25

LADRAM AVIATION BEGAN its commercial existence in a Nissen hut on a disused RAF station halfway between Maidstone and Tonbridge. Its corporate successor, Ladram Avionics, was run from a trapezohedron of blue glass and tempered steel amidst the reservoirs and dual carriageways of south Middlesex. Here, shortly before four o’clock on a still and muggy afternoon, Derek Fairfax arrived for his appointment with Maurice Abberley. Less than an hour before, he had abruptly abandoned an auditing commitment in Sevenoaks knowing that David Fithyan, when he heard what he had done, would be enraged. But, to Derek’s surprise, Fithyan’s likely reaction meant nothing to him. Nothing, at all events, whilst Maurice Abberley’s motives in asking to meet him remained so tantalizingly uncertain.

The interior of Ladram Avionics was as plush and sleekly modern as the exterior suggested it would be. Most of the staff looked as if they modelled in their spare time and the furnishings were ergonomically futuristic. A lift nearly as large as Derek’s office at Fithyan & Co. bore him smoothly and swiftly to the top floor, where Maurice’s pneumatic secretary was waiting to greet him.

The chairman and managing director’s office, to which she led him, was a suitably vast expanse of deep-piled carpet, with the letters L and A elaborately interwoven in the pattern. One entire wall was of tinted glass, through which the serpentine tangle of London’s road network looked as remote and serene as the canals of Mars. Maurice’s crescent-shaped desk was positioned so that this Olympian perspective met his gaze every time he glanced up, as he now did at Derek’s entry.

‘Glad you could come, Mr Fairfax,’ he said, striding across the room with hand outstretched and smile conjured from nowhere. ‘And so punctual too. I like that.’ He was elegantly dressed in a dark suit and monogrammed tie and his voice seemed to fill the empty spaces of the room. Everything about him – his tone, his appearance, his awareness of his own authority – made Derek feel shabby and inadequate by comparison.

‘Would you like some tea?’

‘Er … Yes. Thank you.’

‘India or China?’

‘Well … I … I don’t mind.’

‘Lapsang then, I think, Sally,’ said Maurice to the secretary, who nodded and withdrew so silently Derek did not even hear the door close behind her. ‘Come and sit down, Mr Fairfax.’ He motioned towards two leather armchairs.

‘Thank you. You … er … have a splendid view.’

‘I do, don’t I? I find it helps me keep a sense of proportion.’

‘I suppose we all … need that.’

‘Oh yes. We do. Undoubtedly. In fact, you could say it’s why we’re meeting this afternoon.’

‘Really?’

‘In the immediate aftermath of a death, particularly a violent one, there’s little scope for mature reflection. That’s why your visit to Ockham House was so untimely.’

‘I realize it was now. I’m sorry. I should have known better. I was anxious to do something – anything – to help my brother.’

‘It’s understandable. I hope you agree our reaction was also understandable.’

‘Of course.’

‘So, let’s not misunderstand each other on this occasion. I have no liking for your brother and no confidence in his innocence. But certain recent developments have undermined my confidence in his guilt to the extent that I think it only proper – only fair – to inform you of them. As you said in your letter, it’s in all our interests to establish the truth about Beatrix’s death. If your brother was responsible, you will just have to accept the fact. If not, I want to find out who the culprit really is.’

‘Those are my views too, Mr Abberley. I’m only—’

‘Ah,’ interrupted Maurice. ‘Here’s tea.’

Tea was delicately served in wafer-thin Spode, Maurice beaming irrepressibly whilst his secretary ministered to them. When she had left them alone again, he leaned forward, as if a greater degree of intimacy were suddenly called for.

‘Charlotte thinks we should leave well alone, Mr Fairfax. So does my wife. In fact, none of my family seems to share my misgivings. They wouldn’t approve of my talking to you. So I think it would be best if we kept this to ourselves, don’t you? It would only lead to pointless recriminations otherwise. Can I rely on your discretion?’

‘Yes. Absolutely.’

‘Good. What I’m about to tell you may mean nothing. I must warn you of that. I wouldn’t want you to jump to any conclusions. A mystery conceals trifles more often than riches.’ He smiled, then said: ‘My aunt was a very private person. I never regarded her as secretive because I never thought she had anything to be secretive about. She belonged to a different generation, one less accustomed than we are to parading our emotions. I’d always supposed that accounted for her reticent nature. Now … I’m not so sure.’

‘No?’

Maurice sipped at his tea, then reclined in his chair, swivelling it slightly to face the window. ‘It’s an odd business. Confoundedly odd. As I say, it may amount to nothing at all. On the other hand, it seems to me you should know about it. Then you can judge for yourself. And act accordingly.’

Derek listened attentively as Maurice continued. Beatrix Abberley, it appeared, had concealed for many years a friendship with a man called Frank Griffith, who had fought with her brother in Spain. She had also concealed certain letters sent to her by her brother from Spain and these she had arranged to be sent to Frank Griffith after her death with a request that he destroy them unread. This he claimed to have done. Nobody could suggest any reason why Beatrix should have gone to such lengths to prevent the letters coming to light. Nor could they credit the notion that she had been killed because of them. Yet the fact remained that she had foreseen – even expected – her death. It seemed as if she had known her life was in danger and had prepared herself accordingly.

‘It’s hard for me to believe she was murdered on account of some fifty-year-old letters from my father, Mr Fairfax, very hard indeed. If my mother was still alive, I’d think Beatrix had been trying to keep something from her. A love affair Tristram had in Spain, perhaps. But my mother died last year, so that can’t be it. Equally, it’s hard now to believe Beatrix was murdered simply for a few antiques. There are too many other unexplained circumstances. If she thought her life was being threatened – by your brother, for instance – why didn’t she go to the police? Or tell me about it? Why do nothing at all to protect herself? And how did she know anyway? What made her so certain something was going to happen to her?’

‘I may be able to point you towards an answer,’ said Derek, suddenly eager to share his half-formed conclusions. ‘Your aunt’s conviction that she was going to be murdered fits with some information I’ve uncovered.’

Maurice’s gaze intensified. ‘What information?’

The sequence of events Derek sketched out was part known, part conjectural. Yet the force of its logic could not be denied and his belief in it strengthened as he spoke. When Colin visited Jackdaw Cottage on 20 May, Beatrix regarded him as a foot-in-the-door confidence trickster whose explanations were a tissue of lies. But, a week later, when she telephoned him, she clearly believed his story and wanted to hear every detail of it. Only a few days afterwards, she travelled to Cheltenham, en route for Wales, firmly convinced her murder was already being plotted. Whatever convinced her must therefore have occurred during the days immediately following 20 May. And the only unusual event reported during that period was a sighting in Rye of Maurice’s former chauffeur, who had been anxious to deny—

‘Spicer?’ exclaimed Maurice. ‘Spicer was in Rye on the twenty-fifth of May?’

‘Arnold Mentiply is adamant it was him.’

‘Strange.’ Maurice frowned. ‘Very strange.’

‘I gather you dismissed him because of drunkenness.’

‘I had no choice. He was a good driver, but he couldn’t be relied upon to remain sober. I let him go at Christmas.’

‘Do you know where he works now?’

‘No. In the circumstances, I could hardly give him a reference. And I’ve heard nothing more of him. He lived in a flat in Marlow while he was with me. But I doubt he’s still there.’

‘What contact would he have had with your aunt?’

‘Minimal. The odd word perhaps. He drove me down to Rye whenever I visited her.’

‘He had no connections with the area?’

‘None I was aware of. I simply can’t account for him being seen there. Unless he works in the locality now, of course.’

‘If he does, why would he pretend to Mentiply he was somebody else?’

‘I don’t know. But for that, I could regard it as a pure coincidence.’

‘One of rather too many, surely?’

‘Yes. That’s the point, isn’t it?’ Maurice thought for a moment, then said: ‘Spicer was a rough diamond in many respects. It’s possible he could be involved in criminal activities. I can’t deny it.’

‘But you don’t know where he is?’

‘No. No idea at all.’ He rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘But I could ask around. His landlady in Marlow. The pub he used. He might have told somebody what his plans were.’

‘I’d be very grateful if you could make some enquiries,’ said Derek, detecting a pleading note in his voice as he spoke. ‘I’ve done just about as much as I can on my brother’s behalf.’

‘I’ll see what I can find out as soon as I return from New York,’ Maurice replied. ‘Meanwhile, however, I should have thought there was something you could profitably do to help your brother.’

‘What?’

‘See Frank Griffith. Establish whether he’s telling the truth.’

‘You think he might be lying?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t met him, remember. Charlotte certainly believes him. But to destroy Tristram’s letters, without even reading them first … I’m not sure I can believe anybody did that.’

‘But … if he didn’t …’

‘He may still have them. Either way, he may know what they said.’

‘And that might tell us why Beatrix was murdered.’

‘Exactly.’ Maurice looked Derek intently in the eye. ‘I promised Charlotte I wouldn’t bother Griffith. And I doubt I’d learn anything even if I did. But you’re free to do as you please. And maybe – just maybe – your brother’s predicament will persuade Griffith to reveal what he knows, where Charlotte’s curiosity didn’t.’

‘It’s certainly worth a try.’

‘Yes.’ Maurice smiled. ‘I rather think it is.’