12

ON FRIDAY, CHARLOTTE went home. She justified her departure on the grounds that, with arrangements for Maurice’s funeral on Monday now in place, there was nothing to detain her at Swans’ Meadow. Ursula did not attempt to persuade her to stay, for which she was grateful. If pressed, she might have revealed just how eager she was to be gone. Although she had expressed doubts about Ursula’s interpretation of the police’s conduct, it had rung truer to her than she had cared to admit. What worried her most of all was that she might be held in equal suspicion. By returning to Ockham House, she could distance herself from events and reclaim a reassuring degree of privacy.

She could not escape altogether, of course, as a clutch of telephone calls swiftly demonstrated. Several acquaintances and former workmates had seen the television broadcast and wanted to offer their sympathy and advice, which was generally as well-intentioned as it was useless. Uncle Jack called to complain of being kept in the dark just when his expertise in such matters – of which Charlotte was unaware – might be most valuable. And Lulu Harrington rang to express her dismay at what had occurred, enabling Charlotte to confirm something Ursula had already deduced.

‘The person in New York you sent a letter to on Beatrix’s behalf – could her name have been van Ryneveld rather than van Ryan?’

‘Why, yes, it certainly could have been. What makes you think so?’

‘She’s been in touch. But Madame V from Paris hasn’t. I don’t suppose you’ve remembered her name?’

‘I fear not. I’ve racked my brains, but at my age there are precious few left to rack. I still can’t call more than the initial letter to mind.’

‘You’ll let me know if you do?’

‘Most certainly.’

After Lulu had rung off, Charlotte thought about the four letters Beatrix had left with her and reflected that the contents of two were still a complete mystery. Maurice must have known what was in the one to his mistress. At least, he must have known what she said was in it. But she was presumably as capable of lying as Ursula. Yet the tone of her telephone call to Swans’ Meadow had implied she knew nothing of Samantha’s abduction – or of what her kidnappers had demanded in return for her release. If so—

The jangle of the telephone, by which Charlotte was still standing, fractured her thoughts. She grabbed at it in irritable haste.

‘Yes?’

‘Er … Miss Ladram?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Derek Fairfax.’ Guilt washed over Charlotte at his words. She had given his name to Golding on Tuesday but had made no effort to contact him since to explain the situation. ‘I’ve been ringing you for days. The police have been to see me.’

‘Yes. They would have been. I’m sorry. That was my fault.’

‘Since then I’ve seen the broadcast about your niece. Nothing was said about ransom on the television, but the officer who interviewed me, Chief Inspector Golding, said Tristram Abberley’s letters were demanded. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I don’t understand. Who … Who could possibly—’

‘None of us understands, Mr Fairfax. If only we did.’

‘And Frank Griffith has denied the letters ever existed?’

‘Yes. But we can’t discuss this now.’ Yet Charlotte did feel the need to discuss it. And she suddenly realized that Derek Fairfax was one of the few people who would view matters in the same light as her. ‘Perhaps we could meet.’

‘Certainly. I’d like to.’

‘Can you come to lunch tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right, then. Let’s say midday, shall we?’

‘Fine, I’ll see you then.’

‘Yes. Goodbye, Mr Fairfax.’

Charlotte put the receiver down and pondered the mystery of why she had issued such an invitation. It would be folly to raise his hopes just when the loss of the letters had effectively dashed them. Yet she badly needed an ally, a friend who would listen and advise. Why look for one in Derek Fairfax? Because, she supposed, there was nowhere else to look. He was her last resort now as well as his brother’s.

She wandered into the kitchen and began assembling a shopping list. Cooking lunch for a guest might at least take her mind off the intractable problem of Samantha for a while. When the telephone rang yet again, she was inclined not to answer it. But, when it showed no sign of stopping, she relented.

‘Hello?’

‘Miss Ladram?’

‘Yes.’ The caller’s voice was familiar to her, clipped and formal with the hint of an accent. She realized who it was a fraction of a second before he spoke again.

‘I represent those who are holding your niece, Miss Ladram.’

‘What?’

‘You heard. And I rather think you understood. Police surveillance has prevented us contacting your sister-in-law. We have therefore turned to you.’

‘Who do you represent?’

‘It is better you should not know.’

‘Why did you kill Maurice?’

‘Because he did not deliver all the papers. And because he had the effrontery to offer money instead.’

‘He gave you everything he had.’

‘There is more. And we want it.’

‘We don’t have it.’

‘Then find it. We know Beatrix Abberley had what we require. Therefore it must lie within your power to locate and surrender it.’

‘Tell me what we’re looking for.’

‘A document sent by Tristram Abberley to his sister in March 1938, written in the Catalan language.’

‘What sort of document?’

‘I have said enough. We are patient, but not infinitely so. We will keep your niece alive for one month from today. You have until October eleven to procure the document. When you do, place an advertisement in the personal column of the International Herald Tribune to read as follows. Pen pals can be reunited. Orwell will pay.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You have that?’

Charlotte read back her own scrawled note from the jotter beside the telephone. ‘Pen pals can be reunited. Orwell will pay.’

‘Correct. If such a message appears on or before October eleven, we will contact you.’

‘You must give me more information.’ Charlotte knew she should glean as much as she possibly could, but her brain seemed sluggish and uninventive. ‘We’re prepared to do anything to get Sam back.’

‘All you have to do is meet our requirements, fully and promptly. Do not tell the police we have made contact. If they seem to be drawing close to us, we shall kill your niece without hesitation.’

‘How … How is Sam?’

‘She is alive.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘Enough of speaking. You agree to our terms?’

‘Of course. But—’

‘Then our business is concluded. Good afternoon, Miss Ladram.’