15

Dear Miss Ladram,

I have thought long and hard before writing this letter, but I have decided it is the only way to put certain points to you which I strongly feel, on my brother’s behalf, need to be addressed. I greatly regret what happened when I called on you two weeks ago and I hope, by writing, to avoid any of the misunderstanding which arose on that occasion.

The first thing to be said is that my brother, though something of a rogue, is not the sort to involve himself in—

CHARLOTTE THRUST THE letter impatiently back into its envelope. She could spare neither time nor attention for Derek Fairfax’s protestations of his brother’s innocence. Indeed, had she been certain that the letter was from him when she found it, lying between a credit inducement and a card from her dentist on the doormat at Ockham House, she might not even have bothered to open it. There was more urgent business to be attended to. Far more urgent.

Yet in its commission she immediately encountered an obstacle. When she rang Emerson’s London hotel, it was to be informed that he was out. All she could do was to leave a message asking him to call her.

She retreated to the lounge and sat down, feeling suddenly tired, drained by the long drive and her fruitless efforts to untangle Beatrix’s intentions. Idly, she reopened Derek Fairfax’s letter.

The first thing to be said is that my brother, though something of a rogue, is not the sort to involve himself in any kind of violence. He may well have paid your mother less for her furniture than it was worth, but he would never be a party to burglary, let alone murder. It is simply not in his nature.

The second thing to be said is that he is not a fool. Yet only a fool would leave his calling card at a house he intended to burgle and stress his interest in the object of that burglary in front of witnesses. I just cannot believe he would behave so stupidly.

My brother thinks – and so do I – that he is merely the fall guy for Miss Abberley’s murder, that the purpose of the break-in was to kill her, not to steal her collection of Tunbridge Ware. That is why I am writing to you, to appeal for your help in—

Charlotte dropped the letter on to the coffee-table beside her chair and leaned back against the cushions. The house was silent, gripped by the immobility of a windless summer’s day. She had not yet opened a single window and, until she did so, no sound could intrude upon her thoughts. Was it possible that Fairfax was right? Was it conceivable that somebody had wanted Beatrix dead for a reason of which the police had no inkling? If so, Beatrix had known the reason. The letters had represented her insurance against murder. They had not protected her. They had not even been intended to. But they had served a significant purpose. That Charlotte could not doubt. A Welshman; a New Yorker; a Parisienne; and Ursula. Beatrix had spoken to each of them from beyond the grave. And it would have been unlike her to speak in vain.

Time passed. Charlotte closed her eyes. And became a child again. She was at Jackdaw Cottage, dressed for the beach. But she could not set off till she had found Beatrix. And though Beatrix was there, calling to her, she could not tell which room she was in. Every room she went to, upstairs and down, seemed the right one as she approached. Then, as she entered, she realized Beatrix’s voice was coming from somewhere else. As she searched, she became more anxious, fearful that she would never find her at all. Then there came another sound. It was the ringing of a telephone. She ran into the hall and picked it up. But the line was dead. And the ringing went on.

Suddenly, Charlotte was awake. She jumped up and hurried to reach the telephone before it stopped ringing, struggling to order her thoughts as she went.

The caller was Emerson McKitrick, as she had guessed, eager for news. She apologized for not having been in touch sooner and explained why. In her account of her visit to Lulu, she omitted nothing, but, in relating what Ursula had told her, she studiously avoided any implication of what she had already concluded: that Ursula was lying.

‘This beats me,’ said Emerson when she had finished. ‘I mean, Jesus, blank paper? What the hell’s the point?’

‘I don’t know. I was hoping you might.’

‘Do you think that’s what all the letters contained?’

‘Again, I don’t know. None of it makes any sense.’

‘We should ask the other recipients, I guess.’

‘But who are they? Lulu’s only absolutely certain of one of their names.’

‘You mean Griffith?’

‘Yes. But it’s a very common surname in Wales. We don’t even have an initial.’

‘I reckon I can supply that.’

‘What?’

‘It has to be Frank Griffith, doesn’t it? Haven’t you heard of him?’

‘Frank Griffith?’ Now, at last, she remembered. Frank Griffith had fought with Tristram Abberley in Spain. He had sent Tristram’s possessions back to Mary after his death. And he had visited Mary after returning to England to describe how Tristram had died. Charlotte had heard her mother describe the visit on several occasions. ‘Of course. Tristram Abberley’s comrade-in-arms. You must have come across him when you were researching your book.’

‘I only wish I had. But I couldn’t trace him. He’d cut himself off from the veterans’ association completely. The general consensus was that he was dead. But Beatrix seems to have known better. It looks like she was holding out on me.’

‘Then we’re none the wiser. Dyfed’s a big county. And every other settlement must begin with “Llan”.’

‘We might be able to get round that.’

‘How?’

‘Can you take me to Rye again tomorrow? There’s something at Jackdaw Cottage I need to check out. It may help.’

‘Of course. But what is it?’

‘I’d sooner say nothing till I’m sure. But, if I’m right, there might be a way to track Mr Frank Griffith to his lair.’