The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  “Ah yes—I did wonder about that. A bit tricky about that note not turning up, wasn’t it?”

  “Very,” said my father. He picked up a stray record that was lying on the table and casually examined the sleeve.

  “Father, I can’t help being curious about that note. Can you remember it word for word?”

  “No, but I can certainly remember the gist. It was rather facetious in tone—very typical of Kester. He said how pleased he was with the cottage even though he thought it might be hair-raising in winter when the gales started to blow. Then he said he had a good bottle of scotch and why didn’t I drop in sometime for a drink.”

  “I see. He never mentioned Oxmoon?”

  “No,” said my father, “but that was hardly surprising. Oxmoon was a delicate subject and it was obvious to me that he wanted to keep the peace.”

  “You’re sure of that? You don’t think he might have returned to Gower in order to renegotiate the ownership?”

  “No.”

  “Why? I must tell you that it’s been suggested to me that that was what he was really after.”

  “There are several things wrong with that theory, said my father with the ease of someone responding to a well-worn question. “One: he had no case for demanding its return. Two: if he had, the sensible thing to do would have been to negotiate with me through a third party. Three: he never mentioned such a possibility to me in his correspondence. And four: Evan and Richard were sure he’d returned to Gower primarily to write.”

  “Ah yes,” I said, “his writing. Richard especially was very interesting about that. He said Kester hadn’t been on such a creative high since before Thomas died.”

  Bull’s-eye.

  Dead silence.

  My father very, very slowly turned to face me again. “Richard said that?”

  “No, Kester said it. Richard was repeating Kester verbatim.”

  “Ah.” My father put down the record album and stood staring at it.

  “Father, if you really want to help me, you’ll tell me exactly what happened when Thomas died.”

  Another silence.

  At last my father said, “You mustn’t believe Declan.”

  “I don’t. His story doesn’t pan out. But I think his fiction had a factual basis. I think there was something weird about Thomas’s death and I want to know what it was.”

  “No,” said my father. “You’re wrong there.”

  “I know why you say that,” I said at once. “It’s because you’ve always denied Declan’s testimony and you’re afraid that if you now admit that even part of it is true I’ll start suspecting it’s all true. But look here, Father. I don’t care whether or not you extorted Oxmoon. If you did it was the stupidest thing you could have done, and my God, you’ve paid for it. All I’m interested in right now is the relevance of Thomas to my present inquiry. I’ve got this hunch that his death has some sort of significance here.”

  “I’m afraid you’re inventing a red herring for yourself, Hal. Sorry, but Thomas really did die in that car crash.”

  “Okay, let’s try another tack. Kester was on a big creative high—what kind of story was he creating?”

  “No idea. Evan and Richard said he didn’t go into detail.”

  “Yes, but Father, you owned that cottage—I know you sold it later to Llewellyn but after the police unsealed it you presumably were the one who had to sort the place out. What happened to Kester’s final manuscript?”

  “There wasn’t one. Obviously he hadn’t begun it.”

  “Okay, what about his notes?”

  “There weren’t any.”

  I walked right up to him. “Father,” I said, “you’ve got to trust me. I’m on your side, I’m not out to crucify you, but I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Now, let’s try again. It’s inconceivable that Kester, bursting to begin a new novel, hadn’t made copious notes. I know how he worked and he always made notes beforehand. So what happened to them?”

  My father was very shaken. He helped himself clumsily to some more scotch. “I don’t know how I can convince you of this,” he said, “but I absolutely swear, Hal, that there were no notes.”

  I stared. I was almost sure he was speaking the truth. Not only did he look truthful and sound truthful; I could think of no good reason why he should lie.

  “But that’s incredible,” I said. I sat down abruptly on the bed. “This whole episode gets more and more bizarre.”

  “It was bizarre,” said my father. He drew up a chair and sat down beside me. “Hal, listen. I’m quite sure in my own mind that Kester was mad. You’ve just read the inquest report. You’ll know that the coroner found Kester’s behavior that evening as baffling as I did—”

  “Did Kester really never look back?”

  “Never, I swear it, never—”

  “But that’s fantastic—that’s just so unlikely—Christ, I don’t understand anything here—”

  My father made his decision. I saw him make it. The expression in his eyes became confidential. “Okay,” he said suddenly. “I’ll come clean with you.” And leaning forward he looked me straight in the eyes and said with unflawed sincerity: “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew how fond you were of Kester, but now I see I’ve no choice. I’ve got to tell you the truth. It’s the right thing—indeed, the only thing—to do. …”

  XVII

  “You were right about Thomas,” said my father. “Kester killed him but he killed him in such a way that I was to take the blame for the crime. Fortunately I saw I was being framed and I forced him to help me out of it by assisting me to stage the car crash. When Kester had his great burst of creativity beforehand he was dreaming up this fantastic murder plot which he later put into operation.”

  He waited for me to speak but when it became obvious I was beyond speech he added rapidly: “That was why our relationship deteriorated so disastrously. That was why we became so paranoid. He thought I knew too much and I thought he might kill me to keep me quiet.”

  I finally found my tongue. “Are you trying to say—”

  “Our nerve eventually snapped. He tried to grab my land and I paid him back by extorting Oxmoon.”

  “But does this mean—”

  “Wait. Let me finish. I’ll tell you what it means. Now, Hal, although I did extort Oxmoon, there was no way Kester could prove that without putting his own neck on the block, and he’d never have dared challenge me. He knew I was capable of being a first-class witness—he’d seen me in action at Thomas’s inquest—and he knew that if it were a question of my word against his, my word would be sure to win. So in the end, when he came back to Gower, I was relaxed because I was wholly convinced he couldn’t touch me. There was no question of him getting Oxmoon back. It just wasn’t on the cards at all. And that meant I had no reason to kill him.”

  “But in that case—”

  “Wait. Just listen. Kester realized his cause was hopeless. He knew he’d never get Oxmoon back. He also knew he couldn’t write anywhere except in Gower, and do you really think he’d have been content to live humbly at that cottage for the rest of his life while I lorded it in his home? No, of course not. He had nothing left to live for, Hal, but he was determined that if he was going to commit suicide he’d take me with him. So in a new fantastic burst of creativity he dreamed up this plot in which he committed suicide but I took the rap “for his murder.”

  “Jesus Christ—”

  “He invited me over to the cottage for a drink that evening but of course I burned that note and of course I lied to the coroner—if I admitted that Kester had set up a specific appointment, the jury might well have assumed he had something specific to discuss and the last thing I wanted was for them to get involved in speculation about the ownership of Oxmoon, the last thing I wanted was to stimulate them into thinking I might have a good motive for murder. But Kester wanted to lure me to Rhossili and so he knew he had to issue a specific invitation—if he’d kept it casual, why would I have bothered to take
him up on it? I had no reason to go—I knew there was no risk of me being ousted from Oxmoon. I was calm, I was relaxed, I was confident, and when Kester issued this specific invitation I merely thought the most likely explanation was that he wanted to discuss how often I would allow you to visit him.

  “Anyway I arrived at Rhossili, just as I said I did, and found he was out. As we had an appointment, I was sure he couldn’t be far away and that was why I strolled back up the lane to intercept him; that was why, when I found he was nowhere to be seen, I became baffled enough to embark on a search.

  “After that everything happened exactly as I said at the inquest—although I can go further to you now and confess that I soon began to wonder if he was luring me on. It was the only explanation that made sense. Not only did it explain why he’d broken our appointment—he knew I’d be sufficiently irritated and on edge to go out and look for him—but it explained that mysterious and eerie fact that he never looked back. You see, he had to pretend that he didn’t know I was behind him because he wanted me to think I could catch him up. If he’d been constantly looking over his shoulder and obviously running away then I wouldn’t have chased him across the Shipway. Why bother? I’d have given up right at the start. But as it was I felt sure he’d be loafing around on the Inner Head and so I was tempted to go on. My behavior will seem more comprehensible to you when I confess that I was extremely worried about your relationship with Kester and I thought I could drive a better bargain with him if I were conducting the negotiations in an intimidatingly isolated spot. I thought that if I put the fear of God into him with sufficient skill he might stay away from you out of sheer terror.

  “All right. So I deduced he was luring me on—but for what purpose? In my paranoia I immediately suspected him of wanting to murder me, but that was nonsense. I’d have got the better of him in any fight. Then I thought of suicide and suddenly it all began to make sense. If he lured me on so that we were both cut off and if he subsequently never came back I’d have the hell of a time proving I hadn’t murdered him. It was true I had no real motive, but that didn’t matter—I knew Declan could drum up a motive with ease; I knew what Declan could do even then—my God, that scene at Oxmoon when he gave us all a dress rehearsal of his performance during the Bryn-Davies lawsuit! Yes, I knew I was in bad trouble. Two independent witnesses had seen me go out after Kester that evening, and I knew their evidence would mean a hard time for me with the police. Obviously I had to counterattack but how the hell was I going to do it?

  “Well, I had no choice, did I? I just had to go on, catch him up and drag us both back alive.

  “So on I went. And then … oh God, I’m tempted to lie to you here but I won’t because I’m determined that this account is going to be absolutely truthful all the way down to the last detail. I got to the Inner Head, I went round the corner and up the slope onto the southern flank—and there he was, yes, he was there, I lied when I said at the inquest that he was far away on the Middle Head, but I only lied to clarify the issue to the jury, to make them understand that I couldn’t possibly have caught him up.”

  “But surely if he was waiting on the Inner Head—”

  “He was waiting, but he wasn’t nearby. He was at least a hundred yards beyond that rise in the footpath. There’s a spur of rock running out from the path to the edge of the sea and he was sitting on it—obviously he wanted to make quite sure I was following him, but at the same time he wanted to make sure I wasn’t in a position to grab him as soon as I came around the bend. He was still luring me on, you see, and he thought he’d let me catch up a little to give me encouragement—he wanted to make certain I was marooned with him.

  “But of course by that time I’d realized just what he was up to, and when he hared away immediately towards the Middle Head I didn’t automatically hare after him. I knew then that I’d never catch him up and still beat the tide, and once I’d acknowledged that, I knew I’d be done for unless I got back over the Shipway and tried to establish some kind of alibi. If I were marooned with Kester I’d never be able to prove my innocence, but back on the mainland I’d at least have a fighting chance.

  “So I went back—and when I reached the cottage I had this most colossal stroke of luck because Dafydd was there changing the washer. Of course I would have tried to rig an alibi with him to safeguard myself, but as it turned out I didn’t have to do any rigging and that proved to be my salvation. The police had their suspicions of me, of course they did, but there was no way they could break that alibi.

  “I was hoping, all the time that once Kester realized he’d failed to frame me he would have second thoughts about suicide, but I’m afraid I was being too optimistic. He killed himself—and as soon as I knew he’d done it, I couldn’t bear it, I felt so responsible for him, I felt I should have gone on and tried to save him. … You see, he was mad, unquestionably insane, but I felt I’d driven him mad by always outshining him and being the successful man of action he’d always secretly wanted to be. We had such a very strange relationship and one day I’ll have to tell you more about it, but meanwhile … well, there’s nothing more I can add. He killed himself, and I’m afraid you must accept that, Hal. He killed himself and tried to have me hanged for his murder.”

  XVIII

  There was a long silence. He poured himself some more scotch and drank it. Finally I heard him say, “I’m sorry. I wanted so much to protect you.”

  The silence continued. Then he said awkwardly: “What can I do? Do you want to go on talking about it? Is there anything else you’d like to ask?”

  I shook my head, rose to my feet and began to pace slowly around the disordered room.

  Eventually he said in desperation: “Would you like to hear some music?” Music for him was the great panacea which soothed all ills.

  “No thanks.” To pretend I was calm I took out my notebook and began to flip through the pages. At once Declan’s name seemed to hit me between the eyes.

  “How much do you think Declan knew?” I heard myself say, and although my eyes were on my notebook I was aware of my father relaxing as if he felt he had surmounted the most difficult interview of his life.

  “I suspect Declan didn’t know as much as I originally thought he did,” he said readily. “One can argue, I think, that Kester would have shied away from confessing to his idolized elder brother that he had murdered Thomas during a period of insanity—and I also think one can argue that Kester wouldn’t have revealed his last crazy plot either. If Declan had realized Kester was insane again and contemplating suicide, I’m quite sure he’d have stopped Kester leaving Dublin.”

  “Yes, Declan never believed in the suicide theory, did he? He thought you murdered Kester on the Inner Head.”

  “Declan was bound to want to believe that when he found he couldn’t break my alibi, but you go out there, Hal. You look for that spur of rock and you’ll realize that once Kester started to run from there I could never have caught him up and dragged us both in time to beat the tide.”

  “And if he didn’t run?”

  My father was ashen. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I do. I can’t see Kester sitting around and meekly waiting for you to be aggressive—I’m sure that as soon as he saw you on the Inner Head his first instinct would have been to run, and that would have been true whether or not he knew you were behind him. So that means Declan’s story is a lot less plausible than yours is.” I flicked through my notebook again. This time the words that hit me between the eyes were BRILLIANTLY PLAUSIBLE.

  “Excuse me, Father. Back in a minute.”

  I got to the bathroom, locked myself in and leaned back against the panels. I was in that most unpleasant condition where one wants to be sick but knows that vomiting is impossible. The bathroom was overpoweringly hot and the air reeked of heavily-scented talcum powder. Pam could only have departed seconds earlier.

  I got the window open, leaned out over the sill, took several deep breaths and realiz
ed with a vague, curiously unemotional horror that I was going to have to go back into that room where my father was waiting. And not only that: I was going to have to have a few minutes of casual conversation with him in order to soothe his nerves. The one thing I couldn’t do was to betray my own shattered nerves by rushing off instantly to my scullery.

  I thought: “No coward soul is mine.” And somehow I got myself out of the bathroom.

  “Are you all right?” said my father immediately as I reentered his room.

  “Yes. Well, no, to be honest I’m in pieces, but that’s okay, don’t worry about it, I’ll put myself together again soon enough.”

  “I know my story must have been the most appalling shock to you—”

  “Yes, it was. But don’t think I haven’t had my suspicions of Kester’s sanity. Father, I want to thank you for being honest with me. I know it was a great ordeal, but I really am very grateful.” While I spoke I sat on the bed and stooped to retie my shoelace. I was trying to think what to say next. All subjects of casual conversation were eluding me.

  “I’m glad I was able to help,” said my father. “Yes, it was an ordeal, but in a curious way it was good to talk of it—talking can come as a relief. … My God, what I went through that night! I never slept a wink, of course—I told the jury I did but that was just to make them think I wasn’t feeling too guilty. In fact I was awake all night. I thought of the past, all of it, my father with his various families, Uncle Robert and Aunt Ginevra, my grandfather—my God, I even thought of my great-grandmother and Owain Bryn-Davies!—I thought of everything that had gone into producing Kester and me and making us the men we were—”

  I saw a banal topic of conversation and seized it. “Didn’t you manage to find some nice soothing music on the radio?”

  “What?”

  “I said: Didn’t you manage to find some nice soothing music on the radio?” I was surreptitiously glancing at my watch and wondering how soon I dared escape.