by Ken Follett
But she had something important to say to him and was in no mood to go easy on him. "What's this I hear about Emily's asking you for an annulment?" she said.
"She wants to marry someone else," Edward said dully.
"She can't--she's married to you!"
"Not really," Edward said.
What on earth was he talking about? Much as she loved him, he could be deeply irritating. "Don't be silly," she snapped. "Of course she's married to you."
"I only married her because you wanted me to. And she only agreed because her parents made her. We never loved each other, and ..." He hesitated, then blurted: "We never consummated the marriage."
So that was what he was getting at. Augusta was astonished that he had the nerve to refer directly to the sexual act: such things were not said in front of women. However, she was not surprised to learn that the marriage was a sham: she had guessed it for years. All the same she was not going to let Emily get away with this. "We can't have a scandal," she said firmly,
"It wouldn't be a scandal--"
"Of course it would," she barked, exasperated by his shortsightedness. "It would be the talk of London for a year, and it would be in all the cheap newspapers, too." Edward was Lord Whitehaven now, and a sexual sensation involving a peer was just the kind of thing featured in the weekly newspapers that servants bought.
Edward said miserably: "But don't you think Emily has a right to her freedom?"
Augusta ignored that feeble appeal to justice. "Can she force you?"
"She wants me to sign a document admitting that the marriage was never consummated. Then, apparently, it's straightforward."
"And if you don't sign?"
"Then it's more difficult. These things are not easy to prove."
"That settles it. We have nothing to worry about. Let's speak no more about this embarrassing topic."
"But--"
"Tell her she can't have an annulment. I absolutely will not hear of it."
"Very well, Mother."
She was taken aback by his rapid capitulation. Although she generally got her way in the end, he normally put up more of a fight than this. He must have other problems on his mind. "What's the matter, Teddy?" she said in a softer voice.
He sighed heavily. "Hugh told me the devil of a thing," he said.
"What?"
"He says Micky killed Solly Greenbourne."
Augusta felt a shiver of horrid fascination. "How? Solly was run over."
"Hugh says Micky pushed him in front of that carriage."
"Do you believe it?"
"Micky was with me that evening, but he might have slipped out for a few minutes. It's possible. Do you believe it, Mother?"
Augusta nodded. Micky was dangerous and bold: it was what made him so magnetic. She had no doubt he was capable of committing such a daring murder--and getting away with it.
"I find it hard to accept," Edward said. "I know Micky is wicked in some ways, but to think he would kill...."
"He would, though," Augusta said.
"How can you be sure?"
Edward looked so pathetic that Augusta was tempted to share her own secret knowledge with him. Would it be wise? It could do no harm. The shock of Hugh's revelation seemed to have made Edward more thoughtful than usual. Perhaps the truth would be good for him. It might make him more serious. She decided to tell him. "Micky killed your uncle Seth," she said.
"Good God!"
"He suffocated him with a pillow. I caught him red-handed." Augusta felt a flush of heat in her loins as she remembered the scene that had followed.
Edward said: "But why would Micky kill Uncle Seth?"
"He was in such a hurry to get those rifles shipped to Cordova, don't you remember?"
"I remember." Edward was silent for a few moments. Augusta closed her eyes, reliving that long, wild embrace with Micky, in the room with the dead man.
Edward brought her out of her reverie. "There's something else, and it's even worse. You remember that boy Peter Middleton?"
"Certainly." Augusta would never forget him. His death had haunted the family ever since. "What about him?"
"Hugh says Micky killed him."
Now Augusta was shocked. "What? No--I can't believe that."
Edward nodded. "Deliberately held his head under the water and drowned him."
It was not the murder itself but the idea of Micky's betrayal that horrified her. "Hugh must be lying."
"He says Tonio Silva saw the whole thing."
"But that would mean Micky has been wickedly deceiving us all these years!"
"I think it's true, Mother."
Augusta realized, with a growing sense of dread, that Edward would not give credence to such a wild story without a reason. "Why are you so willing to believe what Hugh says?"
"Because I knew something Hugh didn't know, something that confirms the story. You see, Micky had stolen some money from one of the masters. Peter knew and was threatening to tell. Micky was desperate to find some way of shutting him up."
"Micky was always short of money," Augusta recalled. She shook her head in incredulity. "And all these years we've thought--"
"That it was my fault Peter died."
Augusta nodded.
Edward said: "And Micky let us think it. I can't take it in, Mother. I believed I was a killer, and Micky knew I wasn't, but he said nothing. Isn't that a terrible betrayal of friendship?"
Augusta looked sympathetically at her son. "Will you throw him over?"
"Inevitably." Edward was grief-stricken. "But he's my only friend, really."
Augusta felt close to tears. They sat looking at each other, thinking about what they had done, and why.
Edward said: "For nearly twenty-five years we've treated him as a member of the family. And he's a monster."
A monster, Augusta thought. It was true.
And yet she loved him. Even if he had killed three people, she loved Micky Miranda. Despite the way he had deceived her, she knew that if he walked into the room at this moment she would long to take him in her arms.
She looked at her son. Reading his face, she saw he felt the same way. She had known it in her heart but now her mind acknowledged it.
Edward loved Micky too.
CHAPTER TWO
OCTOBER
1
MICKY MIRANDA was worried. He sat in the lounge of the Cowes Club smoking a cigar, wondering what he had done to offend Edward. Edward was avoiding him. He stayed away from the club, he did not go to Nellie's, and he did not even appear in Augusta's drawing room at teatime. Micky had not seen him for a week.
He had asked Augusta what was wrong but she said she did not know. She was a little odd with him and he suspected that she knew but would not say.
This had not happened in over twenty years. Every now and again Edward would take offense at something Micky did and go into a sulk, but it never lasted more than a day or two. This time it was serious--and that meant it could jeopardize the Santamaria harbor money.
In the last decade, Pilasters Bank had issued Cordovan bonds about once a year. Some of the money had been capital for railways, waterworks and mines; some had been simple loans to the government. All of it had benefited the Miranda family directly or indirectly, and Papa Miranda was now the most powerful man in Cordova, after the president.
Micky had taken a commission on everything--although nobody at the bank knew this--and he was now personally very rich. More significantly, his ability to raise the money had made him one of the most important figures in Cordovan politics and the unquestioned heir to his father's power.
And Papa was about to start a revolution.
The plans were laid. The Miranda army would dash south by rail and lay siege to the capital. There would be a simultaneous attack on Milpita, the port on the Pacific coast that served the capital.
But revolutions cost money. Papa had instructed Micky to raise the biggest loan yet, two million pounds sterling, to buy weapons and supplies for a civi
l war. And Papa had promised a matchless reward. When Papa was president, Micky would be prime minister, with authority over everyone except Papa himself. And he would be designated Papa's successor, to become president when Papa died.
It was everything he had ever wanted.
He would return to his own country a conquering hero, the heir to the throne, the president's right-hand man, and lord over his cousins and uncles and--most gratifyingly--his older brother.
And now all of that had been put at risk by Edward.
Edward was essential to the plan. Micky had given Pilasters an unofficial monopoly of trade with Cordova, in order to boost Edward's prestige and power at the bank. It had worked: Edward was now Senior Partner, something he could never have achieved without help. But no one else in London's financial community had got a chance to develop any expertise in Cordovan trade. Consequently the other banks felt they did not know enough to invest there. And they were doubly suspicious of any project Micky brought to them because they assumed it had already been turned down by Pilasters. Micky had tried raising money for Cordova through other banks, but they had always turned him down.
Edward's sulk was therefore deeply disquieting. It was giving Micky sleepless nights. With Augusta unwilling or unable to shed any light on the problem Micky had no one to ask: he himself was Edward's only close friend.
While he sat smoking and worrying, he spotted Hugh Pilaster. It was seven o'clock, and Hugh was in evening dress, having a drink alone, presumably on his way to meet people for dinner.
Micky did not like Hugh and he knew the feeling was mutual. However, Hugh might know what was going on. And Micky had nothing to lose by asking him. So he stood up and went over to Hugh's table. "Evening, Pilaster," he said.
"Evening, Miranda."
"Have you seen your cousin Edward lately? He seems to have vanished."
"He comes to the bank every day."
"Ah." Micky hesitated. When Hugh did not invite him to take a seat he said: "May I join you?" and sat down without waiting for a reply. In a lower voice he said: "Would you happen to know whether I've done anything to offend him?"
Hugh had looked thoughtful for a moment, then said: "I can't think of any reason why I shouldn't tell you. Edward has discovered that you killed Peter Middleton, and you've been lying to him about it for twenty-four years."
Micky almost jumped out of his chair. How the devil had that come out? He almost asked the question, then remembered he could not without admitting his guilt. Instead he feigned anger and stood up abruptly. "I shall forget you ever said that," he said, and he left the room.
It took him only a few moments to realize that he was in no more danger from the police than he had ever been. No one could prove what he had done and it had all happened so long ago that there would be no point in reopening the investigation. The real danger he faced was that Edward would refuse to raise the two million pounds Papa needed.
He had to win Edward's forgiveness. And to do that he had to see him.
That night he could do nothing, for he was engaged to go to a diplomatic reception at the French embassy and a supper party with some Conservative members of Parliament. But the next day he went to Nellie's at lunchtime, woke April up, and persuaded her to send Edward a note, promising him "something special" if he would come to the brothel that night.
Micky took April's best room and booked Edward's current favorite, Henrietta, a slim girl with short dark hair. He instructed her to dress in a man's evening clothes with a top hat, an outfit Edward found sexy.
By half-past nine in the evening he was waiting for Edward. The room had a huge four-poster bed, two sofas, a big ornate fireplace, the usual washstand, and a series of vividly obscene paintings set in a mortuary, showing the slavering attendant performing various sexual acts on the pale corpse of a beautiful young girl. Micky reclined on a velvet sofa, wearing nothing but a silk robe, sipping brandy, with Henrietta beside him.
She quickly got bored. "Do you like these pictures?" she asked him.
He shrugged and did not answer. He did not want to talk to her. He had very little interest in women for their own sake. The sexual act itself was a humdrum mechanical process. What he liked about sex was the power it gave him. Women and men had always fallen in love with him and he never tired of using their infatuation to control, exploit and humiliate them. Even his youthful passion for Augusta Pilaster had been in part the desire to tame and ride a spirited wild mare.
From that point of view, Henrietta offered him nothing: it was no challenge to control her, she had nothing worth exploiting her for, and there was no satisfaction in humiliating someone as low down on the scale as a prostitute. So he smoked his cigar and worried about whether Edward would come.
An hour went by, and then another. Micky began to lose hope. Was there some other way to reach Edward? It was very difficult to get to a man who really did not want to be seen. He could be "not at home" at his house and unavailable at his place of work. Micky could hang around outside the bank to catch Edward leaving for lunch, but that was undignified, and anyway Edward could easily just ignore him. Sooner or later they would meet at some social occasion, but it might not happen for weeks, and Micky could not afford to wait that long.
Then, just before midnight, April put her head around the door and said: "He's arrived."
"At last," Micky said with relief.
"He's having a drink but he says he doesn't want to play cards. He'll be with you in a few minutes, I'd guess."
Micky's tension mounted. He was guilty of a betrayal about as bad as could be imagined. He had allowed Edward to suffer for a quarter of a century under the illusion that he had killed Peter Middleton when in fact Micky had been the guilty one all along. It was a lot to ask Edward to forgive.
But Micky had a plan.
He posed Henrietta on the sofa. He made her sit with the hat over her eyes and her legs crossed, smoking a cigarette. He turned the gaslights down low then went and sat on the bed, behind the door.
A few moments later Edward came in. In the dim light he did not notice Micky sitting on the bed. He stopped in the doorway, looking at Henrietta, and said: "Hullo--who are you?"
She looked up and said: "Hello, Edward."
"Oh, it's you," he said. He shut the door and came inside. "Well, what's the 'something special' April has been talking about? I've seen you in a tailcoat before."
"It's me," Micky said, and stood up.
Edward frowned. "I don't wish to see you," he said, and turned toward the door.
Micky stood in his way. "At least tell me why. We've been friends too long."
"I've found out the truth about Peter Middleton."
Micky nodded. "Will you give me a chance to explain?"
"What is there to explain?"
"How I came to make such an awful mistake, and why I never had the courage to admit it."
Edward looked mulish.
Micky said: "Sit down, just for a minute, by Henrietta, and let me speak."
Edward hesitated.
Micky said: "Please?"
Edward sat on the sofa.
Micky went to the sideboard and poured him a brandy. Edward took it with a nod. Henrietta moved close to him on the sofa and took his arm. Edward sipped his drink, looked around, and said: "I hate these paintings."
"Me too," said Henrietta. "They give me the shivers."
"Shut up, Henrietta," said Micky.
"Sorry I spoke, I'm sure," she said indignantly.
Micky sat on the opposite sofa and addressed Edward. "I was wrong, and I betrayed you," he began. "But I was sixteen years old, and we've been best friends for most of our lives. Are you really going to throw that away for a schoolboy peccadillo?"
"But you could have told me the truth at any time in the last twenty-five years!" Edward said indignantly.
Micky made his face sad. "I could have, and I should have, but once a lie like that is told, it's hard to take it back. It would have ruined our friendshi
p."
"Not necessarily," Edward said.
"Well, it has now ... hasn't it?"
"Yes," Edward said, but there was a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.
Micky realized the time had come to go all out.
He stood up and slipped off his robe.
He knew he looked good: his body was still lean, and his skin was smooth except for the curly hair at his chest and groin.
Henrietta immediately got up from the sofa and knelt in front of him. Micky watched Edward. Desire flickered in his eyes, but then he glowered obstinately and looked away.
In desperation Micky played his last card.
"Leave us, Henrietta," he said.
She looked startled, but she got up and went out.
Edward stared at Micky. "Why did you do that?" he said.
"What do we need her for?" Micky replied. He stepped closer to the sofa, so that his groin was just inches from Edward's face. He put out a tentative hand, touched Edward's head, and gently stroked his hair. Edward did not move.
Micky said: "We're better off without her ... aren't we?"
Edward swallowed hard and said nothing.
"Aren't we?" Micky persisted.
At last Edward replied. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes."
The following week, Micky entered for the first time the hushed dignity of the Partners' Room at Pilasters Bank.
He had been bringing them business for seventeen years, but whenever he came to the bank he was shown to one of the other rooms, and a walker would fetch Edward from the Partners' Room. He suspected that an Englishman would have been admitted to the inner sanctum a lot faster. He loved London but he knew he would always be an outsider here.
Feeling nervous, he spread out the plan for Santamaria harbor on the big table in the middle of the room. The drawing showed an entirely new port on the Atlantic coast of Cordova, with ship repair facilities and a rail link.
None of it would ever be built, of course. The two million pounds would go straight into the Miranda war chest. But the survey was genuine and the plans were professionally drawn, and if it had been an honest proposal it might even have made money.
Being a dishonest proposal it probably ranked as the most ambitious fraud in history.
While Micky explained it to them, talking of building materials, labor costs, customs duties and income projections, he struggled to maintain an appearance of calm. His entire career, the future of his family and the destiny of his country depended on the decision made in this room today.