Yet he had to ask. “Why would Phillip hand so much information over to you? I mean, this wasn’t just a casual conversation you had with him, was it?”
“No.” When she took his lack of response to be an accusation—and it was—she said, “I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then why did he tell you?”
Her plump bottom lip rolled up, meeting her pretty top lip in a tight line. “Well…I let him think that I was going to.”
“Oh, good. That relieves me. What could possibly have made him think that?”
Her brow drew down, but she didn’t answer.
So he helped her. “Could it have been…oh, let me think…that he had his hand up your dress?”
“No.” Her expression stiffened.
Good. Let her be angry. “What, then? What would make a man think he had your trust so much?”
But Coco had stopped being quite so loquacious all of a sudden. She made a truly nasty face at him and said, “I’m not used to having to account for myself to a man. You’re not my ponce, you know.”
“No, I’m not.” He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that
after
it had come out. “So what do you know about ponces, Coco?”
She didn’t answer, but rather crossed her arms. A tooth appeared at the her lip; it bit the side edge.
After they had stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable minute, she said, “You’re under a lot of strain, James. You’d better go. I’ll wait here.” She laughed in that cynical way she had that sounded as brittle as glass. “Since we seem to have rented the house.” As extra momentum, she added, “Phillip thought it fascinating that the Wakua eat their enemies. He said, and I quote, ‘Well, well, so maybe Stoker will understand when I have his balls for dinner.’ I’d go spoon them out of the soup, if I were you.”
James nodded once and stood, the stool scraping as he rose. “I’ll be back, then.”
He left, but he felt horrible. It was a toss-up whether to go after Phillip or simply crawl off somewhere and hide. James’s stomach was churning. His heart felt like he’d swallowed Coco’s bitterness into it. It
galumphed
in his chest, swollen, leaden. What had he said? What had he done? He regretted how he’d behaved—yet he didn’t. He felt angry, possessive, outraged at the injustice of what was happened, and furious over how he’d found out.
And ashamed. Ashamed that he couldn’t be more grateful to Coco for finding out for him, for telling him, because he knew it had cost her to do so. It was just that he couldn’t bear the thought that Phillip might have touched her. Not anywhere. Not on her fingertips. Not her toes. Coco was his. It was stupid and primitive to feel this way, but James did. She was not for anyone else. Only
he
knew her best. Only
he
was special to her. And she was his, only his alone.
J
ames did not bother trying to get any university records. He was sure Phillip had them. He went to All Souls instead, where he picked up the account ledgers for the college. Next, James wired the Royal Geographical Society and asked if he could inspect their books as well. Barney Kilmoore there wired him back within the hour. Of course, he said, the Society’s contributions, though sometimes anonymous, were always open for inspection as to how the money had been allocated and to whom it had gone. Then, only then—and knowing Phillip was safely gone to a meeting with the High Steward—James went to Phillip’s house, where he let himself in the back door.
A servant stopped him in the front hall, but James said, as he had truthfully on a number of other occasions, that Phillip had sent him to pick up something. After which James went boldly into Phillip’s study.
It was ridiculously easy to find Phillip’s bank records. Top drawer, a folder at the back, exactly as he kept the same sort of records at All Souls, ex
actly as were organized the records of the Financial Board. Phillip’s bills, most of them for Willy, and the viscounty estate records were right beside these along with a letter from a creditor. It was a polite notice regarding a delinquent account, nothing that seemed repetitive or harrying. James took everything out, then sat down at Phillip’s desk for a look.
The next part was not as easy. On first glance all looked well. It was an hour of sorting through papers before James noticed a side-entry in All Souls’ records that corresponded in amount to a deposit four years later into Phillip’s bank in London. It was because of the amount that James noticed the entry at all: twenty-eight pounds, two shillings. All Souls had it down as a donation to the missionaries for Bibles.
After this, he realized, there were other matching figures. An entry in All Souls four years ago, a deposit much later of the exact same amount into Phillip’s bank. All the matching entries were inserted, lost in among what looked to be a correction to a far-reaching accounting error. Whether there was an error or not was hard to sort out in an hour, but one thing was certain: the majority of these “corrections” were contributions to James’s expedition, monies attributed to the pockets of dead men.
The amounts weren’t much, in fact, visibly little, only about thirty pounds a month. It made no sense, but there they were, and remarkably consistent.
It was enough. James packed up the books and papers. He was missing the middle link, the accounts of the university through which all had flowed—the university had managed the expedition’s income and disbursements. But he
trusted in two things: find Phillip, and he’d find these records (with, alas, James’s own hand having adjusted some of the “errors”). And once found, these records would show similar manipulations, but of a much larger order—something that would add up to ten thousand pounds.
James loaded himself and the stack of papers and account books into his carriage and
hi-yahed
his horse. All the while, his heart pounded so hard it made his chest reverberate. Phillip. Phillip, whom he had trusted, his idol at one time, who’d given him an education at his knee, then at his side, given him a profession he loved as well as a step up every time he’d turned around. Why?
James meant to find out. He and Nigel Athers. Because that was where he was taking the records: to Swansbridge, where stood the ancient cathedral, its offices with Father Menlow in back, and, within walking distance, the manor home of the Bishop of Swansbridge himself.
When James got there, however, there were already a number of carriages in the Bishop’s long, rounding drive. Some sort of social tea, James thought at first. Mrs. Athers was keen for the society of her countryside neighbors. Then James recognized the only carriage he would know anywhere: his father used to drive one almost exactly like it. Phillip’s old brougham was at the far end of the line of vehicles.
Inside, as James handed his hat to the butler, he could hear voices. He knew immediately the sounds of Tuttleworth and Teddy Lamott, two voices together that became those of the High Stewart and
his Deputy, respectively. Odd. Their official capacity was mostly ceremonial, derived from when the Senate’s Steward judged university members once privileged to be tried under the Chancellor’s jurisdiction rather than the ordinary courts.
James walked into the room, and the eyes of a dozen men turned toward him. Besides Teddy and Tuttleworth, there was Nigel Athers, of course, also two fellows from All Souls, another member of the Financial Board, a few others, all Regent’s House and Council of the Senate men, plus three men he didn’t know. Stiffly, they all stepped back to admit James into their midst—he had every right to be here, if the meeting was official: it boded badly that he hadn’t been invited. Awkwardly, he was introduced to the three men he didn’t know, two from the London Home Office and the local constable.
As these men parted, James spotted Phillip and the room grew hushed. The Vice-Chancellor sat in an overstuffed leather chair next to one from which Nigel Athers rose. Both men, Phillip sitting, Nigel standing beside him, seemed stalled as to what to do about James’s arrival, like a prisoner suddenly shown up to help hammer up the gallows. Because that’s what this was. The What-to-do-about-James-Stoker meeting.
James only now realized what he must look like. Damp, spottily dry in places from all the rain he’d taken today. Rumpled, uncombed, unpressed. Standing there with a stack of ledger books and accounting sheets, some of which he’d filched from the house of the most senior member of the university administration, who now rose to his feet.
Phillip did not look disappointed. He came to his
feet looking anticipatory—in fact, almost glad, with a very small but very triumphant smile on his lips.
“James,” he said. “We were just talking about you. What have you got there? Let’s see.” It was possible he’d recognized the spines of the All Souls’ ledgers.
Boldly, Teddy interjected himself. “Jamie,” he said, “Frankly, I’m bloody glad to see you, have to say. Only fair. You should know we’re drawing up a warrant for your arrest.”
Phillip threw him an annoyed glare. “Lamott, let me handle this.”
“Right-o. Just want Jamie to know my part in it. Tuttleworth and I are here to protect the university’s interests.” Tuttleworth was a barrister, it occurred to James. “But I want you to know, old man, I don’t believe for a moment the charges of murder and don’t believe for a minute you did any of that disgusting business with those devils.” He was serious. He shook his head, looking so sad. “Still, the money, James. Why the money?”
“I didn’t take any money.”
Athers came forward. “Dr. Stoker, this is actually a closed meeting. I am sorry to say—”
James held out the All Souls ledger with Phillip’s bank records sitting on top. “Nigel,” he said. “Before anyone says anything more, perhaps someone should have a look at these.”
Phillip tried to take them. “Where did you get those?” James evaded him, his reflexes quicker, younger. “They’re mine,” Phillip protested mildly. “Oh, James, this thieving streak in you disappoints—”
“They’re his bank records—” James got out, before Phillip interrupted.
His voice was slightly shriller than it should have been. “Oh, James. Now this. Breaking into my house, taking things.” He gave Athers what was supposed to pass for a forbearing look, but for once he was a little off balance. The sight of his own books was surprising enough for his face to be pale.
James pushed his advantage. “Also here are All Souls’ financial records. There are entries, I believe, attributed to the expedition that in fact went into Phillip’s bank account. The dates aren’t the same. But the amounts themselves match exactly.”
“We don’t care about All Souls,” Phillip said irritably. “We have the university records.” He frowned, the Vice-Chancellor with serious concerns. “Huge amounts, James. With your handwriting shifting hundreds of pounds at a time—into your account somewhere, which you’ve probably hidden. Explain that.”
James explained of his own choosing in his own order. “Phillip appointed me to the Financial Board immediately, which gave him an excuse to talk to me about what I knew regarding the expedition’s finances. What a relief, I imagine, to discover I knew almost nothing beyond what the geology teams had in their pockets. But Nigel proved hard-headed about the Bible Fund, and Phillip started to need someone to blame.”
Phillip looked about briefly, assessing, smiling. “Oh, James, Africa has made you devious.” When no one rushed to support the remark—in fact, everyone looked bewildered, not sure what to believe—he took a frustrated breath. “You can’t trust
him.” He glanced, throwing a scowl around the room. “He fouled himself, made himself filthy. His mind is sharp, as treacherous as the dart from a blow gun—”
“Be quiet, Phillip,” Nigel said.
“The Bible Fund,” James continued. He knew this first part to be true: “It was the first embezzlement, I think, a fund Phillip invented.” Then James invented a little himself, a calculated risk. “You see, Phillip had debt, large debt, and it was mounting. When a bill collector from Bath offered to settle for a few shillings on the pound, with the help of All Souls, Phillip did: he settled up for twenty-eight pounds, two shillings—”
“That’s a lie!” Phillip said. “I paid every bill. I had to, or they wouldn’t take her in the next time, and I knew there’d be a next time. There always was. I
had
to.”
All eyes in the room turned on him. He hadn’t admitted anything, yet he had.
“Had to what?” James asked.
“Well, I, ah—” Phillip floundered. But he was angry. He wanted to explain something.
“It has to do with Willy, doesn’t it?” James deduced.
His head jerked. It could have been a nod, a single, terse affirmation, or simply a spasm of tension. Phillip released it in a laugh, not very convincingly, shaking his head as if to deny the whole business. “This is impossible. What a story.” But his brow rose as if his scalp rippled. He was fairly appalled to hear so many of his pieces brought to light. “You’re trying to blame me, James, old boy, when we all know I come from old money. By Jeeves, I
run a house almost as large as All Souls itself, with fourteen servants, three carriages, and a stableful of horses. I could buy and sell your little Financial Board. While you”—he lifted his finger—“you killed godfearing Englishmen. It’s all in your journal, which I found, James, and have turned over—”
“After you rearranged it. He took my journal. It’s binding was loose. He undid it, then put its pages into a more implicating order.”
Phillip stared at him. He looked deflated. Then he said, just like that, from nowhere, “My God, she’s your mistress.” He was quiet, as if he himself had a little trouble absorbing the concept. Then softer, he said, “Coco told you. I can’t believe it.”
“No—”
Phillip found his voice. “Oh, yes. No one else knew. Jesus, she’s good. She is really good. But then, the old saw: a whore who likes her work usually is.”
Anger flashed before James’s eyes, so swift and strong the room blared white. He knew the quick, primitive desire to smash Phillip, bloody him. It took a moment to control the urge. No, James told himself. Don’t let yourself be baited. Don’t give yourself away.