A Dangerous Fortune (1994)

by Ken Follett

  Suddenly he was on the run, a fugitive in the city that had been his home for most of his life. He hurried through Liverpool Street Railway Station, avoiding the eyes of policemen, his heart racing and his breath coming in shallow gasps, and dived into a hansom cab.

  He went straight to the office of the Gold Coast and Mexico Steamship Company.

  The place was crowded, mainly with Latins. Some would be trying to return to Cordova, others trying to get relatives out, and some might just be asking for news. It was noisy and disorganized. Micky could not afford to wait for the riffraff. He fought his way to the counter, using his cane indiscriminately on men and women to get through. His expensive clothes and upper-class arrogance got the attention of a clerk, and he said: "I want to book passage to Cordova."

  "There's a war on in Cordova," said the clerk.

  Micky suppressed a sarcastic retort. "You haven't suspended all sailings, I take it."

  "We're selling tickets to Lima, Peru. The ship will go on to Palma if political conditions permit: the decision will be made when it reaches Lima."

  That would do. Micky mainly needed to get out of England. "When is the next departure?"

  "Four weeks from today."

  His heart sank. "That's no good, I have to go sooner!"

  "There's a ship leaving Southampton tonight, if you're in a hurry."

  Thank God! His luck had not quite run out just yet. "Reserve me a stateroom--the best available."

  "Very good, sir. May I have the name?"

  "Miranda."

  "Beg pardon, sir?"

  The English were deaf when a foreign name was spoken. Micky was about to spell his name when he changed his mind. "Andrews," he said. "M. R. Andrews." It had occurred to him that the police might check passenger lists, looking for the name Miranda. Now they would not find it. He was grateful for the insane liberalism of Britain's laws, which permitted people to enter and leave the country without passports. It would not have been so easy in Cordova.

  The clerk began to make out his ticket. Micky watched restlessly, rubbing the sore place on his face where Hugh Pilaster had butted him. He realized he had another problem. Scotland Yard could circulate his description to all port towns by cable. Damn the telegraph. Within an hour they would have local policemen checking all passengers. He needed some kind of disguise.

  The clerk gave him his ticket and he paid with bank notes. He pushed impatiently through the crowd and went out into the snow, still worrying.

  He hailed a hansom and directed it to the Cordovan Ministry, but then he had second thoughts. It was risky to go back there, and anyway he was short of time.

  The police would be looking for a well-dressed man of forty, traveling alone. One way to get past them would be to appear as an older man with a companion. In fact, he could pretend to be an invalid, and be taken on board in a wheelchair. But for that he would need an accomplice. Whom could he use? He was not sure he could trust any of his employees, especially now that he was no longer the minister.

  That left Edward.

  "Drive to Hill Street," he told the cabbie.

  Edward had a small house in Mayfair. Unlike the other Pilasters, he rented his home, and he had not been obliged to move out yet because his rent was paid three months in advance.

  Edward did not seem to care that Micky had destroyed Pilasters Bank and brought ruin to his family. He had only become more dependent on Micky. As for the rest of the Pilasters, Micky had not seen them since the crash.

  Edward answered the door in a stained silk dressing gown and took Micky up to his bedroom, where there was a fire. He was smoking a cigar and drinking whisky at eleven o'clock in the morning. The skin rash was all over his face now, and Micky had second thoughts about using him as an accomplice: the rash made him conspicuous. But there was no time to be choosy. Edward would have to do.

  "I'm leaving the country," Micky said.

  Edward said: "Oh, take me with you," and burst into tears.

  "What the devil is the matter with you?" Micky said unsympathetically.

  "I'm dying," Edward said. "Let's go somewhere quiet and live together in peace until I'm gone."

  "You're not dying, you damn fool--you've only got a skin disease."

  "It's not a skin disease, it's syphilis."

  Micky gasped in horror. "Jesus and Mary, I might have it too!"

  "It's no wonder, the amount of time we've spent at Nellie's."

  "But April's girls are supposed to be clean!"

  "Whores are never clean."

  Micky fought down panic. If he delayed in London to see a doctor he might die at the end of a rope. He had to leave the country today. But the ship went via Lisbon: he could see a doctor there in a few days' time. That would have to do. He might not have the disease at all: he was much healthier than Edward generally, and he always washed himself after sex, whereas Edward was not so fastidious.

  But Edward was in no state to help smuggle him out of the country. Anyway, Micky was not going to take a terminal syphilis case back to Cordova with him. Still he needed an accomplice. And there was only one candidate left: Augusta.

  He was not as sure of her as he was of Edward. Edward had always been willing to do anything Micky asked. Augusta was independent. But she was his last chance.

  He turned to go.

  "Don't leave me," Edward pleaded.

  There was no time for sentiment. "I can't take a dying man with me," he snapped.

  Edward looked up, and his face took on a malicious expression. "If you don't ..."

  "Well?"

  "I'll tell the police that you killed Peter Middleton, and Uncle Seth, and Solly Greenbourne."

  Augusta must have told him about old Seth. Micky stared at Edward. He made a pathetic figure. How have I put up with him for so long, Micky wondered? He suddenly realized how happy he would be to leave him behind. "Tell the police," he said. "They're already after me for killing Tonio Silva, and I might as well be hanged for four murders as for one." He went out without looking back.

  He let himself out of the house and got a hansom in Park Lane. "Kensington Gore," he told the cabbie. "Whitehaven House." On the way he worried about his health. He had none of the symptoms: no skin problems, no unexplained lumps on his genitals. But he would have to wait to be sure. Damn Edward to hell.

  He also worried about Augusta. He had not seen her since the crash. Would she help him? He knew she had always struggled to control her sexual hunger for him; and on that one bizarre occasion she had actually yielded to her passion. In those days Micky had burned for her too. Since then Micky's fire had abated, but he felt that hers had grown hotter. He hoped so: he was going to ask her to run away with him.

  Augusta's door was opened not by her butler but by a slovenly woman in an apron. Passing through the hall, Micky noticed that the place was not very clean. Augusta was in difficulties. So much the better: it would make her more inclined to go along with his plan.

  However, she appeared her usual imperious self as she came into the drawing room in a purple silk blouse with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a black flared skirt With a tiny pinched waist. She had been a breathtakingly beautiful young woman and now, at fifty-eight, she could still turn heads. He recalled the lust he had felt for her as a boy of sixteen, but there was none left. He would have to fake it.

  She did not offer him her hand. "Why have you come here?" she said coldly. "You've brought ruin to me and my family."

  "I didn't intend to--"

  "You must have known that your father was about to launch a civil war."

  "But I didn't know that Cordovan bonds would become valueless because of the war," he said. "Did you?"

  She hesitated. Obviously she had not.

  A crack had opened in her armor and he tried to widen it. "I wouldn't have done it if I'd known--I would have cut my own throat before harming you." He could tell that she wanted to believe this.

  But she said: "You persuaded Edward to deceive his partners so that you co
uld have your two million pounds."

  "I thought there was so much money in the bank that it could never be harmed."

  She looked away. "So did I," she said quietly.

  He pressed his advantage. "Anyway, it's all irrelevant now--I'm leaving England today, and I will probably never come back."

  She looked at him with sudden fear in her eyes, and he knew he had her. "Why?" she said.

  There was no time for beating about the bush. "I have just shot and killed a man and the police are chasing me."

  She gasped and took his hand. "Who?"

  "Antonio Silva."

  She was excited as well as shocked. Her face colored a little and her eyes became bright. "Tonio! Why?"

  "He was a threat to me. I've booked passage on a steamer leaving Southampton tonight."

  "So soon!"

  "I have no choice."

  "And so you've come to say good-bye," she said, and she looked downcast.

  "No."

  She looked up at him. Was that hope in her eyes? He hesitated, then took the plunge. "I want you to come with me."

  Her eyes widened. She took a step back.

  He kept hold of her hand. "Having to leave--and so quickly--has made me realize something I should have admitted to myself a long time ago. I think you have always known it. I love you, Augusta."

  As he acted his part he watched her face, reading it the way a sailor reads the surface of the sea. For a moment she tried to put on a look of astonishment, but she abandoned it almost immediately. She gave the hint of a gratified smile, then a faint blush of embarrassment that was almost maidenly; and then a calculating look that told him she was reckoning up what she had to gain and lose.

  He saw she was still undecided.

  He put his hand on her corseted waist and drew her gently toward him. She did not resist, but her face still wore that appraising look which told him she had not made up her mind.

  When their faces were close and her breasts were touching the lapels of his coat, he said: "I can't live without you, dear Augusta."

  He could feel her trembling beneath his touch. In a shaky voice she said: "I'm old enough to be your mother."

  He spoke into her ear, brushing her face with his lips. "But you aren't," he said, making his voice almost a whisper. "You're the most desirable woman I've ever met. I've longed for you all these years, you know that. Now ..." He moved his hand up from her waist until he was almost touching her breast. "Now I can hardly keep my hands under control. Augusta ..." He paused.

  "What?" she said.

  He almost had her, but not quite. He had to play his last card.

  "Now that I'm no longer minister, I can divorce Rachel."

  "What are you saying?"

  He whispered into her ear: "Will you marry me?"

  "Yes," she said.

  He kissed her.

  Section 3

  APRIL TILSLEY BURST INTO Maisie's office at the Female Hospital, dressed to the nines in scarlet silk and fox fur, carrying a newspaper and saying: "Have you heard what's happened?"

  Maisie stood up. "April! What on earth is it?"

  "Micky Miranda shot Tonio Silva!"

  Maisie knew who Micky was, but it took her a moment to remember that Tonio had been one of that crowd of boys around Solly and Hugh when they were young. He had been a gambler in those days, she recalled, and April had been very sweet on him until she discovered that he always lost what little money he had in wagers. "Micky shot him?" she said in amazement. "Is he dead?"

  "Yes. It's in the afternoon paper."

  "I wonder why?"

  "It doesn't say. But it also says--" April hesitated. "Sit down, Maisie."

  "Why? Tell me!"

  "It says the police want to question him about three other murders--Peter Middleton, Seth Pilaster and ... Solomon Greenbourne."

  Maisie sat down heavily. "Solly!" she said, and she felt faint. "Micky killed Solly? Oh, poor Solly." She closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands.

  "You need a sip of brandy," April said. "Where do you keep it?"

  "We don't have any here," Maisie said. She tried to pull herself together. "Show me that paper."

  April handed her the newspaper.

  Maisie read the first paragraph. It said the police were hunting for the former Cordovan Minister, Miguel Miranda, to question him about the murder of Antonio Silva.

  April said: "Poor Tonio. He was one of the nicest men I ever opened my legs for."

  Maisie read on. The police also wanted to question Miranda about the deaths of Peter Middleton, at Windfield School in 1866; Seth Pilaster, the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank, in 1873; and Solomon Greenbourne, who was pushed under a speeding carriage in a side street off Piccadilly in July of 1879.

  "And Seth Pilaster--Hugh's uncle Seth?" Maisie said agitatedly. "Why did he kill all these people?"

  April said: "The newspapers never tell you what you really want to know."

  The third paragraph jolted Maisie yet again. The shooting had taken place in northeast London, near Walthamstow, at a village called Chingford. Her heart missed a beat. "Chingford!" she gasped.

  "I've never heard of it--"

  "It's where Hugh lives!"

  "Hugh Pilaster? Are you still carrying a torch for him?"

  "He must have been involved, don't you see? It can't be a coincidence! Oh, dear God, I hope he's all right."

  "I expect the paper would say if he had been hurt."

  "It only happened a few hours ago. They may not know." Maisie could not bear this uncertainty. She stood up. "I must find out if he's all right," she said.

  "How?"

  She put on her hat and stuck a pin in it. "I'll go to his house."

  "His wife won't like it."

  "His wife's a paskudniak."

  April laughed. "What's that?"

  "A shitbag." Maisie put on her coat.

  April stood up. "My carriage is outside. I'll take you to the railway station."

  When they got into April's carriage they realized that neither of them knew which London terminus they should go to for a train to Chingford. Fortunately the coachman, who was also the doorman at Nellie's brothel, was able to tell them it was Liverpool Street.

  When they got there Maisie thanked April perfunctorily and dashed into the station. It was packed with Christmas travelers and shoppers returning to their suburban homes. The air was full of smoke and dirt. People shouted greetings and farewells over the screech of steel brakes and the explosive exhalations of the steam engines. She fought her way to the booking office through a throng of women with armfuls of parcels, bowler-hatted clerks going home early, black-faced engineers and firemen, children and horses and dogs.

  She had to wait fifteen minutes for a train. On the platform she watched a tearful farewell between two young lovers, and envied them.

  The train puffed through the slums of Bethnal Green, the suburbs of Walthamstow and the snow-covered fields of Woodford, stopping every few minutes. Although it was twice as fast as a horse-drawn carriage it seemed slow to Maisie as she bit her fingernails and wondered if Hugh was all right.

  When she got off the train at Chingford she was stopped by the police and asked to step into the waiting room. A detective asked her if she had been in the locality that morning. Obviously they were looking for witnesses to the murder. She told him she had never been to Chingford before. On impulse she said: "Was anyone else hurt, other than Antonio Silva?"

  "Two people received minor cuts and bruises in the fracas," the detective replied.

  "I'm worried about a friend of mine who knew Mr. Silva. His name is Hugh Pilaster."

  "Mr. Pilaster grappled with the assailant and was struck on the head," the man said. "His injuries are not serious."

  "Oh, thank God," said Maisie. "Can you direct me to his house?"

  The detective told her where to go. "Mr. Pilaster was at Scotland Yard earlier in the day--whether he has returned yet, I couldn't say."

  Maisie w
ondered whether she should go back to London right away, now that she was fairly sure Hugh was all right. It would avoid a meeting with the ghastly Nora. But she would feel happier if she saw him. And she was not afraid of Nora. She set off for his house, trudging through two or three inches of snow.

  Chingford was a brutal contrast to Kensington, she thought as she walked down the new street of cheap houses with their raw front gardens. Hugh would be stoical about his comedown, she guessed, but she was not so sure of Nora. The bitch had married Hugh for his money and she would not like being poor again.

  Maisie could hear a child crying inside when she knocked on the door of Hugh's house. It was opened by a boy of about eleven years. "You're Toby, aren't you," Maisie said. "I've come to see your father. My name is Mrs. Greenbourne."

  "I'm afraid Father's not at home," the boy said, politely.

  "When do you expect him back?"

  "I don't know."

  Maisie felt let down. She had been looking forward to seeing Hugh. Disappointed, she said: "Perhaps you would just say that I saw the newspaper and I called to make sure he was all right."

  "Very well, I'll tell him."

  There was no more to be said. She might as well go back to the station and wait for the next train into London. She turned away, disappointed. At least she had escaped an altercation with Nora.

  Something in the boy's face bothered her: a look almost of fear. On impulse she turned back and said: "Is your mother in?"

  "No, I'm afraid she's not."

  That was odd. Hugh could no longer afford a governess. Maisie had a feeling that something was wrong. She said: "Might I speak to whoever is looking after you?"

  The boy hesitated. "Actually, there isn't anybody here but me and my brothers."

  Maisie's intuition had been right. What was going on? How had three small boys been left totally alone? She hesitated to interfere, knowing she would catch hell from Nora Pilaster. On the other hand she could not simply walk away and leave Hugh's children to fend for themselves. "I'm an old friend of your father ... and mother," she said.

  "I saw you at Auntie Dotty's wedding," said Toby.

  "Ah, yes. Urn ... may I come in?"

  Toby looked relieved. "Yes, please do," he said.

  Maisie stepped inside. She followed the sound of the crying child to the kitchen at the back of the house. There was a four-year-old squatting on the floor bawling, and a six-year-old sitting on the kitchen table looking as if he were ready to burst into tears at any moment.