The Eden Passion (81 page)

John nodded, then moved to the heart of the matter, or at least the heart as Morley Johnson perceived it.

"Tell me, Mr. Johnson, about your . . . legal experience. I'll be blunt with you. I've heard of you. I've been told that a mere ten years ago you were a clerk in the offices of Sir Claudius Potter. And now . . ." He leaned back in his chair and with a nod of his head indicated the man's rich apparel.

For the first time, Morley Johnson seemed loath to speak. An expression of caution, seemed to cover his face, and he looked suspi-

ciously back at John. "You've been talking about me?" he asked, on guard. "With whom?"

Now it was John's turn to be expansive and generous. "My God, man, you too have a reputation. Damn clever is Morley Johnson, that's what I've heard. A legal wizard, an expert in the area of deeds and freeholds."

He paused, pleased to see the suspicion gone from the face opposite him. Johnson leaned close, his voice low. "I don't generally prattle on about such things, Mr. Murrey," he began. "I mean, a man's business transactions are an intimate area of his life. Wouldn't you agree?"

John looked back at the man across the desk. "You don't recognize me, do you, Mr. Johnson?" he asked quietly.

"Recognize you?" the man puzzled. "I'm not sure I—"

"We've met before," John went on. "Years ago, under tragic circumstances."

He could see the bewilderment washing across the man's face. The suspicion had returned as well, and now he seemed to be moving up to the edge of the seat. "I'm afraid you have the advantage, Mr. Murrey. I don't—"

"As you had the advantage over the Eden family?" John demanded, his voice rising.

Morley Johnson was on his feet. "I. . . don't believe I. . ."

"Please sit down," John said in a voice that left no room for debate.

Sensibly the man obeyed.

"Now, take a good look, Mr. Johnson," he invited, his voice cordial. "We have met before. Remember? Years ago, in the small library at Eden."

Morley's eyes were blinking so rapidly they resembled restless wing-beats. His lower jaw went limp as he continued to take in John's face with incredible intensity.

"Surely you remember." John smiled. "You were keeping good company then, fitting company, scoundrels together, the both of you."

"Eden," the man gasped, and stood rapidly up, the color draining from his face.

John moved around the desk until he was standing before him. Taller, younger, of sturdier frame, it required no great effort for John to push him back into the chair, thus blocking future escapes. For the first time during the distasteful encounter, John was beginning to

enjoy himself. "I'm impressed, Mr. Johnson, with what you have done." He smiled. "And what did you intend to do when you put Eden on the block? Were you going to purchase the castle as well?"

He saw the man's apprehension vault, his tongue licking his lips as though his mouth had gone dry. 'There . . . were delinquent taxes," he began, and never finished.

"Why delinquent, Mr. Johnson?" John demanded. "Surely the wealth of the Eden estates was sufficient to cover a tax debit?"

The man started forward. "I command you to let me pass, Mr. Eden," he pronounced in a quavering voice. "You . . . trapped me into coming here, and then tricked me into talking, but in spite of all that, you and I both know that you intend to do nothing about it."

John settled on the edge of the desk, his foot blocking Johnson's passage. "Oh?" He smiled. "How do we both know that I intend to do nothing about it?"

"Because there is a small unmarked grave in the middle of Ex-moor," Johnson retorted with admirable courage. "And only you and I know the identity of the man buried there, and only you and I know who put him in that grave." A hint of a smile lit up his face, as though in spite of his predicament he knew he had the upper hand.

John gave him a few minutes out of courtesy to enjoy his false sense of victory, and even went so far as to concede his debt. "You're right, Mr. Johnson. Quite conceivably I would be in Newgate prison now if it weren't for you."

A look of relief flooded Morley Johnson's face. "Then we have nothing more to discuss," he said, again making an effort to rise.

And again John pushed him back. "One additional matter," he said. "You are to have nothing further to do with the Eden estates. Is that clear?"

Incredibly, the man laughed. "What estates, Mr. Eden? The only estate left is a rough five miles of rubble surrounding the castle itself. The rest has been profitably sold to the hands that worked the land so long. The tenant farmers are now the landlords," he added, "making their monthly allotments to me, Morley Johnson. You arrived a bit too late, Mr. Eden," he concluded sarcastically.

All at once he broke off, as though aware that he'd said enough. "If you will excuse me, I must—"

Again John pushed him back, and at the same time shouted, "Alex!"

Within the instant the big man was at the door.

Without taking his eyes off Morley Johnson, John said, "Alex, would you do a favor for me? There's a fancy carriage parked outside on the pavement with a fancy coachman sitting on the seat, with an elegant horsewhip in his hand. Since it all was undoubtedly purchased with Eden money, would you tell the driver that the owner of the horsewhip would like to inspect it for a few minutes? Tell him I'd be most grateful. . ."

He was aware of Alex's hesitation, as though in an effort to make sense out of the strange command. Apparently unable to do so, he disappeared from the door and left John to focus on Morley Johnson, his hands braced against the cushions of the chair. "If . . . this is a joke, Eden," he muttered.

"Oh, it's no joke, Mr. Johnson, I assure you. You see, we are perfect adversaries. I can't bring charges against you, and you can't bring charges against me. And since I intend never to look upon your face again, I want to remember it at a certain angle. Grant me that one indulgence, Mr. Johnson, I beg you."

At that moment Alex reappeared in the doorway, whip in hand. "John, I-"

"Close the door, Alex," John ordered, "and bolt it."

Aldwell did as he was told, though he continued to peer at the confrontation by the desk.

"Now," John said, standing before the ashen-faced Morley Johnson. "Will you remove your garments, or shall I have my friend here do it?"

As he gestured toward Alex, he saw Morley Johnson swivel his head about. The tension on his face broke into a nervous giggle. "Remove . . . my . . . garments?" he repeated. "I'll do no such thing, and neither will—"

It required only a scant nod of John's head to bring Alex forward. He handed the whip to John and with one fluid movement lifted Morley Johnson to his feet, and holding him steady with one hand, he commenced removing his coat and shirtwaist.

Predictably, the man protested, trying to fight off the massive hands. "Stop it! Stop it this minute. I swear, Eden, I'll bring charges—"

"You'll bring nothing." John smiled. "I have a dear friend—I believe you met him, Andrew Rhoades—who is longing to get you in a court of law. According to him, most magistrates come down very hard on corrupt solicitors."

He saw Alex was removing his undershirt, the man flailing

uselessly against Aldwell's superior strength, flailing too against what he realized was the inevitable. "Oh, God, please, Mr. Eden, don't," he gasped, eyeing the whip in John's hand.

Alex was restraining him, holding both arms behind his back. "Are you sure you want to do what I think you are going to do?" he asked quietly over the almost continuous whimperings of Morley Johnson.

John had never been so certain of anything in his life, and he pulled the chair around until the back was facing him, then without a word indicated that he wanted Johnson stretched over it, Alex restraining his arms on the other side.

Seeing his fate, Morley Johnson made one last plea. "Oh, no, God, I beg you. I've been ill, and I'm not a strong man." Still Alex forced him into position.

John waited until Alex had the man's arms drawn tight. He ignored the questioning look on Aldwell's face, ignored as well the last high-pitched wail coming from Morley Johnson. Then he stepped back about three feet, lifted the whip high into the air and brought it down with a resounding snap across the white flesh.

He saw Johnson jerk like a puppet, Alex kneeling on the chair cushion, the better to restrain his arms. As John stepped back to lift the whip a second time, he saw a spreading circle of wetness at Morley Johnson's feet and smelled urine.

He lifted the whip again and brought it down, fascinated by the spastic movement of the man's body, seeing two long red ridges rising out of the plain of smooth flesh.

He commenced moving faster, the whip rising and falling in an easy rhythm, John thinking the name of everyone the man had wronged with each lash: two for Richard, who had befriended John upon his arrival at Eden, and who had lost the most, lost his entire future; and two for little Mary; and two for his aunt Jennifer; two for his father; two for all the Edens dead and buried, corrupt and honorable; and two for Harriet. . . .

Whether it was his thought of Harriet, or Alex's stern, "John, enough!" that stopped him, he couldn't say. All he saw then was the white back, no longer foundering, and the network of red lashes growing redder, a few seeping blood. Coming to his senses, he saw Alex's shocked face, and at last John turned away.

"Get him out of here," he muttered over his shoulder, leaning heavily upon the desk. "Put him in his fine carriage and tell the driver not to stop until he reaches home."

He heard a rustle of movement behind him, looked back and saw

Morley Johnson slung over Alex's broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "And take those things with you/' John added, pointing toward the heap of torn garments.

Finally he handed the whip over. "Tell the driver thank you," he said, and turned away.

He heard the door close, and with a sense of having paid all debts, he drew the drapes at the window and returned to his chair behind the desk and sat wearily in the semidarkness, the palm of his right hand aching from where he'd grasped the whip.

Well, where was it, he thought angrily, the satisfaction of revenge?

But it never came, even though he was sitting there at midnight And still it hadn't come, even at dawn, with the first colors of morning sun penetrating the drawn drapes. All he felt was fatigue from the sleepness night, dread that he had yet to receive Andrew's report from Eden, and shame.

London, April 3,1861

Though it was approaching midnight and he was dusty from the road, Andrew did not take time to wash and change. Rather he directed his driver to proceed to the house in Belgrave Square, and as he brushed past the old butler and started up the four flights of stairs, he looked ahead and saw John, clad in his dressing robe, coming down the steps toward him.

Stopping at the third-floor landing for breath, Andrew grasped the banister and tried to think of a way to soften the terrible report. But he could think of nothing and John was upon him, embracing him warmly, hurrying him up the stairs and into his private chambers.

"It's good to see you." John smiled, closing the door. "I've missed you. May I get you something? Brandy? Coffee?"

Andrew shook his head to everything, hearing in John's voice a clear anxiety. Wearily he shook off his dusty cloak and apologized. "I should have waited until morning."

"No, no, I'm glad you came straight on. Come . . ." He took Andrew's arm and led him to the chairs before the fire. John sat first, drawing the cord of his dressing robe tightly about his waist. "Shall I build up the fire?" he asked.

Andrew shook his head, seeing a man who wanted to hear and yet who did not want to hear.

"And the weather?" John inquired.

"Miserable most of the time." Andrew smiled.

John shook his head in commiseration. "The West Country, I'm afraid, is not known for its fair climate at this time of year, though when the sun does shine, it's quite . . ."

Andrew nodded, wondering how long it would take for John to gather his courage and ask the one question that Andrew was fully prepared to answer.

Silence. Andrew bided his time. "And you?" he asked abruptly. "Have things gone well here?"

"Oh, yes." John smiled. "We broke ground last Tuesday, I believe it was. The school at Calthorpe, if you'll recall. . ."

Andrew nodded.

"And Alex talked me into enlarging the crews once again."

"My God, why?" Andrew exclaimed.

John shrugged. "Claims he was shorthanded, said we were working on so many sites simultaneously that he always finds himself short-handed."

Andrew brooded a moment, looking down at the toes of his dusty boots. He was too tired for business matters. They would keep until morning. Of greater urgency was. . .

"You are the one with news, Andrew," John said softly. "Please tell me . . . everything."

So! It was to be now. Andrew closed his eyes to rest them and clear his head. "I don't know what the conditions at Eden were when you left, John," he began, "but I do know that now they are quite . . ."

He looked up to see John staring at him. "Did you . . . speak to anyone?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I spoke to everyone," Andrew replied. "There aren't many left, as I'm sure you know."

"No," John said, pleading. "I know nothing. It's been ten years. Tell me everything, Andrew. Leave nothing out."

Before such an expression, Andrew felt the need for movement, for distance. He stood and walked around the sofa. "I arrived on a Tuesday," he began. "I had to leave the carriage outside the gatehouse. One of the grilles had fallen, obscuring the passage, and as I learned later, there is no one in the castle able to repair it."

He glanced back at John, saw his expression unchanged, his face taut with listening. "As I was climbing over the fallen grille, I saw a young man approaching across the inner courtyard. He seemed alarmed at my presence, though ill-equipped to do anything about it. He was carrying as a weapon ... a Bible."

"Richard?" came a whispered inquiry.