2

CHARLOTTE’S DROWSY IMPRESSION was that the doorbell had been ringing for some time when she finally woke. It was just after seven o’clock according to her alarm clock and therefore too early even for the postman. Clambering from bed and struggling into a dressing-gown, she crossed to the window and parted the curtains, peering out through the gap to see who her caller could possibly be.

It was Frank Griffith. She recognized his Land Rover, parked in the drive, even before she saw him standing below, stabbing impatiently at the bell-push. For an instant, the incongruity of seeing him there overwhelmed her reactions. Then she pulled back the curtains, raised the window and leaned out.

‘Frank!’

His head jerked up. As it did so, a white patch of bandaging became visible beneath the rim of his hat, along with a pale smear of grey stubble on his chin. He looked weary and unkempt. There was a glimmer of something akin to desperation in his eyes.

‘What … What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Of course not.’

He took a long deep breath, as if to calm himself, then said: ‘Can I come in?’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ll tell you inside.’

‘Very well. Can you wait while I put some clothes on?’

‘I’ll wait.’

She opened the front door to him a few minutes later. At closer quarters, he looked even more ragged and distraught, with dark shadows beneath his eyes and a sheen of perspiration on his face. He had removed his hat and was holding it awkwardly, crumpled in his hands. The bandage encircled his head and was stained brown with dried blood behind his right ear.

‘What’s happened to you?’ she asked.

‘Not an accident.’

‘Then … what?’

‘You said we could talk inside.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry. Come in.’

She stood back and he stepped past her into the hall. As he did so, the thought struck her that he must have started from Hendre Gorfelen well before dawn to have arrived so early.

‘Would you like … some tea … or coffee?’

‘Water, if you can spare some.’ There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice, but his tone had unquestionably altered since their last meeting. Some of the layers of suspicion had been restored and she could not understand why.

‘Come into the kitchen.’ She led the way and poured him some water, which he gulped down in three swallows. ‘Tell me what this is about, Frank. Please.’

‘The letters have been stolen.’

‘What letters?’

Anger flashed across his face for an instant, then he set his glass down and said: ‘I didn’t destroy them. You knew that all along. Didn’t you?’

‘Suspected, yes. Or hoped. But … you say they’ve been stolen?’

‘I had a visit from Derek Fairfax yesterday.’

‘Fairfax? How did he—’ As Frank glanced reproachfully at her, she broke off. ‘I didn’t tell him anything. As God’s my witness.’

He stared at her for a moment, then said: ‘Fairfax made me realize how foolhardy it was to keep the letters. Last night, I went to fetch them from their hiding-place in the barn. I was going to burn them, as I should have done the day they arrived. But somebody was waiting for me.’

‘Who?’

‘I never saw their face. They took me by surprise. Threw me against the wall.’ He pointed to the bandage round his head. ‘I must have been knocked out for a few seconds. When I came to, they’d gone. And so had the letters.’

‘Oh, God.’ Charlotte put her hand to her mouth, struggling to come to terms with what Frank had said. Tristram’s letters existed after all. And were important enough for somebody to resort to violence in attempting to steal them. As perhaps they had before. Looking at Frank, she saw it was not mistrust that had overtaken him, but shame. Then she noticed the bloodstain on the bandage again. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘You must. You may be concussed. At the very least, you should have the wound—’

‘There’s no time for that!’ he shouted, so loudly that Charlotte fell instantly silent. Then, seeing her shocked reaction, he added: ‘I’m sorry. I drove straight here after cleaning myself up.’

‘Because you thought I’d arranged the theft?’

Their eyes met and contended for a moment. Then he said: ‘No. But I thought you must have told somebody – or led them to believe – that I still had the letters.’ As soon as the words were out, Charlotte flushed and looked away, wincing at the thought of how her stupidity could have led to this. ‘It seems I was right,’ said Frank.

‘No … That is … I told Derek Fairfax nothing.’

‘Who did, then?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maurice?’

‘Impossible. Besides …’

‘McKitrick?’

‘No. He wouldn’t. They don’t even—’ She looked back at Frank, insisting to herself that she must remain calm and logical. ‘I told Maurice and Emerson what you’d told me. It’s possible they didn’t believe you’d destroyed the letters. I didn’t myself. As for Derek Fairfax, I’ve no idea how he heard about them.’

‘From one of you three.’

‘I suppose so. It just doesn’t seem …’ She shook her head. ‘Whoever told him, I find it hard to imagine he attacked you.’

‘So do I. But somebody did. Somebody who wanted those letters very badly. Fairfax because he thought they might help his brother. McKitrick because he couldn’t stand to be denied the insight they might give him into Tristram Abberley’s mind.’

‘What insight would they give him?’

‘One that would wreck his carefully worked out—’ Frank stopped abruptly, mouth open, staring straight ahead.

‘You read them, then?’ Charlotte stepped closer. ‘What was in them, Frank? What was it Beatrix went to such lengths to hide?’

He looked at her. For a moment, she was sure he meant to tell her. Then his jaw set in a determined line. ‘All I want to know is how to find Fairfax and McKitrick.’

‘I can’t help you if I don’t understand.’

‘What makes you think I understand? If I did, I’d have taken Beatrix at her word and burned … burned …’ The sentence stumbled to a halt and Frank leaned back heavily against the work-top behind him. He had suddenly grown pale. His hand, as he raised it to his temple, was shaking.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t … don’t quite …’ He shook his head and blinked several times. ‘I’m sorry. I felt dizzy for a moment. But … it’s passed now.’

‘You need medical attention. Let me drive you to the hospital.’

‘No. I have to—’ He took a step across the room, then pulled up and bent his head forward, grimacing as if in pain. It was as he began to sway on his feet that Charlotte hurried across to support him.

‘You’re going to the hospital. Now.’

‘I can’t … can’t …’ The grimace faded. He raised his head and seemed to recover some of his colour. But still he was unsteady, his arm trembling as Charlotte held it. ‘Oh, God, I wish I was younger.’

‘Please let me take you to the hospital, Frank. All this can wait until you’re feeling better.’

‘Can it?’

‘It’ll have to.’

She could see the outward signs of his inner turmoil: the twitchings of his face, the darting of his eyes. But she could also sense the sudden weakness that was eroding his resolution. ‘All right,’ he murmured. ‘Have it your way.’

Charlotte led him out through the door. As they moved slowly down the hall, he shook his head several times and once said ‘Sorry’ for no particular reason. Charlotte did not reply. She had the impression there was no need, that Frank Griffith’s apology was directed not at her, but at somebody else altogether, somebody who was no longer alive to receive it.