Closed Circle Read online

  About the Book

  1931. The new, luxurious transatlantic liner Empress of Britain is on her eastward passage. Among the first-class passengers on board are two English confidence tricksters, making a discreet exit from a scam they have left behind them in the United States. A chance meeting on deck brings them a tempting new target in the shape of the beautiful and wealthy heiress, Diana Charnwood.

  It’s a trick they’ve pulled before, with some success. Charm the daughter into an engagement to marry, then get the father to buy you off. So confident are they of success, in fact, that they make a pact: whichever of them wins Diana Charnwood’s love will share his fortune with the other.

  But a violent death is to interrupt their neat little scheme. And they find themselves stumbling into something much darker than either had suspected …

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Robert Goddard

  Copyright

  CLOSED CIRCLE

  Robert Goddard

  1

  CHANCE HAD BEEN our ally too often. We had grown complacent, over-confident of its loyalty. And so the moment when it first chose to betray us was also the moment when we were least likely to suspect that it might.

  Max and I were leaning against the railings on the empty starboard promenade of the lounge deck, smoking cigarettes and gazing ahead at the widening river as the liner eased away from the shore. On the port side, a crush of passengers were still waving goodbye to the friends and family they were leaving behind in Quebec, but of wistful farewells we had no need. In Max’s hand, folded open at an inside page, rested a two-day-old copy of the Wall Street Journal, and in the emboldened headline of one of the columns blared silently the reason why we had eyes only for the seaway, babcock fraud case to go to trial in fall. I watched Max scan the words once more and clench his jaw muscles in frustration or shame or relief or whatever he truly felt. Then he took a long pull on his cigarette and said, ‘Well, that tears it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘We knew it was coming,’ I said, by way of consolation. But in the look that passed between us there was an admission that foreknowledge only compounded the offence. ‘He’ll have a good lawyer,’ I added with a shrug.

  ‘He’ll need one. They both will.’

  ‘And there’s nothing we could have done, except …’

  ‘Go down with them?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Which isn’t our style?’

  ‘No. It isn’t.’

  For an instant, I expected him to deplore what we had done. Not simply our desertion of the Babcocks, but all the other immoralities and illegalities which lay scattered across our pasts. It was a rare sentiment in either of us, though perhaps not as rare as we cared to pretend. And, in this case, it remained unspoken. Max crushed the last inch of his cigarette against the guard-rail and turned towards me with that crooked smile I knew so well. ‘It’s bad luck on Dick. But we’re well out of it, I reckon, don’t you?’

  ‘Assuredly.’

  ‘Even if it means going back to Blighty.’ He sighed and pushed himself upright. ‘I’m for a bath before dinner. Meet for cocktails at seven?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘And don’t worry.’ He slapped the newspaper against my shoulder. ‘I won’t bring this with me. What do you say to a ban on the subject – at least until we reach England?’

  ‘I agree. Whole-heartedly.’

  ‘Good. See you later, then.’

  He moved past me, grinning with a sort of stubborn jauntiness, and headed for the companion-way. I finished my cigarette, watching the tugs fall away behind us in the rippling shadows of the funnels. Then I too decided to make for my cabin.

  As I turned from the rail, I saw ahead of me a bulky figure – female and tweed-clad – descending the companion-way from the sports deck, an unlikely eyrie, I remember thinking, for one so stout and venerable, the creak of whose stays I almost believed I could hear above the rumble of the engines. Her ankles were swollen and her feet squeezed into what looked like an excruciatingly under-sized pair of high-heeled shoes on which she teetered top-heavily. The roll of the ship was modest, but still I would have bet against her completing the descent without mishap. And I would have won. A breath of Laurentian air twitched at the brim of her Alpine hat, she raised a hand from the rail to prevent it blowing off and a misplaced foot hovered ominously in mid-air.

  ‘Oh … Oh my goodness …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, gripping her firmly by the elbow. ‘I’ve got you.’ I smiled as reassuringly as I could and did not release her until we were both standing square upon the deck, she staring up at me from a foot below, pale blue eyes wide and bosom heaving in alarm, perfume and naphthalene neutralizing each other bizarrely in the air around us.

  ‘Dear me, dear me. Thank you so much, young man.’ She was English, sixty or sixty-five I would have judged, with the butter-ball build of a dowager, all quivering jowl and pigeon chest. A triple necklace of pearls caught my eye, as did a flower-bouquet brooch on her left lapel in which rubies and sapphires glittered abundantly. ‘What would have happened if you’d not been passing by I dread to think,’ she said as she recovered her breath.

  ‘Glad to have been of assistance, Miss …’

  ‘Charnwood. Vita Charnwood. And how nice of you not to call me madam.’ Thus was my guess of lifelong spinsterhood confirmed. ‘Do I detect the accent of my own homeland?’

  ‘England? Yes, though corrupted by many years on this side of the Atlantic.’

  ‘In Canada?’

  ‘No. The United States, actually, but …’

  ‘Like me, you’ve been lured north by Canadian Pacific’s promise that nearly a third of the crossing will be in the calm waters of the Gulf of St Lawrence? I quite understand. I too am a martyr to sea-sickness, Mr …’

  ‘Horton.’ I plucked off my hat and shook her hand, surprised to find that her grip was considerably stronger than her stumble on the companion-way had implied. ‘Guy Horton.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Horton, a martyr. There is no other word. Our voyage out was purgatorial.’ Our voyage, I noticed. So, she was not alone. ‘We must hope for better from this route, must we not?’

  ‘Indeed.’ I smiled, content to let her assume I had chosen to sail from Quebec rather than New York for the same reason she had. The truth would have been altogether too alarming for an owner of natural pearls and genuine rubies. And I was not in the habit of telling the truth except when strictly necessary.

  ‘The only disadvantage is that there is nobody to see one off. Hence, I suppose, your presence on this side of the vessel. I happened to see you talking to another gentleman by the rail while I was craning out above you admiring the view.’

  ‘That was Max. We’re old friends.’

  ‘And both going home after lengthy absences?’

  ‘Yes. It must be … oh, seven years or more.’ It was, in fact, nearer nine since either of us had lived in England, nine years which had, on the whole, treated us generously. The last two had been the least generous, but even so not as parsimonious as they might have been. To stand, well-dressed and sleekly groomed, on the first-class deck of the ocean’s newest l
iner, while ashore depression sinks towards slump, is no mean achievement, even if riches do not await at the end of the voyage. Besides, there was always the hope of discovering riches en route to lift the spirits if they were in danger of sagging.

  ‘You will notice many changes in England, Mr Horton. They will not all be to your taste. Seven years ago, everything was so much … jollier.’ A thought seemed suddenly to occur to her. She planted an imperious forefinger on my sleeve. ‘You must come to a little party I am holding tomorrow night – before the Atlantic does its worst. My niece and I would be delighted to see you. And your friend too.’

  ‘Well, I …’ Briefly and discouragingly, I imagined the niece, as thin as her aunt was fat, moth-balled and bespectacled. And then a shaft of sunlight struck the brooch below me. ‘I’d be charmed to attend. As would Max, I’m sure.’

  ‘Diana and I will expect you at six o’clock in our suite, Mr Horton. The gathering will not be a large one. But you will enjoy the company, I feel sure.’

  ‘So do I, Miss Charnwood. So do I.’

  Those of us who live by our wits can never afford to relax completely. Since abandoning the humdrum world of fixed hours and monthly salary ten years before, I had ceased to relish total idleness, tinged as it always was with a suspicion that I was wasting my time rather than somebody else’s. Where was the profit in it, I would inevitably wonder, where the opportunity?

  Knowing Max to be of like mind, I sauntered up from my cabin to meet him that evening feeling distinctly pleased with myself. Miss Charnwood’s party might yet prove the dreariest of non-events, but, then again, it might not. Unpredictability had been the key to many of our successes and I was not about to lose faith in it. Stepping out onto the promenade, I filled my lungs with the sun-cleansed air of New World confidence, then went in to infect my friend.

  It was an infection of which he was badly in need. He had installed himself in one of the farthest reaches of the orientally styled lounge and was regarding his fellow-passengers with what amounted to morose indifference as they gazed in wonder at the ebony pillars and exotic decor. Dick’s arrest had struck him hard, harder, it seemed to me, than it should. The Wall Street Crash had obliged the Babcocks to sail too close to the wind – and we had sailed with them. The outcome could have been a great deal worse – especially if Max had not insisted on storing our nest egg in a Toronto bank. Yet he seemed unable to derive any comfort from his own prudence.

  Perhaps age was the problem. Max was only a few months older than me, but in recent years his hair had thinned and his waist had thickened, so that he could have been taken for ten years my senior. He drank little more than me, but seemed to carry it less well than once he had. There was a vagueness sometimes to his thoughts and words, a vacuity to his gaze. He frequently complained of migraines and I could not help suspecting some connection with the head-wound he had suffered in Macedonia. I did not voice my suspicion, of course, so whether he feared the same himself I had no way of knowing. Whatever the cause, he was not quite the devil-may-care Max with whom I had first crossed the Atlantic years before.

  No doubt he could have said something similar about me. And yet, studying my reflection in a mirror on my way through the ship, I would have begged to differ. My hair was still dark and vigorous, my face unmarked, my figure slender and elegantly tailored. There was no sign of physical decline, no hint of inner doubt. I was what the world and I had made of me between us: vain and egotistical no doubt, but then what handsome realist is not?

  ‘You look a trifle down, old man,’ I remarked, joining Max on his sofa.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘I’ll snap out of it.’

  ‘I know. I’ve devised the perfect restorative. Or perhaps I should say I’ve been presented with it.’ The arrival of a steward imposed at this point a dramatic pause while I chose a cocktail and Max ordered what I estimated to be his third scotch and soda. When I told him my news, his initial reaction was one of unconcealed disappointment.

  ‘Some frowsty old dame and her plain Jane niece? Sounds ghastly to me.’

  ‘Perhaps. But Miss Charnwood’s clearly not short of money.’

  ‘Who is aboard this—’ He broke off and stared at me, his eyebrows meeting in a frown. ‘What did you say her name was?’

  ‘Charnwood. Miss Vita Charnwood.’

  ‘And the niece?’

  ‘Um …’ I struggled to remember.

  ‘Diana?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it. How did—’

  ‘Hah!’ He slapped my knee and grinned broadly. ‘You’re right, Guy. Lady Luck has smiled on us once more.’

  The steward loomed up with our drinks before he could continue. When we were alone again, I was made to wait till we had toasted our good fortune before Max consented to explain.

  ‘Haven’t you ever heard of Diana Charnwood?’

  ‘Not that I can recall.’

  ‘You should read the gossip columns. I’ve told you so often enough.’

  ‘But you do it for me, Max. So, who is Diana Charnwood?’

  ‘Daughter of Fabian Charnwood, head of Charnwood Investments. Presumably, you do know that name?’

  I did indeed. Charnwood Investments was known to any student of the financial world as an influential holder of stakes in a score or more of major companies, so discreet in its exercise of power that it enjoyed a reputation far exceeding its size, so diverse in its holdings that it seemed to be riding out the Depression with ease. A chance encounter with its founder’s sister was therefore a gift from the gods – one it had simply not occurred to me to think they might be generous enough to bestow.

  ‘Diana is not just Charnwood’s daughter. She’s his only child.’

  ‘Unmarried?’

  ‘Notoriously so. There was an engagement about five years ago to the younger son of a marquess, but it ended at the graveside, not the altar.’

  ‘Suicide. I do remember. Lord Peter Gressingham. Shot himself after she’d jilted him.’

  ‘That was never confirmed. The inquest jury preferred to believe it was an accident. Either way, his former fiancée must count as one of the most eligible heiresses a chap could wish to meet.’

  ‘And dangerous, if Lord Peter’s example is anything to go by.’

  ‘The fellow obviously let his heart rule his head. We wouldn’t make that mistake, would we? We never have and we never will.’

  I knew at once what Max was thinking of. Le Touquet, 1924. My brief but highly remunerative engagement to Caroline, only daughter of Sir Antony Toogood, sewing-machine magnate and doting father. It had been, in many respects, our finest coup. We had both set our caps at her, but even then I was Max’s superior when it came to wooing. I had won poor Caroline’s heart within a fortnight, and broken it within another, bought off by Sir Antony for a price I had not thought he would go to. There was a perfection to it, a simplicity which surpassed anything we had subsequently done. We had turned a handsome profit for nil outlay and nobody had lost what they could not easily replace – Sir Antony by cutting his salesmen’s commission for a month and Caroline by finding a husband who really could make her happy.

  ‘The man who wheedles his way into Diana Charnwood’s affections wheedles his way into a fortune,’ said Max. ‘One way or another.’

  ‘This isn’t Le Touquet.’

  ‘No? In principle, I should have said it was.’

  ‘I mean it isn’t the same situation. From what you tell me, Diana Charnwood is no blushing ingénue. In short, she isn’t Caroline Toogood.’

  ‘We don’t know what she is – until we find out. And this party gives us the chance to do so. You’re not suggesting we just let it slip away, are you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Strangely, Max’s enthusiasm now eclipsed my own.

  ‘Good man.’ He downed some more scotch with obvious relish. Unpredictability had revived him as I had hoped. In fact, my hopes had been altogether exceeded. ‘What say we play to the same rules as in Le Touquet?’

  ‘There’
s no need for that, surely? We weren’t so trusting then.’

  He smiled mockingly. ‘And we are now?’

  ‘Well, we’ve come a long way since on share and share alike. It’s never had to be written down.’

  ‘You can’t share a wife, Guy.’ Seeing my eyebrows shoot up, he added: ‘Or a fiancée. It worked for us then, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘So it could be just the good luck charm we need this time as well.’ He raised a finger to summon the steward, ordered two sheets of writing paper to the fellow’s well-disguised surprise, then lounged back, beaming from ear to ear. ‘She’ll be a tough nut to crack, I don’t deny. Maybe too tough. Certainly her reputation’s no encouragement. It suggests she has a heart about as yielding as a diamond. But even diamonds can be cut if you have the knack of it – and the proper equipment. I’d say we have both, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’d say our record spoke for itself.’ We exchanged a smile of mutual remembrance, acknowledging all the things we had done that it was infinitely better not to speak of. When the steward returned with the paper, Max whipped out his fountain-pen and, leaning forward to reach the angular table beside us, began to write on one of the sheets, handing the other to me.

  I hesitated for a moment, staring at the embossed letterhead, then letting my eye wander across the watermarked space below. Max had spoken of the promissory notes we were about to exchange as good luck charms, but in my mind they were already beginning to seem more like omens of ill fortune. Whether this was because following in our own footsteps of seven years before struck me as tempting providence or because I was in the grip of some more general foreboding I cannot say. Whatever the cause, I had still not written a word when Max tossed his sheet into my lap and announced: ‘That covers it, I reckon.’

  I hereby undertake to share equally with my good friend Guy Randolph Horton all financial proceeds, however they may accrue, of any engagement to marry and/or actual marriage I contract with Miss Diana Charnwood if and whenever it may occur.

  M. A. Wingate

  19th July 1931

  Such a document had no legal weight, of course. Neither of us could be bound by what we wrote. It amounted to something only if our friendship amounted to more than an alliance of financial convenience. And that, I suppose, is why I was so reluctant to commit the words to paper. These were hard times, as we and all the world knew. There was no telling what adversity might persuade us we needed to sacrifice in order to prosper. We had not scrupled to leave Dick to his fate. If it came to the point, would we be any more loyal to each other? It was a question I preferred not to answer, but, in his eagerness for written undertakings, perhaps Max had already delivered his verdict.