‘Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. I was to deliver it to Professor Marla Teischbaum.’
Laurence let out an ironical laugh. ‘That makes sense.’
‘You know her?’
‘By reputation. In the academic world you hear about what most people in the same field are up to. I know Marla Teischbaum’s working on a biography of Esmond Chadleigh. And I think hers will have rather more intellectual rigour than the one written by Graham Chadleigh-Bewes –’ He tapped the photocopies on the table ‘– in spite of his delaying tactics.’
‘What do you mean?’ Carole remembered the word Marla Teischbaum had used on the telephone. ‘Are you saying that this stuff has been doctored?’
‘Yes. Not very subtly either.’
‘When she last rang me, Marla Teischbaum accused Graham of doing it.’
‘I should think she’s right. You said he issued the material, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. What kind of “doctoring” has been done, Laurence?’ The longer he was there, the easier she was finding it to use his name. She still disliked and disapproved of him, but she couldn’t fault his intellect.
‘There’s been a bit of fiddling with the dates. Don’t know why.’ Instinctively, and without asking, Laurence Hawker topped up his empty whisky glass. ‘I suppose he just hoped Professor Teischbaum would publish the misinformation in her book, and then be discredited for getting her facts wrong. But she’d be too canny to fall for that. I’m not even an expert on Esmond Chadleigh, and yet I saw instantly what had been done. No, I’m afraid all this stuff does is to show up the sad incompetence of Graham Chadleigh-Bewes. Incompetence as a forger, certainly – and probably incompetence as a biographer too.’
Carole moved closer to the table. ‘Can you show me exactly what you’re talking about?’
Proximity strengthened the smells of cigarette smoke and whisky, but she was starting to find them less offensive as her interest in the documents mounted.
‘Well, take a look at this.’ He picked up the photocopy of the letter from ‘Pickles’ to ‘Chadders’. ‘Perfectly ordinary schoolboy letter, thanking his friend for letting him stay at Christmas. Dated “29 December 1917”. And yet there are a whole lot of references in it that make that date sound wrong.’
‘Like what?’
‘Look at this.’
Her eyes followed his finger to the sentence in which ‘Pickles’ referred to his aunt: ‘I don’t think she likes anyone – certainly not me or Mr Lloyd George, so she’s in an even sourer mood than usual.’
‘OK, Lloyd George was still Prime Minister in 1917, but he actually took over the job in December 1916. Wouldn’t his appointment be what made the aunt “sourer than ever”?’
He raised a hand to curb objections. ‘All right, that one’s arguable, but these two references to the Somme seem very odd.’
Again his finger found the relevant passages.
‘I’d like to get a bit of revenge for all those chaps Strider lost on the Somme. He seemed raring to go back, didn’t he, champing at the bit to get back and finish the job?’
and
‘Did you hear, incidentally, that old “Rattles” Rattenborough, School Captain of a couple of years back, has died of wounds he sustained during that Somme fixture? Bit of a damper when you hear about chaps you know, but it seems to be happening all too often these days.’
‘Now the Somme Offensive started in July 1916 and, OK, it was dreadful, left deep scars on the country. But by December 1917, the Third Battle of Ypres – all the horrors of Passchendaele – had happened. Surely those’d be more in the mind of a war-watching schoolboy than the events of nearly eighteen months before? And can you really believe that it had taken eighteen months for “Pickles” to hear about the death of a school captain?’
‘Ah, that one’s not certain,’ Carole pointed out. ‘He died of “wounds sustained during that Somme fixture”. We don’t know how long that process took.’
‘Take your point.’ Laurence Hawker nodded in appreciation. Then his finger moved quickly to another line. ‘But look at this. This is the clincher.’
Carole read, ‘Now our boys have got those newfangled tanks out there, it shouldn’t take long.’
‘British tanks were introduced to the Battle of the Somme in September 1916. Surely fourteen months later our schoolboy wouldn’t be describing them as “new-fangled”? Three months later, maybe.’
Coughing lightly, he sat back with an air of triumph, and took a long drag from his cigarette.
‘So what are you saying, Laurence?’
‘I would stake my reputation as an academic – or even something of real value,’ he interpolated with a self-deprecating grin, ‘that the date on this letter has been changed from “1916” to “1917”.’
‘But why would Graham Chadleigh-Bewes want to do that?’
‘Don’t know . . . unless, as I said, it was a feeble attempt to make Professor Teischbaum’s research look iffy.’ He reached forward. ‘But this is designed to have the same effect.’
What he picked up was the photocopied page from Felix Chadleigh’s diary, which began: ‘12 November 1917. The Lord and all the Holy Saints be praised! After all the exhausting uncertainty of the last few months, we did finally today take possession of Bracketts.’
‘This is an even cruder forgery,’ said Laurence. ‘I don’t know who Graham Chadleigh-Bewes thought he was going to fool with this. He’s just written in “1917” over that blotch of ink.’
‘And are there internal inconsistencies?’
‘Yes. If this was written only a fortnight after his son’s death at Passchendaele – I think we can assume the family would have heard the news by then – saying “Here we will put our griefs behind us” seems somewhat understated.’
‘Yes. And you think Graham Chadleigh-Bewes did this for the same purpose as the other one?’
‘Must’ve done. For some reason best known to himself the authorized biographer of Esmond Chadleigh was trying to make the unauthorized one believe that the Chadleigh family moved into Bracketts a year later than they actually did.’
At that moment their researches were interrupted by a ring at the doorbell. It was Jude.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Carole ushered her neighbour into the sitting room. Laurence Hawker didn’t rise from his seat or acknowledge Jude with more than a casual wave. He was preoccupied by the photocopies on the table. There was anxiety in Jude’s face as she looked at him – hardly surprising, thought Carole. Any woman would look anxious if she knew her lover had just spent the night with another woman.
Laurence looked up for a moment. ‘I came round because your house is completely devoid of whisky.’
‘How disastrous for you.’ To Carole’s mind, the remark should have been said more sardonically; and then Jude compounded the offence by saying, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go down to Allinstore and get some later.’
Carole knew her neighbour had taken many roles in her relationships with men, but never imagined that one of them would be that of doormat. Why did Jude seem to be in thrall to this man who – even though Carole had warmed to him a little over the previous half-hour – remained an egocentric poseur?
‘Since we’re all having a drink . . .’ Jude hinted.
Carole didn’t point out that in fact only Laurence was having a drink so far, but went to open a bottle of white wine. She didn’t entirely condone the concept of drinking through a Sunday afternoon, but then Jude was her guest . . .
While she was in the kitchen, she could hear a whispered exchange between Jude and Laurence . . . well, she could hear that there was a whispered exchange, though frustratingly she couldn’t make out any of the words. Jude’s tone was concerned rather than – as it should have been – admonitory, and Laurence’s replies were weighed down with his customary languor. Carole wondered what was going on. Whispering was out of character for Jude.