The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  “I won’t forget this, Dafydd.”

  “See that you don’t—because I’d do anything for you, Harry, remember that. Anything at all.”

  VI

  “So you see,” I declared to my family in the language my father had made famous to us all, “it was the right thing—indeed the only thing—to do.” And as I sat down at the head of the table in the dining room at Oxmoon, I gripped the arms of my grandfather’s great carved chair to reassure myself that justice had finally prevailed.

  I was presiding at a conference. The deed of gift had been signed. Kester had withdrawn to Dublin. Oxmoon was mine, but this was the exact moment when I couldn’t afford any celebration. I had to be sober and subdued, hardworking Harry Godwin who had come to his poor sickly cousin’s rescue and was now entirely preoccupied with doing the done thing. Accordingly I had decided that I should entertain my family at Easter in my future home and explain to them what was going on—or what I wanted them to think was going on. I needed to keep them informed. I needed them to believe I was an honest, truthful, thoroughly decent chap. It was imperative that everyone should think my actions had been justified.

  I hadn’t yet moved my belongings from Penhale Manor because I thought haste would be a gesture of bad taste in the circumstances, so Oxmoon was exactly as Kester had left it. It had even occurred to me that it was like living in a shrine to his memory. But of course I’d make plenty of changes later when the family had settled down and my takeover had been accepted.

  The family had assembled in response to my invitation; the lawyers on both sides had agreed to attend the conference to bear witness to the legality of my occupation; everything in fact had been going meticulously according to plan when after breakfast on the day of the conference my seedy brother-in-law Rory Kinsella, had sidled up to me and announced that his brother Declan had crossed the Irish Sea to represent Kester’s interests and would be arriving at Oxmoon in half an hour.

  I manifested courteous delight and cornered Gerry. “That crook Declan Kinsella’s about to turn up. We’re in for a rough ride.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Gerry mildly. “Kester signed that deed of gift of his own free will while of sound mind. What can Declan do?”

  Naturally I hadn’t revealed to my lawyers that Kester’s free will had been tempered by my friendly persuasion. Only Dafydd knew that. I had decided that if Dafydd could keep quiet about murder he could keep quiet about anything so I had confided in him.

  Abandoning Gerry I headed for the telephone. “Dafydd?” I said when my housekeeper had summoned him from the garden of the Manor. “Get over here. Trouble’s brewing.” And when he arrived ten minutes later on his motorbike I told him of Declan’s imminent arrival. “That gangster’s capable of anything,” I said. “I think he’ll try and blast me right out of the water.”

  “But how can he? Who’s going to believe Irish scum like that?”

  This was true. I began to feel better. But not much better. I grabbed his arm. “I want you with me at this conference. You don’t have to say anything, just be there.”

  “What, me? With all those gentlemen? I’m not even wearing a tie!”

  “Fuck the tie. I want all the allies I can get.”

  At this point Kester’s lawyers arrived, old Freddy Fairfax looking as if he should be in a Bath chair, and that smooth Wykehamist Carmichael. They were both effusive towards me; no doubt they believed that if they licked my boots hard enough their firm would retain the business generated by the Oxmoon estate. What a hope.

  I had just shown them into the dining room where my own solicitor Roland Davison was waiting with the male members of the family, when the parlormaid told me Declan had arrived, and assuming my most charming smile I returned to the hall to welcome him.

  I had only met him twice, once after Aunt Ginevra’s death and once at my father’s funeral, but on both occasions he had struck me as being quite the most sinister man I’d ever met. He was now in his early fifties, a tall fat man with receding gray hair and soft dark eyes which looked as if they could watch a mass execution without blinking. He spoke with a bizarre English accent, like someone who had learned a foreign language long ago but was unaware how much it had changed. This peculiar trait should have made him sound absurd but it didn’t; it merely made him sound more sinister than ever.

  “Hullo, Declan—what a delightful surprise! How’s Kester?”

  But Declan had the politician’s trick of ignoring the questions he had no wish to answer. He gave me a small subtle smile, murmured, “Hullo, old fellow. Terrible weather, what?” and cruised casually past my outstretched hand towards the sound of voices in the dining room.

  My back started to itch. I spent five futile seconds listening to my heart throbbing and then I followed him across the hall.

  The maids were serving coffee as I reentered the dining room. Various members of the family asked after Kester and Declan said with a sigh that poor Kester was deeply, deeply depressed. Everyone looked sad and worried and no one looked sadder and more worried than I did, but fortunately Gerry came to my rescue by asking Declan what he thought of the British political situation. Declan said he supposed Attlee would soon be disemboweled by either Bevan on the left or Churchill on the right and this might or might not be a bad thing. After this masterpiece of political noncommitment had been delivered, I put the cigarette box in circulation and suggested that we all sat down. Declan ignored the box and lit a very large cigar. Perhaps he thought he was being British. He looked like a comrade of Al Capone.

  “Well, gentlemen …” I had remained on my feet, and once everyone was settled I willed myself to ignore Declan and embark on my carefully prepared speech. I felt less nervous once I’d started. By the time I reached the point where I declared Kester had welcomed the opportunity to solve his problems once and for all by leaving Oxmoon in safe hands, I even believed wholeheartedly in what I was saying.

  “… and so you see,” I said, reaching my peroration, “it was the right thing—indeed the only thing—to do.”

  I paused. Nobody spoke. When I was seated again I glanced around the table. I had Edmund on my right and beyond him were his two sons, Richard, who’d been Kester’s jester, and Geoffrey, who worked in a London publishing house and presumably knew everything there was to know about unstable writers. I sensed that Geoffrey was more of an Armstrong than a Godwin; he always seemed to keep to the edge of the family circle as if he were perpetually trying to escape, and I decided I could rely on him to remain neutral.

  My glance traveled on down the table, flicked past the Kinsella brothers, ignored Kester’s lawyers and alighted on Owen Bryn-Davies whom I’d invited in deference to Elizabeth. I thought Owen would be aggrieved to hear Kester had disinherited his son in favor of Hal. Or did he suspect I’d forced Kester’s hand? Hard to tell. He was looking inscrutable. I glanced on past Roland Davison to my three half-brothers. Gerry I could count on. Evan, looking insufferably virtuous in his clerical collar, would be for Kester but I didn’t think he’d have the guts to make trouble. Lance, mild as always, merely looked as if he wished he were a hundred miles away. No trouble in that quarter. Next to Lance and on my immediate left was Dafydd, surly in his work clothes; all the gentlemen around the table were busy pretending he was invisible.

  “So that’s the situation,” I said. “I don’t know if anyone wishes to comment, but I wanted you all to know that I’m more than willing to discuss this tragic change in Kester’s fortunes in an honest and straightforward way … Edmund—you’re the senior member of the family now. Would you care to give us your views?”

  Edmund sighed. “Yes, well, it’s all very sad, certainly, because we know how much Oxmoon meant to Kester, but if he can’t cope and Harry can … and since Hal’s going to be the heir … well, there we are, aren’t we, I daresay it’s all for the best.”

  “Richard,” I said before anyone could comment, “let’s hear from you.”

  “Oh, I agree,” said Ric
hard glumly. “It’s a rotten shame, poor old Kester, but I did see him before he left for Ireland and there’s no doubt the poor chap’s at the end of his tether. I’ve never seen him so low.”

  “Geoffrey?” I said, anxious to keep the ball rolling at a brisk pace.

  “Oh, you take it on, Harry, give Kester a bit of peace. Besides, I should think the place is a white elephant nowadays, isn’t it? I’m only surprised it’s survived the Labour government.”

  “Ah, it’s still a nice little nook, believe me,” said Rory, “for the cuckoo that’s looking for a nest.”

  Everyone shifted uneasily. I instantly decided to try and gloss over the Kinsella brothers.

  “Gerry!” I said, drumming up my next ally. “Your turn.”

  “I’m with Harry all the way,” said Gerry firmly to the rest of the table. “Since Kester—on his own admission—can no longer cope this is quite clearly the best possible solution.”

  “Thank you, Gerry,” I said. “Well, I daresay Evan and Lance would agree with that. Now, what I’d like to do next is to report on the condition of the estate and outline my plans for the future. I haven’t yet had the time to conduct a comprehensive investigation, but—” I stopped.

  Evan was on his feet.

  “Yes?” I said abruptly. “Did you want to say something?”

  “I want to give my opinion on what you’ve done.”

  “Fine,” I said, heart sinking. “Let’s hear it.”

  Evan took a deep breath, glanced around the table and said, “This is wrong.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Declan give his small subtle smile.

  I kept calm. “Go on. The whole purpose of this meeting is for us to have a free and frank discussion.”

  “This is wrong,” repeated Evan, not looking at me, “and I can’t condone it. I draw the line.”

  As if I hadn’t enough problems. Declan Kinsella sits shrouded in cigar smoke like the demon king in a pantomime. Owen Bryn-Davies is looking as if he wished he had a hatchet to swing. Rory’s been drinking brandy since breakfast and looks as if he’s about to wreck everything in sight. And to cap it all my bastard half-brother starts drawing lines.

  “I’m not questioning that Kester’s voluntarily given you Oxmoon,” Evan said, finally nerving himself to look at me. “What I’m questioning is the morality of your act of acceptance. If Kester can’t cope then I think we should set up a family trust to run the estate for him so that he can remain master here. Oxmoon belongs to Kester. You’ve no right to it while he’s still alive, Harry, and if you’re as well intentioned as you’re trying to make us all believe you are, you’ll give Oxmoon back to Kester and work with us all to achieve a more satisfactory solution.”

  “Hear, hear!” shouted Rory, but Declan still said nothing. I knew then that he was preparing to make a big entrance. With consummate skill he was waiting for the right moment when he could move in to take control of the scene.

  “Look, Evan,” I said, straining every nerve I possessed to keep my voice calm and reasonable, “the plain truth is that I’m the only one who’s qualified to run this place and I’m the one, no matter how we arrange the legal side, who’s going to end up running it. Now, because he realized this, Kester made this purely voluntary decision—”

  “You shouldn’t have let him,” said Evan.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” said Gerry. “Can’t a man dispose of his property as he pleases?”

  “He was insane with grief!” shouted Rory.

  “Not legally speaking,” said my solicitor.

  “I agree,” said the sycophant Carmichael, anxious to show me how willing he was to turn traitor.

  “But he was certainly very disturbed,” said that old idiot Fairfax, “and I must say I did wonder if—”

  We were getting into deep waters. I had to haul us out at once. “Gentlemen,” I said, “let me put an end to any suggestion that I might have taken advantage of Kester while the balance of his mind was disturbed. I acted in good faith. I took Oxmoon because I honestly and sincerely believed that that was what Kester wanted. But if I’m wrong of course I’ll give it back to him. All he has to do is ask.”

  A second after I’d finished speaking I realized I’d made the biggest possible mistake. To those who suspected me of extortion I had just confirmed that I had such a hold over Kester that he would never dare seek Oxmoon’s return.

  I broke out in a cold sweat but before anyone could comment on the disaster Geoffrey said unexpectedly, “What I can’t understand is why we’re wrangling like this—or indeed why we’re here at all. It’s good of Harry to explain what’s going on, but why argue about whether or not he should own Oxmoon? After all, legally speaking the ownership’s a fait accompli.”

  “Not quite,” said Declan Kinsella, and rose to his feet to annihilate me.

  VII

  “Gentlemen,” said Declan, and when he was sure he had everyone’s attention he pointed his finger at me. “This thief—this traitor—”

  Had to stop him, had to. No choice. A nightmare. “Oh, come off it, Declan—you’re not in the Dail now!”

  “—this rogue—this villain—”

  How did I stop him? For Christ’s sake, what the bloody hell did I do? “Cut the melodrama and get to the point!” Had to keep calm. Had to keep very, very reasonable. Sanity personified. Hold fast, stand firm—I took a deep breath. “I suppose Kester’s been saying—”

  “Kester’s not said one word to me; not one word has he said,” said Declan, discarding his English accent and sliding with sinister speed into an Irish-American rasp. “But can’t I see with my own eyes that he’s destroyed with grief, shattered beyond description, with his life wrecked and his world in ruins? Ah no, there’s no need for him to speak! I know my brother Kester, through and through I know him, and if there’s one thing I know about my brother Kester, gentlemen”—Declan flung out his arms in a gesture which riveted everyone’s appalled attention—“it’s that he would never—never in a million years—never, I tell you gentlemen!—surrender Oxmoon voluntarily.”

  “I swear—”

  “Keep your oaths, Harry Godwin! You’ve told enough lies today!”

  I somehow got to my feet. “I absolutely insist,” I said, “that Kester surrendered Oxmoon of his own free will.”

  “And I absolutely insist,” said Declan to the family, “that this thief stole it from him—and I don’t just call you a thief, Harry Godwin! I call you a blackmailer and an extortionist! I call you a liar, a cheat and a fraud!”

  I turned at once to Davison. “That statement must be actionable. I want a writ issued for slander.”

  Declan laughed. “Oh, you’d never sue me!” he said. “Never! You’d be too afraid of what truths might come out in the witness box!”

  All the lawyers made an attempt to intervene. Amidst the babble of voices I heard Edmund quaver, “That’s enough, Declan. That’s enough. No more.”

  I had only one retreat which offered a hope of dignity and that retreat was into the role of an English gentleman. “I must ask you to oblige me,” I said to Declan, “by removing yourself immediately from my house.”

  “It’ll never be your house!” said Declan. “Oxmoon belongs to Kester and it’ll be Kester’s till the day he dies!”

  He walked out with Rory at his heels. It was a magnificent exit. Turning away I managed to wipe the sweat from my forehead by pretending I had something in my eye. “Well, really!” I said, affecting nonchalance. “What a performance!” I sank down in my chair again and finished my coffee. “Lance, ring the bell, would you? I feel we all need a shot of brandy to recover—there’s nothing so exhausting, is there, as a well-acted Irish farce!”

  The lawyers tittered obediently but only Richard was brainless enough to laugh with genuine amusement. Owen Bryn-Davies was looking more like a hatchet man than ever. Lance was white. Evan was ashen. Edmund was again mumbling horrified at my side.

  “Terrible behavior … terrible things h
e said … terrible, terrible … If John were alive—”

  “If my father were alive,” said Evan, “we wouldn’t be here.” He walked straight up to me. “I don’t know if there’s any truth in what Declan said. I don’t even want to know. But I think you should give Oxmoon back to Kester.”

  “Quite. Now can you either keep quiet or run off and be a clergyman somewhere else? I’m finding your halo a bit tiresome.”

  Another bad mistake. I was betraying how rattled I was. Well, not just rattled. Shattered. I was scratching my neck, scratching my face, every inch of skin was throbbing, and when the parlormaid wheeled in the drinks trolley I poured myself a triple brandy.

  Somehow I pulled myself together sufficiently to outline my plans for the future of the estate, and somehow everyone contrived to listen with a show of politeness. But I couldn’t decide whether to close the meeting without referring to Declan’s accusations or whether I should make another attempt to laugh them off. Which course would look less guilty? I didn’t know, couldn’t decide. Whatever I did I felt my guilt would be declaimed.

  Then I thought of Kester murdering Thomas. There was the villain. All I had to do was behave like the innocent man I was.

  “… and I can’t let this meeting close,” I heard myself say, “without stressing that from start to finish I’ve only tried to do what’s right. I absolutely deny every one of Declan’s hysterical accusations.”

  My audience muttered soothing platitudes but God alone knew what each man was thinking. I wound up the meeting. The lawyers then left, Gerry accompanying them to the front door, while Edmund and his sons wandered away to the drawing room to join the women. Owen suddenly remembered a vital phone call he had to make. Within seconds I found myself alone with Evan, Lance and Dafydd.

  “I must be on my way,” said Evan.

  “Far be it from me to stop you.” I turned my back on him and confronted Lance. “You’re making a big success of keeping your mouth shut! What’s going on in that head of yours?”