Long Time Coming (3 page)

He was seven years older than Dad, which made him sixty-eight. And every one of those years had left its mark. But then I didn’t imagine Portlaoise Prison had been an easy place to grow old in.

‘Tell me, Eldritch,’ I said, ‘if Dad had still been alive, would you have asked him to take you in?’

‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘But I wouldn’t have known where to find him. He never wrote to me. And I wouldn’t have expected a welcoming answer even if I had.’

‘But still you’d have asked if you could?’

‘Oh yes. Thirty-six years in prison sucks all the pride out of you.’

‘What did you want to show me?’

‘That suit in the wardrobe.’

‘What about it?’

‘The suit and the hat – and this tie and these shoes – are what I was wearing when they arrested me. The sixth of July, 1940. They
gave them back to me when they discharged me two months ago. Plus one wristwatch.’ He raised his left arm to show me the watch. ‘Along with my cigarette case and lighter.’ He took them from his pocket, then dropped them back in. ‘Also my fountain pen.’ He tapped its clip where it was hung inside his jacket. ‘And a quantity of cash that was no longer legal tender.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I want you to understand. That was it. The sum total of my possessions, parcelled up and waiting for me. And it wasn’t a very big parcel. I didn’t want to leave, you know. I
had
wanted to, of course, more than I’d wanted anything in the world. But at some point – I can’t say when exactly – I gave up dreaming of freedom. And at some other point – also indefinable – I realized I preferred to stay where I was. It was safe in its way. The outside world was strange and vast and … frightening. It’s the final phase of institutionalization. The victory of the system over the individual.’

‘Is that why they let you go? Because they knew they’d beaten you?’

Eldritch chuckled drily. ‘Good question, Stephen. Actually, no. There was a more specific reason. But I can’t tell you what that was without explaining why I was imprisoned in the first place. And I gave them a written undertaking I wouldn’t tell anyone. A breach of that undertaking could land me behind bars again. And I couldn’t bear that. Strange and vast and frightening as it is, this world I don’t belong in is preferable to the one I reluctantly left behind.’

‘This undertaking you gave is very convenient, isn’t it?’

He frowned. ‘How so?’

‘Well, it neatly relieves you of the need to admit what you did, doesn’t it?’

He smiled thinly. ‘As a matter of fact, I did nothing.’

‘You’re an innocent man?’

‘Not particularly. Something of a rogue in my day, to be honest, as I’m sure your father must have told you. But I wasn’t guilty of what they said I did in Dublin. I was fitted up.’

‘Of course.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I don’t know you, Eldritch. And apparently you can’t tell me what happened to you in Dublin back in 1940. So, how am I to believe or disbelieve you?’

‘Good point.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I can’t argue with that.’

‘Excuse me.’

I turned to leave, exasperated by his hangdog evasiveness. I was already through the door when he called after me, in a curiously antique turn of phrase, ‘Hold up.’

I stopped and turned round. ‘Yes?’

He waved me back into the room. I went as far as the threshold. ‘Could you do me one favour, Stephen?’

‘What?’

‘If anyone – any stranger – asks you about me, could you tell them … you don’t know anything … about my past … or my plans for the future?’

‘Of course.’ I treated him to an openly sarcastic grin. ‘After all, it’d be nothing less than the truth.’

Conversation didn’t exactly flow fluently over dinner. My mother filled the silences with babble about recent events in Paignton which only made it obvious there hadn’t been any. Eventually, Eldritch seemed to take pity on her and started asking me about life in the United States. It soon became clear he’d seen more of the country than I had, though naturally his knowledge of it was about forty years out of date.

‘I’ve stood in Trafalgar Square on both sides of the Atlantic,’ he remarked as he fiddled unenthusiastically with Mum’s rice pudding. ‘How do you suppose I managed that?’ The answer, it transpired, was that a replica of the square had been constructed at the Twentieth Century-Fox studios in Hollywood for a film (
Cavalcade
) in 1933. And he’d been there at the time.

‘You were inside the studios?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied cautiously.

‘On business?’

‘You could say so.’

‘And what business was that?’

He smiled. ‘I forget.’

As this exchange made apparent, it wasn’t only his disastrous runin with the Irish authorities back in 1940 that Eldritch was reluctant to discuss. Hard information about virtually any aspect of his life was off-limits. Anecdotes culled from his many travels –
climbing pyramids in Egypt, playing polo in India, shearing sheep in Australia – were his stock-in-trade. But they revealed nothing about him, even if they were true, which I wasn’t at all sure they were.

It wasn’t mere curiosity that made me want to find out more. I was genuinely doubtful he’d move out when Easter came and feared Mum might allow him to stay on. I resented this elderly cuckoo in the nest and decided to put my career on hold until I’d done my best to ease him out.

Volunteering to redecorate the dining-room before the tourist season began (the three of us could easily eat our meals in the kitchen) was partly a ploy to delay my own departure, though there was no denying it needed doing. It meant I was at home most of the day for a week, then another week when I moved on to the equally shabby hall. Eldritch generally took himself off to Torquay from mid-morning to mid-afternoon. Mum quoted a neighbour as saying she’d seen him in the reference library. That was the only clue to his activities.

During one of his absences, when Mum was out shopping, I gave his room a discreet once-over. But he’d certainly been telling the truth when he described how little he’d left prison with. And he didn’t seem to have acquired any possessions since. There were skeletons in his cupboard, I didn’t doubt. But there was nothing in his wardrobe.

On another occasion when I was alone in the house, I answered the phone to a woman who asked the rather strange question, in an Irish accent to boot, ‘Is that the household of Mr Neville Swan?’ I sensed a connection with Eldritch right away.

‘You mean my father,’ I said guardedly. ‘I’m afraid he died two years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘Well, it’s actually Mr Neville Swan’s brother, Eldritch Swan, I’m enquiring after.’ (Surprise, surprise.) ‘That would be your uncle.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Have you heard from him since … his release?’

‘He’s out, is he?’ I wasn’t going to give her anything for nothing.

‘He is so.’

‘And you are?’

‘Moira Henchy. I’m a freelance journalist, Mr Swan, based in Dublin.’

‘What’s your interest in my uncle?’

‘I believe he has a story to tell. I’d be willing to pay to hear it. If not from his own lips, then from those of someone close to him.’

‘What story did you have in mind?’

‘The obvious one, Mr Swan.
Have
you heard from him?’

‘I don’t think so. I’d have to check with my mother, but I don’t believe we’ve heard anything. He and my father … lost touch.’

‘I see. Well, could I give you my phone number and ask you to contact me if you do hear from him? Or if your mother knows anything?’

‘All right.’ She reeled it off and I jotted it down.

‘Remember there could be a payment for information I can use, won’t you, Mr Swan? Could I ask your first name?’

‘Stephen.’

‘Thank you. I hope to speak to you again, Stephen.’

‘One thing, Miss Henchy.’

‘Uhuh?’

‘Can you tell me what my uncle was convicted of that put him in prison for thirty-six years?’

A pause. Then she replied, ‘No, Stephen. I can’t.’

‘Why not? Is it such a big secret?’

‘Yes. That’s exactly what it is. A big secret. So, let me know if you think you can help.’

Eldritch habitually stepped out into the garden for a smoke after dinner. That evening I joined him. It was a cold, still night. The sea running in the bay was barely a murmur. The scent of his Sobranie hung in the air.

‘You want one?’ he offered, the silver of his cigarette case catching the light from the kitchen window.

‘No, thanks.’

‘What, then?’ He coughed. ‘I suspect you didn’t come out here to judge how bad my lungs are.’

‘An Irish journalist phoned here today.’

‘Really?’ He didn’t sound particularly surprised. ‘What did he want?’

‘
She
was asking after you. Had we heard from you? Did we know where you were? That kind of thing.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said no: you hadn’t been in touch.’

‘Good. Thanks, Stephen. That was kind of you.’

‘She offered money for your story.’

‘Did she?’

‘Aren’t you going to ask how much?’

‘No. Whatever the figure, I can’t afford to sell. But tell me if you want.’

‘Actually, she never specified an amount.’

‘Ah. Right. Negotiable, I suppose. As most things are.’

‘Her name’s Moira Henchy.’

‘Henchy?’ Now he did sound surprised.

‘Yes. Do you know her?’

He seemed to have to mull the point over before replying. ‘Never heard of her.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

I gave him a moment to reconsider his answer. But he didn’t. So then I said, ‘It won’t end with one phone call, will it?’

‘No.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘It assuredly won’t.’

‘I don’t want Mum bothered on your account.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she isn’t.’

‘How will you do that?’

‘I’ll think it over. And let you know.’

There seemed to be only one way Eldritch could keep his word. That was by doing what I’d been willing him to do all along: move out of Zanzibar. He’d been dead to us all my life. I saw no
good reason why he shouldn’t revert to that status. Mum would forget him soon enough. I was his only blood relative. And I was confident I wouldn’t miss him, sly old relic of a chancer that he was.

I decided to give him a few days to come to the obvious conclusion before putting it to him bluntly. But before the few days were up, something else happened.

The hall was an organized chaos of dust sheets, stepladders and paint pots, with the front door wedged open to aid drying, when an early-afternoon caller pressed at the bell.

‘Hold on,’ I shouted, balancing my brush on an open pot before threading my way along the hall.

I eased the door open and found myself looking down at a short, tubby, middle-aged man in a dark overcoat that was far too heavy for the springlike day, and a black Homburg. His round face was framed by a cushion of fat, emphasizing the smallness of his features, which he’d complemented with tiny, round-framed glasses and a smudge of moustache. A surprisingly vivid bow-tie peaked out between the raised lapels of his coat.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said with a smile. His voice was soft and precise. ‘I’m looking for Mr Eldritch Swan.’

I was tempted to say, ‘
Join the queue
’. Instead, I replied, accurately enough to my mind, ‘He doesn’t live here.’

The smile stayed in place. ‘Is he in?’

‘Like I just said, he—’

‘Excuse me, young man,’ he interrupted, ‘I don’t want to waste your time or mine. I assume you’re Mr Swan’s nephew, Stephen.’

‘How do you—’

‘Let me finish.’ He cautioned me to do so with a raised leather-gloved finger. ‘I have a proposition to put to Mr Swan. A potentially very lucrative proposition. On behalf of a client. My card.’ He plucked a card out of an inside pocket and slid it into my hand. I glanced down at it.

F. J. Twisk
Solicitor
3 Ely Court
London EC1
Telephone 01-278 6296

‘You’ve come a long way, Mr Twisk,’ I said noncommittally.

‘I’m putting up at the Redcliffe, Mr Swan. Your uncle can find me there. I know he’s been staying here since his release from prison. Impecuniousness is the curse of many an ex-con, if you’ll pardon the term. I’m in a position to solve that particular problem for him. The solution might even be described as overkill.’ His smile had tightened. ‘I’m here to do my client’s bidding. Your uncle would be well advised – and certainly well rewarded – to do the same. Tell him it concerns this.’

Another pluck at an inside pocket produced a newspaper cutting, which he laid gently in my palm. Under the headline
Pick of American tycoon’s collection comes to London
was a screed of prose about some new exhibition at the Royal Academy. I caught the name Jay Brownlow, along with a jumble of artistic greats: Monet, Cézanne, Picasso, Matisse and the like. Brownlow I remembered as an American food-canning dynasty, Jay as its public, party-going face of earlier in the century. I’d never heard of his art collection before. But it was no surprise he had one. It went with the territory.

‘What’s this supposed to mean?’ I asked. But, looking up, I saw that Twisk had no more to say to me. He was already making off along the street at a brisk, short-paced clip. What he’d come to do he’d evidently done.

According to the newspaper cutting, Jay Brownlow had taken up art collecting as he had charitable giving after a misspent youth that had made no discernible dent in his family fortune: a Jazz Age bon viveur turned middle-aged connoisseur-cum-philanthropist. He had died in 1972, decreeing the wider world should have a chance to see the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist masterpieces adorning the walls of his Baltimore mansion. Hence the
touring exhibition that had just arrived at the Royal Academy. The
Daily Telegraph
’s art critic gave it top marks. ‘
An extraordinary concentration of high-quality painters’ highest-quality work
.’ The Picassos were singled out for particular commendation. Someone, Twisk presumably, had underlined the phrase ‘
A roomful of glittering Cubist gems
’.