Read Online Hand in Glove by Robert Goddard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Goddard
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survive any adversities.
Derek was about to open the book when he caught sight of one of his clients approaching along the pavement. Instantly, he felt he must not be seen. Not with this book at this time. Hastily, he pushed it out of view beneath the dashboard, started the car and turned into the traffic.
The roads were busy. The afternoon was hot. As he trailed and braked his way up across the Common towards Mount Ephraim, he began to think about Charlotte Ladram and how he might best approach her. He had looked up her address in the telephone directory earlier and had recognized Manor Park as the name of one of Tunbridge Wells’
many quiet residential side-roads lined by tree-screened villas. The directory had listed the subscriber as Mrs M. Ladram. Her mother, perhaps? If so, she must have been the woman Colin bought the furniture from last year. But the police had told Colin she was dead. The discrepancy was easily explained, since the directory was a two-year-old edition, but it left open the possibility that Miss Ladram no longer lived there. In that event, Derek would be reduced to asking Dredge for information, something he had hoped to avoid.
It was the thought of explaining himself to Dredge that finally decided the issue. Much more deliberation, he knew, would undermine his resolve completely. He took the next turning on the right, paused to consult his street-map, then set off again, arriving a few minutes later in Manor Park. There he left his car and began to walk, checking each house name as he went. It was a neighbourhood of such heavy-curtained quietude that he felt reluctant even to clear his throat, but the trees which denied him a view into most of the gardens at least ensured he could not be seen from within.
Ockham House disclosed itself as a glimpse of stolid gabling behind a high thorn hedge. A gravelled drive curved out of sight beyond the entrance and, as he started up it, Derek felt intensely conscious of the crunching noise his shoes made at every step.
Then, rounding a screen of rhododendrons, he came upon a 46
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
flower-bordered lawn, with the house set above it on slightly higher ground. It was a stuccoed villa of modest proportions, bay-fronted and high chimneyed, with little in the way of architectural elaboration.
Derek felt strangely encouraged by its lack of grandeur and quick-ened his pace.
As he approached the front door, he saw that the lawn curved round to the side of the house. There, seated on a wicker chair in a sunny corner, was a woman in a dark dress, smoking a cigarette. He could not tell whether she had seen him, nor whether she was Charlotte Ladram, but he felt it would seem odd to ignore her, so he walked slowly towards her across the lawn.
As he drew nearer, it became apparent that her dress was not merely dark but black, as were her stockings and the shoes she had kicked off in front of her. She was definitely not Charlotte Ladram, being taller and slimmer, with fashionably short blonde hair. And he could be sure she had not seen him, because she had her eyes closed.
She was leaning back in her chair, savouring the sunlight and each lungful of smoke. Beside her, on the grass, was a narrow-brimmed black hat. It was the hat that removed the last doubt in Derek’s mind about why she was dressed as she was. But even as he decided to turn and walk away, she opened one eye, then the other, and looked at him.
“Good afternoon.” Her voice was clipped and husky. “And who might you be?”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . . My name . . . That is, I was looking for Miss Charlotte Ladram.”
“For Charlie?” She smiled. “She hasn’t told us about you. Is this a recent acquaintance?”
“No. She doesn’t . . . Is she in?”
“Oh, yes. She’s in.”
“Well, perhaps this isn’t . . . the right time.”
“No, no. The more the merrier, you might say. Let me show you the way.”
“There’s really no—”
But it was too late. She rose,
Derek was about to open the book when he caught sight of one of his clients approaching along the pavement. Instantly, he felt he must not be seen. Not with this book at this time. Hastily, he pushed it out of view beneath the dashboard, started the car and turned into the traffic.
The roads were busy. The afternoon was hot. As he trailed and braked his way up across the Common towards Mount Ephraim, he began to think about Charlotte Ladram and how he might best approach her. He had looked up her address in the telephone directory earlier and had recognized Manor Park as the name of one of Tunbridge Wells’
many quiet residential side-roads lined by tree-screened villas. The directory had listed the subscriber as Mrs M. Ladram. Her mother, perhaps? If so, she must have been the woman Colin bought the furniture from last year. But the police had told Colin she was dead. The discrepancy was easily explained, since the directory was a two-year-old edition, but it left open the possibility that Miss Ladram no longer lived there. In that event, Derek would be reduced to asking Dredge for information, something he had hoped to avoid.
It was the thought of explaining himself to Dredge that finally decided the issue. Much more deliberation, he knew, would undermine his resolve completely. He took the next turning on the right, paused to consult his street-map, then set off again, arriving a few minutes later in Manor Park. There he left his car and began to walk, checking each house name as he went. It was a neighbourhood of such heavy-curtained quietude that he felt reluctant even to clear his throat, but the trees which denied him a view into most of the gardens at least ensured he could not be seen from within.
Ockham House disclosed itself as a glimpse of stolid gabling behind a high thorn hedge. A gravelled drive curved out of sight beyond the entrance and, as he started up it, Derek felt intensely conscious of the crunching noise his shoes made at every step.
Then, rounding a screen of rhododendrons, he came upon a 46
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
flower-bordered lawn, with the house set above it on slightly higher ground. It was a stuccoed villa of modest proportions, bay-fronted and high chimneyed, with little in the way of architectural elaboration.
Derek felt strangely encouraged by its lack of grandeur and quick-ened his pace.
As he approached the front door, he saw that the lawn curved round to the side of the house. There, seated on a wicker chair in a sunny corner, was a woman in a dark dress, smoking a cigarette. He could not tell whether she had seen him, nor whether she was Charlotte Ladram, but he felt it would seem odd to ignore her, so he walked slowly towards her across the lawn.
As he drew nearer, it became apparent that her dress was not merely dark but black, as were her stockings and the shoes she had kicked off in front of her. She was definitely not Charlotte Ladram, being taller and slimmer, with fashionably short blonde hair. And he could be sure she had not seen him, because she had her eyes closed.
She was leaning back in her chair, savouring the sunlight and each lungful of smoke. Beside her, on the grass, was a narrow-brimmed black hat. It was the hat that removed the last doubt in Derek’s mind about why she was dressed as she was. But even as he decided to turn and walk away, she opened one eye, then the other, and looked at him.
“Good afternoon.” Her voice was clipped and husky. “And who might you be?”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . . My name . . . That is, I was looking for Miss Charlotte Ladram.”
“For Charlie?” She smiled. “She hasn’t told us about you. Is this a recent acquaintance?”
“No. She doesn’t . . . Is she in?”
“Oh, yes. She’s in.”
“Well, perhaps this isn’t . . . the right time.”
“No, no. The more the merrier, you might say. Let me show you the way.”
“There’s really no—”
But it was too late. She rose,
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