Consuela nor Jacinta—

So Jacinta was their daughter’s name. It sounded as beautiful as I might have expected. It also sounded more Portuguese than English, which surprised me. I would have expected Victor to insist upon an English name for any child of his.

Neither Consuela nor Jacinta had been ill. That was the point which prosecuting counsel had been at pains to stress. And, what was more, Consuela had summoned no assistance for her sick husband until Dr Stringfellow had volunteered to proceed to Clouds Frome straight from Fern Lodge.

Marjorie’s testimony had concluded with a harrowing account of Rosemary’s last hours and a tribute to ‘the sweetest and most loyal of daughters a mother could ask for’, by which, evidently, the court had been much moved. Whether I would have been as well I could not tell. It was doubly odd to read the statements of people I knew and yet not to know how they appeared as they made them, what expression they wore, what tone they adopted. Marjorie Caswell had always seemed stiff-necked and unyielding to me, but that was no justification for denying her the sentiments natural to a grieving mother. The fact that I did not want to believe Consuela capable of murder was no reason to think all her accusers were liars.

Nevertheless, Victor’s testimony would have struck a false note with me whether or not I had a personal interest in the case. Encouraged by the prosecuting counsel, he had emphasized that he would have preferred not to give evidence against his wife. (The right of spouses not to bear witness against each other evidently did not apply where one of them was accused of violence against the other. This, I began to suspect, was what lay behind the additional charge of attempted murder. Without it, Victor would not have been able to parade his misgivings on the point.)

Victor had confirmed the essentials of Marjorie’s account. As to events prior to her arrival at Clouds Frome, he said tea had already been laid when he joined his wife in the drawing-room. Shortly afterwards, Jacinta had been brought down by her governess. And shortly after that Marjorie and Rosemary had presented themselves at the door. He saw no significance in the fact that he rather than Consuela had invited them to stay, but he did agree that, if they had not arrived, he alone would have taken sugar from the bowl because his wife and daughter habitually took nothing but lemon with tea.

At the tail-end of the proceedings, a vital issue had been touched upon by prosecuting counsel.

‘We will hear later that the police found certain letters in your wife’s possession – anonymous letters, that is, of the poison-pen variety – which could have caused her to suspect you of infidelity. Was there, in fact, any justification for such suggestions being made to her?’

‘None whatever.’

‘You are and have always been a faithful husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have thought of your marriage as a happy one?’

‘I have.’

His protestations had doubtless created a good impression on the court, as they were intended to. And who was there, after all, to contradict him – beyond Consuela, silent in the dock, and I? For I knew he was lying. Not about the letters, not yet at any rate. But about his marriage. Faithful? No. Happy? A thousand times no. About recent events at Clouds Frome I was as ignorant as any other newspaper-reader. But about the marriage of Victor and Consuela Caswell I knew as much as they did themselves.

During the months following Consuela’s first visit to Clouds Frome, my conscious mind devoted itself to the solution of practical problems. Grand conceptions and artful designs are ever at the mercy of wind, weather and human error. Success as an architect, I learned then and never forgot, involves scurrying between quarries and woodyards, clambering up scaffolding and stabbling through mud, usually at ungodly hours, and always in the pursuit of an elusive excellence. I was never again as meticulous, never as tireless, as I was when Clouds Frome began to rise, and my dreams with it, from its peerless site between the woods and river on the hills above Hereford.

It must have been a year or more before I was aware of how inextricably my ambitions for the house had become wound up with my emotions concerning those who were to live in it. If anything, I saw more of Consuela than of Victor. She would visit the site every couple of weeks in the company of Hermione, Marjorie or Victor himself, or on rare occasions with Mortimer. Invariably, it was with Consuela rather than her companion that I found myself discussing progress and, also invariably, other subjects would rapidly intrude: why I had become an architect, what she thought of England and the English. She told me once that she was more forthcoming with me than with any of Victor’s family, that it was refreshing to be able to spend time with somebody whose horizons extended beyond Hereford and the economics of cider-making.

I had supposed Victor would share such a broader view. After all, he had made his mark in another continent, had seen and experienced more of the world than any of his relatives. Strangely, however, Consuela implied that this was not the case and I too noted the grudging, secretive side to his nature. He was, in many ways, the perfect client – prompt to pay and slow to interfere – but he was also the most forbidding of men: unpredictable and uncommunicative, with no warmth of character, no humanity of spirit. The more I knew him, the less I understood him. The more time I spent with him, the less I wanted to. Superficially, or at a distance, he might seem the most handsome and accommodating of men. But beneath the veneer, apparent at close quarters, there was a personality in which scorn and malice churned away to some purpose of its own. According to Hermione, the gossip of the family, he had been sent to South America by his father to prove himself after failing to make the grade in the cider trade, initially to work in the Brazilian branch of a London bank. Quite how he had moved so successfully into the rubber business she seemed not to know, but certain it was that he had returned to England with the air – and the money – of a man who had proved a point and did not intend to let anyone forget it, a point which included being able to acquire and to keep a wife like Consuela.

My feelings for Consuela passed through several stages. They began with an undeniable attraction. Then, as she revealed more of herself to me, I came to pity her for the dull and empty life Victor obliged her to lead. Next, my disapproval of his treatment of her turned into an active resentment. There was envy there too, of course, and frustrated desire, but it was his dominion over her personality rather than her body that truly sickened me. By the spring of 1910, I had begun to suspect that the house I was building was to be little more than a decorative prison in which he could confine and control her more effectively than ever.

I recall a particular occasion from that time which brought to the surface many strands of the dislike I felt for Victor Caswell. The slaters had just begun work on the roof and Victor had warned me that he would be bringing a friend to see the progress they had made. It was the sort of interruption I was well used to, but the sort I found easy to bear only when Consuela was its cause. As it was, when the Mercedes growled up the track and I went down to meet it, all I felt was a vast unwillingness to be as pleasant and informative as I knew I should.

Victor’s friend was introduced to me as Major Royston Turnbull, though when he had last seen a parade-ground was anybody’s guess. He was tall – well over six feet – and running to fat, clad in a generously cut mushroom-coloured suit, with a paisley-patterned waistcoat beneath, and a huge-brimmed fedora. He was smoking a cigar in a holder and this, combined with the quantity of gold glittering about him in watch-chain, tie-pin and signet ring, created in my mind more the impression of a dubious Latin business-man than any officer in even the slackest of regiments. Not that there was anything Latin about his features. His hair was fair, his face firm and ruddy-cheeked, his eyes grey-blue and sparkling. They were old acquaintances, Victor explained, from South America; Major Turnbull was now domiciled in the South of France and had insisted on visiting Clouds Frome during a fleeting return to England. I can say without hesitation that I have never felt a more instinctive aversion to any man than I felt to Major Royston Turnbull.

They had brought with them Mortimer Caswell’s son, Spencer, presently on holiday from prep school. He was a slightly built lad of nine or ten who had inherited much of his father’s taciturnity and had added to it a brooding, narrow-eyed expression that made one suspect he was plotting where he was probably merely sulking.

It will be apparent from my description that no set of visitors could have been more calculated to oppress my already flagging spirits. Victor, perhaps for his friend’s benefit, was in one of his expansive, glad-handed moods, striding around the site and chatting to the workmen with a warmth that must have made them think they were dreaming. He even tried to jolly young Spencer out of his glumness, insisting that the lad accompany him on an ascent to the slaters’ platform.

This left Major Turnbull and me to sit on a couple of camp-stools in the sunny lee of the site office, discussing not architecture but, to my surprise, the Caswells. To a man he had only just met he seemed willing to volunteer the most intimate observations of his friend’s family, a willingness which at first I found quite baffling.

‘You’re highly spoken of at Fern Lodge, Staddon.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’

‘Not that I envy you. Working for Victor can’t be a bed of roses.’

‘I’ve no complaints.’

‘You wouldn’t have though, would you?’ He glanced round at me. ‘Tell me, what do you make of him?’

‘What do you make of him, Major? He’s your friend, not mine.’

Turnbull laughed. ‘Neatly evaded. Very neatly.’ Then he looked up at the scaffolded house, where we could see Victor bouncing along a lofty platform of planks with Spencer beside him. ‘I think Victor’s made a mistake by settling here. An understandable mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I know him, Staddon, better than he knows himself. Met him first more than ten years ago, in Santiago. We found ourselves in a few tight spots together, I don’t mind admitting, but they were the sort of spots to test a man’s mettle, so I think I can claim to know the stuff Victor’s made of. Travel. Risk. Variety. They’re what he needs, and they’re what he can’t find here. He should have grubbed up his roots, not returned to them.’

‘You think so?’

‘I do. Above all, he shouldn’t have brought Consuela here to be buried in his past.’ Another glance in my direction. ‘She has a high regard for your talents, I’m told.’

Deliberately, I did not meet his eyes. ‘Told? By whom?’

‘Not by the lady herself. She’s too cautious for that. But by Victor. He resents her ease in your company. It seems you’re able to find a response in her which he never has.’

‘I don’t know what you—’

‘An intellectual response, that is. Consuela has a fine brain as well as a fine body. Not that I need to—’

‘I don’t think we should be discussing Mrs Caswell like this.’ I was making a show of my own anger now to mask any hint of an admission.

‘You’re probably right,’ said Turnbull, undaunted, ‘but I hold that no topic should be taboo between two men of the world. Victor does not require or expect imagination in women, only compliance. He married Consuela for two reasons: to possess her and to be seen to possess her. Making her happy did not figure in the list.’

‘Perhaps it should have.’ Instantly, I regretted saying as much.

‘It wouldn’t be difficult of course, would it?’ Suddenly his voice was softer and more confidential, as if he were whispering in my ear, though in fact he had not moved.

‘What wouldn’t?’

‘Making her happy, Staddon. What else? Haven’t you dreamed of doing so? I have, I freely confess. Not just for the infinite pleasure of increasing her knowledge of the sexual arts, but—’

‘I won’t listen to any more of this!’ I leapt to my feet and glared down at Turnbull, who puffed on his cigar and smiled benignly. ‘How dare you speak of Mrs Caswell in such a way?’

‘Don’t be so touchy, Staddon. I’ve only said what you’ve thought often enough, I’ll be bound.’

‘You most certainly—’

‘Besides, if lust were all there was to it, there’d be no problem, would there?’

‘What the devil do you mean?’

He rose slowly to his full height, which was a full six inches above mine. Looking up into his eyes, I realized for the first time that everything he had said had been carefully judged, every implication delicately gauged – and my reaction with it. ‘I mean,’ he said softly, ‘that it may have crossed your mind – or may yet cross it – that you would be a worthier companion in life for Consuela than Victor could ever be. You would be correct, of course, but you would also be immensely unwise. You would be courting great danger as well as great beauty, you see, and I should not like to think of your doing so merely for the want of a warning from me.’ And with that, to my astonishment, he winked at me.

‘You should have come too, Royston!’ It was Victor’s voice, from only a few yards away. I swung round and saw him striding towards us, with Spencer trailing dejectedly in the rear.

‘No head for heights,’ Turnbull responded.

‘I trust Staddon’s been entertaining you?’

‘Why, yes. Mr Staddon and I have had a most diverting discussion, haven’t we?’

‘Er … yes,’ I mumbled.

‘It transpires that we have a great deal in common.’

‘Can’t think what,’ said Victor with a frown.

‘It’s a question of philosophy, my friend.’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Royston. Only hope Staddon does.’

But Victor’s protestations, then as on a subsequent occasion, did not deceive me. He had become jealous of my standing in his wife’s eyes and had recruited Turnbull to warn me off. The warning was premature and all the more offensive because of it, but I knew in my own mind that it was not entirely undeserved. And I also knew that, for a host of common-sense reasons, it was a warning I would do well to heed.

‘Case ’ottin’ up nicely I see, Mr Staddon.’ It was the Thursday morning of Consuela’s hearing in Hereford and, in London, Kevin Loader was insisting that I should have the benefit of the Daily Sketch’s perspective on events. ‘They got a photo of the party today, y’know. Seems I was right.’

‘About what, Kevin?’

‘’Er looks, o’ course. See what I mean?’

He thrust the newspaper towards me and there, blurred but instantly recognizable, was Consuela’s face. She was being bustled into court by two policewomen and appeared scarcely to be aware of the camera lens, staring dreamily ahead as if her thoughts were on anything but the proceedings that awaited her. She was wearing a long fur-trimmed overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat with a feather in the band. She looked thinner than I remembered, but otherwise little altered by the years.

‘Stirrin’ up an ’ornet’s nest in ’Ereford, by all accounts,’ Kevin went on. ‘Crowds bayin’ for ’er blood. That sort o’ thing. Shockin’, ain’t it?’

But the vicious moods of a mob were no shock to me. Whether in Hereford or the Place de la Concorde, they could always be relied upon to shame humanity. And, according to Kevin’s Sketch, those drawn to Consuela’s hearing were performing to type.

The small number of them admitted to the court on Wednesday had heard a day of medical and police evidence. Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the famous Home Office forensic expert, had explained the findings of his post mortem examination of Rosemary Caswell. Analysis of the samples he had taken from her vital organs had shown enough arsenic to have killed everybody present at the Clouds Frome tea party of 9 September. There was no doubt whatever that she was the victim of acute arsenical poisoning. As to the samples of urine Dr Stringfellow had supplied from his other two patients, these had also been found to contain arsenic, although the quantity was trivial compared with that present in the deceased. He had notified Scotland Yard and the Herefordshire constabulary of his findings on 17 September, four days after carrying out the post mortem.

Chief Inspector Wright of Scotland Yard had then taken up the story. He had proceeded to Hereford on 18 September and assumed control of the local constabulary’s investigation. It was clear from the first that the tea party at Clouds Frome was the only occasion on which poison could have been administered to all three of those afflicted. The house had therefore become the focus of his enquiries. By a process of elimination, he had established that the only item of food or drink consumed by Rosemary, Marjorie and Victor but not by Consuela or Jacinta was sugar. Since this was white and granulated, it was an ideal medium in which to conceal arsenic. And since Rosemary and Marjorie had arrived unexpectedly after the presumed concealment of arsenic, it followed that Victor – the only other habitual consumer of sugar – was the intended victim. Rosemary had been the first to spoon some from the bowl. According to her mother, she generally took three spoonfuls per cup of tea. It could therefore be assumed that she had unluckily helped herself to the bulk of the arsenic, leaving only traces for her mother and uncle.

Since Wright believed Victor to be the object of a murder attempt, urgency had attached itself to finding the murderer, who might theoretically strike again at any time. He had questioned the kitchenmaid who had laid the tea tray and the footman who had taken it to the drawing-room. Neither had aroused his suspicion. What had, however, was the fact that Consuela had been alone in the drawing-room when tea arrived. He had thereupon applied for a search warrant in the hope that discovery of a cache of arsenic would lead him to the murderer.

The search of Clouds Frome had taken place on 21 September. In one of the outhouses they had found an opened tin of powdered weed-killer called Weed Out, which the gardener, Banyard, had confirmed to be arsenic-based. He had been unable to say whether the tin contained less than he would have expected, but he freely admitted that anybody could have had access to it; the outhouses were never locked. Later, at the back of a drawer in Consuela’s bedroom, a policewoman had found a blue-paper twist containing white powder which analysis showed to be arsenious oxide and three letters still in their envelopes held together by a rubber band. The letters were addressed to Consuela and had been posted in Hereford on 20 August, 27 August and 3 September, at intervals therefore of exactly one week. They were anonymous, written, according to a graphologist, in a disguised hand and contained one reiterated allegation: that Victor Caswell was pursuing an affair with another woman. When questioned, Consuela had denied all knowledge of the items; she had never received any of the letters. Wright had pointed out to her that since the letters were correctly addressed and stamped, her denial of receipt was unsustainable, but she had insisted that no such letters had ever reached her. In the face of this and the discovery of arsenious oxide, Wright had arrested her and later charged her on two counts – murder and attempted murder.

‘Looks bad, dunnit, Mr Staddon?’

‘Bad for whom, Kevin?’

‘Conshuler Caswell, o’ course. The letters and the arsenic. The motive and the method. ’Ow’s she gonna get outa that?’

How indeed? As Kevin said, it looked bad. Very bad.

‘Tell you what I think, Mr Staddon. I think she’s for the rope.’

And that, I suppose, was the first moment when I became aware of what was really at stake in this affair. Consuela’s life. Or her death.

I did not heed Major Turnbull’s warning. More accurately, I bore it in mind but to no effect. What is rational and well-advised can often seem insignificant compared with the other compulsions that rule our lives. I continued to see Consuela and to become more and more infatuated with her as the spring of 1910 gave way to summer. A fine summer it was too, with few interruptions to work at Clouds Frome and fewer still to the progress of my acquaintance with its future mistress, a progress towards the brink of love.

There were occasions, as there were bound to be, when we met by chance during my visits to Hereford. Consuela would happen to be emerging from a milliner’s shop as I was crossing the road from my hotel. Or I would happen to find myself on Castle Green at the time of her regular afternoon stroll. Such coincidences were part of our silent conspiracy: to meet as often as possible because we craved each other’s company, yet never to admit what the source of that craving might be.

We both knew though, well enough, and I suspect the real reason why we never expressed in words what was happening to us was that we feared – for excellent reasons – that it could not continue. Consuela had been taught by her religion and her upbringing to believe that marriage was irrevocable save by death. She would be ostracized by her church and her family if she ever acted contrary to such a principle. As for me, I did not find it hard to imagine what difficulties in finding future work an architect who had stolen his client’s wife might have.

Victor himself made it easy for me to excuse my conduct. Towards Consuela he was never better than inattentive. Generally, he displayed a presumptuousness bordering on contempt. No doubt he considered that the right and proper way for a husband to behave towards a wife, but I did not. Nor did Hermione’s various hints that he was disappointed by Consuela’s failure to produce a son and heir seem to me to justify his behaviour. I knew from Consuela that their marriage had been agreed behind the closed door of her father’s study long before her own view of the matter had been sought. The price of coffee on the international market had been falling for some years and the fortunes of the Manchaca de Pombalho family ebbing as a result. What Victor Caswell had offered the old man in exchange for his daughter’s hand was financial salvation: a share in his rubber empire. Accordingly, it had been made clear to Consuela that the match was not one she could refuse. Abandoned by her family to a loveless marriage in a country she did not know, was it any wonder that she was drawn to the only man who showed her anything besides scorn and indifference?

Consuela did have one confidante besides me: her maid, Lizzie Thaxter. A Herefordshire girl of quick wits and bright demeanour, she would probably have guessed what we were about if her mistress had not told her and, besides, there had never been any secrets between them. I suspect, indeed, that a shared sense of subjugation made them natural allies. Before long, Lizzie had become our go-between, pressing a note suggesting time and place into my hand as I left Fern Lodge or delivering a message to my hotel and waiting for the reply. It was clear Lizzie had no liking for the Caswells and equally clear that she enjoyed her secret role in our rebellion against them. Her father and two of her brothers worked for the paper mill in Ross-on-Wye owned by Marjorie’s brother, Grenville Peto, and he was evidently noted for his harshness as an employer; perhaps this was the origin of her resentment. Whatever her real motive, it was certain that without Lizzie’s help Consuela and I could not have seen as much of each other as we did.

And so the months passed. The snatched and plotted time we spent together came to matter more and more. And the completion of Clouds Frome, looming ever closer, came to seem less and less desirable. For once the house was finished I would have no reason to visit Hereford or call at Fern Lodge; no pretext for meeting or speaking to the wife of my client. What we would do then – how we would resolve the crisis our emotions were leading us towards – I could not imagine.

Around the end of November, 1910, word reached Consuela from Rio de Janeiro that her father was dying. With Victor’s consent, she decided to return home at once in the hope of arriving before it was all over. Her departure was hastily arranged and I only learned of it the day before she set off. A message via Lizzie had implored me to be on the riverside path in Bishop’s Meadow within the hour. I was not late – indeed I was early – but Consuela was there before me, pacing up and down by a bench and staring pensively across the river at the cathedral. When she told me the news from Rio, I took it that this explained her distracted state and did my best to console her. But there was more to it than that, as I swiftly learned.

‘These tidings of my father have woken me from a dream,’ she announced, avoiding my gaze as she did so.

‘A dream of what?’

‘Of you and me. Of our future.’

‘Is it a dream?’

‘Oh yes. You know that as well as I do.’

‘Consuela—’

‘Listen to me, Geoffrey! This is very important. I am married to Victor, not you, however dearly I wish it were otherwise. And you are an architect with a career to consider, however much you might like to forget it. We cannot ignore what we are. We cannot afford to.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, we can’t ignore what we mean to each other.’

‘We may have to.’

‘Harsh words, Consuela. Do you really mean them?’

There were tears in her eyes now. She had worn a veil, no doubt in the hope of disguising them, but it had not succeeded. The selfish hope came to me that she was weeping for us rather than her father. ‘I leave tomorrow,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Only because of that have I found the courage to end this, before it is too late.’

‘When will you return?’

‘I don’t know. Six weeks. Two months. I cannot say.’

‘Then why end anything? I’ll still be here.’

‘Don’t you understand?’ Her lips were trembling as she spoke. I understood all too well and my pretence of not being able to rose to rebuke me in the face of her determination. ‘If we cannot acknowledge our love to the world, I would rather stifle it. If we cannot be man and wife, we must be nothing.’

‘Not even friends?’

She smiled. ‘Friendship between us means love. And love we cannot have.’

‘Therefore?’

‘Therefore I shall go home to Rio, mourn my father and comfort my mother. And you will finish Clouds Frome and go on to your next commission.’

‘Surely—’

In a gesture that took me aback, she raised her gloved hand and pressed it against my lips. ‘Say no more, Geoffrey, in case my courage deserts me. Believe me, this is for the best.’

I shook my head dumbly. Her hand fell away. Then she moved past me, a last sweep of her eyes engaging mine. I heard the rustle of her skirt fading into the distance and knew I might never see her again. I longed to turn round and call her back to me with declarations of love and promises for the future. But I did not move, I did not speak. There were no promises I could make and be sure of keeping, no vows I could utter and be sure of honouring. We both knew that and it sufficed to hold us apart. For the moment.

The fourth day of Consuela’s hearing had been given over to the testimony of various servants at Clouds Frome. A kitchenmaid called Mabel Glynn had described laying the tray and filling the urn for tea on the afternoon of 9 September. A freshly baked fruit cake, sliced and buttered bread, raspberry jam, tea, milk – and sugar. Such were the ingredients of the tragedy that had followed. The sugar had been spooned into the bowl from a jar and was neither the first nor the last taken from that jar. She had been horrified to learn that it was probably used to administer poison, but by then sugar from the same jar had been consumed at several meals, so she was at least relieved to know that the fault could not lie in the kitchen.

A footman called Frederick Noyce had recounted delivering tea to the drawing-room, where he had found Consuela alone. She had thanked him and asked him to inform her husband that it was ready; she would herself speak to Miss Roebuck, the governess, on the internal telephone and have her daughter sent down to join them. Consuela had seemed, Noyce thought, entirely normal. He had found his master in his study and given him her message. He had been on his way back to the kitchen when the doorbell had rung, heralding the arrival of Marjorie and Rosemary. He had shown them in and been despatched to fetch extra crockery and cutlery. Upon delivering these he had noticed only a genial family gathering in progress. He, like Mabel Glynn, had been horrified to learn of the poisoning, but he had been adamant that the sugar-bowl had not left his sight between its collection from the kitchen and its delivery to the drawing-room.

Next came a servant whose name I recognized: John Gleasure. A footman at Fern Lodge who had moved with Victor to Clouds Frome, Gleasure had since become his valet. Concerned to hear from the butler, Danby, that his master had not felt well enough for dinner, he had gone up to Victor’s room to see if there was anything he required. Finding him sick and in considerable pain, he had reported his concern to Consuela, but she had not thought it necessary to call for a doctor so late. Thanks to Marjorie’s telephone call, of course, Dr Stringfellow had shortly arrived. A tentative enquiry from the prosecuting counsel had elicited a firm denial from Gleasure that Victor had been having an affair. ‘Inconceivable, sir. I should have been sure to know of it. And I did not.’

So much for the loyal valet. Banyard, the gardener, was clearly a less respectful character. Responding to a suggestion from the bench that the storage of arsenic on unsecured premises was irresponsible, he had contested that that was for his employer to decide – and he never had. As for who might know that he used Weed Out, he had agreed that Consuela took more of an interest in the garden than did Victor. It was even possible that he had mentioned it to her during one of their regular discussions. ‘I couldn’t say as I did and I couldn’t say as I didn’t.’

The last witness of the day had been Consuela’s maid, Cathel Simpson. (What, I wondered, had become of Lizzie?) She was the person best placed to judge Consuela’s reaction to the anonymous letters, but she had resolutely refused to admit any knowledge of them, insisting that they and the twist of arsenic had almost certainly not been in the drawer where they were found when she had last opened it for the purposes of removing or replacing items of her mistress’s underclothing, which she thought she had done the previous day. As to Consuela’s state of mind, this had been entirely normal before, during and after the tea party of 9 September.

There was small comfort in any of this for Consuela. None of the servants had maligned her. Indeed, the impression created by the report was that they all liked her. But that did not matter. What mattered was the weight of evidence being piled up against her. Alone when tea was served. In receipt of letters questioning her husband’s fidelity. Aware of Weed Out’s poisonous contents. Aware also of how easy it was to remove some. And found in possession of the letters as well as a quantity of arsenic. I did not believe she had tried to murder Victor, but clearly most of the citizens of Hereford did. A Brazilian-born wife seeking to poison her Hereford-born husband and killing his innocent niece by mistake: it was enough to excite their worst prejudices. And according to The Times those prejudices were now apparent in the unruly scenes being witnessed daily outside the court. The odds against Consuela were lengthening. Wherever her thoughts turned in the lonely darkness of her cell, she can have found no hope.

In the immediate wake of Consuela’s departure for Brazil, I gave way to self-pity. I was still too young then to understand that the path to happiness cannot always be trodden and too self-centred to realize that others could suffer more grievously than I. In my more rational moments, I accepted the necessity of what Consuela had done, but such moments were outweighed by the memories of her that I cherished: the sight of her approaching along a path, the sound of her voice close to my ear, the cautious intimacies exchanged, the tremulous hopes embraced.

Some of this I poured out in a long letter to her. I wondered how it would find her, in what mood, on what occasion, at the House of Roses in distant Rio. I did not expect a reply, for she was likely to return as quickly as any letter could reach me, but still I found myself sifting through my mail every morning in search of her handwriting beneath a Brazilian stamp.

I could hardly ask Victor when Consuela was expected back and it was, in fact, Hermione who told me that they had received a telegram reporting her father’s death on 22 January; it was thought she would stay for a week or so after the funeral, then return to England. By now, I was finding it ever more difficult to know how I should react when she was within reach once more: whether to obey her parting instruction or seek to recover what we had once enjoyed.

Perhaps it was as well, in the circumstances, that I had other matters to occupy my mind. In early February, 1911, one of the carpenters at Clouds Frome, Tom Malahide, was arrested for complicity in a robbery at Peto’s Paper Mill in Ross. To my astonishment, I learned that his confederate was none other than Lizzie Thaxter’s brother, Peter. He had been stealing bank-note printing plates for some months from the mill, where he worked on the maintenance of the plate-making machinery, and passing them to Malahide, who then conveyed them to a corrupt engraver in Birmingham to complete a potentially highly lucrative counterfeiting racket. Random stocktaking at the mill had revealed the discrepancy and the police had soon identified Thaxter as the thief. He and Malahide had been arrested during a handover of plates and the engraver shortly afterwards.

Lizzie had accompanied Consuela to Brazil, which was as well, for Victor would probably have dismissed her simply for being related to one of the gang had she been in Hereford at the time. As it was, he assuaged his feelings by criticizing me and the builder for employing suspect characters and so dragging his name and that of his new house through the mud. No matter that Malahide had come to us with an exemplary character. Nor that Peto’s should have taken better precautions. I was still required to do penance over an agonizing luncheon at Fern Lodge attended by Marjorie’s brother – the outraged mill-owner himself, Grenville Peto. I can remember with awful clarity stumbling out an apology I did not owe to this dreadful, inflated bullfrog of a man, whilst Marjorie and Mortimer looked on censoriously and Victor squirmed with an embarrassment I knew he would make me suffer for later.

That episode made me glad to think how soon the house would be finished. There was, indeed, no reason why it should not be ready for occupation by Easter. I could feel well pleased with what I had achieved. Its final appearance really did match its promise, the stolid gables and elegant chimneys couched perfectly between orchard and wooded hilltop. All had been done to the highest of standards and even Victor had grudgingly to admit that it was a job well done.

The first weekend of March found me at my flat in Pimlico, contemplating the lonely existence I had led in London since my commitments in Hereford – both professional and emotional – had come to bulk so large. It was Saturday night and Imry had urged me to accompany him and his decorative cousin Mona to the latest Somerset Maugham play at The Duke of York’s. But I had declined the invitation, preferring to check and re-check the plans and schedules of Clouds Frome. I had commissioned some photographs at Victor’s request and now, sifting through the prints, I reassured myself that the house was all I had envisaged that day, two and a half years before, when I had seen the site for the first time. And so it was, all and more; there was no doubt of that. I should have felt proud and exhilarated. I should have been out celebrating my success. Instead, I sat absorbed in dimension and proportion, poring over measurements and lists of materials, peering at every photograph in the brightest of lamplight, seeking the flaw in the design that my heart told me was there. And knowing I would not find it. For the flaw was in me, not Clouds Frome at all.

I recall now every detail of that night, every facet of its colour and shade: the purple barrel of the pen I wrote with, the amber hue of the whisky in my glass, the grey whorls of cigarette smoke climbing towards the ceiling – and the blackness of the London night, pressing against the windows.

A few minutes after eleven o’clock. I can remember checking how late it was by my watch, stubbing out a cigarette, massaging my forehead, then rising from the couch and walking to the window. The panes were misty: it was growing cold outside. But coldness, in that moment, was what I most desired. I pulled up the sash and leaned out into the chill darkness, breathed in deeply and glanced down into the street.

She was standing beneath a lamp-post on the opposite pavement, a slight and motionless figure staring straight up at me as I felt sure she had been staring up at the window before I had even reached it, a figure in mourning black whom I knew well. What had brought her there I could only guess, what she was thinking I did not dare to. There was something of doubt as well as scrutiny in her gaze – and something also of hope. Half a minute of silent appraisal passed that seemed to compress within it all the weeks of her absence. Then I signalled that I would come down and raced to the door.

She was standing on my side of the road by the time I reached the front steps of the block. At closer range, her anguish was unmistakable. Her dark eyes scoured my face, her lips quivered uncertainly. As I descended towards her, she moved back a pace. There must be space between us, her expression conveyed: there must be a frontier across which the first tokens could be exchanged.

‘I didn’t know you were in England,’ I said after another silent interval.

‘Nobody knows I am.’ Her voice was breathless and strained. ‘Except Lizzie.’

‘Has Lizzie heard—’

‘About her brother? Oh yes. We had a telegram from Victor just before sailing. I’ve sent her to see her family in Ross.’

‘Then you’re alone?’

‘Yes. We docked this afternoon. Five days earlier than I told Victor to expect us.’

‘You … over-estimated the passage?’

‘No, Geoffrey. I did not over-estimate the passage.’

The implications of her remark assailed me. What had happened? What did she mean? ‘Won’t you come in?’ I stumbled.

‘I’m not sure. To be honest, I think I hoped you wouldn’t be at home.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then I’d have to return to Hereford straightaway.’

‘And you don’t want to?’

In her eyes I had my answer. She walked up the steps and halted beside me. Now her gaze was averted, her voice scarcely rising above a whisper. ‘I told my mother, and my father before he died, that life with Victor is a torment to me, that I can never love him, that he can never make me happy. I pleaded with them for help, for advice, for refuge at the very least.’

‘What did they say?’

‘They spoke of duty. They spoke of their honour and my obligations.’

‘As you did, when last we met.’

‘Yes.’ Now she looked at me, some dart of lamplight catching her eyes beneath the brim of her hat. ‘But that was before I watched my father die and saw what his code amounted to: a dutiful death and an honourable grave. They’re not enough, Geoffrey, not enough for me.’

‘Consuela—’

‘Tell me to go away if you like. Tell me to go back to my hotel and take the first train to Hereford tomorrow. You’d only be following the advice I gave you. And it was good advice, it really was.’

‘Was it? I’m not sure. And neither are you.’

‘But we must be sure, mustn’t we? One way or the other.’

The truth was that certainty lay beyond our grasp. But neither of us wanted to admit as much, dallying as we were with more unpredictable futures than there were stars in the sky above our heads. ‘Come inside, Consuela,’ I urged. ‘We can—’

As on that last occasion, three months before in Hereford, she silenced me with one hand laid softly against my mouth. But this time she said nothing and, this time, she had removed her glove. I felt the touch of her bare fingers on my lips more intensely, it seemed, than I would have felt even a kiss. Then I reached up, took her hand in mine and led her up the remaining steps towards the door.

HEREFORD POISONING CASE

Mrs Consuela Caswell was yesterday committed for trial on charges of murder and attempted murder at the conclusion of a five-day hearing at Hereford magistrates’ court. Mr Hebthorpe, prosecuting counsel, summed up the Crown’s case in a two-hour speech in which he reviewed all the evidence and contended that it represented the very strongest prima facie case against Mrs Caswell. Her jealousy had been aroused, he said, by malicious suggestions that her husband had been unfaithful to her. She had then set out to poison him in a ruthless and calculating manner, only to see her husband’s young and totally innocent niece consume the poison in his place. She had made no attempt to intervene and had allowed Miss Caswell to proceed to an agonizing death. She had then continued to hoard arsenic against the day when she might make another attempt on her husband’s life.

After a brief retirement, the magistrates announced that they were minded to commit Mrs Caswell for trial at the next assizes. Mr Windrush, her solicitor, indicated that she wished to reserve her defence.

Unruly scenes followed outside the court when Mrs Caswell was taken to a police van in order to be driven to Gloucester Prison. There was much shouting and jostling by the crowd. Objects were thrown and an egg struck Mrs Caswell on the arm. Three people were arrested. Mrs Caswell’s foreign origins and the wide respect in which her husband’s family are held in Hereford, compounded by the distressing circumstances of the case, are thought to explain the animosity felt towards her.

‘Are you going in to the office today, Geoffrey?’

It was Saturday morning in Suffolk Terrace, dull and grey with a fine drizzle falling beyond the windows. Angela, whose silence on the subject of Consuela’s hearing was still unbroken, eyed me in a way that was peculiarly hers: satirical, superior, playful as it might seem to others and had once to me. ‘No,’ I replied, turning the page of the newspaper.

‘I told Maudie Davenport I’d go with her to Harrods. The autumn fashions are in, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘And Maudie’s a great one for beating the crush. So I must dash.’

‘Of course.’

‘What will you be up to?’ Already she was halfway across the room, oblivious to whatever answer I might give.

‘This and that.’

‘Well, don’t overdo it, will you?’

‘I’ll be sure not to.’ My gaze, and with it my thoughts, reverted to the newspaper in my hands. I turned back to the page I had just been studying. Mrs Consuela Caswell was yesterday committed for trial on charges of murder and attempted murder. It had been inevitable, of course. So much evidence, so damning and incontrovertible – no other outcome had been possible. Yet the reality was worse than the expectation. A hostile crowd baying for ‘the foreign bitch’s neck’. An acrid splatter of rotten egg on her sleeve, worn like a badge of shame. Then the sullen company of two stern-faced wardresses on the jolting van-ride back to prison. The squalor and the horror of it all washed over my imagination. And there, at the centre, fixed by my memory, was the contrast that made it so hard to bear.

‘Querido Geoffrey.’ It was the phrase Consuela used that March night thirteen years ago, when she surrendered herself to me for the first time, her private, whispered endearment, the one fragment of Portuguese she permitted herself to employ. ‘Querido Geoffrey.’

I had banked up the fire and it flung in answer a golden swathe of light across the room, falling on the hills and valleys of the rumpled sheets, the mounds of the pillows, the columns of the bed-posts. And on Consuela. She was mine completely, to have and to hold, for one night only, for the immensity of time and the eternity of intent that it seemed to represent.

‘You’re beautiful, Consuela. I can’t believe how beautiful.’

‘For you, Geoffrey. Only for you. All for you.’

Her dark eyes, nervous and questing. Her still darker hair, falling and sliding through my fingers. Her lips, moving against my cheek as she murmured what I wanted to hear. Her hands, clutching and caressing. And her flesh, burning to my touch, golden to my sight. Our limbs entwined. Our bodies joined. Too much passion. Too much ecstasy. Too much trust for time to preserve.

‘I love you, Consuela.’

‘And I love you. Don’t desert me now, Geoffrey. Not after this.’

‘Never.’ I kissed her. ‘I will never desert you.’

‘I couldn’t bear it if you did.’

‘I won’t.’

‘You promise?’

‘As God is my witness.’ I kissed her again and smiled. I am yours for ever.’