14

MAURICE’S FUNERAL WAS, in many respects, indistinguishable from Beatrix’s. Both were well-attended and efficiently staged. Both progressed smoothly from sun-lanced church to manicured crematorium. And both seemed to be over before they had begun. Yet there were also significant differences. Most of those who had come to Beatrix’s had done so out of love, whereas duty clearly impelled the score of senior staff from Ladram Avionics who turned out to bid Maurice a corporate farewell. The same could be said of Miller, Golding and D.C. Finch, who contrived to look more like miscellaneous employees of the undertaker than police officers, let alone friends of the deceased. And there was not even a pretence of mourning among the reporters and photographers who clogged Cookham churchyard and followed the cortège to Slough Crematorium and back.

Nor did a spirit of affectionate remembrance obtain among the few whom Ursula felt obliged to entertain afterwards at Swans’ Meadow. Aliki had returned from Cyprus in time to cater for the event, but nobody displayed much appetite for the food she had prepared and most departed as soon as decency permitted. The only exception to this rule was Uncle Jack, who clearly had his sights set on several more whiskies when Charlotte insisted, at Ursula’s request, on driving him to the station and seeing him aboard the London train.

When she returned to Swans’ Meadow, she found Ursula had embarked on a cold-blooded drinking bout and was reluctant to accompany her into the garden, the one venue where Charlotte felt she could safely disclose what had happened. But accompany her she eventually did. And sobriety was instantly restored when she heard Charlotte’s news.

‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ she responded, a sudden access of hope lighting up her face. ‘It means Sam still has a chance.’

‘Only if we can find the document,’ Charlotte cautioned. ‘That’s why I think it would be worth going to New York.’

‘Thank God you’re prepared to, Charlie. I’d never be able to without the police getting wind of it. And they mustn’t, they absolutely mustn’t.’

‘I agree.’

‘When will you go?’

‘As soon as you can supply me with Natasha’s address and telephone number.’

‘You propose to forewarn her?’

‘I can’t risk her being away. And I don’t think she’ll refuse to see me, do you?’

‘I really couldn’t—’ Ursula pursed her lips and suppressed her evident irritation. ‘No, I don’t suppose she will.’

‘Is the … er … the report Beatrix commissioned here?’

‘Yes. You may as well take it away with you. After all, I don’t need to insure myself against Maurice’s treachery any more, do I?’ Ursula flicked a fragment of cigarette ash off the sleeve of her black dress and added, almost as an afterthought, ‘Poor Maurice,’ before turning and walking away towards the house.

As Charlotte started after her, it crossed her mind that this throw-away remark was the kindest thing Ursula had found to say about the man she had been married to for more than twenty years since the day they had found him dead. She had succeeded in damning him with the faintest of eulogies.

Charlotte did not read the report until she was back at Ockham House. She wondered how Beatrix had reacted to its revelation of the double life Maurice was leading. Had it been the final confirmation of her suspicions? On finishing it, had she realized for the first time that he meant to kill her? If so, she had prepared for the event more thoroughly than he could ever have imagined. And she had needed to, for she had known – as Maurice had not – that there was more at stake than Tristram’s royalties, far more.

Poor Maurice, as his widow had truly said. He had expected everybody to abide by the rules he had applied to his own life. He had expected weakness to yield to strength. He had expected money to answer every need. No doubt, even at the end, as he saw the blade of the knife flash in the moonlight, he had assumed his killers would rob his corpse. But they had not. Instead, they had fed it with the only food he knew.

Charlotte wept then, more freely than at any time since his death. She wept for them all – Tristram, Beatrix, Maurice and Samantha. And lastly she wept for herself. Then she dried her tears and read aloud the epigraph Orwell had chosen for Homage to Catalonia to make sure her voice would not betray her.

‘“Answer not a fool according to his folly, lest thou be like unto him. Answer a fool according to his folly, lest he be wise in his own conceit.”’ She was reminded of a remark in Tristram’s last letter to Beatrix – ‘Such a foolish conceit, in both senses, eh?’ – and she wondered if she was about to succumb to a similar temptation. To start what she could not finish. To initiate more than she knew. ‘No matter,’ she said to herself as she walked into the hall. ‘It must be done.’ She picked up the telephone and dialled the number recorded in the report for Maurice’s Fifth Avenue apartment.

‘Yes?’ The voice came distantly, accompanied by an echo that seemed to rob it of identity.

‘Natasha van Ryneveld?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Charlotte Ladram.’

‘Why, Charlie, you take me by surprise.’ The accent was superficially American, but beneath there seemed to lie some other tongue, threatening to emerge at the end of every sentence. ‘I hadn’t … Why have you called?’

‘Maurice was cremated today.’

‘Ah. Was he? I thought it would be about now. If only … But still you don’t say why you’ve called.’

‘I think we should meet.’

There was a lengthy pause before Natasha replied. ‘For what purpose?’

‘You asked about the circumstances of Maurice’s death.’

‘And you want to tell me about them?’

‘Yes.’

‘You will come here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just to satisfy the curiosity of your brother’s mistress? I don’t think so, Charlie, do you?’

‘When you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand. And I hope you’ll want to help.’

‘Help with what?’

‘We must meet if I’m to explain.’

Natasha sighed audibly and said nothing for so long Charlotte thought she had walked away from the telephone. But she had not. And when she spoke it was so suddenly and decisively that Charlotte felt her heart pound at her words. ‘Come then, Charlie. Perhaps, after all, it’s time we met.’