Chapter Nine
IT WAS THE last day of November, chill, fog-wreathed and dreary, reclaimed by darkness, it seemed, almost before the previous night had released its hold. At Frederick’s Place, a mood of gaiety prevailed, consequent upon Doris’s announcement of her engagement to a junior clerk from the merchant bank next door; the staff of both institutions were scheduled to celebrate the event at the Three Crowns directly after work.
To any form of gaiety I, however, was immune. Indeed, I was greatly relieved when Windrush telephoned me during the afternoon to say that he and Rodrigo were to meet Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett at his chambers in the Middle Temple at half past six; they had been accommodated in his busy itinerary at short notice and I was welcome to join them. This enabled me to flee the celebrations after a hasty glass of ale, a peck at Doris’s cheek and a clasp of her fiancé’s hand.
I had heard nothing from Rodrigo since our return together from Nice the previous week; nothing, if it came to the point, from anybody involved in Consuela’s case. So far as I knew, Angela was still being entertained by Turnbull in the restaurants and casinos of the Cote d’Azur. I had obtained from Imry a fuller version of his visit to York, which had only strengthened my conviction that enquiries into Imogen Roebuck’s past were futile. I had arrived, in short, at the dispiriting stage when every avenue has been explored and nothing has been found. Inertia – heavy, hopeless and inescapable – had settled upon me. For whatever information Sir Henry might vouchsafe, however scant, I was bound therefore to be grateful.
The journey took me longer than I had anticipated and the ill-lit staircase of Plowden Buildings finally ensured that I was several minutes late. Rodrigo and Windrush were already installed, and Sir Henry already in voice, when I arrived, breathless and apologetic.
Rodrigo, I remember, did not even acknowledge my presence. He seemed to have visited both a tailor and a barber since our last encounter, but the sobriety of his appearance only compounded the gloom in which he was immersed. He was slumped in a wing-backed chair, staring straight at Sir Henry, his only movement being a pensive stroking of his moustache. Windrush, meanwhile, perched on an upright chair beneath a standard lamp, was all pointless mobility, consuming cigarette after cigarette as he sifted through papers on his knee.
Sir Henry, by contrast, was welcoming and courteous, more so than I would have been to a client at such an hour on a Friday evening. Rotund and balding, he was possessed of one of those cheery, chinless faces that should be, but are not, conferred on all fat men. This, and the signs of weariness in his words and actions, created an immediate impression of endearing and reassuring vulnerability. To judge by his legal collar and bands, he had come straight from a long day in court. If so, he could have been forgiven for thinking more of home and hearth than the business we had brought him. But there was no hint that he was.
‘For your benefit, Mr Staddon, I should explain that our request to transfer Mrs Caswell’s trial to London has been granted. I fancy we have the disorderly scenes at the hearing to thank for that. It will be heard at the Old Bailey. We also have a date: the fourteenth of January. That gives us precisely six weeks to prepare a defence. With Christmas intervening, it is not a generous allowance, but it is all we have. Mrs Caswell has been moved from Gloucester to Holloway Prison to await trial. Windrush and I visited her there yesterday afternoon.
‘Mrs Caswell’s response to the charges is straightforward denial. I must say that I was deeply impressed by her sincerity. It is, perhaps, the single most encouraging factor to emerge from my consideration of this case. And encouragement is something which I will freely admit we need in substantial quantities. The prosecution have amassed a large amount of damaging circumstantial evidence which we are unlikely to be able to refute. Our answer to the charges rests upon how Mrs Caswell presents herself to the court and what view the jury forms of her. We cannot deny that she was present when the crime was committed, nor that she had the means and opportunity of carrying it out. We cannot even divert suspicion elsewhere. In all the evidence I see no trace of an alternative suspect. Therefore, our efforts must be directed to persuading the court that Mrs Caswell is incapable of having done what she is alleged to have done.
‘The one distinguishing characteristic of evidence in poisoning cases is that commission of the crime is never directly witnessed. Nobody sees the poison being administered. If they did, they would intervene. By my reckoning, anybody who was in the house on the afternoon of the ninth of September could theoretically be the murderer. The prosecution will argue that nobody but Mrs Caswell had any reason to commit the crime or had such a good opportunity to do so. We will argue that no sane person would leave the only evidence against her lying around waiting to be found. If we can discredit that evidence, we will have created a persuasive defence, but, to do it, we will need to employ Mrs Caswell herself.
‘I anticipate that this case will turn on the defendant’s own testimony. My examination will give her every chance to do herself justice and I will prepare her for cross-examination to the very best of my ability. I cannot emphasize too strongly, however, that the crux of the matter will be how she responds to hostile questioning. I will not be able to help her. She will be on her own. Then, and only then, we will know whether our efforts on her behalf are likely to secure an acquittal.
‘So much for our strategy. Now, Windrush, I believe you have been recruiting witnesses. What joy on that front?’
‘I’ve traced Cathel Simpson, Mrs Caswell’s maid, to her new place of employment in Birmingham. She’s prepared to swear neither the arsenic nor the letters were in the drawer the day before the search.’
‘Excellent. And the gardener?’
‘Sings a different tune every time he’s asked.’
‘Excuse me,’ I put in. ‘Banyard told me that Mr Caswell, not Mrs Caswell, made the complaints that prompted him to buy Weed Out. Is that helpful?’
‘It is indeed,’ said Sir Henry. ‘And to reinforce such points we need good character witnesses. What progress there, Windrush?’
‘Miss Hermione Caswell seems the best bet. Convinced of Mrs Caswell’s innocence and related to the deceased. Plenty of spirit. Not likely to be knocked off her stride.’
‘Good. Anybody else?’
‘I’m afraid not. Mrs Caswell doesn’t seem to have many friends. And all Mr Caswell’s friends are fighting shy. There’s the Roman Catholic priest in Hereford, of course, but—’
‘I think not, Windrush. More harm than good with the stolid Protestant jury that will no doubt be our lot.’ He mused for a moment. ‘Miss Hermione will have to suffice, then. Perhaps, upon reflection—’
‘I’d be happy to testify,’ I said, more abruptly than I had intended.
Sir Henry smiled indulgently. ‘Thank you, Mr Staddon, but no. You would only confuse the jury, I fear. In my experience, jurors find it impossible to believe that married men and women can be friends with each other and nothing more.’
I noticed Rodrigo’s head turn towards me. But his eyes were in shadow: I could not tell what he was thinking. ‘Perhaps I can help in some other way, then,’ I continued. ‘You mentioned the lack of an alternative suspect, Sir Henry. Can we exclude the possibility that Mr Caswell staged this poisoning in order to be rid of his wife?’
Windrush winced and sucked in his breath. Sir Henry, for his part, looked at me more attentively than before. ‘Would you care to expand upon that remark?’ he said mildly.
The shallowness of my suspicions about Victor Caswell was never more apparent to me than when I tried and failed to sketch out a case against him in response to Sir Henry’s invitation. I heard myself stringing together impressions and inferences in a way that even I found unconvincing. When I had finally stumbled into silence, Sir Henry sat for a moment with his hands clasped before him and his mouth pressed against them. Then he smiled and spoke in a tone of mild correction.
‘Your hypothesis is untenable, Mr Staddon. Moreover, reference to it in court would antagonize both judge and jury. They would feel we were compounding the family’s bereavement by levelling tasteless and unfounded allegations. Be guided by me. There are cases in which counter-attack is the best defence. This is not one.’
Suddenly, Rodrigo roused himself. ‘I want to ask a question,’ he announced in a tolling voice.
‘Pray do,’ said Sir Henry, his face still creased by a smile.
‘Will you be able to save my sister?’
‘Well, it’s really not as simple as—’
‘It is all I want to know!’ Rodrigo slapped the arm of his chair. ‘Can you save her?’
Sir Henry was unmoved. ‘I can save her, yes. I hope to save her. But I cannot guarantee it. There are no guarantees in law, only chances.’
‘And what are our chances?’ I asked.
‘Candidly, I would have to say that they are not good. But neither are they negligible. And I am confident that they can be appreciably improved between now and the fourteenth of January.’
‘What will happen if you fail?’ said Rodrigo. ‘What will they do to her if you lose the case?’
‘That would be a matter for the judge.’
‘Will they hang her?’
For the first time, Sir Henry’s optimism seemed dented. He fell back in his chair and his face sagged. ‘It is a possibility.’
Rodrigo nodded sombrely. ‘That is what I thought.’ He heaved himself to his feet. ‘Chego! You have told me what I wanted to know. Now, I must go. Obrigado e boa tarde, senhor.’ He bowed stiffly, turned and walked out of the room.
Windrush was clearly taken aback by Rodrigo’s sudden departure. He looked from me to Sir Henry and back again in a grimace of confusion. ‘Er … I’m sorry, really I am. I’d better go after him.’
‘No matter,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Our business is virtually concluded.’
‘Even so, I—’ He bundled his papers together, spilling some in the process.
‘Volatility is part of the Latin temperament, after all,’ Sir Henry added, craning forward to address Windrush as he stooped to the floor.
‘I know, but—’ Windrush swayed upright. ‘I really must check a couple of points with him. Excuse me.’ With that, and barely a nod in my direction, he rushed after Rodrigo.
‘I too should be going,’ I said, as Windrush’s footsteps died away.
‘There’s no hurry, Mr Staddon, I assure you. I was just thinking … Would you like a cigar?’
‘Er … no thanks.’
Undaunted, he lit one for himself. With the first puff, he assumed a more relaxed posture. ‘I was just thinking about my description of our Brazilian friend. “Volatile”. Accurate, would you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘So would I. But it doesn’t fit his sister, does it? Mrs Caswell is one of the calmest people I’ve met. Perhaps the calmest, in view of her position.’
Imogen Roebuck’s suggestion floated to the fore of my thoughts. ‘As if she’s not worried by what’s happening to her? As if she … wants it to happen?’
Sir Henry frowned. ‘What do you mean, Mr Staddon?’
‘It’s just that … Consuela Caswell is incapable of murder, assuming her personality’s not changed since I knew her. But what if it has changed? You said no sane person would commit such a crime and leave the evidence of their guilt lying around to be found by the police. You’re right. No sane person would. But what if—’
‘Don’t say any more, I beg you!’ He smiled, as if to apologize for his interruption. ‘Mrs Caswell is innocent. I am sure of it. To defend her will be an honour, whatever the outcome. But if we muddy the waters, we are lost. You understand?’
‘Yes. I understand.’
‘Good. Now, if you won’t have a cigar, can I offer you a drink? To be frank, Mr Staddon, you look as if you need one.’
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from Plowden Buildings into a night that had grown raw and chill. I turned south along Middle Temple Lane and saw at once, waiting in a doorway some yards ahead, Windrush, enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke and his own frosting breath.
‘There you are, Staddon. Thank God. I thought I’d missed you.’
‘Where’s Rodrigo?’
‘Vanished. He’s in a queer mood, I don’t mind telling you. That’s why I was so keen to catch him. I only hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.’
‘Such as?’
‘God knows. But he worries me, he really does. Where are you heading?’
‘Temple tube station.’
‘I’ll walk with you, if I may.’
‘I won’t deny I’d have liked a word with Rodrigo myself,’ I said as we set off.
‘Count yourself lucky you didn’t. He seems to have taken a dislike to you.’
This explained his pointed disregard of me in Curtis-Bennett’s chambers, but not what had prompted it. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘He seemed friendly enough when we last met.’
‘And he spoke well of you when he turned up in Hereford last week. But something’s happened since then to change his attitude. I don’t know what. When I collected him from his hotel this afternoon—’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘The Bonnington, in Southampton Row.’
‘Perhaps I’ll call on him, then. I’m sure I can dispel any misunderstanding.’
‘It’s up to you, of course, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I know he can be hard to follow at times – the accent, the clipped sentences – but his sentiments about you were clear as day. He wants nothing more to do with you, Staddon, at any price. What he’d do if I told him you were covering Sir Henry’s fee I can’t imagine.’
‘He doesn’t know?’
‘Good God, no. Fortunately, he’s far too impractical to think about money, so he’s unlikely to ask.’
‘Sir Henry didn’t seem to take his walk-out to heart.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Persuading Sir Henry to accept this brief was the best day’s work I’ve done for Mrs Caswell. I don’t want her crazy brother frightening him off.’
We turned on to Victoria Embankment and plodded on in silence for a while. A thought I had been seeking to suppress wormed its way into my mind and became a question before I could prevent it. ‘How is Consuela?’
‘The same. Calm. Remote. Like a swan I saw today on the Serpentine. Elegant. Uninvolved in human affairs. After a while, it starts to seem eerie.’
‘Will you be visiting her again soon?’
‘Tomorrow morning, before I go back to Hereford.’
We reached the entrance to the underground station and halted. I felt humiliated by the knowledge of my private affairs this man, a total stranger, had unwittingly acquired, reluctant to ask him what I so dearly wanted to.
‘Our paths divide here, Staddon. I’m staying with friends in Mitcham. So, I’ll bid you good night.’
‘Before you go—’
‘Yes?’
‘About Consuela …’
He smiled ruefully. ‘She won’t see you. She’s immovable on that point. As on many others.’
‘You could … ask again.’
‘I could ask a thousand times. And the answer would always be the same. She tells me you know why.’
I said nothing. Her only message was an accusation I could not rebut. Windrush nodded, as if my silence had given him the confirmation he sought.
‘Good night, Staddon. I’ll be in touch.’
Oppressed by the prospect of an evening alone, I passed a couple of hours in the warmth and vicarious good cheer of a pub in Notting Hill Gate. The imprudence of doing so did not become apparent until I reached Suffolk Terrace. As soon as she had opened the door to me, Nora announced that Angela had returned.
She was installed in the drawing-room with two of her bridge and shopping friends, Maudie Davenport and Chloë Phipps. Most of the dresses she had bought in Nice were displayed over the backs of chairs; the one she was wearing also looked new. They were laughing uproariously as I entered, reminding me of how like three geese in a farmyard they often sounded. Perhaps my face betrayed my thoughts. At all events, their laughter died as instantly as a light being switched off and the temperature of the room seemed to plummet.
‘There you are, Geoffrey. I was wondering what had become of you.’ Angela moved to meet me, inclining her cheek for me to bestow the kiss her friends would expect.
‘Good journey?’
‘Tolerable, thank you.’
‘You should have told me when you were arriving. I’d have met you at the station.’
‘It was all too much of a rush, darling.’
‘I see. Well, if you ladies will excuse me, I think I’ll say good night. I feel rather knocked up.’
‘Good night, Geoffrey.’
And so, little caring what impression I left in my wake, I stumbled out.
The light in Angela’s dressing-room woke me. For all that I was aware, it could have been the following morning, but the bedside clock told me it was not yet midnight. I lay, instantly alert, listening to the sound of a brush passing through Angela’s hair and the slither of silk against her skin. A moment later, she slipped into bed beside me. There was no contact, no touch of hand on arm, no attempt of any kind to bridge the gulf between us. I could have pretended to be asleep and no doubt Angela hoped I was. That, I suppose, is what provoked me to speak.
‘Pleasant evening, my dear?’
‘Not helped by your arriving home the worse for drink, Geoffrey, as I’m sure you’re aware. Beer is such a common smell.’
‘I wasn’t to know I’d find one of your levées in progress, was I? Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘I hardly thought you’d be interested.’
‘You travelled alone?’
‘No. Victor and his party left at the same time. I came with them.’
‘Does that include the redoubtable Major?’
‘Of course not.’
Silence intruded and had almost reached the point of permanence when Angela spoke again.
‘I’ve grown used to sleeping alone, Geoffrey. I trust you’ve no objection if I ask Nora to make up the other room for you tomorrow. You’ll be quite comfortable there.’
The room to which she referred had been Edward’s nursery. I remembered coming home after his death to find it stripped of his clothes, his toys, even of his Treasure Island wallpaper, but not – for all Angela’s frenzy – of his stubborn little memory. ‘Do as you please,’ I murmured, as I turned my face towards the pillow.
I rose early the following morning, eager, if the truth be told, to depart for the office before Angela was up and about. After a hasty breakfast, I was in my study, gathering some papers together, when Nora interrupted. She wore a puzzled expression, connected, I assumed, with the ring I had just heard at the front door. A telegram was my first thought, but it was swiftly dispelled.
‘There’s a young lady to see you, sir. A little girl. She says—’
‘Is her name Jacinta Caswell?’
‘Why yes, sir. That’s the name she gave. You know her, then?’
‘Yes, Nora. I know her.’
She was in the drawing-room, dressed as she had been that first time she had called at Frederick’s Place. Only her expression had altered. To caution had been added suspicion, to determination a steely defiance. To see her made me feel as proud of her as I was ashamed of myself.
‘Good morning, Mr Staddon.’
‘Good morning, Jacinta. It’s very early for you to be wandering around London.’
‘Oh, I haven’t been wandering. I came straight here from our hotel. I had to leave before breakfast, otherwise my father would have stopped me, wouldn’t he?’
‘I daresay he would.’
‘Or Miss Roebuck.’
‘Would you like something to eat or drink?’
‘No thank you. I shall have to go back soon, otherwise they will miss me and come looking.’
‘Not here, surely.’
‘I don’t know. I can’t be certain. Can you?’
‘How did you get here?’
‘By taxi. Major Turnbull gave me a sovereign when we left the Villa d’Abricot. I used it to pay the driver.’
‘We agreed you’d always contact me at my office.’
‘But you wouldn’t have been there, would you? Not at this time. And we’re going back to Hereford this morning. My father told me so last night.’
‘Even so—’
‘Why did you do it, Mr Staddon? That’s what I came to ask. Why did you agree to leave my father and Miss Roebuck alone?’
‘I didn’t. Not exactly. I—’
‘I heard you. “You’ll hear no more from me.” That’s what you said. I was standing at the top of the stairs and I heard you say it.’
‘It didn’t mean what you thought it meant. It didn’t mean I was going to stop trying to help your mother.’
‘Didn’t it?’ Her chin was trembling. I sensed she was on the verge of tears but was trying every way she knew to hold them at bay. Like her mother, she was determined to display no hint of weakness. I longed to pluck her from the floor and hug her to my chest. But the past – and my part in it – held me back.
‘We’ve found her a good barrister, Jacinta. He’s a very clever man. He’ll make sure the court acquits her.’
‘How can he do that?’
‘He examines the evidence. He questions the witnesses. He … persuades the jury.’
‘Do you think he will persuade them?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m sure he will.’
‘What happens if he doesn’t?’
‘We don’t need to think about that. Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett won’t fail. He never does.’
‘Never?’
‘Not in a case like this.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’
‘And his name is Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett?’
‘Yes. You won’t have heard of him, but he’s very famous.’
‘Oh, but I have heard of him. On Wednesday night – the night before we left – my father sat up late with Major Turnbull. I crept downstairs and listened to what they were saying.’
‘That was a dangerous thing to do.’
‘Not really. Miss Roebuck had a headache. She’d taken a sleeping powder. And Major Turnbull has a loud voice. So it was easy, really. Do you want to know what they were saying?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘My father had had a telephone call from his solicitor, Mr Quarton. Mr Quarton must have told him about Sir Henry, because my father was asking Major Turnbull whether he thought Sir Henry would be able to win the case. He didn’t sound as if he wanted him to, though.’
‘What did Major Turnbull say?’
‘He said Sir Henry was good, but not good enough. And then he said something very nasty.’
‘What was it?’
‘He said Sir Henry had defended a wife accused of murdering her husband last year – and lost. He said her name was Thompson and that they’d hanged her. Is it true, Mr Staddon?’
It was, though I had forgotten till now. Curtis-Bennett had defended Mrs Thompson. And he had lost. And she had hanged, as she never should have. ‘I … I can’t remember.’
‘He said Sir Henry was just a wind-bag and my father had nothing to worry about.’
‘He said that?’
‘Yes, Mr Staddon. I heard him most distinctly. “You’ve nothing to worry about, Victor, nothing at all.” What does it mean? Are they going to hang my mother? Does my father want them to? Why should—’
There was a sudden commotion at the front door. The knocker was being slammed and the bell rung simultaneously. I heard Nora’s voice, then, strident and unmistakable, Victor’s. ‘Where’s my daughter?’ he roared.
Jacinta’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘My father. How did he find out I was here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Quick. Before he comes in. Who was the man leaving the villa when you arrived – the last time you were there? They won’t tell me.’
‘He’s your uncle Rodrigo. Your mother’s brother. From Brazil. He—’
The door burst open and Victor was upon us. ‘What the devil’s going on here?’ he bellowed.
Jacinta turned and looked at him calmly. Instantly, I noticed, he fell back a pace. Some of his aggression, some of his confidence, drained away. ‘I went for a walk before breakfast and became lost, Father. Then I saw the sign for Suffolk Terrace and remembered Mr and Mrs Staddon lived here. Wasn’t that lucky?’
Victor stared at her for a moment, his lips rehearsing words he dared not pronounce. Then he said: ‘Go outside. Miss Roebuck’s waiting in the car.’
‘Very well, Father.’ She glanced back at me. ‘Goodbye, Mr Staddon. Thank you for helping me.’
‘Goodbye, Jacinta.’
She walked slowly out, closing the door behind her. Then, before Victor could say anything, I posed a question of my own.
‘How did you know she was here?’
‘Your wife telephoned me. She thought I ought to know my daughter’s whereabouts.’
‘I’d have run her back soon enough.’
‘Why was she here, Staddon?’
‘You heard her explanation.’
He stepped closer, not troubling to veil the hostility in his gaze. ‘Last time we met, you undertook to leave me and my family alone.’
‘On condition I didn’t learn I was being misled.’
‘Are you claiming you have been?’
‘I’m claiming nothing. Jacinta lost her way and came to my door. That’s all.’
‘No. It isn’t all. But this is: if you try to speak to Jacinta again, if you attempt to communicate with her in any way …’
‘Yes?’
‘Then I’ll make sure you lose what little business your dwindling practice has left.’
‘How do you propose to do that?’
‘I have more influence – in more walks of life – than you can possibly imagine. Don’t force me to use it against you.’
‘One place you have no influence, Caswell, is in my own house. Now, kindly leave it.’
As before, he seemed minded to say something from which a moment’s consideration deterred him. He stared at me, plainly and deliberately, then nodded faintly, as if satisfied that we understood each other. And then he walked swiftly from the room.
As soon as I heard the front door slam behind him, I started for the bedroom. But, halfway up the stairs, I stopped. If I saw Angela, feeling as I now did, there was no knowing what I might do or say. To one, just one, of her barbed remarks, I might respond with something more violent than words. I retreated to the hall and called Nora.
‘Did you tell Angela that Jacinta Caswell was here, Nora?’
‘Yes, sir. She asked who the visitor was, so I gave her the girl’s name.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
‘Are you going out now, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘And will you be back for lunch?’
‘No. Not lunch. Nor any other meal.’
The Bonnington Hotel was a modest but reputable establishment. I was directed politely to Rodrigo’s room and informed that I would find him in. When I knocked at the door, there was at first no answer. Then, when I knocked again, there came a low growl which I took for an invitation to enter.
The room was deathly cold. The window stood open to the chill, dank air and the fire had long since died. Rodrigo lay supine on the narrow bed, fully clothed and motionless, like some knight’s effigy on a tomb. Slowly, he raised his head and looked at me.
‘Staddon!’ He stressed both syllables of my name equally and spat them out like accusations.
‘Hello, Rodrigo. How are you?’
‘How am I?’ He sat upright and I saw for the first time how dishevelled he was, his hair awry, his eyes red and swollen, his chin dark with stubble. Beside him, half-hidden by the rumpled blankets, was an empty spirit bottle. ‘You dare to ask me: how am I?’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You, Staddon. You are the matter.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I have been to Hereford. I have been told all about you.’
‘Told what? By whom?’
He swung his legs to the floor and glared at me. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To speak to you. To find out what’s troubling you.’
‘They will hang my sister. Is that not trouble enough?’
‘I thought we were going to work together to prevent that happening.’
‘Work together? Rodrigo Manchaca de Pombalho and you?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Why not?’ He launched himself from the bed and, before I knew what was happening, had grasped me by the lapels of my overcoat. I was thrust back against the wall and pinned there, aware of his formidable strength, helpless to do more than hope he would relent. His face was close to mine and he was breathing hard. ‘You lied to me, Staddon, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You said you were Consuela’s friend. You did not say you were her lover.’
‘I’m not. I never have been.’
‘You are still lying.’
‘Who says I am? Who have you been talking to?’
‘That does not matter. What matters is: do you admit it?’
‘Listen to me. There’s been some—’
Suddenly, my head was flung back painfully against the wall. His grip had tightened; I could feel my feet being lifted from the floor. ‘One more lie, Staddon, just one more, and I will break all the bones in your body.’
‘All right. I admit it. Consuela and I … were in love. Many years ago. But that doesn’t alter anything.’
‘You think I will let you help me when I know this about you? When I know you were my sister’s lover – the man who made her … who made her … uma adúltera?’
‘This has nothing to do with her trial. All I’m trying to—’
It was like slipping on ice so suddenly that you have hit the ground before you are aware of it. I was in the corner of the room, my feet tangled in the legs of a side-table, my head ringing, my shoulder aching. Rodrigo towered above me, his bulk distorted by the angle of my vision. ‘Você desonrou a minha irmã,’ he roared. ‘Você desonrou a minha família.’ I put my hand to my brow and it came back smeared with blood. I crouched forward and rose slowly, cautiously, not taking my eyes off him.
‘For God’s sake, man—’
‘Say nothing! I do not want to hear your voice again, Staddon. Leave now. Leave while I will still let you.’
Silenced by the instinct for self-preservation, I edged towards the door. Rodrigo’s gaze never left me. I wanted to reason with him, to explain that it was not as bad as he seemed to think. I wanted, above all, to ask who had told him about Consuela and me. But I did not dare.
I eased the door open, then stooped to retrieve my hat. It had fallen off and was lying at Rodrigo’s feet. Before I could reach it, he slipped the toe of his shoe under the brim and flicked it out into the corridor. And, all the while, his unwavering gaze warned me not to protest. I backed slowly out through the door. As soon as I had cleared the threshold, he slammed it shut in my face.
A chambermaid emerging from an adjacent room looked at me with a startled expression. I smiled in an attempt to reassure her, then, remembering the wound on my forehead, turned and hurried away.
‘Where have you been since?’ asked Imry when I had finished my account of the morning’s events.
‘The office, where none of them, as far as I could tell, believed my explanation that I’d hit my head on a rafter in the attic at home. I left early and went out to Holloway. Have you ever seen the prison? Castellated Gothic. As grey and forbidding as you could wish. I didn’t go in, if that’s what you’re wondering. It would have been one rejection too many. Instead, I went down to Brompton Cemetery and had a look at the boy’s grave.’
‘Then you came on here?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t have trusted myself with Angela. Not after the day I’ve had. We’ve had our differences – you know that – but I’ve never felt capable of hitting her before. It was frightening to sense how easy it would be.’
‘And pointless. Angela’s not the real problem, is she?’
‘No. But the real problem’s insoluble.’
‘You’ve done all you can. You’re going to have to learn to accept that.’
‘How can I? Consuela goes on trial in six weeks’ time. If she’s found guilty, you know what it means?’
‘Yes, Geoff, I know. But there’s nothing you can do to alter the outcome. You’re paying Curtis-Bennett’s fee. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Listen to me. Go home and make your peace with Angela. Forget this madman, Rodrigo. And put Consuela’s trial out of your mind as far as you possibly can.’
‘It’s good advice.’
‘But will you act on it?’
‘No.’ I smiled. ‘Almost certainly not.’