by Emma Jameson
The boy, spotty-faced with thick specs, looked dazzled. “Sure. Why not? C’mon,” he told his friends. Grumbling a little, the teens obeyed their leader, relocating closer to the V&A’s Victorian red brick edifice.
“Bless you,” Lady Isabel called after the kids, the wooden beads of her crucifix rattling. When they were out of earshot, she told Paul, “I would have told you who I was over the phone, but I knew you’d tell me where to go. It’s understandable. But I swear to you, Duncan isn’t involved.”
“How did you get my private number?”
“I stole it.”
“From…?”
She sighed. “Duncan’s mobile. I’m sorry. I don’t know how he got it. He has a thing about you. And Kate and Tony Hetheridge, obviously.”
“Dressing as a Catholic sister is a little over the top. Why rent a Halloween costume?”
“I didn’t rent it. It came from my closet,” Lady Isabel said. “My brother and I went through a costume party phase. Duncan was the priest. I was his girlfriend, the pregnant nun. Same outfit, I just left out the pillow padding.”
“You people make me sick,” Paul said in a soft, fervent whisper. He didn’t believe she had any information to share, so he had nothing to lose by speaking his mind. This was another trick, another obscene parlor game for the homicidal rich. Lady Isabel’s easy manners and tinkling laugh persuaded many to think her an innocent bystander in her brother’s crimes, but Paul never had.
His hostility didn’t seem to shake her. “I didn’t ask you here so I could win you over. I have a story to tell, and I want you to hear it.”
“Why not ask Kate? You’ve made her acquaintance,” Paul said. “Or Tony. You’ve known him socially for years.”
“Duncan is watching them closely. He would have noticed.”
“But he’s lost interest in me, is that it?”
“In a sense.” She looked around the courtyard. Near the café’s glass doors, a security guard had appeared. He was looking in their direction.
“Please. Sit down. Listen,” Lady Isabel pleaded. “If the guard thinks we’re disturbing the peace, he’ll come over and recognize me right away.”
“No, he won’t. You’re not famous like your brother.”
“No, but I’m on the board of this museum. It’s one of the reasons I chose it. That, and the fact Duncan has never willingly set foot in here. He finds art very dull. These days, I’d gladly live here, just to escape from him, if such a thing was possible.”
“You expect me to believe that? You’re on the outs with your half-brother, soulmate, and… whatever else he might be?”
“I don’t expect you to believe, or disbelieve. I hope,” Lady Isabel said, staring into Paul’s eyes, “that you’ll sit down and listen. That’s all I ask. I swear.”
He loathed her. Never in his life had he seriously contemplated attacking a woman, yet it crossed his mind that he could dig his fingers into the soft flesh of her neck and snap it long before any lovestruck teens or security guards could intervene.
But that wasn’t him. He wasn’t a killer. He was a copper. Even if he could overcome his deep respect for the rule of law, for its impartial application as symbolized by Lady Justice atop the Old Bailey, he knew killing Lady Isabel for her years of complicity would never please him as much as seeing her convicted and put away for life.
Besides, though he could scarcely admit it to himself, there was something brittle about her today, an almost glassy shine to her gaze. And the makeup didn’t entirely conceal the shadows beneath her dark brown eyes. If her brother had put her up to this, she wasn’t enjoying it.
He sat down. In his coat pocket, his iPhone recording app had been switched on since he entered the V&A. He didn’t care if the digital audio file later proved inadmissible. There was no way he was listening to whatever she had to say without recording every word.
“Right. Now. I can do this,” Lady Isabel said, offering him a weaker version of the brilliant smile she’d turned on her teen defender. “Would you believe I’ve never told my story to another living soul? Only myself, very late at night, when dawn is just around the corner. That’s when I can look at the truth, and claim it. At least until it burns off by the light of day.”
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin and began.
“Duncan is my half-brother. He’s twelve years my senior. Imagine it. He was a big, strapping boy, on the cusp of all those teenage hormones, when I was a newborn. Utterly helpless in my cot. It’s astonishing I grew up at all. I think that’s down to our father, Sir Raleigh. He was frightened to death of Duncan, and in the course of protecting himself, he accidentally protected me. But I can’t begin with my birth, because it skips ahead. You need to understand the true history of our family. And to understand that, you need to know about psychopaths.
“I suppose as a policeman you must receive some training. Not just statistics and individual case studies, but broader scientific data. Or maybe you don’t. I find most people throw the word around too easily. On chat shows, in newspapers, everywhere you look, people are accusing one another of being a sociopath or a psychopath without any idea of what they’re saying. My amateur career, if you will, has been devoted to abnormal psychology. So allow me to dictate the rules of the road.
“First. The word ‘sociopath.’ Put it aside. It’s an idea based upon the tabula rasa model. The notion that every human being is born a soft, blank slate. You, me, Albert Einstein, Adolf Hitler. We all start with malleable personalities that are completely shaped by nurture. The society we keep, our parents, our neighbors, the church, the government — they all combine to produce a normal person or a dangerous person. It’s a squishy concept, impossible to strictly measure or test for. So forget it.
“Psychopathy is different. It can be quantified. Psychiatrists can test for it. MRIs and EEGs can corroborate those tests. So the term psychopath has no intrinsic baggage, at least when properly used. To be scientifically labeled a psychopath doesn’t point to society, your upbringing, or even your own personal choices. It’s simply a series of ticked boxes, mostly deficits. Lack of conscience, of course. And lack of empathy.
“I wonder if a policeman can accept that. Your sort—and I mean that respectfully, even if I, as you said, make you sick—tends to reject any theory of crime that doesn’t revolve around selfishness as a matter of free will. Sometimes I wonder how much free will any of us really have. Did you know children who will become adult psychopaths begin showing signs at age two or three?
“If you don’t believe me, ask the administrators of large schools or institutions. They know, because they’ve seen it. Parents have seen it, too, even if it’s taboo to say so. There’s a belief, a lovely belief, as far as I’m concerned, that all children are innocent until corrupted by bad people, or bad choices. To say otherwise is to risk a public shaming. So there’s a tension, I think, between the truth that can be observed and the truth that can be spoken.
“Perhaps that’s why so many horror movies seem to be about possessed children. Evil kiddies with dead eyes, plotting to kill anyone who crosses them. It’s a safe way to process the tragedy of a psychopathic child. In most cinema, the evil can be driven out. But in horror movies, nothing is fair. Good people suffer for no reason. Just like real life.
“So psychopathy is inborn. It also seems to run in families. Look at the Godingtons. On paper, we should have risen higher and contributed more. Yet violent, heedless tendencies always held us back.
“During the reign of Henry VII, there was a Godington—Richard Ivey—who was the natural son of Arthur Tudor. On the strength of that connection, he inherited property and a title—Earl—but managed to lose it all within a year, plus his life. He feared nothing, including his own death. So he made a sorry end of it, convicted of murder and beheaded on Tower Green. Family historians liked to say his erratic behavior was caused by his blue blood. Because he was a bastard, he was denied his royal prerogative, and without his royal prerogative, hi
s aristocratic nature drove him mad. Nowadays we can say with almost total certainty that Richard Ivey was a psychopath.
“He isn’t the only one. It’s amazing the Godington name survived at all, but here we are, shut out of the Peerage, possessing no historic estate or heroic forebears. My father, Sir Raleigh, who I must decline to call Papa, did very little with his life because he lived almost entirely in the moment. Which is true of most psychopaths.
“Sir Raleigh had three passions: racing cars, partying, and sleeping around. No woman who knew what he was would have had him. But the rest of the family was determined to see him married, so they chaperoned him, if you will, with a nouveau riche heiress named Opal Grissom. Sir Raleigh didn’t want to tie himself down to her, or anyone, so his father bribed him with a yellow Testarossa. If Opal received a bribe, other than a lot of broken promises, I don’t know what it was. It was hoped that a calm, conventional girl like her would settle Sir Raleigh down. She didn’t.
“Opal had two boys, Eldon and Duncan. Eldon was the very worst sort of rich boy. Banknotes out his arse. No personality but a sneer. At least he wasn’t a psychopath. How’s that for damning a man with faint praise? He lived his whole life in fear of Sir Raleigh. But not Duncan.
“I never knew Opal—she died before I was born—but she kept a journal. A few days before she died, she posted it to a friend for safekeeping, and many years later, my mother obtained it. In the journal, Opal said that even as a wee boy, Duncan never backed down or said sorry, no matter the punishment. Sir Raleigh would shout, swear, break his favorite toy, it didn’t matter. Even at two years old, Duncan never cried or moped after a correction. He took revenge. Quietly.
“I can see by your face, Detective, that you doubt this journal of Opal’s even exists. It does, I promise. If the Crown prosecutors had discovered it, and read it aloud during Duncan’s triple murder trial, perhaps the verdict would have been different. According to the journal, when Duncan was four, he gathered up the keys to Sir Raleigh’s yellow Testarossa and tossed them in the lake. When he was five, he poured bleach in Sir Raleigh’s decanter of Balvenie single barrel. Of course, one whiff kept Sir Raleigh from taking a drink and poisoning himself. But the fact that a small child could conceive of and execute such a plan is singular, to say the least.
“When Duncan was seven, he attended a pool party and got into a fight with another boy. Opal’s journal says Duncan slammed the other boy’s head against the lip of the pool. While he was semiconscious, Duncan pushed the boy’s face under water and held it there. If the adults hadn’t intervened, he would’ve committed his first murder.
“I wish Opal’s journal still existed. If it did, I’d gladly hand it over as proof. After Duncan was arrested, my mother threw it in the fire. Not to cover for him. To protect herself, and me, from the necessity of turning it over to Scotland Yard, and from testifying in court against Duncan as he looked on. No one, and I mean no one, who truly knows Duncan would ever risk speaking negatively of him on the record.
“This doesn’t mean everyone who interacts with Duncan comprehends the danger. He’s always had his hangers-on. The Cult of Sir Duncan, I call them. The latest ones are those hackers I mentioned, the No-Hopers. And society is full of halfwits who view him as an exotic diversion. To them, hosting Duncan at their dinner party is a coup, like hosting a vampire—a charming, witty vampire who assures everyone he’s not thirsty for blood. Not just yet.
“But inside the family, everyone’s terrified of him. And by extension, they’re terrified of me. My own mother holds me at arms-length. Just close enough to try and keep me happy. Just far enough not to become a blip on Duncan’s radar.
“But where was I? Opal. Poor Opal. She was trapped in her marriage to Sir Raleigh. Her greatest comfort, according to her journal, was his obsession with chasing other women. He didn’t spend enough time at home to make her completely miserable. But after the swimming pool incident, she stopped telling herself her boys were thriving and nothing else mattered. She knew something was wrong with Duncan.
“So she made the rounds, taking him to see all the best child psychiatrists. A world-famous kiddie shrink in New York City diagnosed Duncan as a sociopath. In the mid-80s, that was the hot diagnosis. After declaring Opal a cold, unfeeling parent – which he in turn blamed on England, which he called a cold and unfeeling country – he suggested therapy to teach Duncan respect for interpersonal norms. Whether or not this would prevent him from attacking another child or spiking his father’s whiskey with a less obvious poison, the world-famous kiddie shrink couldn’t say.
“The next doctor, an ultra-spendy one on Harley Street, scoffed at the notion of a child sociopath. As he saw it, Duncan was delightful and highly cooperative boy. He’d simply let his emotions run away with him from time to time. Talk about a case study. The Harley Street emeritus, hoodwinked by an eight-year-old psychopath.
“The third expert, a Canadian who worked mostly with troubled adults, interviewed Duncan several times before giving his opinion. He told Opal he preferred not to label a child, but Duncan’s impulsivity was high, his empathy was virtually nonexistent, and his utter disregard of punishment were all key indicators of someone who would spend most of his life in institutions. Opal believed the third expert. She said it was almost a relief to hear someone calmly, rationally confirm her own observations.
“Unfortunately, the Canadian offered no treatment. Only extrapolations based on his studies. He said Duncan was likely to become violent at school. He would never understand why rules and laws ought to be obeyed, so he’d have to be watched, constantly. The expert suggested Opal keep a log of Duncan’s violent and antisocial behaviors. Then she could use that documentation to get him institutionalized as quickly as possible.
“I wish she’d done as he suggested. It’s almost unfathomable, how different my life might’ve been if she had. But she loved Duncan. She lived for him. Sir Raleigh was selfish and heartless, and Eldon was his mini-me, vain and high-handed. But Duncan could be so charming. And he’d never taken revenge on Opal. He’d never tossed her keys in the lake or poisoned her drink. According to her journal, he was solicitous with her in a way he never was with others. If she looked sad, he noticed. If she wanted a hug or a kiss, he gave it, even though he shied away from displays of affection with others. Opal believed that he loved her, and that made her hope he could learn to love others.
“She took Duncan back to the famous kiddie shrink in New York City. He designed an immersive therapy to be administered by a team in London. For two years, Duncan had therapy seven days a week. And it seemed to work. Everyone was happy. Everyone, except Sir Raleigh.
“He was hitting middle age, and the change didn’t agree with him. He’d worn out his welcome with his old mates. They’d become devoted to their families, kicked the booze and cocaine, started voting Tory. It infuriated Sir Raleigh, losing his place in society, so he decided to play man of the house. That’s when he realized just how much time Duncan spent in the care of psychiatric professionals. He thought it reflected badly on the family. Other red-blooded lads were out playing football while his neurotic boy was lying on a fainting couch, talking about his feelings. He told Opal it had to end. For the first time, she stood up to him. Said Duncan had to keep up the therapy. Sir Raleigh beat her black and blue. She couldn’t show her face out-of-doors for more than a month.
“You don’t look shocked to hear that. Maybe you learned about Sir Raleigh during the course of the trial? You must have. He was on trial as much as Duncan, if not more so. His character was so repulsive, the defense counselor made reference to it as often as possible. It made Duncan look sympathetic by comparison.
“Sir Raleigh was violent with many women over the course of his life, but he developed a special viciousness toward Opal. After the first beating, he couldn’t seem to stop hitting her. Opal chronicled it in her journal for a few months. Then she seemed to give up. She posted the journal to a friend with an enclosed note asking her to ke
ep it safe. Two days later, she was dead. The official diagnosis, cerebral aneurysm. Supposedly it had gone undiagnosed. Popped off one day, nobody’s fault, just one of those things.
“I’m sure you remember what happened next. Sir Raleigh hired a nanny to rear Eldon and Duncan. Soon after, he was shagging her, and soon after that, she was dead. Books by crime writers who’ve never met my brother always point to the death of the nanny, Marcy McNabb, as the beginning of Duncan’s career in homicide. They think he killed her, probably in a fit of jealousy, and turned evil thereafter. Usually the theory goes like this: Duncan loved his mother in the Oedipal sense. Therefore, he was enraged when his father took up with another woman. Too young and weak to take on Sir Raleigh, he killed Marcy McNabb instead. Not a bad theory, but wrong.
“Early in his therapy, the clinicians gave Duncan a puppy. The idea was for him to form a relationship with the dog and acquire empathy. Everyone expected him to kill the poor thing, I think, but Duncan bucked the trend. I don’t remember the breed, but I know he adored it. Plus, it was a never-ending source of filth, which he could use as a weapon against Sir Raleigh, Eldon, or anyone else who displeased him. Marcy McNabb, not being an animal lover, decided the household would be more hygienic without pets. She got rid of Duncan’s dog. He got rid of her. Simple as that.
“There was an inquiry into her death. Sir Raleigh was the prime suspect, but of course it came to nothing. As I understand it, no one ever looked Duncan’s way. He behaved carefully around the policeman. Two years of therapy hadn’t given him a visceral fear of consequences — nothing could do that – but he did gain an intellectual appreciation of them. In therapy, Duncan learned to defer his impulses if they were likely to produce a punishment that curtailed his freedom. The expectation was to make him a better citizen. The actual result was to make him function smoothly in society and commit murders whenever he liked.