The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  “Christ, Father, do you think Kester doesn’t have the brains to deceive an idealistic young fool like Evan?”

  Bad mistake. I was making a hash of this. My father looked very cool.

  In walked Evan radiating honesty, sanity, decency and credibility. His reaction was so predictable that I barely bothered to listen.

  “Harry, you’re nuts.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that, you—” I bit back the word “bastard” but the effect was exactly as if I had spoken it aloud. Evan blanched. My father looked furious. With an effort I achieved a colorless apology.

  “That’s all, Evan—thank you,” said my father, dismissing him. “Of course I don’t have to ask you not to repeat a word of this conversation to Kester.”

  “Of course not, Dad. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of worrying him with Harry’s paranoid suspicions.”

  “Why, you—”

  “Be quiet, both of you!” said my father so fiercely that we fell silent. Evan left the room. As the door closed I had a brief glimpse of Wonder Boy still lurking in the hall.

  I made one final attempt. “Father, I beg you—give me the benefit of the doubt. You can remember that threat Kester made on July the thirteenth, 1939. You must know in your heart that Kester’s very mixed up about his family, particularly about me and Thomas. Wouldn’t playing safe be the prudent thing to do here? Tell Thomas. It can’t do any harm and it may avoid some appalling fiasco. Please—tell him.”

  “No,” said my father. “I’m not going to tell him. You are. It’s your yarn. Spin it.”

  “But he won’t listen to me!”

  “I’ll come with you to see that he does—and that, I’m afraid, Harry, is just about as far as I’m prepared to go.”

  IV

  “I’ve never heard such a load of old balls in my life,” said Thomas, but his rudeness was no more than an automatic reflex. I saw at once with relief that his hatred of Kester was now going to work in my favor. He had a much lower opinion of Kester than my father had and so found it much easier to believe him capable of bizarre behavior. He turned to his brother. “What’s your opinion of this rigmarole, John?”

  “I don’t know. But I thought it worthwhile to play safe by informing you.”

  “Bloody glad you did. On second thoughts I wouldn’t put it past that pansy to try to stab me in the back.” He thought for a moment. I watched him as his brain ticked over briskly. Because of his emotional naivety it was tempting to dismiss Thomas as a complete fool but I knew very well he had a certain crude intelligence. It takes more flair than brains to run a large estate well, but flair alone won’t balance the books or run an orderly office as he did.

  “I won’t go to this lunch,” he said at last. “I’ll ring up at the last moment and say I’m ill. If Kester’s going to sack me he’ll sack me, but at least I can stop him doing it in a big scene in front of the family.”

  “Good for you, Thomas,” I said fervently.

  “Wait a minute,” said Thomas. “I’m not finished. Hasn’t it occurred to either of you that if this theory’s right I won’t be the only one Kester’ll be gunning for?”

  My father was too stunned to speak but I said sharply, “Yes, that did occur to me but so long as I defuse his plan against you I’m safe. There’s nothing else he can do to touch me.”

  “Are you trying to say—” began my father horrified.

  “Wake up, John,” said Thomas. “All three of us were there in the library at Oxmoon on July the thirteenth, 1939. If Kester’s bent on revenge he’s not going to stop with humiliating me—you and Harry will be on the agenda too.”

  “No,” I said at once while my father was again reduced to an appalled silence, “he’d never move directly against Father, I’m sure of it. He’ll consider it enough if Father’s merely embarrassed by your humiliation.”

  “That makes sense,” agreed Thomas. “But Harry, wouldn’t that embarrassment be doubled if you were humiliated too? Think again. Are you sure—absolutely bloody positive—that there’s nothing that sod can do to touch you?”

  And that was the moment when I finally remembered little Melody and my hair-raising interview with Kester to the accompaniment of Handel’s Messiah.

  V

  I said nothing to my father. By that time he was seriously worried in case I was right about Kester’s plans for Thomas, and I saw no point in distressing him further. But I could now clearly visualize Kester’s plan. First he would crucify Thomas by saying he drew the line at employing an agent who took part in drunken orgies, and then he would turn to me and announce to his enthralled family: “But wait—the real culprit’s sitting here! He’s the one who’s led Thomas astray, he’s the one who’s been seducing every girl in sight since the age of fourteen!” Gasps. Sensation. The family would be lapping up every word he uttered and he wouldn’t even have to invent the lurid details; he’d merely reel off the results of his investigations. Once he’d convinced himself that Melody had existed he would have realized that she could only have been conceived in the summer of ’33 when I had spent the school holidays at Oxmoon, and once he’d scoured his memory for clues he would have been sure to remember Bella’s absence in Switzerland for the first six months of 1934. After that he would have needed only to dispatch a private detective to Geneva. I remembered Bella telling me that Miss Stourham had included my name on the birth certificate. An open-and-shut case. With that birth certificate in his hand Kester could hang, draw and quarter me and drag my father through a bottomless mire of shame. What a revenge! Or so he thought. But think again, Cousin Kester.

  On the morning of the lunch party I telephoned Oxmoon and left a message with the bossy parlormaid that my prize bull was at death’s door. Thomas had already pleaded a touch of bronchitis and I thought it would sound more plausible if I had an urgent appointment with the vet. Then leaving the Manor I retreated to the Home Farm, found Dafydd busy repairing the roof and crawled up the ladder to join him.

  “Thought you were lunching at Oxmoon?”

  “Couldn’t face it. Aquarius is sick, if anyone asks.”

  “Okay.”

  Dafydd made no further comment and again I was aware of how restful I found him. He bore no outward resemblance to Bronwen; he was dark and thickset, with a skin pitted from acne, but there was something in his manner that reminded me of her. I sensed not only an inner strength but a profound capacity for understanding.

  “Have a cigarette,” said Dafydd presently. “If you don’t calm down you’ll fall off the bloody roof.”

  “I can’t think why I haven’t fallen off already.”

  Another curious feature of my relationship with Dafydd was that I felt no compulsion to put on an act for him. I couldn’t saunter around playing the ex-public-school boy and calling him “old chap” because that would have taken an intolerable advantage of the difference in our backgrounds. Neither could I saunter around playing the war hero. Dafydd never spoke of the war but anyone who had survived a Japanese prison camp knew exactly what hell war could be, and this automatically stopped me from pretending I’d enjoyed every minute of my time in the S.A.S.

  “What’s the bloody lunch in aid of?” said Dafydd in between fixing slates, and when I explained why Evan and Gerry were to be the guests of honor, he commented: “Typical. I don’t get invited, do I, even though I’m just as much those bastards’ brother as you are. I suppose bloody Kester thinks I can’t hold a knife and fork.”

  “God knows what bloody Kester’s thinking.” Without mentioning Melody I gave vent to my suspicions.

  “Well, either he’s off his rocker or you are” was Dafydd’s succinct response.

  “Who’s your favorite in the sanity stakes?”

  “You. You’re a survivor. That means you have a nose for danger. If your instinct’s now telling you he’s off his rocker I’d trust your instinct.”

  Dafydd suddenly turned to face me. He had small muddy-brown eyes with creases at the corners. “Do you thin
k he’s dangerous?”

  “Dangerous? Hardly—no guts!” I said laughing, but my laughter was uneasy. “No,” I said to reassure myself. “He’s not the violent type. And I don’t think he’s really mad, Dafydd. Just unstable.”

  “Once people start going off their rockers,” said Dafydd, “anything can happen.” He picked up another slate.

  After a moment I said, “Kester would draw the line at violence.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Well, I’d draw it. In peacetime.”

  “Maybe Kester thinks he has a war on his hands.”

  “God knows what he’s thinking,” I said again, and it occurred to me that not knowing what to believe was far more of a strain on the nerves than holding a firm, if terrifying, opinion.

  We returned to the Manor together for lunch and afterwards I wound up hovering by the phone. I was in such a state of tension that when it rang I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “Heard anything yet?” said Thomas after I’d grabbed the receiver.

  “No—get off the line.” I hung up.

  I was just on the point of defying convention by pouring myself a double whisky at three o’clock in the afternoon when my father’s Rover purred up the drive. He was at the wheel. Evan was sitting beside him and Lance and Gerry were in the back. They all looked chillingly normal.

  “We won’t stop!” called my father cheerfully, not bothering to switch off the engine. “But I just thought I must let you know that it was a delightful lunch and Kester was at his most charming and hospitable.”

  “How’s your sick bull?” said Evan in a tone of voice that made me want to punch him on the nose.

  I ignored him. I just said to my father, “I’m glad all went well.”

  “Never mind,” said my father kindly. “In the circumstances I could quite understand you being a little nervous. Kester mentioned the date, oddly enough. In his postluncheon speech he said, ‘Ten years ago on this day I was cursing my family and vowing revenge, but now I’m entertaining them to lunch and enjoying their company!’ He was really most amusing about it! And then he proposed a toast to family solidarity and said what a pity it was that you and Thomas couldn’t be there.”

  “My God,” I said before I could stop myself, “he’s bloody clever.”

  “Harry,” said Evan, “have you ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “Be quiet, Evan!” snapped my father. “That was quite uncalled for. Well, Harry—”

  “Dad,” said Wonder Boy urgently from the back seat, “could you hold it for a moment? I’ve got to go to the bathroom or I’ll never make it back to Swansea. Harry, would you mind if …”

  I gave him permission to use my lavatory. Then I returned to my study and once more reached for the decanter.

  I was interrupted by a mouselike tap on the door.

  Slamming down the decanter I flung the door wide and revealed Wonder Boy, dark hair very glossy, blue eyes very bright, tall lean figure smartly clad in a charcoal-gray suit.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  Wonder Boy saw he had to talk fast. “Harry, I think you’re right. About Kester. I overheard that conversation you had the other day with Dad and Evan so I was on the watch today, just as they were, but I saw something they didn’t see.”

  I stared at him. “Go on.”

  “I was in the hall when the maid gave him the message you couldn’t come, and he looked like an ancient Roman who’d just heard the circus had been cancelled. He was planning something, Harry, I’m sure of it, and that means Evan’s wrong and you’re not nuts after all. Not that I ever thought you were, I’ve always been on your side because as far as I’m concerned you’re the only sane member of this peculiar family I seem to be mixed up in. I know you’re not crazy about me, and hell, I wasn’t crazy about you at first either, but—”

  I held up my hand. “Stop.”

  He stopped. We gazed at each other. Like finally spoke to like.

  “Well, I’ll be buggered,” I said. I made a quick decision. “I’ll ring you up later. We’ll meet.”

  My father’s family seemed to be dividing into separate camps. Ignoring the whisky decanter I slumped down in the nearest armchair and wondered—not for the first time—just where Kester’s mad schemes were leading us.

  VI

  Gerry’s information was as reassuring as Dafydd’s confidence in my sanity. It was still possible that we were all wrong but I felt the odds that I was making some gigantic mistake had been considerably reduced.

  This set me free to worry about the future.

  The truth was nothing had been solved because Thomas and I had merely postponed the problem of Kester. Did I seriously think he’d now quietly abandon his plans for revenge? No, I did not. Maddened that we’d eluded him he’d be sure to redouble his efforts, and the very thought of his taking another swipe at us was enough to reduce my steel nerves to pulp. When Thomas turned up for a conference his first comment was “You look awful.”

  We drank for a while, two enemies forced into an alliance in an attempt to survive. I was reminded vaguely of the war.

  “The worst part,” I said, “is that there’s nothing we can do. We just have to wait till he makes the next move.”

  “No chance of you being mistaken, I suppose, old boy? John went on and on about how charming and delightful Kester was.”

  “Father’s in blinkers. He can’t bear to do anything but hope for the best.”

  “Well, I see his point—it’s a lot more fun than waiting for the worst.” He finished the whisky, added: “Let me know if you think Kester’s getting ready to swing the hatchet again” and drove away in his Hillman with an air of determined optimism.

  To his horror I phoned him a week later to announce that Kester had been in touch. “He’s invited me to Oxmoon for a drink, Thomas. I’m just about to leave.”

  “Christ! What do you think he’s up to this time?”

  “That’s what I have to find out. I’ll report back to you later,” I said, and hung up. I felt as if I were going out on a raid, and beneath my skin the adrenaline was beginning to burn.

  I drove to Oxmoon.

  VII

  “You wouldn’t like some champagne, by any chance, would you?” said Kester casually after greeting me in the hall. “I ordered too much for the family lunch and I’m still trying to lap up the surplus.”

  “I’ll stick to scotch, old chap, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh good. I’m awfully bored with champagne myself but people always expect it when they come to Oxmoon to be entertained, so what am I to do?”

  We drifted from the hall into the drawing room. We were both trying so hard to be nonchalant that it was a wonder we were able to carry on a conversation at all.

  Kester handed me a whisky-and-soda and began mixing himself a gin-and-French.

  “I hear the family lunch was a great success, old chap,” I said. “Too bad I missed it.”

  “Never mind!” said Kester, giving me his most charming smile. “I’m sure there’ll be other equally enjoyable occasions awaiting you in the future!”

  I laughed lightly to indicate gratified agreement. My back was itching. I was sweating from head to toe.

  “The future!” said Kester, and drank to it.

  “The future!” I echoed, and wondered what the devil was coming next.

  I soon found out. Wiping the merry expression off his face Kester said urgently, “Look, Harry, I won’t beat about the bush. I’m in a jam and I need your help.”

  This was certainly a novel approach. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s bloody Thomas. You guessed what I was up to, didn’t you, and tipped him off. Well, all right, perhaps it was just as well, perhaps it was rather a mad idea but I couldn’t resist the notion of a grand execution in front of all the family; I thought it was the least I could do to repay him for that scene in ’39. However—” Kester paused to toss back some gin; I was too riveted to speak. �
�—the scheme failed and that’s that. So the question is what do I do next?”

  “What indeed, old chap.”

  “Of course he’ll have to go. I only kept him on in order to set him up for the grand execution, and now that the grand execution’s failed … well, it’s obviously best if I eliminate him as quickly and cleanly as possible, but the trouble is I don’t see how I can do it without triggering the most ferocious scene. You know what he’s like when he’s drunk. I’m honestly afraid that if I sack him he may try and beat me up.”

  His fear seemed justifiable. I thought of Thomas taking a swipe at me when he was under the influence. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Can you be here with me while I fire him? After all there you are, the war hero, the expert in unarmed combat. I’d feel much safer if—”

  “Sorry, old chap. I’d rather not be involved.” I tried to imagine the size of Thomas’s wrath if he found out I’d sided with Kester. “Get my father to umpire the proceedings.”

  “But Harry, I can’t go dragging Uncle John into this! You know how soft he is about Thomas—he’d try to persuade me to retain him and we’d end up quarreling and I just can’t face any more quarrels with Uncle John, I really can’t.”

  I knew the feeling. “Don’t think I don’t sympathize, old chap, but I’m sitting on the fence and I intend to stay there.”

  “In that case I suppose I’ll have to rope in Freddy Fairfax and his myrmidons to keep the peace—having a gaggle of solicitors in attendance is rather more the done thing, I daresay, than roping in an ex-commando sporting bared fists, but all the same it’s a pity.”

  I said I thought this was a much better idea, and we chatted in a desultory way for some time. I finished my drink. Then I couldn’t resist saying, “Thomas wasn’t intended to be the only victim of your grand execution, was he, old chap?”