The Wheel of Fortune

by Susan Howatch

  “So he killed Thomas—and by killing him he locked himself up with your father in the downward spiral that led them both to the Worm’s Head on that May night in 1952.

  “You should ask your father to tell you the whole story of Thomas’s murder. It would do him good to talk about it and I think it would be best for you now to know all the facts. That’s a story where Kester really was the villain and your father just an innocent bystander. And yet …

  “It’s not so simple as that, is it? Words like ‘villain’ and ‘hero’ are so overworked that they have no meaning, and the truth is they explain nothing here. The explanation of this story lies in the past, perhaps even in the remote past, in the vast complicated web of personal relationships and interrelating circumstances that made those two men what they were. Your father, mirroring John, sums it up by saying, ‘We were just two ordinary people who failed to draw the line.’ Well, let him see it that way. Why not? It’s an interesting point of view. But to my mind those two men weren’t ordinary. They were two severely maladjusted people who failed to avert tragedy by resolving their neurotic conflicts. I’m a psychiatrist so naturally that’s the way I see it, but what we have to do now is to work out how you’re going to see those two men. We have to work out a way you can live with all this and go on to lead a normal life—no, I don’t think we should start now. You’re too tired and you won’t be thinking clearly. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Do you think you can sleep now? Or are you still reluctant to relax your grip on your mind?”

  I said, “I’m going to be okay,” and she kissed me and said gently, “Yes, you are.” Then she took out her knitting and started clicking her needles again.

  Ten minutes later I was asleep.

  XIV

  He came to me in my dreams, not the glittering hero of my childhood but a bedraggled magician with a broken wand in his hands. “Help me,” he said. “Help me.” But although I knew I had to perform an act of magic, I couldn’t see how to mend his broken wand.”

  Then I remembered I was Saint George so I realized I had to find the dragon and kill it. The dragon, I now saw clearly, was the villain of the story and my father and Kester were its innocent victims. Drawing out my sword I rode my white horse across the Shipway but time and space were so fluid that when I reached the Inner Head I found myself at the gates of Oxmoon.

  Then I saw it. I saw the dragon. It was the house. It was that brutal decayed monster with the shuttered sightless windows. Vile Oxmoon, not fit to live, destroying those I loved.

  I made a Molotov cocktail and tossing it through the open front door I watched the house burn to the ground. But later as I walked through the charred ruins I found my father grieving with Kester and beyond them a man in an eighteenth-century wig said to me, “Look what you’ve done to my dream.”

  Then Evan said, “Let us pray for an act of redemption,” and as I sank to my knees I was a medieval knight again and a church clock was thundering the hour. It struck twelve. I looked up. The sun was pouring down on me from a brilliant sky and as I rose to my feet my soldier’s sword shone in my hand. I stared at the blade, and suddenly I realized it wasn’t a sword at all but Kester’s magic wand, restored and renewed.

  I turned to face ruined Oxmoon. The earth was moving, the skies were rolling back, and at last in that electrifying moment of revelation my strength returned to me, I raised my sword above my head and I waved his magic wand. …

  XV

  “I had this dream,” I said to Pam, “but I’m not going to tell you about it because I always vowed I’d never sink low enough to tell my dreams to a psychiatrist.”

  Pam laughed. “I’m glad to see you exhibiting characteristic behavior! I can see that unlike your father you really do have nerves of steel.”

  We were sitting in the dining area over the remains of breakfast. My father had reclaimed his room and was listening to chamber music. I had drunk three cups of coffee and eaten an egg I didn’t want. My untouched toast lay on a nearby plate.

  “I’m all right,” I said to Pam. “I was all right as soon as I knew that everything could be explained rationally. They were just two guys in need of a shrink, that’s all, and I don’t have to condemn them, you don’t condemn the mentally ill, you just say ‘That’s tough’ and feel sorry for them. So that’s okay, isn’t it, I don’t have to be divided after all, I can just say ‘That’s tough’ and be compassionate—to both of them. It’s a kind of forgiving and I have to forgive, don’t I, because if I go on trying to decide which one to blame I’ll go nuts. Okay, fair enough, I forgive them. And now I can get on with my life and think about the future.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Pam.

  We were silent for a time. She was idly finishing a cigarette. I began to fidget with my cold toast. First I broke the bread up and then I tried to reduce the fragments to crumbs. Finally my voice said, “But they did such terrible things,” and the next moment I was breaking down again.

  This time I did mind crying. I minded it very much. I stumbled outside into the yard but it was raining. I ran across to shelter in my scullery but when I reached the back door I couldn’t face opening it so I ran back. On reentering the mews house I found Pam was still sitting at the kitchen table.

  I sat down and said, “I’ve got to put it right. It’s as if they’ve passed me the burden of their guilt and I have to find some way of setting that burden aside. I can’t live with the situation as it is; I’ve got to put right what went wrong.” And I told her about my dream.

  “I see them as crucified,” I said, “and Oxmoon—today’s ruined Oxmoon—reflects that crucifixion. And the only way to wipe out a crucifixion is to stage a resurrection, so that’s what I’ve now got to do. I’ve got to wave the magic wand and restore what’s been destroyed, because only then, when Oxmoon’s been redeemed, can I live in peace with what they’ve done.”

  Pam said simply, “How are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t know.” I crumbled some more toast. Then I said irritated: “Aren’t you going to analyze my dream?”

  “You seem to have done that rather ably yourself. What you have to do now is to find the magic wand—your instrument of redemption.”

  “I suppose you find redemption a very emotional word loaded with religious overtones.”

  “Oh, I’m not hung up on religion,” said Pam mildly. “To me it’s just another way of looking at a given situation. I could say you’re looking for a satisfactory adjustment to an unpalatable set of facts, but why bother? Redemption’s a good word. It means to buy back, doesn’t it, and you want to buy back the past so that you can reshape it in a way that’ll fit your present. That all seems very reasonable to me.”

  “But how do I find my magic wand?”

  “Ah. Well … Where did you get the idea of a magic wand from?”

  “From Kester. My magician.”

  “And what was his magic wand?”

  “I suppose you’d say it was a phallic symbol.”

  “I could certainly argue that it had phallic overtones for Kester, but we’re not concerned with symbolism at the moment, only with reality. What was the wand that Kester waved day after day with the most unquenchable determination?”

  I saw the light. “His pen.” I hit the table with my fist. “That’s it—his novels!” I leaped to my feet. “I’m going to sell his novels and raise the money for the endowment the National Trust needs to take over Oxmoon!” I kissed her. “You’re a genius! Thank God I’ve got a psychiatrist for a stepmother!”

  “Hm,” said Pam. Of course she knew a manic mood swing when she saw one.

  “Novels make millions nowadays! Think of Geoffrey’s publishing stories! I’ll take the novels to New York, enlist Geoffrey’s help, make a fortune and resurrect Oxmoon from the grave!” I was shouting in my ecstasy. After hours of appalling pain I had finally achieved a miraculous relief. I was going to put the magic back into Oxmoon, I was going to recapture the lost paradise of my childhood, I was going to wipe out all t
he tragedy and ruin, I was going to make my two fathers live again.

  “Sit down, Hal,” said Pam gently. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  I humored her. I was already planning my drive to Swansea to collect the inevitable bottle of champagne.

  “I had to lead you through all that,” said Pam, “because I knew you’d eventually work out the full meaning of your dream for yourself and I thought it was better if you did so in my presence. Hal, it’s a lovely idea, and certainly the perfect answer to your desire for redemption, but very unfortunately it’s not an option that’s available to you.”

  I stared at her. “Why the hell not?”

  “Now, don’t worry—I’m sure we can find another way of coming to terms with this problem—”

  “Pam, for Christ’s sake tell me what the hell you’re getting at!”

  Pam sighed. Then she said with extreme reluctance: “Kester’s manuscripts no longer exist. Your father burned the lot.”

  6

  I

  THAT WAS THE MOMENT when I ceased to be a rationalist. If behaving in a rational manner and thinking rational thoughts couldn’t redeem Oxmoon I was no longer interested in behaving like a rational man. It was time for fanaticism, time for belief when all logical hope was gone, time to put iron in the will and granite in the soul.

  “I can’t accept that,” I said to Pam. “To accept that would be to admit defeat—and I’m not interested in losing.” I felt like some general leading his men into battle against fearful odds and haranguing them to victory. “I’m going to win,” I said. “I’m going to win.”

  For the first time in my life I saw Pam look rattled. She kept calm; no doubt this was a reflex developed by years of experience, but her characteristic nonchalance hardened into an expressionless immobility. She said nothing.

  I said to her: “Why did my father burn those manuscripts?” but I already knew. I asked the question to force a conversation and compel her to communicate with me.

  “It was Kester’s passion for the roman à clef. Your father couldn’t be certain that Kester hadn’t based his final master plot on a previous novel.”

  “So Kester never took those manuscripts to Ireland. He left them at Oxmoon. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s right. Of course it was a relief to your father when you deduced the manuscripts were in Ireland but shied away from contacting Declan.”

  “You seriously expect me to believe that Kester would have left his manuscripts—which were like children to him—at Oxmoon for my father to burn?”

  “But he did, Hal. They were in two trunks in the attics.”

  “Then those must have been the manuscripts that Kester was content to have destroyed. I’m sure he would have taken his most precious work to Ireland.”

  “Harry spoke to Siobhan Kinsella on your behalf after Kester’s will was granted probate—after all, Kester wanted you to have his work and Declan would hardly have refused to let you have any manuscripts that were in his possession. But there was nothing in Ireland, Hal. Nothing.”

  “But this is insane. I just can’t believe—”

  “You’re looking back with the wisdom of hindsight. Try and see the situation in its context. When Kester left Oxmoon he had no reason to think his manuscripts were in any danger. Harry doesn’t normally behave like a book-burning fascist and how could Kester have foreseen a situation in which Harry would feel driven to destroy those manuscripts for fear they might provide the police with clues? Harry, as a talented man himself, respected the talent in Kester. Normally he wouldn’t have dreamed of destroying Kester’s work, and if Kester had feared such a destruction when he left Oxmoon in ’51 he would have been acting irrationally.”

  “But that’s the point, isn’t it?” I said. “Those two men were irrational about each other. That’s the one thing that’s been proved beyond all reasonable doubt! No, I’m sorry, Pam, but I think Kester would have taken every precaution that his most precious work didn’t fall into my father’s hands, and if the manuscripts aren’t in Ireland then they must be hidden here at Oxmoon.”

  There was a pause while Pam tried to figure out the best way to handle me. In the end she fell back on the most neutral question available. “So?”

  “So,” I said, “I’m going to find those manuscripts. I’m going to find them even if it’s the very last thing I ever do.”

  II

  I went to interrogate my father.

  At one point he tried to apologize for burning the manuscripts but I cut him off.

  “I don’t want your apologies, I want your help. Now, think, Father, and think hard. Where’s the one place at Oxmoon where you’d never look for a manuscript?”

  My father made an effort to compose himself but I could see he found me very intimidating. “The attics,” he said. “Two trunks were easy enough to find, but searching for a stray manuscript in those rooms full of junk would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Yes, but you’d be guaranteed to search there—it’s the obvious place. Try and think of some place where you’d never look.”

  My father racked his brains. “Well, I suppose Kester could have taken up a floorboard somewhere—”

  “Not Kester. The only thing he could do with his hands was hold a pen. How about the furniture? Do any of the cabinets have false sides?”

  “The bureau in the morning room has a secret drawer but it’s not big enough to hold more than a pocket diary. Why don’t you have a look at the detailed inventory Kester drew up after the war? It’s in the library among my 1963 correspondence with the National Trust. I sent them a copy to whet their appetite.”

  I withdrew to the library, and as soon as I entered the room I had such an inspired idea that I nearly swung all the way into a manic euphoria again. The one place at Oxmoon where Kester could safely have left his manuscripts was on a shelf in the fiction bays of the library. My father never read novels. In fact he had once told me he hadn’t opened a novel since he had been forced to do so at school.

  I combed the fiction bays. The shelves began immediately on the right of the door and extended some way down the room. Kester had been a great fiction reader and although his preference had been for nineteenth-century novels, the authors of the twentieth century were well represented.

  But there were no unpublished manuscripts there.

  I tried again. I checked behind each row of books to make sure there was no cache hidden beyond the leather-bound facade. Then pulling each book forward a couple of inches I checked that it was real and not a cardboard dummy containing the missing treasure.

  That all took some time.

  When I had drawn another blank I sat down at the library table and contemplated the room. I still thought Kester would have favored the library. A couple of manuscripts could have been slipped in among the bays of family papers at the far end of the room and they would be impossible to spot at a glance. I decided to make a comprehensive search but first, to satisfy myself that the furniture in the house could be excluded from my attentions, I found the inventory and skimmed through it.

  The morning-room bureau was the only piece with a secret drawer, and my father had known about it. Obviously I was on the wrong track there.

  Replacing the inventory I rolled up my sleeves and prepared to ransack the rest of the library.

  III

  It took me several days to ensure I had left no stone unturned. The family papers stretched all the way back to the eighteenth century when Robert Godwin the Renovator had put his architect’s drawings of the future Oxmoon on file for posterity. Many shelves were dedicated to the records of my great-grandfather Bobby Godwin’s forty-six years as master, but although these papers occupied a considerable amount of space they were orderly; my task in sifting them was time-consuming but not difficult. However Kester’s papers were in a more chaotic state. He hadn’t been the kind of man who could be bothered with efficient filing, and in between the immaculate records w
hich marked the period when Thomas had been in control of the estate lay an uncharted wilderness of receipts, business correspondence and personal letters, all crammed into bulging files without regard for subject matter or chronological order. The temptation was to gloss over them as soon as it was obvious that no manuscripts were concealed there, but instinct told me they might contain some kind of clue and instinct, for once, was right.

  I found an invoice, dated more than a year before Kester’s death, from a publisher. The publisher was a representative of the so-called “vanity press,” a firm that specialized in printing books at the author’s expense. The invoice recorded that three novels had been printed for Kester, and on the bottom of the page Kester had noted: Paid 2/2/51. Spare copies to attic trunk.

  I returned to my father.

  “Do you remember the privately printed copies in one of the trunks?”

  “Oh God, yes, although they weren’t inside either of the trunks—he’d left them in boxes on the top. They were very difficult to burn and made a terrible smell.”

  “Did it occur to you to check the library to see if he’d left copies on the shelves?”

  “Yes, I assumed the point of the private printing had been to enable him to place his own work alongside The Prisoner of Zenda and his other old favorites.”

  “So you found the library copies and burned them too.” So completely did I accept this as inevitable that I didn’t even bother to inflect the statement into a question.

  “Well, no,” said my father, “as a matter of fact I didn’t. I searched the entire library but found nothing.”