Read Online Take No Farewell - Retail by Robert Goddard - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Goddard
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Clouds Frome, Tom Malahide, was arrested for complicity in a robbery at Peto’s Paper Mill in Ross. To my astonishment, I learned that his confederate was none other than Lizzie Thaxter’s brother, Peter. He had been stealing bank-note printing plates for some months from the mill, where he worked on the maintenance of the plate-making machinery, and passing them to Malahide, who then conveyed them to a corrupt engraver in Birmingham to complete a potentially highly lucrative counterfeiting racket. Random stocktaking at the mill had revealed the discrepancy and the police had soon identified Thaxter as the thief. He and Malahide had been arrested during a handover of plates and the engraver shortly afterwards.
Lizzie had accompanied Consuela to Brazil, which was as well, for Victor would probably have dismissed her simply for being related to one of the gang had she been in Hereford at the time. As it was, he assuaged his feelings by criticizing me and the builder for employing suspect characters and so dragging his name and that of his new house through the mud. No matter that Malahide had come to us with an exemplary character. Nor that Peto’s should have taken better precautions. I was still required to do penance over an agonizing luncheon at Fern Lodge attended by Marjorie’s brother – the outraged mill-owner himself, Grenville Peto. I can remember with awful clarity stumbling out an apology I did not owe to this dreadful, inflated bullfrog of a man, whilst Marjorie and Mortimer looked on censoriously and Victor squirmed with an embarrassment I knew he would make me suffer for later.
That episode made me glad to think how soon the house would be finished. There was, indeed, no reason why it should not be ready for occupation by Easter. I could feel well pleased with what I had achieved. Its final appearance really did match its promise, the stolid gables and elegant chimneys couched perfectly between orchard and wooded hilltop. All had been done to the highest of standards and even Victor had grudgingly to admit that it was a job well done.
The first weekend of March found me at my flat in Pimlico, contemplating the lonely existence I had led in London since my commitments in Hereford – both professional and emotional – had come to bulk so large. It was Saturday night and Imry had urged me to accompany him and his decorative cousin Mona to the latest Somerset Maugham play at The Duke of York’s. But I had declined the invitation, preferring to check and re-check the plans and schedules of Clouds Frome. I had commissioned some photographs at Victor’s request and now, sifting through the prints, I reassured myself that the house was all I had envisaged that day, two and a half years before, when I had seen the site for the first time. And so it was, all and more; there was no doubt of that. I should have felt proud and exhilarated. I should have been out celebrating my success. Instead, I sat absorbed in dimension and proportion, poring over measurements and lists of materials, peering at every photograph in the brightest of lamplight, seeking the flaw in the design that my heart told me was there. And knowing I would not find it. For the flaw was in me, not Clouds Frome at all.
I recall now every detail of that night, every facet of its colour and shade: the purple barrel of the pen I wrote with, the amber hue of the whisky in my glass, the grey whorls of cigarette smoke climbing towards the ceiling – and the blackness of the London night, pressing against the windows.
A few minutes after eleven o’clock. I can remember checking how late it was by my watch, stubbing out a cigarette, massaging my forehead, then rising from the couch and walking to the window. The panes were misty: it was growing cold outside. But coldness, in that moment, was what I most desired. I pulled up the sash and leaned out into the chill darkness, breathed in deeply and glanced down into the street.
She was standing beneath a
Lizzie had accompanied Consuela to Brazil, which was as well, for Victor would probably have dismissed her simply for being related to one of the gang had she been in Hereford at the time. As it was, he assuaged his feelings by criticizing me and the builder for employing suspect characters and so dragging his name and that of his new house through the mud. No matter that Malahide had come to us with an exemplary character. Nor that Peto’s should have taken better precautions. I was still required to do penance over an agonizing luncheon at Fern Lodge attended by Marjorie’s brother – the outraged mill-owner himself, Grenville Peto. I can remember with awful clarity stumbling out an apology I did not owe to this dreadful, inflated bullfrog of a man, whilst Marjorie and Mortimer looked on censoriously and Victor squirmed with an embarrassment I knew he would make me suffer for later.
That episode made me glad to think how soon the house would be finished. There was, indeed, no reason why it should not be ready for occupation by Easter. I could feel well pleased with what I had achieved. Its final appearance really did match its promise, the stolid gables and elegant chimneys couched perfectly between orchard and wooded hilltop. All had been done to the highest of standards and even Victor had grudgingly to admit that it was a job well done.
The first weekend of March found me at my flat in Pimlico, contemplating the lonely existence I had led in London since my commitments in Hereford – both professional and emotional – had come to bulk so large. It was Saturday night and Imry had urged me to accompany him and his decorative cousin Mona to the latest Somerset Maugham play at The Duke of York’s. But I had declined the invitation, preferring to check and re-check the plans and schedules of Clouds Frome. I had commissioned some photographs at Victor’s request and now, sifting through the prints, I reassured myself that the house was all I had envisaged that day, two and a half years before, when I had seen the site for the first time. And so it was, all and more; there was no doubt of that. I should have felt proud and exhilarated. I should have been out celebrating my success. Instead, I sat absorbed in dimension and proportion, poring over measurements and lists of materials, peering at every photograph in the brightest of lamplight, seeking the flaw in the design that my heart told me was there. And knowing I would not find it. For the flaw was in me, not Clouds Frome at all.
I recall now every detail of that night, every facet of its colour and shade: the purple barrel of the pen I wrote with, the amber hue of the whisky in my glass, the grey whorls of cigarette smoke climbing towards the ceiling – and the blackness of the London night, pressing against the windows.
A few minutes after eleven o’clock. I can remember checking how late it was by my watch, stubbing out a cigarette, massaging my forehead, then rising from the couch and walking to the window. The panes were misty: it was growing cold outside. But coldness, in that moment, was what I most desired. I pulled up the sash and leaned out into the chill darkness, breathed in deeply and glanced down into the street.
She was standing beneath a
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