Free Hand in Glove by Robert Goddard

bequest from my aunt?”
    “No. I never suggested you did.”
    “Charlie is also well provided for, as you can see. She owns this house. And a substantial shareholding in the company.”
    “There’s no need to tell Mr Fairfax our business, Maurice,” said Ursula.
    “My point is that by no stretch of the imagination can we be said to have needed what we gained by Beatrix’s death. And nobody else gained anything.”
    “I thought there was a nest-egg for Mrs Mentiply,” remarked Jack.
    “Do be quiet, Jack,” said Ursula.
    “Oh, well, all right.” He assumed a contrite expression. “Only trying to help.”
    Fairfax was still looking at Charlotte, still silently pleading with

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    her to be reasonable. And she was still determined not to be. “Miss Ladram,” he said falteringly, “I’m not accusing anybody of anything, least of all you. I’m only trying to establish the truth of what happened. Don’t you want to do the same?”
    “We already have,” she replied. “The only service you can render us is to identify your brother’s accomplice.”
    “He didn’t have one.”
    “If that’s what you think, I’m sure we’d all be grateful if you left—and didn’t come back.”
    Maurice put a protective arm round her waist. “I’ll second that.
    Time you left, Mr Fairfax. Bother me if you really must. But leave my sister alone.”
    Ursula moved across to Fairfax’s shoulder. “Cue to depart,” she murmured.
    “What?”
    “Shall I show you out?”
    Ursula’s smile and her condescending gesture towards the garden completed Fairfax’s defeat. He stepped back and looked away, seeming to shrivel before them. Suddenly, Charlotte regretted their implacable show of unity. Perhaps, after all, he had meant well. But it was too late to find out. Already, he had turned and was hurrying towards the French windows. Ursula swayed out of his path with a little wave of dismissal.
    “Goodbye, Mr Fairfax. So good of you to have called.”
    “There’s no need for that,” said Charlotte.
    “Well, I’m sorry, my dear. I thought you wanted rid of him.”
    “I did. But not—” She broke free of Maurice and hastened into the garden. Derek Fairfax had reached the drive and was walking fast towards the gate. To recall him now—even had she wished—would have been pointless.
    “What’s wrong, old girl?” said Maurice, coming up behind her.
    “Nothing. I just . . .”
    “Don’t worry. He’ll give us no trouble.”
    “Perhaps we should have been less abrupt.”
    “He was the one who was abrupt.”
    “Even so, he’s not responsible for his brother’s actions, is he?”
    “Then he shouldn’t try to excuse them, should he?”
    “He didn’t. Not really.”
    Maurice’s arm once more encircled her. “Let’s forget him. And his brother. Let’s forget all about the squalid crime that ended Beatrix’s 50

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    life and remember instead the many happy years she had before Mr Fairfax-Vane crossed her path. She’d want us to, you know.”
    “Yes. She would.” Fairfax was out of sight now. Charlotte told herself to put him out of mind as well. “Come on, Maurice. Let’s go in and have another drink. I could do with one.”
    “That’s my girl.” With a beaming smile, he ushered her back to rejoin the others.
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    NINE
    Derek felt so ashamed by how he had managed—or mismanaged—his visit to Ockham House that for several days afterwards he could not think of the event without physically flinching. Colin had praised his diplomacy, but what would he say when he heard just how undiplomatic his brother had been?
    Further contact with the Abberley family was, for the time being, out of the question. Derek’s only immediate hope of learning more about them was to read Tristram Abberley’s biography. This, with guilty zeal, he proceeded to do over the next three evenings.
    The book was the work of an American academic, Emerson A.
    McKitrick,