Silverbridge

by Joan Wolf

  Tony’s finger gripped the chair back so tightly that they showed white. “This discussion is going nowhere. Keep your damn land, Harry. Much good may it do you.”

  He strode to the door and was on the verge of going out when Harry said, “You’d better rebrush your hair. You mussed it when you ran your fingers through it.” Tony glared at him and slammed the door.

  Harry sat sipping his coffee and looking at the portrait of Charles. “What do you think?” he said out loud. “Is my own brother trying to do away with me?”

  No, he’s not. He answered his own question in his mind. I can picture Tony bribing the E.H. officer; I can perhaps even picture him burning the stable. But I can't picture him disabling my brakes, or trying to run me down in the hospital parking lot, or shooting at me in the woods.

  “I think Tony is in the clear,” he said out loud to Charles. “Mauley must be acting on his own.” He tried to push out of his mind the thought that if Mauley were indeed behind his problems, then the real estate mogul would have needed an assistant. One could hardly imagine Mauley creeping around in the woods with a rifle.

  He hired someone, Harry thought. He would need someone from Silverbridge to do his dirty work.

  The dregs in his coffee cup were stone cold, and he had come no closer to an answer when he got up and went back into the kitchen for breakfast.

  That day the film company was shooting the final scene in the earl’s bedchamber. It was Tracy’s death scene, the scene where Martin, at the end of his rope, feels the only thing he can do to save his honor and his sanity is to murder his beautiful young wife.

  The set was ready when Tracy came into the room wearing a long ivory silk nightgown, cut to show a lot of cleavage. The lights along one wall were trained on a beautifully carved four-poster covered in a gold- embroidered spread, which had been turned down in readiness for her. A chaise lounge covered in the same material as the spread stood near the window, along with an elegant little writing table; and two upholstered chairs, with a tea table between them, were set in front of the alabaster fireplace. Over the mantel hung a Titian portrait of the Contessa de Alfori, who Meg had once said was her distant ancestress.

  It was a large, open room for a bedroom, but all the equipment made it seem smaller.

  “All right, Tracy,” Dave said. “If you would get into the bed, Ivan will check the lighting.”

  Tracy went over to the bed, stepped out of her loafers, and slipped in between the fine cotton sheets. Someone dashed over to remove the offensively muddy modern footgear.

  “Lie back against the pillows, please,” the photography director instructed from his place behind one of the cameras.

  Tracy complied, resting her head against the lace-embroidered down pillows behind her.

  “Fix her hair,” Dave said.

  The hairdresser came forward and spread Tracy’s loose hair so that it haloed her head. “Like that, Dave?” she asked.

  “Perfect,” the director replied. He looked around, and asked, “Are both cameras loaded?”

  “I’ve already told you six times, Dave,” the cameraman replied patiently. “Both cameras are loaded and ready.”

  Dave’s foot was tapping rhythmically. This was the crucial scene, the one that must elicit the tragic emotions of pity and fear from the audience, and he very much wanted to do it in one shoot, while his actors were still fresh. “Now all we need is Jon,” he said impatiently.

  “I’m here.” At that moment, Jon came into the room wearing his costume: a ruffled dress shirt, which was open to bare his burly chest, and a pair of tight black satin knee breeches. His hair had been brushed so that a curl fell forward over his forehead, and he looked dashingly Byronic and very sexy.

  Everyone on the set knew that this was Jon’s scene. Tracy’s job was to look helpless, and bewildered, and, at last, when she realized what he was going to do, terrified.

  “Clear the set,” Dave said. He wanted all extraneous personnel out of the way so that his actors’ concentration would be at its peak. Jon positioned himself on the mark at the door, Tracy turned her face on the pillow and closed her eyes, and Dave said, “Roll.”

  Jon came in the bedroom door.

  His first line was a deliberate reference to Othello, which had been in the novel. “Put out the light”—he looked at the candle in his hand—“and then put out the light.” He came to a halt next to the bed and stared down into Tracy’s sleeping face.

  This was the cue for Tracy to open her eyes and regard him drowsily. “You have not yet undressed, my lord. Are you not coming to bed?”

  He reached out and touched her cheek, and for the first time Tracy felt a real shiver of fear. The hazel eyes looking at her had turned a darkish green.

  How did his eyes get so green? Is he wearing contacts? Tracy thought nervously.

  The camera came in closer to catch her face.

  “You are not asleep… yet?” Jon asked.

  “No.” Tracy’s voice came out slightly breathless. “I was waiting for you, my lord.”

  Jon’s hand moved to caress her long, bare throat. “So fair,” he said. “So fair and soft and fragile.”

  Tracy struggled to sit up against the pillows. “Is something wrong, my lord?”

  “Why would you say that, my love?” His voice was gentle and caressing, in complete contrast to the look in his eyes.

  Tiger eyes, Tracy thought. She had planned not to show fear until the end of the scene, but now her heart began to hammer in her chest.

  “You seem… s-strange,” she said.

  The tiger eyes stared into hers, uncivilized, untamed, ferocious, cruel. Tracy instinctively glanced toward Dave for reassurance, but there was no alarm on his face. In the finished movie that look of hers would seem like a cry for help.

  As the scene continued, the tiger Jon was harboring within came ever closer to the surface, pacing and lashing its tail in fury as Tracy tried in vain to placate him. She had little difficulty projecting her emotions; she had forgotten about the cameras and the mikes and was caught up in the terror of what was happening to Julia, sweet, harmless Julia, who hadn’t realized what a perilous beast her innocent flirtations would make of her husband.

  Inexorably, the scene marched on, Tracy pleading her innocence, Jon growing more and more brutal as he charged her with the long list of supposed betrayals that had been destroying his mind. Sweat poured off Jon’s face and stained his ruffled shirt. He was possessed of an enormous rage as the cruel words came out of his mouth, and the tiger stalked, ready to kill.

  Neither Tracy nor Jon heard when Dave said quietly, “Roll camera two.” It was the second camera that finished the scene, catching on film for all time one of the greatest screen performances ever delivered by an actor.

  By the time Jon pushed the pillow over her face, Tracy fully expected him actually to try to smother her.

  He did not. As soon as Dave called, “Cut! Print!” Jon loosened his hand on the pillow. Tracy struggled to sit up and both she and Jon, in sheer exhaustion, looked at Dave, who was pumping his fist in the air, seemingly oblivious of the tears that were streaming down his face. “That was great!” he said. “That was great!”

  Tracy started to cry. Jon collapsed on the bed as if his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore. The technical crew burst into applause. Jon reached out and took her hand. She stared down at the large hand that had engulfed hers and said through her sobs, “I thought perhaps you really might kill me. You were terrifying.”

  “I even scared myself,” he said huskily.

  As the crew began to put the scene away, Tracy and Jon sat together on the bed and let the emotions they had built drain slowly from their adrenaline-driven bodies.

  After taking off her costume and her makeup, Tracy went up to her bedroom and for two hours fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When she awakened it was twilight, that lovely time in England when it isn’t light but isn’t yet dark. Her eyes fell on an envelope bearing her name, which reposed on
her night table. She opened it, took out a piece of stationery engraved with the Oliver coat of arms, and read: “I looked in on you but you were sleeping. I’m going to be at the farm for the rest of the day—see you when I get back. Harry.”

  Damn, she thought, annoyed at having missed him. While she was sleeping an idea had coalesced in her brain, and she decided to follow up on it and make a telephone call to Gail.

  Meg was in the morning room watching television when Tracy came in. She waved to Meg, dialed Gail's number, and turned away to face the dining table.

  When Gail picked up the phone, Tracy said, “Have you heard anything from Sanderson?”

  “Yes,” Gail replied. “But it’s not good news. He said that it was impossible to get hold of Mauley’s bank records. They’re available to the police, of course, but not to a private investigator. He said that if you wanted to charge Mauley, then perhaps the police would demand the records, but his own contact in Scotland Yard doesn’t want anything to do with preempting Mauley’s records without demonstrable cause.”

  “Damn. I can’t charge Mauley with bribery when I have no evidence, and I can’t get evidence unless I charge him.”

  “Um,” Gail said. “Catch 22.”

  They talked about a few other business matters and then Tracy said, “I do have one more job for Sanderson, Gail.”

  “Shoot.” Gail wrote down what Tracy told her.

  “It’s probably a waste of time,” Tracy said, “but we’ve already wandered down so many dead ends that one more won’t matter.”

  “Okay. How did the filming go today?”

  “We did it in one take, and Dave said it was great.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Gail said sincerely.

  Tracy laughed. “I don’t think I could have gone through it again. It was that intense.”

  “If it was that intense, then it must be good.”

  “I think it is. I might even look at the rashes tomorrow.”

  She hung up and went to join Meg on the sofa. “Is Harry still at the farm?” she asked as she sat down. “It’s getting rather late.”

  Meg turned to her. “No, he came in about half an hour ago. Then he had a call from Tony and went out again.”

  Tracy felt all the blood drain from her head. “Do you know where he went, Meg?”

  Meg shook her head. “What’s wrong, Tracy? You look terribly white all of a sudden.”

  “I don’t like these mysterious phone calls,” Tracy said.

  “This wasn’t mysterious,” Meg assured her. “I picked up the phone myself. It was Tony.”

  The fear Tracy had felt this afternoon with Jon was nothing compared to the terror that seized her heart now. Harry was in danger. She felt it as surely as she had felt anything in her life. She looked at Meg and opened her lips to tell her.

  The eyes that met hers were the same sky-blue as Tony’s, and they regarded Tracy with trusting innocence.

  How can I possibly tell her that Harry might not be safe with his own brother?

  She fought for control of her voice, so that it would not be shrill with fear, as she said, “What program are you watching, Meggie? Is it any good?”

  26

  The pub was crowded when Harry opened the oak door and stepped in. Most local businesses had just let out, and there were a number of men, and one or two women, who had stopped by for a pint before they went home. Harry looked around, didn’t see Tony, and went to the bar.

  “Good evenin’, my lord,” the gray-haired man behind the counter said respectfully. “How can I serve you today?”

  “Actually, Tom, I’m looking for my brother. Do you know if he’s here?”

  “He’s yonder, in the back booth, my lord.”

  Harry smiled, murmured his thanks, and made his way to the booth, acknowledging greetings along the way.

  Tony was hunched over an almost empty glass of Heineken. He looked up as Harry slid into the opposite side of the stained wooden booth, and said gruffly, “Thank you for coming.”

  “You’re welcome,” Harry returned, resting his hands on the scarred tabletop. “What’s this all about?”

  Tony took a deep breath, mid said in a rush, “I know I’m a selfish bastard, Harry. Mum always gave me everything I wanted, and that’s what I expect to get. I wanted to manage Mauley’s golf complex, and I was angry with you for thwarting me. I’ve been beastly to you, I know that. But I hope you’ll believe that I never never would do anything to harm you.”

  These words were spoken as if Tony had memorized them and wanted to get them out as fast as he possibly could.

  Harry lifted an eyebrow. “Good heavens. What has brought all this on?”

  Tony stared at his glass. “I had a meeting with Mauley this afternoon, and I told him that it was all over, that you weren’t going to sell him the land.” He looked up and met Harry’s eyes. “He went totally bonkers, swearing and calling you all sorts of names. When I said that, after all, it was your land and you had the right to keep it if you wanted to, he blew up at me. Said that I’d led him on, that he’d invested a lot of money in this deal, had taken a lot of risks. I suggested that he look for another piece of property, but he insisted that he wanted this property. When I said, ‘Well, you’re not going to get it,’ I thought he was going to punch me. It was then, as I looked at his ugly rooster red face, that the truth struck me. My God, I thought. Harry was right. This bastard has been trying to kill him.”

  “It’s the only answer that makes any sense,” Harry said. “No one else stands to gain by my death.”

  “Except me,” Tony said.

  “Except you,” Harry agreed mildly.

  Tony gripped his hands tightly around his glass. “You must believe me, Harry. I had nothing to do with Mauley’s actions. My only culpability lies in my refusal to see the kind of man he was. I wanted what he was offering me too much.”

  “Can I get you something, my lord?” It was the publican, who was now standing beside their booth.

  “Some lemonade,” Harry said.

  “Good God.” Tony’s voice was appalled.

  “I can’t drink alcohol until my head is back to normal.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, you can fetch me another Heineken, Tom.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  They sat in mutual silence until the drinks came. Once they were alone again, Harry said, “Do we have a chance of nailing him? I realize that at the moment we have nothing to take to the police, but can you think of anything we might do to unmask him?”

  Tony said decisively, “We need to find his accomplice. If we can find him, perhaps we can get him to testify against Mauley.”

  Harry said nothing.

  A note of impatience sounded in Tony’s voice. “You do realize, don’t you, that Mauley had to have an accomplice? The setting of the fire, the cutting of your brake lines, those things had to be done by someone whose presence on the property wouldn’t be questioned. As it wasn’t me, it had to be someone else.”

  Still Harry was silent.

  Tony said, “Ned was right there on the scene when the stable burned, and he has unquestioned access to the garage. He’s knowledgeable enough about machinery to know how to cut your brake lines.”

  There was a sharp line between Harry’s brows. “Ned would never do anything to endanger the horses.”

  “He got all the horses out,” Tony said. “He was conveniently on the scene in time to make sure he did that.”

  The line between Harry’s brows deepened. “It wasn’t Ned.”

  “All right,” Tony said reasonably. “If it wasn’t Ned, then who was it?”

  Harry moved his shoulders. “I don’t know. One of the stable lads, perhaps.”

  “One of the stable lads didn’t shoot at you, Harry. You said the shot would have hit you if you hadn’t stumbled and fallen. Whoever it was knows how to shoot.” Harry didn’t reply, but his expression was somber. “Ned has a rifle, doesn’t he? I believe I remember the two of you going out shoo
ting together.”

  “Owning a rifle doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”

  “Well, someone is.”

  Silence fell as they both contemplated that statement. Then Tony said, “Until we resolve this matter, you’re in danger. I did tell Mauley that if anything should happen to you, I would honor your wishes and keep the land in the family. But I should continue to tread carefully if I were you.”

  Harry’s wide-set brown eyes regarded his brother gravely. “That was well-done of you, Tony.”

  Tony shrugged. “I can’t help thinking that I’m partly to blame for this mess. If I hadn’t been such an eager little disciple, Mauley might not ever have thought of trying to do away with you.”

  Harry slapped his hand on the table. “We can’t let him get away with this.”

  Tony said slowly, “Actually, I do have an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “The bullets that were shot at you,” Tony said. “Did you recover them?”

  They looked at each other. “No.”

  “You said he shot twice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the bullets must be there. I suggest we go and look for them. If they match up to Ned’s gun, then we have found our accomplice.”

  Harry looked troubled. “I suppose that’s a good idea.”

  “It’s a brilliant idea, culled from years of reading detective stories,” Tony shot back. “You would never have thought of it on your own. All you read is Horse and Hound and farming journals.”

  Harry smiled reluctantly. “True enough.”

  Tony leaned toward his brother. “Look, Harry, I know you don’t want it to be Ned. But if it is, then don’t you want to know? You don’t want to keep a man who tried to kill you in your employ.”

  “No.” Harry ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t.”

  Tony pushed his beer toward the middle of the table. “Then let’s not waste any more time. Let’s go down to the lake and look for the bloody bullets.”

  Both brothers stood up and left the pub together.