18

ALBION DREDGE LEANED back awkwardly in his chair and pushed the window behind him open still further, though the total lack of movement in the air ensured his action would do nothing to lower the temperature in his oven of an office. He had already discarded his jacket and his grimaces as he prised at his shirt collar suggested his tie would have gone the same way had he been alone. As it was, the presence of a client deterred him, though it occurred to Derek that this was just about the only concession he did seem willing to make to him.

‘I don’t want to be a wet blanket, Mr Fairfax,’ Dredge said, abandoning his various efforts at ventilation, ‘but I’m obliged to be realistic. The theory you’ve put forward—’

‘It’s more than a theory!’

‘Quite possibly. But though you may believe it, I have to prove it. So, let me just be clear what it is you’re saying. One—’ He held up a pudgy forefinger. ‘The late Miss Abberley wrote her brother’s poems for him. Two—’ He raised a second finger. ‘Her nephew wanted her to make this fact public so copyright in the work would be extended and royalties would continue to be paid to him. Three—’ Up went a third finger. ‘Miss Abberley refused, so he decided to overcome her objections by murdering her. And four—’ His little finger joined its perpendicular fellows. ‘He made sure your brother took the blame for her murder by decoying him to Jackdaw Cottage and later planting the stolen items of Tunbridge Ware in his shop.’

‘Correct.’

Dredge sighed. ‘Well, it’s an interesting theory. Very interesting indeed. If true—’

‘It’s true. I’ve no doubt of it.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t, Mr Fairfax, but others less – how can I put this? – less eager to entertain notions of your brother’s innocence might regard it as fanciful and entirely unsupported by the available evidence.’

‘How can you say that? Frank Griffith will confirm the stolen letters prove Beatrix’s authorship of the poems.’

‘Mr Griffith sounds an unreliable witness to me, Mr Fairfax. Didn’t you say he had a history of mental illness?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘That plus years of living as a recluse in the wilds of Wales and a recent knock on the head would be used to undermine his evidence, even if it needed undermining, which lack of corroboration suggests it wouldn’t. Besides, you’ve admitted Mr Abberley was in New York at the time of the theft.’

‘I never suggested he stole the letters personally. I’m sure he used his former chauffeur, Spicer, to carry out the crimes.’

‘For which your evidence is Spicer being seen in a pub in Rye nearly a month before Miss Abberley’s murder.’

‘Well … yes …’

Dredge clicked his tongue like a reproving schoolmaster. ‘For which there could be any one of a number of simple explanations.’

‘He was clearly embarrassed to be seen there.’

‘Your witness—’ Dredge glanced down at his notes. ‘Miss Abberley’s housekeeper’s husband thought Spicer was trying to avoid him. I wouldn’t say he was clearly anything.’

‘What would you say, then?’ Derek was beginning to feel angry. After being leaned on by Fithyan, what he needed was encouragement, not Dredge’s ponderous brand of nitpicking.

‘That your theory is coherent, Mr Fairfax, even attractive. But it lacks substantiation.’ Dredge smiled. ‘Better for me to point out its deficiencies to you now than for you to harbour false hopes – or raise them in your brother.’

‘What can we do to substantiate it?’

‘Find Spicer. Establish his whereabouts on the dates in question. And vet his financial circumstances for signs that he has been paid for murdering Miss Abberley, framing your brother and stealing the letters from Mr Griffith.’

‘But he could be anywhere.’

‘Exactly. We would need to use a specialist in search and surveillance. I can recommend one. I can even engage him on your behalf. But I must warn you his services are expensive and, in this case, might yield nothing at all.’

‘What else, then?’

‘Nothing.’ Dredge spread his hands. ‘Nothing, so far as I can see, is to be gained by monitoring Mr Abberley’s activities. If you’re right, he intends to sit tight until the time is ripe to publicize the letters. If there’s a weak link in the chain, it’s whoever he used to commit the crimes. If it was Spicer, we have a chance, though a slim one. If not—’

‘We have no chance at all. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I fear so, Mr Fairfax. Which brings me to your opening question.’

‘Should I tell my brother?’

‘Exactly.’ Dredge leaned back and joined his hands across his ample stomach. ‘It’s your decision, naturally, but I’d advise you to consider the consequences very carefully. My impression is that he’s come to terms with his situation, that he’s prepared himself for the worst. If you make him think there’s a real prospect of him being acquitted when in reality there isn’t …’

‘I take your point, Mr Dredge. I’ll give it some thought. Now, about tracing Spicer—’

‘You want me to proceed?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Very well. I’ll put the wheels in motion.’

‘One other thing.’ Derek’s self-respect rebelled at the necessity of what he had to say. ‘I’d like great care to be taken to avoid Maurice Abberley becoming aware that I’ve initiated such enquiries.’

‘Nobody wants him to become aware of it, Mr Fairfax. Alas, I can’t give you an absolute guarantee that he won’t.’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘You have some particular reason for mentioning it?’

‘Indirectly, he wields a good deal of influence with my employer.’

‘Ah. That kind of reason. I sympathize. In view of the likelihood of a negative outcome to our enquiries, perhaps the risks of putting them in train – the risks to your career, I mean – are simply not worth taking.’

‘Perhaps they’re not.’ Dredge’s eyebrows were raised in expectation of his next remark. But Derek had already debated the matter with himself, long and hard. He was not about to knuckle under, however easy it would have been to believe it was the best and wisest course to follow. ‘But I mean to see this through to the end. So, such risks as there are, I’m prepared to take.’