A Dangerous Fortune (1994)

by Ken Follett

  After a few minutes of small talk Mrs. Pilaster stood up abruptly, startling the men, who scrambled to their feet. "I'm sure you want to smoke, Dr. Poleson," she said. Without waiting for a reply she went on: "Mr. Pilaster will take a turn around the garden with you. Teddy dear, go with your father. I should like to have a few quiet minutes in the chapel. Perhaps Micky would show me the way."

  "By all means, by all means, by all means," the head stuttered, falling over himself in his eagerness to assent to this series of commands. "Off you go, Miranda."

  Micky was impressed. How effortlessly she made them all do her bidding! He held the door for her and followed her out.

  In the hall he said politely: "Would you like a parasol, Mrs. Pilaster? The sun is quite strong."

  "No, thank you."

  They went outside. There were a lot of boys hanging around outside the head's house. Micky guessed that word had got around about Pilaster's stunning mother, and they had all come to catch a glimpse of her. Feeling pleased to be her escort, he led her through a series of courtyards and quadrangles to the school chapel. "Shall I wait outside for you?" he offered.

  "Come inside. I want to talk to you."

  He began to feel nervous. His pleasure in escorting a striking mature woman around the school started to fade, and he wondered why she wanted to interview him alone.

  The chapel was empty. She took a back pew and invited him to sit beside her. Looking straight into his eyes, she said: "Now tell me the truth."

  *

  Augusta saw the flash of surprise and fear in the boy's expression and knew that she was right.

  However, he recovered in an instant. "I've already told you the truth," he said.

  She shook her head. "You have not."

  He smiled.

  The smile took her by surprise. She had caught him out; she knew he was on the defensive; yet he could smile at her. Few men could resist the force of her will, but it seemed he was exceptional, despite his youth. "How old are you?" she said.

  "Sixteen."

  She studied him. He was outrageously good-looking, with his curly dark-brown hair and smooth skin, although there was already a hint of decadence in the heavy-lidded eyes and full lips. He reminded her somewhat of the earl of Strang, with his poise and good looks.... She pushed that thought aside with a guilty pang. "Peter Middleton was not in difficulties when you arrived at the pool," she said. "He was swimming around quite happily."

  "What makes you say this?" he said coolly.

  He was scared, she sensed, but he maintained his composure. He was really quite remarkably mature. She found herself unwillingly showing more of her hand. "You're forgetting that Hugh Pilaster was there," she said. "He is my nephew. His father took his own life last week, as you probably heard, and that is why he isn't here. But he has spoken to his mother, who is my sister-in-law."

  "What did he say?"

  Augusta frowned. "He said that Edward threw Peter's clothes into the water," she said reluctantly. She did not really understand why Teddy would do such a thing.

  "And then?"

  Augusta smiled. This boy was taking control of the conversation. She was supposed to be questioning him, but instead he was interrogating her. "Just tell me what really happened," she said.

  He nodded. "Very well."

  When he said that, Augusta was relieved, but worried as well. She wanted to know the truth, but she feared what it might be. Poor Teddy--he had almost died, as a baby, because there had been something wrong with Augusta's breast milk, and he nearly wasted away before the doctors discovered the nature of the problem and proposed a wet nurse. Ever since then he had been vulnerable, needing her special protection. Had she had her way he would not have gone to boarding school, but his father had been intransigent about that.... She returned her attention to Micky.

  "Edward didn't mean any harm," Micky began. "He was just ragging. He threw the other boys' clothes into the water as a joke."

  Augusta nodded. That sounded normal to her: boys teasing one another. Poor Teddy must have suffered that sort of thing himself.

  "Then Hugh pushed Edward in."

  "That little Hugh has always been a troublemaker," Augusta said. "He's just like his wretched father was." And like his father he would probably come to a bad end, she thought to herself.

  "The other boys all laughed, and Edward pushed Peter's head under, to teach him a lesson. Hugh ran off. Then Tonio threw a stone at Edward."

  Augusta was horrified. "But he might have been knocked unconscious, and drowned!"

  "However, he wasn't, and he went chasing after Tonio. I was watching them: no one was looking at Peter Middleton. Tonio got away from Edward eventually. That was when we noticed that Peter had gone quiet. We don't really know what happened to him: perhaps Edward's ducking exhausted him, so that he was too tired or too breathless to get out of the pool. Anyway, he was floating facedown. We got him out of the water right away, but he was dead."

  It was hardly Edward's fault, Augusta thought. Boys were always rough with one another. All the same she was deeply grateful that this story had not come out at the inquest. Micky had covered up for Edward, thank heavens. "What about the other boys?" she said. "They must know what happened."

  "It was lucky that Hugh left the school that very day."

  "And the other one--did you call him Tony?"

  "Antonio Silva. Tonio for short. Don't worry about him. He's from my country. He'll do as I tell him."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "He knows that if he gets me into trouble, his family will suffer back home."

  There was something chilling in the boy's voice as he said this, and Augusta shivered.

  "May I fetch you a shawl?" Micky said attentively.

  Augusta shook her head. "No other boys saw what happened?"

  Micky frowned. "There was another boy swimming in the pool when we got there."

  "Who?"

  He shook his head. "I couldn't see his face, and I didn't know it was going to be important."

  "Did he see what happened?"

  "I don't know. I'm not sure at what point he left."

  "But he had gone by the time you got the body out of the water."

  "Yes."

  "I wish we knew who it was," Augusta said anxiously.

  "He may not even have been a schoolboy," Micky pointed out. "He could be from the town. Anyway, for whatever reason, he hasn't come forward as a witness, so I suppose he's no danger to us."

  No danger to us. It struck Augusta that she was involved with this boy in something dishonest, possibly illegal. She did not like the situation. She had got into it without realizing, and now she was trapped. She looked hard at him and said: "What do you want?"

  She caught him off guard for the first time. Looking bewildered, he said: "What do you mean?"

  "You covered up for my son. You committed perjury today." He was unbalanced by her directness, she saw. That pleased her: she was in control again. "I don't believe you took such a risk out of the goodness of your heart. I think you want something in return. Why don't you just tell me what it is?"

  She saw his gaze drop momentarily to her bosom, and for a wild moment she thought he was going to make an indecent suggestion. Then he said: "I want to spend the summer with you."

  She had not expected that. "Why?"

  "My home is six weeks' journey away. I have to stay at school during the holidays. I hate it--it's lonely and boring. I'd like to be invited to spend the summer with Edward."

  Suddenly he was a schoolboy again. She had thought he would ask for money, or perhaps a job at Pilasters Bank. But this seemed such a small, almost childish request. However, it clearly was not small to him. After all, she thought, he is only sixteen.

  "You shall stay with us for the summer, and welcome," she said. The thought did not displease her. He was a rather formidable young man in some ways, but his manners were perfect and he was good-looking: it would be no hardship to have him as a guest. And he mi
ght be a good influence on Edward. If Teddy had a fault it was that he was rather aimless. Micky was just the opposite. Perhaps some of his strength of will would rub off on her Teddy.

  Micky smiled, showing white teeth. "Thank you," he said. He seemed sincerely delighted.

  She felt an urge to be alone for a while and mull over what she had heard. "Leave me now," she said. "I can find my way back to the headmaster's house."

  He got up from the pew. "I'm very grateful," he said, and offered his hand.

  She took it. "I'm grateful to you, for protecting Teddy."

  He bent down, as if he were going to kiss her hand; and then, to her astonishment, he kissed her lips. It was so quick that she had no time to turn away. She searched for words of protest as he straightened up, but she could not think what to say. A moment later he was gone.

  It was outrageous! He should not have kissed her at all, let alone on the lips. Who did he think he was? Her first thought was to rescind the summer invitation. But that would never do.

  Why not? she asked herself. Why could she not cancel an invitation extended to a mere schoolboy? He had acted presumptuously, so he should not come to stay.

  But the thought of going back on her promise made her uncomfortable. It was not just that Micky had saved Teddy from disgrace, she realized. It was worse than that. She had entered into a criminal conspiracy with him. It made her unpleasantly vulnerable to him.

  She sat in the cool chapel for a long time, staring at the bare walls and wondering, with a distinct feeling of apprehension, how that handsome, knowing boy would use his power.

  PART I

  1873

  Chapter ONE

  MAY

  Section 1

  WHEN MICKY MIRANDA WAS TWENTY-THREE his father came to London to buy rifles.

  Senor Carlos Raul Xavier Miranda, known always as Papa, was a short man with massive shoulders. His tanned face was carved in lines of aggression and brutality. In leather chaps and a broad-brimmed hat, seated on a chestnut stallion, he could make a graceful, commanding figure; but here in Hyde Park, wearing a frock coat and a top hat, he felt foolish, and that made him dangerously bad-tempered.

  They were not alike. Micky was tall and slim, with regular features, and he got his way by smiling rather than frowning. He was deeply attached to the refinements of London life: beautiful clothes, polite manners, linen sheets and indoor plumbing. His great fear was that Papa would want to take him back to Cordova. He could not bear to return to days in the saddle and nights sleeping on the hard ground. Even worse was the prospect of being under the thumb of his older brother Paulo, who was a replica of Papa. Perhaps Micky would go home one day, but it would be as an important man in his own right, not as the younger son of Papa Miranda. Meanwhile he had to persuade his father that he was more useful here in London than he would be at home in Cordova.

  They were walking along South Carriage Drive on a sunny Saturday afternoon. The park was thronged with well-dressed Londoners on foot, on horseback or in open carriages, enjoying the warm weather. But Papa was not enjoying himself. "I must have those rifles!" he muttered to himself in Spanish. He said it twice.

  Micky spoke in the same language. "You could buy them back home," he said tentatively.

  "Two thousand of them?" Papa said. "Perhaps I could. But it would be such a big purchase that everyone would know about it."

  So he wanted to keep it secret. Micky had no idea what Papa was up to. Paying for two thousand guns, and the ammunition to go with them, would probably take all the family's reserves of cash. Why did Papa suddenly need so much ordnance? There had been no war in Cordova since the now legendary March of the Cowboys, when Papa had led his men across the Andes to liberate Santamaria Province from its Spanish overlords. Who were the guns for? If you added up Papa's cowboys, relatives, placemen and hangers-on it would come to fewer than a thousand men. Papa had to be planning to recruit more. Whom would they be fighting? Papa had not volunteered the information and Micky was afraid to ask.

  Instead he said: "Anyway, you probably couldn't get such high-quality weapons at home."

  "That's true," said Papa. "The Westley-Richards is the finest rifle I've ever seen."

  Micky had been able to help Papa with his choice of rifles. Micky had always been fascinated by weapons of all kinds, and he kept up with the latest technical developments. Papa needed short-barreled rifles that would not be too cumbersome for men on horseback. Micky had taken Papa to a factory in Birmingham and shown him the Westley-Richards carbine with the breech-loading action, nicknamed the Monkeytail because of its curly lever.

  "And they make them so fast," Micky said.

  "I expected to wait six months for the guns to be manufactured. But they can do it in a few days!"

  "It's the American machinery they use." In the old days, when guns had been made by blacksmiths who fitted the parts together by trial and error, it would indeed have taken six months to make two thousand rifles; but modern machinery was so precise that the parts of any gun would fit any other gun of the same pattern, and a well-equipped factory could turn out hundreds of identical rifles a day, like pins.

  "And the machine that makes two hundred thousand cartridges a day!" Papa said, and he shook his head in wonderment. Then his mood switched again and he said grimly: "But how can they ask for the money before the rifles are delivered?"

  Papa knew nothing about international trade, and he had assumed the manufacturer would deliver the rifles in Cordova and accept payment there. On the contrary, the payment was required before the weapons left the Birmingham factory.

  But Papa was reluctant to ship silver coins across the Atlantic Ocean in barrels. Worse still, he could not hand over the entire family fortune before the arms were safely delivered.

  "We'll solve this problem, Papa," Micky said soothingly. "That's what merchant banks are for."

  "Go over it again," Papa said. "I want to make sure I understand this."

  Micky was pleased to be able to explain something to Papa. "The bank will pay the manufacturer in Birmingham. It will arrange for the guns to be shipped to Cordova, and insure them on the voyage. When they arrive, the bank will accept payment from you at their office in Cordova."

  "But then they have to ship the silver to England."

  "Not necessarily. They may use it to pay for a cargo of salt beef coming from Cordova to London."

  "How do they make a living?"

  "They take a cut of everything. They will pay the rifle manufacturer a discounted price, take a commission on the shipping and insurance, and charge you extra for the guns."

  Papa nodded. He was trying not to show it but he was impressed, and that made Micky happy.

  They left the park and walked along Kensington Gore to the home of Joseph and Augusta Pilaster.

  In the seven years since Peter Middleton drowned, Micky had spent every vacation with the Pilasters. After school he had toured Europe with Edward for a year, and he had roomed with Edward during the three years they had spent at Oxford University, drinking and gambling and raising cain, making only the barest pretense of being students.

  Micky had never again kissed Augusta. He would have liked to. He wanted to do more than just kiss her. And he sensed that she might let him. Underneath that veneer of frozen arrogance there was the hot heart of a passionate and sensual woman, he was sure. But he had held back out of prudence. He had achieved something priceless by being accepted almost as a son in one of the richest families in England, and it would be insane to jeopardize that cherished position by seducing Joseph Pilaster's wife. All the same he could not help daydreaming about it.

  Edward's parents had recently moved into a new house. Kensington Gore, which not so long ago had been a country road leading from Mayfair through the fields to the village of Kensington, was now lined, along its south side, by splendid mansions. On the north side of the street were Hyde Park and the gardens of Kensington Palace. It was the perfect location for the home of a rich commercia
l family.

  Micky was not so sure about the style of architecture.

  It was certainly striking. It was of red brick and white stone, with big leaded windows on the first and second floors. Above the first floor was a huge gable, its triangular shape enclosing three rows of windows--six, then four, then two at the apex: bedrooms, presumably, for innumerable relatives, guests and servants. The sides of the gable were stepped, and on the steps were perched stone animals, lions and dragons and monkeys. At the very top was a ship in full sail. Perhaps it represented the slave ship which, according to family legend, was the foundation of the Pilasters' wealth.

  "I'm sure there's not another house like this in London," Micky said as he and his father stood outside staring at it.

  Papa replied in Spanish. "No doubt that is what the lady intended."

  Micky nodded. Papa had not met Augusta, but he had her measure already.

  The house also had a big basement. A bridge crossed the basement area and led to the entrance porch. The door was open, and they went in.

  Augusta was having a drum, an afternoon tea party, to show off her house. The oak-paneled hall was jammed with people and servants. Micky and his father handed their hats to a footman then pushed through the crowd to the vast drawing room at the back of the house. The French windows were open, and the party spilled out onto a flagged terrace and a long garden.

  Micky had deliberately chosen to introduce his father at a crowded occasion, for Papa's manners were not always up to London standards, and it was better that the Pilasters should get to know him gradually. Even by Cordovan standards he paid little attention to social niceties, and escorting him around London was like having a lion on a leash. He insisted on carrying his pistol beneath his coat at all times.

  Papa did not need Micky to point Augusta out to him.

  She stood in the center of the room, draped in a royal-blue silk dress with a low square neckline that revealed the swell of her breasts. As Papa shook her hand she gazed at him with her hypnotic dark eyes and said in a low, velvet voice: "Senor Miranda--what a pleasure to meet you at last."