by Ken Follett
But it was a holiday, the sun was shining, and the park was full of people enjoying themselves, and Hugh could not get worried about his aunt's rage today.
He felt lighthearted as he strode along the path. He headed in the direction opposite to that Maisie had taken. People drove around in circles, so he might run into her again.
He was keen to talk to her more. He wanted to set her straight about his father. Oddly enough he no longer felt angry with her about what she had said. She was simply mistaken, he thought, and she would understand if it was explained to her. Anyway, just talking to her was exciting.
He reached Hyde Park Corner and turned north along Park Lane. He doffed his hat to numerous relations and acquaintances: Young William and Beatrice in a brougham, Uncle Samuel on a chestnut mare, Mr. Mulberry with his wife and children. Maisie might have stopped on the far side, or she might have left by now. He began to feel that he would not see her again.
But he did.
She was just leaving, crossing Park Lane. It was undoubtedly her, with that mushroom-colored silk tie at her throat. She did not see him.
On impulse he followed her across the road, into Mayfair, and down a mews, running to keep up with her. She pulled the victoria up to a stable and jumped down. A groom came out and began to help her with the horses.
Hugh came up beside her, breathing hard. He wondered why he had done this. "Hello, Miss Robinson," he said.
"Hello again!"
"I followed you," he said superfluously.
She gave him a frank look. "Why?"
Without thinking he blurted out: "I was wondering if you would go out with me one night."
She put her head to one side and frowned slightly, considering his proposal. Her expression was friendly, as if she liked the idea, and he thought she would accept. But it seemed some practical consideration was at war with her inclinations. She looked away from him, and a little frown appeared on her brow; then she appeared to make up her mind. "You can't afford me," she said decisively; and she turned her back on him and walked into the stable.
4
Cammel Farm
Cape Colony
South Africa
14th July 1873
Dear Hugh,
Jolly nice to hear from you! One is rather isolated out here, and you can't imagine the pleasure we get out of a long, newsy letter from home. Mrs. Cammel, who used to be the Hon. Amelia Clapham until she married me, was especially amused by your account of the Lioness....
It's a bit late to say this, I know, but I was dreadfully shocked by the death of your father. Schoolboys don't write condolence notes. And your own tragedy was somewhat eclipsed by the drowning of Peter Middleton on the very same day. But believe me, many of us thought of you and talked about you after you were so abruptly taken away from school....
I'm glad you asked me about Peter. I have felt guilty ever since that day. I didn't actually see the poor chap die, but I saw enough to guess the rest.
Your cousin Edward was, as you so colourfully put it, more rotten than a dead cat. You managed to get most of your clothes out of the water and scarper, but Peter and Tonio weren't so quick.
I was over the other side, and I don't think Edward and Micky even noticed me. Or perhaps they didn't recognise me. At any rate they never spoke to me about the incident
Anyway, after you had gone Edward proceeded to torment Peter even more, pushing his head under the water and splashing his face while the poor boy struggled to retrieve his clothes.
I could see it was getting out of hand but I was a complete coward, I'm afraid. I should have gone to Peter's aid but I was not much bigger myself certainly no match for Edward and Micky Miranda, and I didn't want my clothes soaked as well. Do you remember the punishment for breaking bounds? It was twelve strokes of the Striper, and I don't mind admitting I was more frightened of that than anything else. Anyway, I grabbed my clothes and sneaked away without attracting any attention.
I looked back once, from the lip of the quarry. I don't know what had happened in the meantime, but Tonio was scrambling up the side, naked and clutching a bundle of wet clothes, and Edward was swimming across the pool after him, leaving Peter gasping and spluttering in the middle.
I thought Peter would be all right, but obviously I was wrong. He must have been at the end of his tether. While Edward was chasing Tonio, and Micky was watching, Peter drowned without anyone's noticing.
I didn't know that until later, of course. I got back to school and slipped into my dorm. When the masters started asking questions, I swore I had been there all afternoon. As the ghastly story began to emerge I never had the guts to admit that I had seen what happened.
Not a tale to be proud of Hugh. But telling the truth at last has made me feel a bit better, at any rate....
Hugh put down Albert Cammel's letter and stared out of his bedroom window. The letter explained both more and less than Cammel imagined.
It explained how Micky Miranda had insinuated himself into the Pilaster family to such an extent that he spent every vacation with Edward and had all his expenses paid by Edward's parents. No doubt Micky had told Augusta that Edward had virtually killed Peter. But in court Micky said Edward had tried to rescue the drowning boy. And in telling that lie Micky had saved the Pilasters from public disgrace. Augusta would have been powerfully grateful--and perhaps, also, fearful that Micky might one day turn against them and reveal the truth. It gave Hugh a cold, rather scared feeling in the pit of his stomach. Albert Cammel, all unknowing, had revealed that Augusta's relationship with Micky was deep, dark and corrupt.
But another puzzle remained. For Hugh knew something about Peter Middleton that almost no one else was aware of. Peter had been something of a weakling, and all the boys treated him as a weed. Embarrassed about his weakness, he had embarked on a training program--and his main exercise was swimming. He stroked across that pool hour after hour, trying to build his physique. It had not worked: a thirteen-year-old boy could not become broad-shouldered and deep-chested except by growing into a man, and that was a process that could not be hurried.
The only effect of all his efforts was to make him like a fish in the water. He could dive to the bottom, hold his breath for several minutes, float on his back, and keep his eyes open underwater. It would have taken more than Edward Pilaster to drown him.
So why had he died?
Albert Cammel had told the truth, as far as he knew it, Hugh was sure. But there had to be more. Something else had happened on that hot afternoon in Bishop's Wood. A poor swimmer might have been killed accidentally, drowned because Edward's roughhousing was too much for him to take. But casual horseplay could not have killed Peter. And if his death was not accidental, it was deliberate.
And that was murder.
Hugh shuddered.
There had been only three people there: Edward, Micky and Peter. Peter must have been murdered by Edward or Micky.
Or both.
5
AUGUSTA WAS ALREADY DISSATISFIED with her Japanese decor. The drawing room was full of oriental screens, angular furniture on spindly legs, and Japanese fans and vases in black lacquered cabinets. It was all very expensive, but cheap copies were already appearing in the Oxford Street stores, and the look was no longer exclusive to the very best houses. Unfortunately, Joseph would not permit re-decoration so soon, and Augusta would have to live with increasingly common furniture for several years.
The drawing room was where Augusta held court at teatime every weekday. The women usually came first: her sisters-in-law Madeleine and Beatrice, and her daughter Clementine. The partners would arrive from the bank at about five: Joseph, old Seth, Madeleine's husband George Hartshorn, and occasionally Samuel. If business was quiet the boys would come too: Edward, Hugh and Young William. The only nonmember of the family who was a regular teatime guest was Micky Miranda, but occasionally there would be a visiting Methodist clergyman, perhaps a missionary seeking funds to convert the heathens in the South Seas, M
alaya, or the newly opened-up Japan.
Augusta worked hard to keep people coming. All the Pilasters liked sweet things, and she provided delicious buns and cakes as well as the very best tea from Assam and Ceylon. Big events such as family holidays and weddings would be planned during these sessions, so anyone who stopped coming would soon lose touch with what was going on.
Despite all that, every now and again one of them would go through a phase of wanting to be independent. The most recent example had been Young William's wife Beatrice, a year or so before, after Augusta had been rather insistent about a dress fabric Beatrice had chosen that did not suit her. When this happened Augusta would leave them for a while, then win them back with some extravagantly generous gesture. In Beatrice's case Augusta had thrown an expensive birthday party for Beatrice's old mother, who was virtually senile and only barely presentable in public. Beatrice had been so grateful that she had forgotten all about the dress fabric--just as Augusta had intended.
Here at these teatime gatherings Augusta found out what was going on in the family and at the bank. Right now she was anxious about old Seth. She was carefully working the family around to the idea that Samuel could not be the next Senior Partner, but Seth showed no inclination to retire, despite his failing health. She found it maddening to have her careful plans held up by the stubborn tenacity of an old man.
It was the end of July, and London was becoming quieter. The aristocracy moved out of town at this time of year, on their way to yachts at Cowes or shooting-boxes in Scotland. They would stay in the country, slaughtering birds, hunting foxes and stalking deer, until after Christmas. Between February and Easter they would start to drift back, and by May the London "season" would be in full swing.
The Pilaster family did not follow this routine. Although richer by far than most of the aristocracy, they were businesspeople, and had no thought of spending half the year idly persecuting dumb animals in the countryside. However, the partners could generally be persuaded to holiday for most of the month of August, provided there was no undue excitement in the banking world.
This year the holiday had been in doubt all summer, as a distant storm had rumbled threateningly across the financial capitals of Europe; but the worst seemed to be over, the bank rate was down to three percent, and Augusta had rented a small castle in Scotland. She and Madeleine planned to leave in a week or so, and the men would follow a day or two later.
A few minutes before four o'clock, as she was standing in the drawing room feeling discontented with her furniture and old Seth's obstinacy, Samuel walked in.
All the Pilasters were ugly, but Samuel was the worst, she thought. He had the big nose, but he also had a weak, womanish mouth and irregular teeth. He was a fussy man, immaculately dressed, fastidious about his food, a lover of cats and a hater of dogs.
But what made Augusta dislike him was that of all the men in the family he was the most difficult to persuade. She could charm old Seth, who was susceptible to an attractive woman even at his advanced age; she could generally get around Joseph by wearing down his patience; George Hartshorn was under Madeleine's thumb and so could be manipulated indirectly; and the others were young enough to be intimidated, although Hugh sometimes gave her trouble.
Nothing worked on Samuel--least of all her feminine charms. He had an infuriating way of laughing at her when she thought she was being subtle and clever. He gave the impression that she was not to be taken seriously--and that offended her mortally. She was much more wounded by Samuel's quiet mockery than she was at being called an old bitch by a trollop in the park.
Today, however, Samuel did not wear that amused, skeptical smile. He looked angry, so angry that for a moment Augusta was alarmed. He had obviously come early in order to find her alone. It struck her that for two months she had been conspiring to ruin him and that people had been murdered for less than that. He did not shake her hand, but stood in front of her, wearing a pearl-gray morning coat and a deep wine-red tie, smelling faintly of cologne. Augusta held up her hands in a defensive gesture.
Samuel gave a humorless laugh and moved away. "I'm not going to strike you, Augusta," he said. "Though heaven knows you deserve a whipping."
Of course he would not touch her. He was a gentle soul who refused to finance the export of rifles. Augusta's confidence came back in a rush, and she said disdainfully: "How dare you criticize me!"
"Criticize?" he said, and the rage flashed again in his eyes. "I don't stoop to criticize you." He paused, then spoke again in a voice of controlled anger. "I despise you."
Augusta could not be intimidated a second time. "Have you come here to tell me that you are willing to give up your vicious ways?" she said in a ringing voice.
"My vicious ways," he repeated. "You're willing to destroy my father's happiness and make my own life miserable, all for the sake of your ambition, and yet you can talk about my vicious ways! I believe you're so steeped in evil that you've forgotten what it is."
He was so convinced and passionate that Augusta wondered if perhaps it really was wicked of her to threaten him. Then she realized he was trying to weaken her resolve by playing on her sympathy. "I'm only concerned for the bank," she said coldly.
"Is that your excuse? Is that what you'll tell the Almighty, on the Day of Judgment, when he asks you why you blackmailed me?"
"I'm doing my duty." Now that she felt in control again she began to wonder why he had come here. Was it to concede defeat--or to defy her? If he gave in she could rest assured that soon she would be the wife of the Senior Partner. But the alternative made her want to bite her nails. If he defied her there was a long, difficult struggle ahead, with no certainty of the outcome.
Samuel went to the window and looked out at the garden. "I remember you as a pretty little girl," he said meditatively. Augusta grunted impatiently. "You used to come to church in a white dress with white ribbons in your hair," he went on. "The ribbons didn't fool anyone. You were a tyrant even then. Everyone used to walk in the park after the service, and the other children were scared of you, but they played with you because you organized the games. You even terrorized your parents. If you didn't get what you wanted you could throw a tantrum so noisy that people would stop their carriages to see what was going on. Your father, God rest his soul, had the haunted look of a man who cannot understand how he has brought such a monster into the world."
What he was saying was close to the truth and it made her uncomfortable. "That all happened years ago," she said, looking away.
He went on as if she had not spoken. "It's not for myself that I'm worried. I'd like to be Senior Partner, but I can live without it. I'd be a good one--not as dynamic as my father, perhaps; more of a teamworker. But Joseph isn't up to the job. He's bad-tempered and impulsive, and he makes poor decisions; and you make it worse, by inflaming his ambition and clouding his vision. He's all right in a group, where others can guide him and restrain him. But he can't be the leader, his judgment isn't good enough. He'll harm the bank, in the long run. Don't you care about that?"
For a moment Augusta wondered if he was right. Was she in danger of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs? But there was so much money in the bank that they could never spend it all even if none of them ever did another day's work. Anyway, it was ridiculous to say that Joseph would be bad for the bank. There was nothing very difficult about what the partners did: they went into the bank, read the financial pages of the newspapers, loaned people money and collected the interest. Joseph could do that as well as any of them. "You men always pretend that banking is complex and mysterious," she said. "But you don't fool me." She realized that she was being defensive. "I'll justify myself to God, not to you," she said.
"Would you really go to my father, as you have threatened?" Samuel said. "You know it could kill him."
She hesitated only for an instant. "There is no alternative," she said firmly.
He stared at her for a long time. "You devil, I believe you," he said.
Au
gusta held her breath. Would he give in? She felt that victory was almost in her grasp, and in her imagination she heard someone say respectfully, Allow me to present Mrs. Joseph Pilaster--the wife of the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank....
He hesitated, then spoke with obvious distaste. "Very well. I shall tell the others that I don't wish to become Senior Partner when my father retires."
Augusta repressed a smile of triumph. She had won. She turned away to conceal her elation.
"Enjoy your victory," Samuel said bitterly. "But remember, Augusta, that we all have secrets--even you. One day someone will use your secrets against you this way, and you'll remember what you did to me."
Augusta was mystified. What was he referring to? For no reason at all the thought of Micky Miranda came into her mind, but she pushed it aside. "I have no secrets to be ashamed of," she said.
"Don't you?"
"No!" she said, but his confidence worried her.
He gave her a peculiar look. "A young lawyer called David Middleton came to see me yesterday."
For a moment she did not understand. "Should I know him?" The name was disturbingly familiar.
"You met him once, seven years ago, at an inquest."
Suddenly Augusta felt cold. Middleton: that had been the name of the boy who drowned.
Samuel said: "David Middleton believes that his brother Peter was killed--by Edward."
Augusta wanted desperately to sit down, but she refused to give Samuel the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. "Why on earth is he trying to make trouble now, after seven years?"
"He told me he was never satisfied with the inquest, but he remained silent for fear of causing his parents even more distress. However, his mother died soon after Peter, and his father died this year."
"Why did he approach you--not me?"
"He belongs to my club. Anyway, he has re-read the inquest records and he says that there were several eyewitnesses who were never called to give evidence."
There certainly were, Augusta thought anxiously. There was mischievous Hugh Pilaster; a South American boy called Tony or something; and a third person who had never been identified. If David Middleton got hold of one of them the whole story might come out.