A Dangerous Fortune (53 page)

A few minutes before midday Hugh went along the corridor to the telephone room. They had had the phone installed two years before, and they were already regretting the decision not to put it in the Partners’ Room: each of them was called to the instrument several times a day.

On the way he met Mulberry in the corridor. He stopped him and said: “Is there something on your mind?”

“Yes, Mr. Hugh,” said Mulberry with evident relief. He lowered his voice. “I happened to see some papers being drawn up by Simon Oliver, Mr. Edward’s clerk.”

“Come in here for a moment.” Hugh stepped into the telephone room and closed the door behind them. “What was in the papers?”

“A proposal for a loan issue to Cordova—for two million pounds!”

“Oh, no!” said Hugh. “This bank needs less exposure to South American debt—not more.”

“I knew you’d feel that way.”

“What is it for, specifically?”

“To build a new harbor in Santamaria Province.”

“Another scheme of Señor Miranda’s.”

“Yes. I’m afraid that he and his cousin Simon Oliver have a great deal of influence over Mr. Edward.”

“All right, Mulberry. Thank you very much for letting me know. I’ll try to deal with it.”

Forgetting his phone call, Hugh returned to the Partners’ Room. Would the other partners let Edward do this? They might. Hugh and Samuel no longer had much influence, as they were leaving. Young William did not share Hugh’s fear of a South American collapse. Major Hartshorn and Sir Harry would do as they were told: And Edward was Senior Partner now.

What was Hugh going to do about it? He had not left yet, and he was still earning his share of the profits, so his responsibilities were not at an end.

The trouble was that Edward was not rational: as
Mulberry had said, he was completely under the influence of Micky Miranda.

Was there any way Hugh could weaken that influence? He could tell Edward that Micky was a murderer. Edward would not believe him. But he began to feel that he had to try. He had nothing to lose. And he badly needed to do something about the dreadful revelation he had had in the night.

Edward had already left for lunch. On impulse, Hugh decided to follow him.

Guessing Edward’s destination, he took a hansom to the Cowes Club. He spent the journey from the City to Pall Mall trying to think of words that would be plausible and inoffensive, to help convince Edward. But all the phrases he thought of sounded artificial, and when he arrived he decided to tell the unvarnished truth and hope for the best.

It was still early, and he found Edward alone in the smoking room of the club, drinking a large glass of Madeira. Edward’s skin rash was getting worse, he noticed: where his collar chafed his neck it was red and raw.

Hugh sat down at the same table and ordered tea. When they were boys, Hugh had hated Edward passionately, for being a beast and a bully. But in recent years he had come to see his cousin as a victim. Edward was the way he was because of the influence of two wicked people, Augusta and Micky. Augusta had suffocated him and Micky had corrupted him. However, Edward had not softened toward Hugh, and he now made no bones about showing that he had no wish for Hugh’s company. “You didn’t have to come this far for a cup of tea,” he, said. “What do you want?”

It was a bad start, but nothing could be done about that. Feeling pessimistic, Hugh began. “I have something to say that will shock and horrify you.”

“Really?”

“You’ll have trouble believing it, but all the same it’s true. I think Micky Miranda is a murderer.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Edward said angrily. “Don’t bother me with such nonsense.”

“Listen to me before you dismiss the idea out of hand,” Hugh said. “I’m leaving the bank, you’re Senior Partner, I have nothing left to fight for. But I discovered something yesterday. Solly Greenbourne knew that your mother was behind that press campaign to stop Ben Greenbourne’s getting a peerage.”

Edward gave an involuntary start, as if what Hugh had said chimed with something he already knew.

Hugh felt more hopeful. “I’m on the right track, am I not?” he said. Guessing, he went on: “Solly threatened to cancel the Santamaria railroad deal, didn’t he?”

Edward nodded.

Hugh sat forward, trying to contain his excitement.

Edward said: “I was sitting at this very table, with Micky, when Solly came in, angry as the devil. But—”

“And that night Solly died.”

“Yes—but Micky was with me all night. We played cards here, then went on to Nellie’s.”

“He must have left you, just for a few minutes.”

“No—”

“I saw him coming into the club about the time Solly died.”

“That must have been earlier.”

“He may have gone to the toilet, or something.”

“That hardly gives him enough time.” Edward’s face settled into an expression of decided skepticism.

Hugh’s hopes faded again. For a moment he had succeeded in creating a doubt in Edward’s mind, but it had not lasted.

“You’ve lost your senses,” Edward went on. “Micky’s not a murderer. The notion is absurd.”

Hugh decided to tell him about Peter Middleton. It was an act of desperation, for if Edward refused to believe
that Micky might have killed Solly eleven years ago, why would he believe that Micky had killed Peter twenty-four years ago? But Hugh had to try. “Micky killed Peter Middleton, too,” he said, knowing that he was in danger of sounding wild.

“This is ridiculous!”

“You think you killed him, I know that. You ducked him repeatedly, then went chasing after Tonio; and you think that Peter was too exhausted to swim to the side, and drowned. But there’s something you don’t know.”

Despite his skepticism, Edward was intrigued. “What?”

“Peter was a very strong swimmer.”

“He was a weed!”

“Yes—but he had been practicing swimming every day that spring. He was a weed all right, but he could swim for miles. He swam to the side without difficulty—Tonio saw it.”

“What …” Edward swallowed. “What else did Tonio see?”

“While you were climbing up the side of the quarry, Micky held Peter’s head under the water until he drowned.”

To Hugh’s surprise, Edward did not spurn the idea. Instead he said: “Why have you waited so long to tell me this?”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me. I’m only telling you now out of desperation, to try to dissuade you from this latest Cordovan investment.” He studied Edward’s expression, and went on: “But you do believe me, don’t you?”

Edward nodded.

“Why?”

“Because I know why he did it.”

“Why?” said Hugh. He was inflamed by curiosity. He had wondered about this for years. “Why did Micky kill Peter?”

Edward took a long swallow of his Madeira, then he went silent. Hugh was afraid he would refuse to say any more. But eventually he spoke. “In Cordova the Mirandas are a wealthy family, but their dollars don’t buy much over here. When Micky came to Windfield he spent his entire year’s allowance in a few weeks. But he had boasted of his family’s riches, and he was much too proud to admit the truth. So, when he ran out of money … he stole.”

Hugh remembered the scandal that had rocked the school in June of 1866. “The six gold sovereigns that were stolen from Mr. Offerton,” he said wonderingly. “Micky was the thief?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m damned.”

“And Peter knew.”

“How?”

“He saw Micky coming out of Offerton’s study. When the theft was reported he guessed the truth. He said he would tell unless Micky owned up. We thought it was a piece of luck to catch him at the pool. When I ducked him I was trying to frighten him into silence. But I never thought …”

“That Micky would kill him.”

“And all these years he’s let me think it was my fault, and he was covering up for me,” Edward said. “The swine.”

Hugh realized that, against the odds, he had succeeded in shaking Edward’s faith in Micky. He was tempted to say
Now that you know what he’s like, forget about the Santamaria harbor
. But he had to be careful not to overplay his hand. He decided he had said enough: Edward should be left to draw his own conclusions. Hugh stood up to go. “I’m sorry to have given you such a blow,” he said.

Edward was deep in thought, rubbing his neck where the rash itched. “Yes,” he said vaguely.

“I must go.”

Edward said nothing. He seemed to have forgotten Hugh’s existence. He was staring into his glass. Hugh looked hard at him and saw, with a jolt, that he was crying.

He went out quietly and closed the door.

4

AUGUSTA LIKED
being a widow. For one thing, black suited her. With her dark eyes, silver hair and black eyebrows she was quite striking in mourning clothes.

Joseph had been dead for four weeks and it was remarkable how little she missed him. She found it a little odd that he was not there to complain if the beef was underdone or the library was dusty. She dined alone once or twice a week but she had always been able to enjoy her own company. She no longer had the status of wife of the Senior Partner, but she was the mother of the new Senior Partner. And she was the dowager countess of Whitehaven. She had everything Joseph had ever given her, without the nuisance of having Joseph himself.

And she might marry again. She was fifty-eight, and no longer capable of bearing children; but she still had the desires that she thought of as girlish feelings. In fact they had got worse since Joseph’s death. When Micky Miranda touched her arm, or looked into her eyes, or let his hand rest on her hip as he ushered her into a room, she felt more strongly than ever that sensation of pleasure combined with weakness that made her head spin.

Looking at herself in the drawing room mirror, she thought: We are so alike, Micky and I, even in our coloring. We would have had such pretty dark-eyed babies.

As she was thinking it, her blue-eyed, fair-haired baby came in. He was not looking well. He had gone from being stout to positively fat, and he had some kind
of skin problem. He was often bad-tempered around tea-time, as the effects of the wine he had drunk at lunch wore off.

But she had something important to say to him and was in no mood to go easy on him. “What’s this I hear about Emily’s asking you for an annulment?” she said.

“She wants to marry someone else,” Edward said dully.

“She can’t—she’s married to you!”

“Not really,” Edward said.

What on earth was he talking about? Much as she loved him, he could be deeply irritating. “Don’t be silly,” she snapped. “Of course she’s married to you.”

“I only married her because you wanted me to. And she only agreed because her parents made her. We never loved each other, and …” He hesitated, then blurted: “We never consummated the marriage.”

So that was what he was getting at. Augusta was astonished that he had the nerve to refer directly to the sexual act: such things were not said in front of women. However, she was not surprised to learn that the marriage was a sham: she had guessed it for years. All the same she was not going to let Emily get away with this. “We can’t have a scandal,” she said firmly,

“It wouldn’t be a scandal—”

“Of course it would,” she barked, exasperated by his shortsightedness. “It would be the talk of London for a year, and it would be in all the cheap newspapers, too.” Edward was Lord Whitehaven now, and a sexual sensation involving a peer was just the kind of thing featured in the weekly newspapers that servants bought.

Edward said miserably: “But don’t you think Emily has a right to her freedom?”

Augusta ignored that feeble appeal to justice. “Can she force you?”

“She wants me to sign a document admitting that
the marriage was never consummated. Then, apparently, it’s straightforward.”

“And if you don’t sign?”

“Then it’s more difficult. These things are not easy to prove.”

“That settles it. We have nothing to worry about. Let’s speak no more about this embarrassing topic.”

“But—”

“Tell her she can’t have an annulment. I absolutely will not hear of it.”

“Very well, Mother.”

She was taken aback by his rapid capitulation. Although she generally got her way in the end, he normally put up more of a fight than this. He must have other problems on his mind. “What’s the matter, Teddy?” she said in a softer voice.

He sighed heavily. “Hugh told me the devil of a thing,” he said.

“What?”

“He says Micky killed Solly Greenbourne.”

Augusta felt a shiver of horrid fascination. “How? Solly was run over.”

“Hugh says Micky pushed him in front of that carriage.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Micky was with me that evening, but he might have slipped out for a few minutes. It’s possible. Do you believe it, Mother?”

Augusta nodded. Micky was dangerous and bold: it was what made him so magnetic. She had no doubt he was capable of committing such a daring murder—and getting away with it.

“I find it hard to accept,” Edward said. “I know Micky is wicked in some ways, but to think he would kill….”

“He would, though,” Augusta said.

“How can you be sure?”

Edward looked so pathetic that Augusta was tempted to share her own secret knowledge with him. Would it be wise? It could do no harm. The shock of Hugh’s revelation seemed to have made Edward more thoughtful than usual. Perhaps the truth would be good for him. It might make him more serious. She decided to tell him. “Micky killed your uncle Seth,” she said.

“Good God!”

“He suffocated him with a pillow. I caught him red-handed.” Augusta felt a flush of heat in her loins as she remembered the scene that had followed.

Edward said: “But why would Micky kill Uncle Seth?”

“He was in such a hurry to get those rifles shipped to Cordova, don’t you remember?”

“I remember.” Edward was silent for a few moments. Augusta closed her eyes, reliving that long, wild embrace with Micky, in the room with the dead man.

Edward brought her out of her reverie. “There’s something else, and it’s even worse. You remember that boy Peter Middleton?”

“Certainly.” Augusta would never forget him. His death had haunted the family ever since. “What about him?”