Laurence. Love to talk to you. Love to meet, come to that. I’ve actually come sufficiently into the twenty-first century to get myself a mobile. Let me give you the number.’
She felt a remembered warmth as she wrote it down. A few of Jude’s affairs had ended in ‘I never want to see you again!’ acrimony, but she was still in occasional touch with most of her lovers, and her recollections of Laurence Hawker were almost entirely benign. She wondered if he was still an academic, still researching in the English Department at the university in Prague, still as irresistibly attracted to all those stunningly beautiful Czech girl students. But for that predilection of his, and the way it encroached on their time together, Jude’s relationship with Laurence would have been near perfect. Be good to see him again.
The second message was from Sandy Fairbarns. ‘Need to talk to you urgently, Jude. If you can get back to me tonight before twelve, be great. If not, at Austen in the morning, as soon after nine as possible.’
It was two minutes before midnight. Jude keyed in the mobile number. Sandy sounded as bright and enthusiastic as ever. Loud music sounded in the background, but it wasn’t referred to. Sandy’s private life remained private.
‘Jude, thank you so much for getting back to me. It’s about Mervyn.’
‘Anything wrong with him?’
‘I don’t know. He never did talk to me.’
‘He’s back at Austen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any charges?’
‘I don’t know. Basically, Jude, I want you to see him.’
‘But I’m not scheduled to do another session till—’
‘I know. I’m suggesting you come and visit him. If I get it to the Governor first thing in the morning, I can get a VO for you for tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Sorry? VO?’
‘Visiting Order. Can you do tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
‘Good. Because Mervyn seemed to respond in your sessions. I think he might open up to you.’
‘I’ll do my best. But what’s his problem?’
‘I don’t know, Jude. But I’m worried about him.’
Chapter Ten
Graham Chadleigh-Bewes’ house was symbolic of his life. From childhood it had been dominated by his famous grandfather, so there was a logic that his home should be almost in the shadow of Bracketts too. The cottage had once housed an estate worker, and though firmly separated by its own fence, still gave the impression that it was part of the grounds. A rather tart notice by the front gate read: ‘THIS HOUSE IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. VISITORS TO BRACKETTS SHOULD ENTER THROUGH THE CAR PARK 100 YARDS DOWN THE LANE.’ An arrow showed them the way.
Searchers after symbols might have seen that too as an expression of Graham Chadleigh-Bewes’ semi-detached relationship with Bracketts, half-loving and half-resenting the connection.
They could have seen symbolism in his surname as well. The anonymous Mr Bewes, whom Sonia Chadleigh had married in 1945, had been half-erased by a hyphen, so that his son would retain the famous literary name.
As she approached the cottage door on the Tuesday morning, Carole Seddon again reflected on how bossy everyone involved with the place seemed to be. And how meekly she continued to submit to their bossiness. Graham had quickly rejected her suggestion that they should meet on neutral ground, a café or pub somewhere midway between Fethering and South Stapley. ‘No, no, I’ve got all the papers here. You’ll have to come to me.’ But Carole sensed that it was not simply a matter of convenience. Graham Chadleigh-Bewes felt insecure off his own territory. He gained strength from his home environment, so close to the splendour of Bracketts.
It was raining heavily. The brightness of the last few days had been suddenly eclipsed, and the water sheeted off Carole’s precious Burberry.
To her surprise, the cottage door was opened by Belinda Chadleigh, who had only just come in herself. She was swamped in a huge, dripping blue waterproof coat which bore the same ‘Bracketts Volunteer’ labelling and logo that had been on the overalls Carole had seen in the kitchen garden.
At first Carole Seddon’s name seemed to mean nothing to the old lady. The Trustees’ Meeting, during which they had sat at the same table only a few days previously, might as well not have happened.
But when Carole said she’d come to see Graham, a kind of recollection entered the faded eyes. ‘Oh yes, of course. He said someone was coming. He’s very busy, as ever. You know, with the biography. And it’s not just that. You wouldn’t believe all the demands there are on Graham’s time, just the day-to-day dealing with the estate.’
‘I’m sure I wouldn’t,’ said Carole politely, but she was beginning to wonder how much work was actually involved. Belinda Chadleigh’s manner confirmed her previous impression of Graham Chadleigh-Bewes, that he was basically rather lazy, but kept going on about his workload and surrounded himself with people who endorsed his self-image as the impossibly stressed keeper of Esmond Chadleigh’s flame.
His aunt was evidently a willing partner in this conspiracy. The way she behaved suggested that she lived in the cottage, even acted as a kind of housekeeper to the tortured genius who was her nephew. Her offer of tea or coffee, when she ushered Carole into the great man’s presence, was both automatic and practised. Carole said she’d like a coffee, and Graham conceded that he could probably manage another one too. With the subservience of a housemaid from another generation, his aunt went off to make the necessary arrangements.
There was a chaos about Graham Chadleigh-Bewes’ study which might once have been organized, but had long since got completely out of control. He sat on an old wooden swivel chair in a recess backed by small cottage windows, against which that morning the rain rattled relentlessly. In front of him was a structure which logic dictated must be a desk, but the surface was so crowded with papers and the sides so buttressed by books and files that no part of it was visible. All available wall-space was shelved, and books were crammed in double ranks, some hanging precariously off the edges, others stuffed in horizontally over ranks of the unevenly vertical.
Hanging slightly askew from a nail on one shelf end was a small crucifix with an ivory Christ. Atop one of the peaks of the desk’s topography perched an old black telephone with a white dial and nubbly brown fabric-covered wire. There was no sign of fax, photocopier or computer – indeed no technology invented in the last fifty years.
Graham himself, poring importantly over some papers, did not even rise to greet Carole. Having rather grandly given his coffee order to his aunt, he waved his guest to a chair from which she had to remove a pile of flimsy carbon copies. ‘Be careful with that lot,’ he admonished, without looking up. ‘Mustn’t get them out of sequence.’
Sequence? As Carole sat down and looked around the room, she couldn’t see much evidence of sequence anywhere.
After dutifully watching Graham read for a couple of minutes, she decided she’d had enough. He was the one who had summoned her, after all.
‘Could we get on, please?’ she said.
