The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1)

by Unknown

  The words were not aimed at Arthur, though they might well have been. He had done what had to be done, but that did not make it any easier to live with. A chip off the old block, Uther had said, and he was right. His father’s mind was wandering, his thoughts far away now. ‘I have done such things, Arthur . . . bad things.’

  ‘I doubt if anyone can look back on their lives without some regrets,’ said Arthur consolingly.

  ‘True, very true.’ Uther leaned towards him and whispered hoarsely, ‘Do you believe in Judgement Day?’

  ‘In a way.’ ‘This is mine.’

  ‘You mustn’t think like that. You must concentrate on getting better.’ Right or wrong, his father had always seemed so unassailable to Arthur. And here he was so vulnerable, so ill, so desperately ill, his skull protruding through the flesh. It was almost too much to bear, the more so since it was he who had put him here. He wanted to put his arms round him and tell him that everything was going to be alright. ‘I love you, father.’

  Uther chuckled, ‘Thank God for that. Think what you might have done if you had hated me.’

  Arthur gave a wry smile.

  ‘Where did it go?’ asked Uther. ‘Life. Where did it go? I want it back. Just as I’m beginning to understand what it’s all about, it’s over. Absurd, isn’t it? I never dreamt this would happen to me. All those years that old man with the scythe was trailing me without my knowing it. And now he’s finally caught up with me.’ A wheezy laugh. Uther’s eyes were suddenly fiercely focused. What was he thinking of? ‘I have something to confess.’

  ‘Yes, father?’

  ‘Your mother’s first husband . . . ’ ‘Godfrey Whittaker.’

  ‘They say he shot himself.’ Uther’s voice was stronger now, his eyes feverishly intense. Trembling fingers dug into his temples as if he were trying to root out a painful cancer.

  ‘Shall I send for someone, father?’ ‘Who?’

  Arthur hesitated. ‘A priest?’

  ‘A priest!’ Uther was outraged. ‘Why would I want a damned priest?’

  ‘I don’t know what your religious beliefs are,’ said Arthur. ‘We never talked about things like that. I just thought you might want to . . . ’ How to put it?

  ‘Might want to what?’ asked Uther suspiciously. ‘Ask God’s forgiveness.’

  ‘God? God! It’s none of his bloody business! It’s my son’s forgiveness I’m asking for.’ Uther grasped Arthur’s hand in a surprisingly powerful grip. ‘Godfrey wouldn’t give your mother a divorce. He would have dragged us through the courts. It would have been a huge scandal. He wanted to blacken your mother’s name. And mine.’

  ‘I don’t have to hear this.’ ‘But I have to tell you.’

  Arthur shook his head. ‘No, father, you don’t.’ ‘Won’t you forgive a dying man?’

  ‘It’s not for me to forgive you,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Who can forgive me, then?’ asked Uther plaintively. ‘Igraine, your wife.’

  Uther’s grip tightened. ‘If you won’t forgive me, at least listen to me. Hear my confession.’

  Arthur knew what his father was about to tell him. He had known it since first he met him, though until this moment he had never been able to admit it to himself.

  ‘Godfrey didn’t commit suicide. I killed him. I shot him. There was a bang, and he dropped dead. The most amazing thing. That’s all there is to a man’s life. Bang. And it’s over.’ He peered anxiously at his son. ‘You can’t forgive me, I can see it in your eyes. No one can.’ Uther’s attention now seemed concentrated on the sheet covering his bed. Over its surface his frail hands wandered, flattening out the creases compulsively. But for every crease he smoothed away, another one appeared.

  Arthur was reluctant to ask the question, though it was one that needed answering. ‘Did she know? Did Mother know?’

  Uther gave no sign of having heard him. ‘It was soon after we married,’ he said, his eyes wandering, his trembling fingers scrabbling at the sheet. ‘We were in a restaurant in the South of France. This young fellow stopped at our table and handed her a rose, a red rose. Then he gave a little bow and walked on. She was so happy, and I was so jealous. How I loved her.’

  ‘Did she know, father?’ asked Arthur again. ‘Know what?’

  ‘That you killed Godfrey.’

  A long silence. ‘I never asked her.’

  For a time the only sound in the room was the steady beep of the heart monitor.

  ‘Peccavi,’ said Uther. ‘I have sinned. How many times have

  I said that? First time I ever meant it.’ They had all sinned, thought Arthur. His sister’s sin was his sin; his father’s sin was his sin. Could anyone escape their destiny? ‘I was always an ambitious man, Arthur. Ruthless too. Anyone who stood in my way was my enemy. Before you were born, Merlin told me I would have a son. He made a prophecy. One day, he said, your son will overthrow you.’

  Arthur stared at his father. ‘So that’s why you wanted me

  adopted.’

  ‘I never wanted you adopted,’ said Uther remorsefully, ‘I wanted you dead. I was afraid of my own son. It was your mother who saved your life. Don’t ever forget that. When you came back to me years later I was happy to see you, but I was still afraid of you. I was certain that sooner or later Merlin’s prophecy would be fulfilled. And now it has been. It was written, Arthur.’ Something in the corner of the room drew Uther’s attention. In his father’s eyes Arthur saw what he had never thought to see – a look of terror. Summoning his last reserves of strength, the dying man raised himself up, staring intently at the television monitor.

  ‘What is it, father?’ ‘There!’

  ‘I don’t see anything.’ ‘He’s come for me!’

  ‘Who? Who is it?’

  ‘For God’s sake, man, don’t you see!’ Uther pointed a trembling finger. ‘Look there!’

  ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘Is it you, Godfrey? God forgive me.’ As the pain erupted in Uther’s chest he opened his mouth to cry out, but no sound came. In the final moment of agony his body arched up from the bed and his eyes rolled in their sockets. Falling back, the last of his life slipped away in a long shuddering sigh.

  Eighteen

  2024

  The man who had lived so long in the public eye was buried privately in the churchyard of Brackett village. Igraine stood by the graveside, her face obscured by a veil; Margot, elegantly beautiful in a black couture dress, was flanked by her husband, Lennox, and their five sons; Arthur stood a little apart amongst a group of friends and a sprinkling of politicians.

  Where were Elaine and Morgan he wondered.

  As Arthur left at the end of the short service, a policeman was waiting for him by the entrance to the cemetery. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The policeman saluted.

  ‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’

  ‘It won’t take a moment, sir.’ The policeman beckoned Arthur to follow him.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ said Arthur as the policeman hurried off. One or two friends and several politicians were looking at him curiously. ‘Caught up with you at last, have they, Arthur?’ a member of New Millennium’s cabinet shouted, to the amusement of several guests.

  In the police car a plain-clothes policeman in the back seat leaned across, opened the door and gave an awkward salute. ‘Jump in, sir.’ As Arthur shut the door behind him the car moved off slowly. ‘Won’t keep you a minute, sir.’ The policeman held out a hand. ‘Detective Inspector Warren.’ Leaning back he ordered the driver to drive somewhere quiet. As the car drew into a lay-by Arthur waited for an explanation ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Pendragon. It concerns one of your sisters, or half-sisters, I believe.’ Arthur’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you,’ said the D.I., ‘that Elaine Pendragon is dead. My sincere condolences.’

  Arthur’s first thought was for his mother. ‘Does Mrs Pendragon know?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. I am talking to you first, bec
ause the Chief Constable would like you to be the one to break the sad news to Mrs. Pendragon before the press gets hold of it.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ ‘Last night, sir,’ said the D.I.

  Strange.‘Why haven’t we heard about it before?’

  The policeman chose his words carefully. ‘There are unusual circumstances, sir.’

  Arthur was rapidly losing patience. ‘Get to the point, man.’ ‘As you probably know, Miss Pendragon was playing Peter Pan in Huddersfield.’ Arthur nodded. Morgan had suggested they go up to see Elaine, but he had not been able to find the time. ‘She was flying across the stage on the wire when she fell.’

  The D.I. lowered his voice discreetly. ‘She broke her neck. Died instantly.’

  ‘My God. What a tragedy,’ said Arthur, ‘what a terrible accident.’

  Detective Inspector Warren studied a herd of grazing cows. ‘It wasn’t an accident, sir.’

  It took a moment for Arthur to take that in. ‘What was it, then?’

  The policeman did not answer the question directly. ‘Elaine’s sister, Morgan, she was in the theatre at the time. In the wings, to be precise.’

  Arthur was torn. Still impatient for the policeman to get to the point, he now dreaded to think what that might be. ‘Surely you are not suggesting that Morgan was somehow involved in Elaine’s death, inspector?’

  ‘Apparently there’d been a running feud with the producer,’ said Warren, ‘all through rehearsals.’ ‘What about?’

  The Inspector did not know where to look. ‘Morgan wanted Elaine to play Peter Pan without a wire.’

  Oh, no. Not that. Poor Elaine, thought Arthur. Poor Elaine, poor demented Morgan.

  ‘She went on and on about it. Wouldn’t give up. Obviously the producer refused to play ball.’ The Inspector lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, smoke trickling from each side of his mouth. ‘He knew Morgan was upset, of course, but as far as he was concerned that was all there was to it. Never thought for a second she would do anything bad.’

  ‘So the police think that Morgan . . . ’ Arthur left the rest unsaid.

  ‘There’s no think about it, sir. The harness was tampered with.’

  ‘How can you be sure it was her?’ asked Arthur, though he knew it had to be.

  ‘All the evidence points that way. And anyway, she confessed. Said she was convinced Elaine could fly, so she didn’t need a wire.’

  ‘What will happen?’

  ‘Obviously there was no intent to kill, so it isn’t murder. Technically it’s manslaughter. But under the circumstances . . . ’ The inspector left the rest unsaid. He and Arthur stared at each other.

  ‘She’ll be referred for psychiatric examination,’ said Arthur. ‘I think that’s the likely outcome, sir.’ The policeman tapped the driver on the shoulder and the car moved off. ‘Drop you anywhere?’

  ‘The cemetery, please. I left my car there.’ ‘You’ll be telling Mrs. Pendragon?’

  Arthur nodded. Dear God. As if his mother hadn’t had enough for one day. ‘Yes.’

  After the funeral service Igraine stood at the sitting room window staring with blank eyes, seeing neither the gardens, nor the tree-lined driveway, nor the crowd at the end of it. All she could see in her mind’s eye was the gaping grave and the black figures clustered round. All she could hear was the silken voice of the vicar and the dreadful thud of earth on coffin. Uther was dead. Yet so powerful was her sense of his presence, that standing there in her widow’s weeds, she half expected him to slip his arm through hers and whisper in her ear, ‘You don’t really think I’m dead, do you, duchess? It was all a game, you know, one of my little tricks. I shall never be able to forgive myself. What a thoughtless piggy I am. My fault entirely. Mea culpa.’

  She pictured him smiling that charming smile of his, gazing at her adoringly, making her feel, if only for a moment, that she was the only woman in the world. She wanted to kiss him, and she wanted to scratch his eyes out. With a start she remembered where she was, becoming aware of the crowd still assembled at the gates to pay her husband homage. How ironic, she thought, that Uther’s best friends were the ones who scarcely knew him at all.

  Silence enveloped her . . . It was that bitter-sweet summer of ’93. Uther had invited her down for the weekend to see his grand new house. He confessed he had bought it, furnished and decorated it all for her, and that in fact Brackett Hall was hers, as he was too, and always would be. He had known how to do things in the grand manner. If she would not be his wife, he had said, he would never marry. Brackett Hall will be my Xanadu. I shall be a solitary old bachelor and dine alone every night at the head of a long empty table.

  But it was her, not him, who would be dining alone now. She had lost two husbands, Godfrey and Uther, so alike in looks, so different in temperament and character. Godfrey had loved her, though she had never loved him. She had loved Uther, though he had never loved her. In the end, though, it had made no difference, for he was still the most exciting man she had ever met. And with my dying breath I shall whisper one word – not Rosebud but Igraine. And now he was gone. Never again would he make her pulse race with anger or desire. He had murmured his last words of love, paid his last compliment, told his last lie, smiled his last dissembling smile.

  She had tried not to love him, she had wanted not to love him. She had told herself that if you didn’t feel, you could never be hurt, so that all she had to do was not allow herself to feel. That had proved impossible. The truth was, she could hardly remember a time when marriage to Uther had been anything but painful. Life, she thought, was hard for everyone, but harder, much harder for the ones who feel.

  Leaning back on the sofa she dozed, dreaming that Uther was alive. Half asleep, half awake, she heard that domineering voice in the hall outside telling one of the servants off. He was coming this way. In a moment he would be here, filling the room with his powerful presence. There was a knock on the door. She jumped up, her heart beating fast. Was it him? Was it really him?

  Arthur came into the room and gently took her hand. ‘Can we talk, mother.’

  On his way out, the library door was open. Arthur looked in and saw Margot standing by the bay window on the same spot and in the same pose as the first time they had met as brother and sister. The evening sun lit her face with a soft, golden light. The years had been kind to her, thought Arthur; she was as beautiful as ever she was. Turning as he entered she looked at her brother, a suggestion of a smile disturbing her lovely mouth. ‘I shall put this moment in a cupboard and lock it up,’ she said softly. ‘And when I’m old and grey, I shall take it out and look at it.’

  ‘What is it you want, Margot?’ he asked her.

  The familiar pout. ‘Darling Arthur. You’ve been neglecting me.’

  ‘I know all your tricks. You’re wasting your time.’

  She turned on him that reproachful look he knew so well. ‘Please don’t scold me, darling. I do so hate being scolded.’ Moving close, she brushed a piece of cotton from his shoulder, an assumption of intimacy that he found disturbing. ‘You loved me once.’

  ‘We have been through all that a long time ago. Why bring it up now?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  ‘I thought I loved you,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t you I loved. It was someone who didn’t exist.’

  ‘Oh, but I do exist, Arthur,’ she said, with a mischievous smile. ‘What must I do to prove it?’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You are being tiresome. Who cares about your silly politics? I haven’t seen you for ages.’ He could feel the warmth of her body against his. ‘I’ve missed you so terribly. Have you missed me? No? Not even just a little, Arthur? Just the teensiest bit?’

  ‘Margot, forgive me. I have to get back to town.’ He tried to move to the door but she took his hand in both of hers. ‘I adore your hands.’

  ‘Behave yourself,’ he said sternly.

  ‘My God,’ she said, ‘you sound just like Lennox. You can’t imagine what
a bore he is, boring, boring, boring. If they handed out Oscars for the borer of the year that man would have a houseful by now. Can’t imagine what I ever saw in him. And now that his business is going down the drain he’s even more boring than ever. He walks round the house with those pleading puppy-dog eyes of his. What does he want of me?’

  ‘Sympathy? Moral support?’ suggested Arthur.

  A peevish twitch of the mouth. ‘More scolding? Really, Arthur, you should have been a schoolmaster.’ Again he made to leave. ‘Please don’t go.’ She laid her hand on his arm in gentle appeal. ‘Did you make your peace with my stepfather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said lightly, turning a pirouette. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ She stamped her foot. ‘I loathed him. He was a pig.’

  ‘This is hardly the time, Margot,’ said Arthur. ‘We just buried him.’

  A disdainful look. ‘Blessed relief.’ ‘He was our father.’

  ‘Yours, precious, not mine. He was my stepfather.’ She smiled a coquettish smile. ‘More’s the pity.’

  He took the bait. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Think of it, my darling,’ she cooed. ‘If he had been my father, you would have been my brother, not just my half- brother.’ Margot shivered with excitement. ‘How piquant, how delicious.’ The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. ‘Think what fun we might have had.’ Her dark eyes engaged his provocatively.

  He turned away. ‘You’re too much, Margot.’

  It was as if she had not heard him. ‘Dear Uther,’ she said dreamily, ‘how he adored little girls. He certainly adored me. Always called me his own little angel.’

  Arthur frowned. ‘What are you suggesting?’ ‘It was not my wings he was interested in.’

  ‘Uther would never harm a child,’ said Arthur dismissively. Margot smiled sweetly. ‘I never said he did, now did I? No, he was much too clever for that. He had other ways of getting his kicks.’

  ‘I refuse to listen to this,’ said Arthur, angry now. But he could not bring himself to leave.

  ‘When I was a little girl,’ continued Margot dreamily, ‘my step-father would invite men round to the house and make me sit on their knees; young men, old men, good-looking men, ugly men, fat men, thin men, all sorts of men. But they all had one thing in common; they were randy bastards. He liked to watch when they put their hands up my skirt and did things to me. He would get very excited. Very excited indeed, if you know what I mean.’