16

IT WAS THURSDAY morning and Derek had calculated that this was the first day when he might hope for a reply to one of his letters. Accordingly, he delayed setting off for Fithyan & Co. in case the postman brought some response from either Maurice Abberley or Charlotte Ladram.

As he waited, the thought crossed his mind that they might simply ignore his appeals altogether. What would he do then? The prospect of another unsolicited visit to Ockham House appalled him, yet, without the help of those who had known Beatrix Abberley, he could gain no glimmer of an insight into why she had been murdered. Without that, Colin’s cause was lost. And Derek, though not threatened with imprisonment, stood to lose something only slightly less important than his liberty. For he believed Colin was innocent. And Colin was relying on him to prove it. If he failed to do so, no excuses would suffice. If he could not save his brother, he could not save his self-respect either.

At that moment, the rattle of the letter-box announced the arrival of the post. He hurried into the hall to find nothing but a flimsy card lying on the mat. He grabbed it up and read:

Dear Mr Fairfax

The book you ordered – Tristram Abberley: A Critical Biography – is now to hand and awaiting your collection. Please bring this—

Derek screwed the card into a tight ball in his hand and let it fall to the floor. Another day was bound to pass now with nothing achieved. Another day would be wasted when every moment was crucial.

Emerson McKitrick refused to tell Charlotte what he hoped to find at Jackdaw Cottage until they arrived there later that morning. Then he led the way to the bureau in the drawing room.

‘Beatrix kept some maps here, Charlie, remember?’

‘Yes. What of it?’

‘Here they are.’ He slid four Ordnance Survey maps out of one of the pigeon-holes. ‘It struck me as weird when I first saw them. But it didn’t seem important till you told me about Frank Griffith. See?’ He laid them out across the flap of the bureau.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Charlotte, staring down at their unremarkable pink covers.

‘Three of them are local, right? Sheet 189 covers Rye, Sheet 188 Tunbridge Wells, Sheet 199 Eastbourne and Hastings. But look at the fourth. Sheet 160 is the odd one out.’

‘The Brecon Beacons,’ said Charlotte, reading the title.

‘You got it. Central Wales. Why should Beatrix want a map of that area?’

‘Because it’s where Griffith lives?’

‘That’s what I reckon.’ He unfolded Sheet 160 and spread it out on the floor. Crouching over it, Charlotte saw no obvious clues, merely the bunched contours and green polygons of an afforested upland landscape. But Emerson saw rather more. ‘This is the Dyfed boundary, look.’ He traced a line of dots and dashes across the left-hand side of the map. ‘We can ignore everything east of that.’

‘Even so—’

‘I reckon Beatrix went to see Frank Griffith during her fortnights with Lulu. Cheltenham’s a handy staging post on a journey from Rye to Dyfed, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

‘OK. And we know she travelled by train. So, where’s the railroad?’

‘There.’ Charlotte pointed to a firm black line snaking across the north-west corner. She was excited now, sure that Emerson was right. ‘And the biggest settlement served by the railway is—’

‘Llandovery.’ Emerson grinned at her. ‘I think we’ve found him, don’t you?’