For a few seconds Chilvers looked genuinely surprised, but he recovered fast. 'Of course. I thought there was something fishy about you then. I'd guessed you might be a newspaper journalist but perhaps you're simply a habitual fantasist, Mr Bartram?"
'I represent the family of John Emmett and, to a secondary degree, Mrs Eleanor Bolitho.' Laurence ignored George Chilvers' raised eyebrow. 'It is possible I made a mistake in approaching your father in the way I did but my motives were to clear up some questions that remain over the circumstances of Captain Emmett's death. I'm sorry that I felt it was necessary to deceive him. It was not lack of respect but necessity. As it happens, I thought him a good man doing an important and difficult task. I don't want to have to tel him of my fears that a patient's belongings were misappropriated.'
Chilvers stil looked comfortable. 'Good he may be, indeed, a saint he may be, but a businessman he is not,' he replied smoothly. 'But actualy it's irrelevant. The thing is, my father's dying. He's not likely to see the summer. A large tumour. Quite untreatable in the long term. Wel, in the short term, to tel the truth. Once he dies I might just sel the whole place as a going concern, and go abroad. Or I might let it continue to bring me in a tidy income. Though some things wil have to change. I haven't decided, but either way you running to my father is hardly going to hurt me. It might hurt him, of course. Perhaps that would be satisfaction enough for you, having already led this "good man" down the garden path?'
When Laurence didn't reply, George Chilvers went on, 'The thing about my father is that, despite his strange passion for invisible ilnesses, he's a traditionalist at heart. Takes everybody's story at face value. Gives hours of his time, even now that he is a very sick man. Indulges the deluded, the weak, the malingering, the storytelers: he never discriminates. Has been known to reduce fees for long-term favourites. Al very noble but, in the end, this isn't an order of nursing nuns. And too much coddling makes it far too easy for a man to stay il.
'So, take the matter of suicide, which I am sure you intend to do sooner or later. Almost al the suicides connected with Holmwood have been patients who had been forced out into the considerably less tolerant world outside. It wasn't Holmwood they had a problem with, it was returning to their so-caled nearest and dearest.
Or they loved melodrama, as many of these types do, and simply miscalculated.'
Laurence remembered the description of the young man throwing himself head first over the banisters on to the flagged halway. It seemed al too carefuly calculated to him.
'But mostly they could see eviction from our little Eden looming and couldn't face it,' Chilvers went on. 'After al, they were men who had already proved themselves unable to face adversity in other spheres. I'd include your friend Captain Emmett in this. My father seemed to think he was turning a corner. He was certainly getting restive and becoming a damned nuisance, frankly.'
'He went to London,' Laurence interrupted.
'He went to London and caused us al a hel of a bother. We were responsible for him. Puling these stunts was the sort of selfish act Emmett specialised in. His suicide was al of a piece with this. My father was il in hospital in London. I had to deal with Emmett and keep Holmwood running.'
'What was Captain Emmett doing in London, do you think?'
'I have no idea and, frankly, I don't care. Picking up a tart and taking her to a hotel? Fornicating with another man's wife? His sort preyed on women. He even brought Mrs Bolitho to Holmwood, trying to pass her off as his sister while she slavered over him. He must have thought we were fools. Wel, my father may react like a fool through his own innocence, but I am no man's patsy. Then she had the impertinence to complain about our treatment.'
Laurence was determined to keep his temper. What he needed was information. He recognised nothing of John in Chilvers' view of him but he remembered Eleanor describing Vera Chilvers' crush on him.
'Treatment?'
'We kept him in the custody of his room. If he couldn't be trusted to respect our boundaries, then he needed to be restrained. It wasn't the first time. He was always chalenging our decisions.'
'Restrained?'
'Not a straitjacket, I'm afraid, if that's what you were hoping for. Locked in. Constantly supervised. He cut up about it, of course. For a period of time—a very short period of time—I had to sedate him with veronal. He could get quite violent when crossed.'
'You had the training to make such decisions?'
'I hardly feel I need to justify our regime to a self-confessed liar,' Chilvers retorted, and to Laurence's satisfaction he now appeared to be only just keeping his temper under control. 'Each patient has a broad range of medication and treatments written up by my father at admission, which covers al conceivable possible future requirements. The day-to-day treatment plans are a matter of discussion and we tend to pick and choose from what was prescribed in the patient's file. There can't be a doctor here every minute of the day.
'In this case, when my father returned to Holmwood he reversed the treatment decision. He likened Emmett's troublesomeness to pins and needles in a dead leg when circulation returns. My father's trade lends itself to metaphor. Unfortunately, and foolishly in my opinion, my father always had a soft spot for the man, but you only have to see what Emmett was capable of when he attacked our attendant outside the church. He may wel have been your friend, but he was violent, dangerous even.
Assault is what saw him admitted in the first place. You would have thought he would have had a better war.'
'You knew him in the war?' Laurence said, attempting to sound surprised. 'I hadn't realised. Were you in France?'
Chilvers flushed. He recovered almost immediately but Laurence knew he'd scored a hit. 'I knew of his war. It precipitated his ilness,' said Chilvers. 'Much to my regret I was unable to fight myself; I have a degree of scoliosis.' His hand curved towards his spine. 'One has to accept the limitations it imposes and move on.'
'It must be hard.'
'I fear I'm revealing a side of your friend that you didn't know?'
'I didn't actualy know him at al wel,' said Laurence. 'I know his sister.'
Something approaching amusement crept into Chilvers' voice but it made him if anything less attractive. 'Ah, yes. Emmett's sister. Or should I say "sisters"? I'm reminded of that little ditty: "The bible says to love my brother but I so good have grown,/ That I love other people's brothers better than my own." So are we discussing his real sister or the one who prefers other people's brothers?'
'If you mean Mrs Bolitho then, yes, I know both women. I count them as friends.' Laurence was stil trying to keep his voice under control. 'But at present it is Captain Emmett's possessions I am interested in.'
'Al returned to his family, such as they were.'
'Not al, I think. I believe you retained some letters.'
'And your belief rests on what facts?'
'Because Mrs Bolitho tels me you have some correspondence from Captain Emmett to her and possibly from her to him.'
'Wel, I hardly think Mrs Bolitho can set up her camp on the high ground. Both of you playing your charades, but I imagine you're aware she's an adulteress, as wel as an impostor. A woman ful of tales and accusations. I hope she hasn't wrapped you around her little finger, Mr Bartram. Are you a married man?'
'The letters?' said Laurence, crisply. 'They are legaly the property of the family.'
He wanted to protest that Eleanor had had no further physical relationship with John once she decided to marry Wiliam but sensed that Chilvers would be more gratified than rebuked by any discussion of Eleanor's private life.
'No letters, I can assure you,' Chilvers said. 'Why should I lie? Violet ink and lascivious thoughts are hardly my reading of choice. If there ever were any letters, I can assure you they must have been long destroyed.'
'If there were letters, they should have been put before the coroner after John's death.'
'Indeed? I do have some grasp of the law, including that of defamation. Perhaps you have forgotten
, or didn't know, despite the richness of your information, that I am a solicitor?'
'Does the Law Society know of the wils you've drawn up for patients and the bequests profiting you or your father?'
Chilvers shook his head. 'Clutching at straws, I think, Mr Bartram. The few wils I made are al quite in order, I think you'l find. The legal position of lunatics is entirely clear. No wils were made when any testator was of unsound mind. But some legal assistance with al kinds of matters is part of our service to our unfortunate guests.'
'And your wife?'
'My wife? Mr Bartram, are you now going to insult my wife? Or are you simply going to continue to insult me?'
'You drafted her wil?'
'I certainly did. And it was witnessed. You are obviously aware she was, for a while, a patient of my father's: a delicate woman, Vera, but, as you can see, she is stil very much alive. Because she is my wife, and as we have no children, if she died intestate her property would come to me in any case. However, any wil I drafted initialy for her was made void by our marriage. I fear I may be missing some point here?'
'You were blackmailing Mrs Bolitho,' Laurence said, nettled that the conversation was not going as he intended.
'That is quite an offensive accusation to make against a professional man. I'l let it pass but I think it is time you went, Mr Bartram. Quite why I would want to blackmail a woman like that escapes me.'
As Chilvers turned away, Laurence said, 'You wanted to blackmail her firstly because you were anxious that your cruelties at Holmwood should not be given any publicity, particularly by an experienced nurse. Even the most indulgent father might think twice about leaving an enterprise that he had built up with care and kindness in the hands of a cruel, dishonest owner. Secondly, your wife's attachment to John Emmett, though unreciprocated except in terms of friendship, might have provided him with evidence of your shabby treatment of a woman you had a duty to protect. Thirdly, and crucialy, I believe you had a strong physical attraction to Mrs Bolitho, which you wished to consummate in any way you could. You were yourself a married man at the time. Mrs Bolitho might have needed coercion, even had she not found you repelent.'
He looked steadily at Chilvers, who stepped forward, clenching and unclenching his left hand as it hung by his side. Laurence was wiling him to lash out. It was twelve years since he had won his house cup at boxing, but he was leaner and perhaps fitter than the man opposite him. Chilvers may wel have made the same judgment, as he stepped back slightly.
'I am not going to stand for one more minute of this. You may have been bewitched by Mrs Bolitho and her bastard child, but I most certainly have not. You have no proof of the existence of any letters. Al this is conjecture. Fantasy. I might remind you that the first time I met you, it was you, not I, who were acting under false pretences. Kindly leave my house. If you return I shal cal the police.' He rang the smal bel on the table.
'I'm not sure you would actualy want the police here and I may wel visit them myself as Miss Emmett's representative, but I'm leaving anyway,' Laurence said, more calmly than he felt. 'Should you want to reconsider your statements, here is my card.' He laid one down on the table. 'Should you remember that, after al, you do have any of Captain Emmett's possessions, perhaps you would contact me?'
Chilvers picked up the card, looked at it briefly and threw it on to the coals.
Laurence had an overwhelming urge to punch Chilvers, regardless. His fingers curled into a fist as he measured up the precise spot on Chilvers' jaw where he would land it. Chilvers licked his lips and the corner of his eye twitched.
'I warn you to stay wel away from Mrs Bolitho,' Laurence said, taking a smal step forward. 'You may be right in thinking I could not make my accusations stick. You may wel have destroyed the letters, once they were no use to you as an implement to batter Mrs Bolitho into surrendering. You may not be a thief and a predator, but, I think, colectively these accusations might do you harm if brought to the attention of the right people. A fusilade. It's a military term. You won't know much about its effects. Wise men under such fire keep their heads down.'
Chilvers started to speak but Laurence wouldn't let him interrupt.
'John Emmett was unwel and unable to defend himself. Mrs Bolitho is al too able to defend herself, but vulnerable because of her circumstances. I, however, am neither unwel nor vulnerable. I have absolutely nothing to lose, whereas you, I think, do. I can assure you I shal do the very best I can to bring you down without a moment's hesitation if you cause Miss Emmett or Mrs Bolitho any further distress. I shal speak to your father, the police, the Law Society and my friends in the national newspapers.'
Laurence wondered briefly whether he could indeed presume upon his very new acquaintance with Tresham Brabourne.
And you may find that the reputation of Holmwood and, indeed, its history come under intense scrutiny. Maybe even enough to make your dying father reconsider his disposition of his property and save his patients from your attentions.'
Laurence reached the front door before the maid who was hovering uncertainly with his things. His last words had been pure bluff, a performance fired by adrenalin, and his heart was beating heavily and fast. As he took his hat and scarf from the girl, he was unable to resist looking back to see whether Chilvers was stil in view. The man had folowed him into the hal but now stood with his back to him, looking upwards. His spine, Laurence noticed with a smal satisfaction, seemed straight. At the top of the stairs he caught a flash of blue on the upper landing. It was Mrs Chilvers, he thought, moving out of sight before her husband could see her.
Chapter Thirty-one
As he strode down the drive he wasn't sure whether he had achieved anything, yet he felt invigorated. He was quite happy to walk the distance to the station in the fresh air. Having taken such an instant dislike to Chilvers the first time he'd met him, there was a sort of gratification in finding his first impressions borne out by everything Chilvers had said during this encounter. Laurence had accomplished nothing of substance, yet he felt pleased with the day. He suspected Chilvers was a man few people stood up to. His only worry was whether the man was capable of taking out his il temper on his wife. Laurence recaled Vera Chilvers' bruises. The thought of her husband with his hands round her neck was too imaginable, but how could she escape from him and would she want to?
He had clarified to his own satisfaction that there had been a letter or letters belonging to John; that Chilvers had indeed appropriated them; that he had discovered the nature of John and Eleanor's relationship as wel as Nicholas's parentage; and that, once the letters had failed to bring about the desired outcome with Eleanor Bolitho, he had probably destroyed them. Whether they gave any insight on John's state of mind would never now be known. Yet George Chilvers' very hostility made his depiction of John convincing. If John was restless, chalenging the staff, wanting to go to London, and had risked being imprisoned in his room, then he was no longer the withdrawn, silent man Mary had spoken of. Things had changed. Laurence was glad that old Dr Chilvers, at least, had seen something special in John, that he had moderated his harsh treatment and had perceived an improvement. Al this would be happily received by Mary.
Yet his triumph began to fade as he realised that any doubts as to John's death being suicide were borne out by this new account of his last weeks. George Chilvers had made no effort to hide his dislike of John. Was that dislike sufficient for him to have wished him dead? Mary had said that Chilvers had driven around in his car looking for John after he got away. Was it possible that, far from intending to take him back to Holmwood, he had set out to remove him permanently? Could Chilvers have taken a gun from a previous patient?
By the time the train came, the adrenalin had subsided. He dozed, off and on, much of the way back to London. Feeling more or less revived when the train drew in, he decided on the spur of the moment to take a diversion past the Daily Chronicle's offices. He knew it was a gamble. It was far too late to find Brabourne there but the paper itself was pre
sumably open at night and it would be worth the cab fare to pick up the cuttings the journalist had promised. Brabourne had been as good as his word and the doorman handed him a plump brown envelope. Opening the flap, Laurence saw it contained several folded pages of newsprint. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.
His flat was cold when he got in and the larder was distinctly bare, but he prepared a plate of cold mutton, some pickles and bread. He picked up a solitary pear, trying not to notice how shriveled it looked. Just as he was settling back in his chair to eat it, he heard a knocking downstairs. He listened again. He so rarely had a visitor that he had never bothered to mend the broken bel pul. The knocking grew more insistent. He opened his door and went down the stairs to the street door. It was even less likely that any visitor would be for his downstairs neighbour. On the doorstep stood Charles. Wordlessly, he folowed Laurence back up to his flat.
'Sorry, old chap. You did say you wanted to see me. Were you in the middle of dinner?' He looked over Laurence's shoulder at his plate. Laurence pushed the half-eaten pear deep into his pocket.
'Come in. It's not very warm, I'm afraid.'
'Hel's bels, man. Are you in training for an Antarctic expedition? No, I'l keep my coat on, thank you.'
Laurence poured out two tumblers of whisky as Charles riddled the grate and shoveled the coal over bals of screwed-up newspaper in the fireplace. He bent over with his lighter.
'Shan't stay long,' Charles said as he got to his feet again. 'But I wanted to tel you what I've been up to. Had to hurry round. Great news. Significant news, that is. You asked me to find out about Liley. Lieutenant Ralph Liley, principal author of Edmund Hart's misfortunes. It wasn't hard to find out that he made it through the war. He left the army, hale and hearty, in 1918, and went back to his parents. Only child. His mother was a Berridge—one of the Shropshire Berridges, so plenty of money coming young Liley's way. Father has a smal estate and officialy Liley returned to manage it. A keen sportsman, our boy, who became youngest ever master of foxhounds of the local hunt. In fact, along with shooting and fishing, that's how he mostly passed his time.'
The Return of Captain John Emmett Page 28