18

OVER DINNER THAT evening, Charlotte and Emerson discussed their visit to Frank Griffith and wondered if they would hear from him. Whether or not he made contact, Emerson agreed that Charlotte’s had been the correct tactics.

‘I reckon he may trust you, Charlie, whereas reading my book doesn’t seem to have given him a very high opinion of me. Perhaps he thinks I got Tristram Abberley all wrong and, who knows, maybe I did. His last months in Spain, anyway. But then, if I did, Frank Griffith could put me right, couldn’t he? If he wanted to. Beatrix knew where he was, but she didn’t tell me. He must have wanted to stay hidden even then. Why? Why so badly? That’s what I can’t understand.’

‘So he could forget about Spain – and what he did there?’

‘But he hasn’t. That’s the point. He hasn’t forgotten a damn thing. All those books. All those memories locked up in his head. Everything’s there – if only I could prise it loose.’

‘You think he knows something valuable about Tristram?’

‘Maybe. He was there – beside his bed in the hospital at Tarragona – when he died. And he was the one Tristram trusted to send back his last poems to your mother. Nobody else was so close to him at or near the end.’

‘But that doesn’t explain why Beatrix should help him buy Hendre Gorfelen – as I’m sure she did – or visit him there every year.’

‘No. It doesn’t. But the letter Lulu mailed to him might. And he might be willing to tell you what it contained. What you said about discovering the truth behind Beatrix’s death got to him, I’m sure of it. It was a clever ploy.’

‘It wasn’t just a ploy.’

‘But this guy Fairfax was caught red-handed according to Maurice.’

‘So he was.’

‘Then where’s the room for doubt?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps there isn’t any. Let’s wait and see what Frank Griffith has to say.’

‘If anything, you mean.’

‘Yes. If.’

Charlotte fell asleep that night rehearsing in her head all the ifs and buts and maybes Beatrix’s death had led her into. If Fairfax-Vane was innocent, as his brother claimed … But how could he be …? Maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth … If he was, Beatrix had been murdered for an altogether different reason than they thought … But what reason …? Maybe, just maybe, Frank Griffith knew the answer …

Early the following afternoon, Derek Fairfax faced his brother across a bare table in the grim and echoing visiting room at Lewes Prison. Colin was nearing the end of his fourth week in custody and had visibly deteriorated since Derek had last seen him. There were dark bags under his eyes and his face had lost its normal high colour and acquired instead a grey and clammy pallor. More worrying still was the faint but detectable tremor in his hand as he rubbed at his unshaven chin.

‘You don’t look well, Colin.’

‘I might perk up if you brought me some good news.’

‘I only wish I could. But so far my letters have been ignored.’

Colin snorted. ‘Bloody letters! Of course they’ve been ignored.’

‘Well, if you’ve a better idea …’

‘Maybe I have. Give it up, Derek. I’ll be committed for trial next week. Just let it happen. Wash your hands of the whole thing.’

‘You can’t mean that.’

‘Unless you already have. Is that it?’ Colin’s tone had altered now, self-pity giving way to sarcasm. ‘Perhaps you’re just stringing me along. Telling me you’re straining every sinew on my behalf when in reality you’re sitting back and rubbing your hands with glee at the thought of being rid of me for good and all. Well, don’t worry. You’ll get your wish. Ten or more years in this or some other hell-hole will be the finish of me, no question.’

‘Colin, for God’s—’

‘Why not come out and say it? You don’t much care whether I’m guilty or innocent. Either way, you think I deserve what I’ve got coming. Just like everybody else.’

Derek knew hardship and frustration were what had driven Colin to throw such accusations in his face. But the knowledge did not make them any easier to bear. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he protested. ‘I’m doing everything I can to help you.’

‘Is that a fact? Well, you could have fooled me.’ Colin leaned forward across the table, fixing Derek with his bloodshot eyes. ‘Or perhaps it’s just that help from you is indistinguishable from hindrance.’

Derek flinched. ‘Is that what you really think?’

‘Yes. It really is.’

In Wales, Charlotte’s day passed listlessly, with no word from Frank Griffith. By the evening, she and Emerson had agreed they could leave matters in his hands no longer. They would return to Hendre Gorfelen next day, invited or not. Emerson’s argument was that, if Griffith intended to co-operate, they would already have heard from him. If not, they had nothing to lose.

Charlotte was less certain. Griffith was not a man to be rushed or crowded. He had laid down the terms on which he might be approached. To disregard them was to court failure. Yet they could not wait indefinitely. Somehow, at some time, the issue had to be forced.

And so it was, but not by them. When Charlotte returned to her room after dinner, the telephone rang before she had even closed the door.

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Ladram?’

‘Mr Griffith. I thought you’d never call.’

‘So did I. But we were both wrong, weren’t we? Are you alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you be here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning?’

‘Seven o’clock?’

‘Too early for you, is it?’

‘No. Not at all. We’ll be there, Mr Griffith, rest assured.’

‘You misunderstand. I mean just you, Miss Ladram. Not Doctor McKitrick. I’ll talk to you alone – or not at all.’

‘But—’

‘I’m not open to argument. Take it or leave it.’ He paused, then added: ‘Should I expect you?’

Charlotte hesitated only momentarily before answering. ‘Yes, Mr Griffith. You should.’