14

CHARLOTTE SPENT THE night at an hotel in the Cotswolds. She could have pressed on back to Tunbridge Wells, but then Emerson might have telephoned her and she knew she should speak to Ursula before telling him what she had learned from Lulu. Another advantage was that she could time her arrival at Swans’ Meadow to ensure Maurice had left for the office whilst Ursula would still be at home.

As it was, she nearly misjudged matters. When Ursula opened the door, she wore the faintly harassed air of somebody verging on being late for an appointment.

‘Charlie! What a surprise!’

‘Can we have a brief word, Ursula? I’m sorry to have given you no warning.’

‘Of course. But we must talk on the hoof. I’m due at the hairdresser at ten o’clock.’ She set off at a clip back into the house, Charlotte following. ‘It’s not about the letter, is it? Have you had one too? If so, you’d do better to talk to Maurice.’ She turned into the downstairs cloakroom and began applying mascara in front of the mirror. ‘I’m not sure what he intends to do about it.’

Charlotte did not know how to react. The last thing she had expected was that Ursula would guess the reason for her visit. She saw her own slack-jawed frown of puzzlement, reflected in the mirror over Ursula’s shoulder.

‘Something wrong?’

‘What … What was in the letter?’

‘Ingratiating twaddle from that brother of Fairfax-Vane. Are you saying you haven’t had one? We thought he must have written to you as well. In fact, Maurice tried to phone you last night. Where were you? Out on the town with Emerson? He’s a real dish, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t understand. Is this … Was this recently?’

Ursula turned round and stared at her. ‘What is the matter, Charlie? You’re not making any sense. Fairfax has written to Maurice apologizing for making an exhibition of himself at the funeral and asking if we can think of any reason why somebody should want to murder Beatrix. Other than his own brother, of course. The letter arrived yesterday. We assumed he’d sent one to you as well.’

‘No … That is … I’m not sure. He may have done. I’ve not been home since then.’

‘Not home?’

‘I went to see Lulu Harrington in Cheltenham and stayed in the area overnight.’

‘Beatrix’s friend? What did you want with her?’

Charlotte thought for a moment. Then she said: ‘Is there anyone else here?’

‘No. Aliki’s shopping. And Sam’s gone to London for the day. Why?’

‘Can we sit down in the lounge? There’s something I need to ask you. It’s very important.’

‘But I’ll be late, Charlie.’

‘Please. It really is imperative I discuss this with you as soon as possible.’

Ursula glared at her, then sighed, wound her lipstick back into its barrel and dropped it into the make-up bag beside her. ‘All right. Let’s go through.’ She marched impatiently past Charlotte towards the lounge and was already seated, head cocked in expectation, when Charlotte reached the room herself.

She sat down on the edge of the chair opposite Ursula’s, composed herself and said: ‘Lulu claims to have posted a letter to you on the Tuesday following Beatrix’s death – at Beatrix’s prior request. Is it true?’

Ursula frowned. ‘What does she say was in the letter?’

‘She doesn’t know. Beatrix left it with her, to be dispatched in the event of her death. It was one of four to which the same conditions applied.’

‘Who were the others to?’

‘Strangers. Nobody she or I know.’

‘I see.’

‘You haven’t said yet whether it’s true. Did you receive such a letter?’

‘Where did she send it from?’

‘Gloucester.’

‘On the twenty-third of June?’

‘Yes.’

‘In a padded envelope?’

‘Yes. How did—’

‘Then it is true, Charlie. I did receive it.’

‘But … you’ve never said …’

‘A word about it? For good reason, I think you’ll agree. I didn’t know it was sent by Lulu. Or that Beatrix had anything to do with it. I know nobody in Gloucester. The address was typed. And there was nothing inside to identify the sender.’

‘What was inside?’

‘Six sheets of paper. All blank.’

‘Blank?’

‘Yes. Bizarre, isn’t it? I took it for some weird practical joke. I never imagined – never would have – that Beatrix was behind it. Are you sure about this?’

‘Lulu is.’

‘Well, I don’t know the lady, of course, but couldn’t she be misleading you? It’s easy to blame the dead. They can’t deny anything.’

‘What would be the point?’

‘I haven’t the least idea. Have you?’ Ursula smiled in a thin-lipped signal of disbelief.

‘I’m certain Lulu’s told me the truth.’

‘No doubt you are, but you’ve always been too trusting, haven’t you?’ The smile tightened, conveying more than mere disbelief. There was now about it the hint of a warning.

‘Did you keep the letter?’

‘No. Why should I have?’

‘Or show it to Maurice?’

‘Certainly not. I didn’t want to worry him with such nonsense.’

‘You think he would have been worried, then?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘But you weren’t?’

‘It would take more than an envelope full of blank sheets of paper to unsettle me, as you should know. I put it out of my mind. Frankly, I advise you to do the same.’

‘I’m not sure I can.’

‘Well, that’s your choice, isn’t it?’ Abruptly, Ursula rose to her feet. ‘I really can’t dally any longer, Charlie. Would you mind awfully if I threw you out?’

All the way to Tunbridge Wells, Charlotte struggled within herself to find reasons to believe what Ursula had said. But there were none. It was as inconceivable that Lulu had sent the letter at her own initiative as it was that Beatrix had wanted to send blank paper to her nephew’s wife after her death. Besides, Ursula had only described the contents of the envelope after establishing that Lulu did not know what they were. If she had intended to lie, Charlotte had given her the perfect opportunity to do so.

But to what purpose? Beatrix’s carefully laid plan defied analysis so long as the nature of her posthumous communications remained unknown. A Welshman; a New Yorker; a Parisienne; and Ursula. Surely fifty-year-old letters from Tristram Abberley could not connect them. Yet something did. And blank paper was not it.