The Philanthropist's Danse

by Wornham, Paul

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  William picked the next name from the pitcher. “Caroline Smith. Ms. Smith, it’s your turn. You know what to do.”

  Caroline was frightened. What she had to say would end her career. A cold bead of sweat ran from her armpit down her torso and made her shiver. She feared the judgment of the family, so rushed to get it over with. “As you know, I am Chief Executive Officer of the Thurwell Foundation.”

  She put her usual emphasis on her title and then realized how hollow it would sound in a few seconds. “I am afraid I was not as honest in my position as I should have been, and as much as Mr. Thurwell could have expected of me.”

  She heard Philip snort. “Get on with it Smith. If you’re a crook, just say so.”

  Smith flushed at his description, but he was right. “I allowed some decisions about Foundation grants to be influenced by lobbyists. I accepted gifts to ensure the Board looked favorably on certain applications.” She stopped and waited for condemnation, but there was quiet. The silence was more unnerving than the outcry she had expected.

  Bethany was the person whose reaction she feared most, but she was lost in her own thoughts. Junior was distracted and worried at his fingernails. What might have been a bombshell revelation a few hours ago was nothing after the dramas they had already witnessed. Her indiscretion was severe, but it paled by comparison to the family betrayals and back-stabbing. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked at the lawyer to see if he would pass her confession. “Well, William? Is that it?”

  Bird nodded and pronounced her eligible to progress.

  He was as surprised as she that there was no comment from the family. They all knew how important the Foundation had been to the philanthropist. Johnston Thurwell had been a deeply flawed man, but his public persona was greatly improved by the work of his great charitable enterprise. Sick children, struggling artists and dedicated educators, among others, had benefited directly from a man who would have terrified them had they known him in different circumstances.

  Thurwell relied on the Foundation to give him an appearance of humanity, and when he discovered Smith sullied the Foundation’s purpose, he had been livid. She had been fortunate the information had only come to her employer’s attention a few weeks before his death, or he would have exacted a high price for her greed. Instead, for some reason he included her in this gathering. She would have to fight for anything and maybe get nothing. The lawyer had enough information to know what the broad outline of the Danse was, but he still had no idea of the end game. He’d find out in time, they all would. He reached for the next name.

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  “Camille Jolivet. Ms. Jolivet, if you please.”

  He offered a half-smile and indicated for her to start. Camille was coy, she was not certain her deepest secret had been discovered and did not intend to blurt it out if there was a lesser misdemeanor she could admit. “Monsieur Bird, may I have a hint as to the general nature of what I am to say?” She gave the lawyer a coquettish tilt of the head and hoped her charm might make the lawyer agreeable. He looked at her in such a way she had no doubt that her attempt failed miserably. “Share your secret, or lose everything. That’s all the help I can offer.”

  She pouted and gave a shrug. She saw some people were listening while others, including Bethany, seemed not to be aware of her at all. She took the time to light a cigarette, drew deeply from it and started to tell her story into a cloud of blue smoke. “I shared the story of how I came to America to find my father. It is true, he was my father. But, some parts of my history are not so true. I said my mother told me my father’s identity at the end of her life, and that is so, but she was not as strong and proud as I said. Mama had been an alcoholic for many years. She had no money and lived on the charity of the Church and her sister.”

  She waved her hands around as she spoke, the dark smoke of her cigarette curled upwards in an acrid spiral. So far, most people paying attention found her smoke more offensive than anything she had said. “So, I found one day, a diary. It was Mama’s journal, and she had written the name of my father in it, with a few notes about his success in America. I looked him up, and that’s how I came to be here today.” She stopped and drew long on her cigarette.

  Freddie was incredulous. “That’s it? You had a drunk for a Mom? Bill, I’m not seeing much there, is she for real?”

  The lawyer shot a look at Camille. “Wait for her to finish, Freddie.”

  Camille was suddenly frightened, he did know her deepest secret, and now she knew must finish the story. Camille had no idea how they had uncovered the truth, but she guessed rich people could learn anything if they really wanted to. She shook her head, lit another cigarette with trembling fingers and began talking, chewing her knuckles nervously between sentences.

  “I see. Then, Monsieur Bird, you know everything. So be it. My mother, she was a drunk. She lost her mind long ago and only existed to shit and piss over my life. I found her diary one day. I discovered a rich American was my father and wanted to escape Paris with all my heart.” She paused and smoked for a moment.

  What she had to tell the group was a memory she had suppressed since being accepted by the Old Man as his daughter. “My mother, she was sick from the booze, you see? She was not able to travel. She had no passport, no money. She had no dignity. Her health was failing, I could see her each day getting worse and the messes I had to clean, so disgusting. I wanted a new life, but Mama kept me chained to hers.” She took another drag of her cigarette, she was pale and there was silence as they waited for her to finish.

  Some thought they knew what was coming next, but even they were shocked by the truth. “Mama often spent nights on the street. She would escape the apartment while I slept and would beg on the streets until she had enough money for a drink. She would drink until she passed out, sometimes in the gutter. We did not live in the best arrondissement, and there were plenty of bad people there. One night I woke, and she was gone. I took a flashlight and looked for her. When I found her passed out in a doorway, she had shit herself again. It was disgusting, and I was so angry I hit her, but she did not move, so I hit her again.”

  Tears welled up as she described the last moments of her mother’s life. “I used the flashlight, and I beat her and beat her. I was so angry at her for keeping me in poverty while I had a new life waiting for me. She was a wicked, selfish old drunk, and I hit her again and again. When I stopped. I saw what I had done. It was horrible. I ran home and waited for the gendarmes to come.”

  Camille’s tears flowed freely, and her voice cracked with emotion. “When they came in the morning, they told me mama had been killed in a robbery. They had no way to know she had nothing to take, not even her dignity. They did not suspect me. She was a street person, and they did not care so much about her, only that they could not explain why she was attacked. I told them that she wore a silver chain that was precious, and they said it was gone. It gave them a motive for the attack, and they never asked another question. I buried her and left Paris forever.” There was horrified silence after she admitted her matricide.

  William was about to announce Camille’s task complete when a soft voice broke the quiet. “You’re going right to hell, my girl. You wicked, greedy creature.” Winnie’s voice was low, but it carried so everyone heard her. No one could recall a time when she had spoken without first being asked a question. She was clearly upset and pointed at Camille, her face set in stony disapproval. “Hell is waiting for you. To kill your own mother, can there be a worse crime—”

  Bethany stood and screamed. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say that. Do not judge her, you have no right. Stop. Stop it now.”

  Winnie did stop because she was surprised by Bethany’s outburst. Bethany dropped back into her seat, spent. She made no attempt to look at Camille but just trembled in her seat. Philip moved to his sister’s side and knelt next to her. “I think it’s time we took that break, don’t you Billy?”

  The lawyer looked up, but Junior seemed shocked
into agreement with his brother. Freddie shrugged, and Bird took it to be tacit agreement. He acknowledged Camille was eligible for the next session and called an adjournment for lunch. It took a moment for anyone to move, but Camille stood and quickly exited the conference room, headed for her room.

  Larry MacLean went to Winnie and helped her out of her chair. “Take the time to look at that list now Mrs. Tremethick, it might be the only chance you have before you are asked for your secret.”

  “I will, Mr. MacLean, I will. Thank you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  William hurried to his office to take a few minutes away from the others. It had been a rough couple of hours, but so far, everyone had successfully confessed their secrets. How could they not when the lure of Thurwell’s fortune was so strong? Already he’d heard admissions of corruption, blackmail and even matricide, and there was more to come. The group would not be the same after this phase of the Danse.

  Three people still needed to share their secrets, Bethany, Philip and Mrs. Tremethick. William opened the yellow envelope and reread the details of each secret. There was every chance the mood would become uglier than it already was, and that might cause more problems when it came time to divide the fortune.

  The alliances of the first day would not survive to the next round of negotiations. The things they learned about each other would make old relationships untenable. Bird saw no way for Junior and Larry to remain allied after MacLean’s admission of his affair with Junior’s mother. The family alliance was in trouble. The first day had gone well for them because they had controlled the outcome of every vote, but that advantage evaporated with the revelation of Larry’s secret shame.

  William worried about the next session and read Winnie Tremethick’s secret again. He was apprehensive the old lady might be unable to share it, he believed her when she claimed no memory of Johnston Thurwell. There was a yellow envelope in the safe to open in the event the group rejected her with no share, but he was ignorant of its contents beyond the hand-written note on the envelope.

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  Bethany sat alone in her suite, exhausted after her emotional outburst. She was revolted by Camille’s admission of matricide and still reeled after learning of Larry and Junior’s separate betrayals of her father. She felt drained and her growing anxiety made her snap at the old woman. Bethany feared she too would be judged harshly for her behavior. Her stomach tightened into a painful knot at the coming trial.

  Her two brothers would understand that her betrayal of their father was greater even than Junior’s. She had no doubt her father had found out the truth, it explained why he had not wanted her near him when his end came. She also realized the cruel process he had designed for their inheritance was their punishment.

  After listening to the secrets from those close to her father, she was shocked that his employees had treated him with more love and respect than his closest friends and family. The Elliots helped put Larry MacLean into a position where he could be destroyed at will, even Betty had aided the effort. Freddie Hagood had turned out to be a close friend and partner, not the ruthless rival they had believed. She shook her head and thought of her father. She was as guilty as the others.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for strength, but the only words she heard were Winnie Tremethick’s condemning Camille to hell. She shuddered and hugged herself closer.

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  Philip sauntered into the library. He knew he was going to have to tell his secret, but he couldn’t change that fact and so he didn’t worry about it. He was worried about his sister, she was not herself and he wondered what possible indiscretion she may have committed that had her so rattled. She had loved her father and had been much loved as his favorite. Philip could barely imagine anything she could do to cause his father to reject her.

  His thoughts turned to his own pending admission, and the Judge popped into Philip’s thoughts. He smiled, the self-righteous prick was going to be mighty pissed after he heard what Philip had to say, perhaps even more pissed than the Old Man had been.

  Philip didn’t care. He had moved on, the events in Georgia seemed a lifetime away. He would tell his story, tolerate the obvious reactions and wait for his share of the money. Then he could get back to the mountains and find some fresh, deep powder. He smiled at the thought just as Jeremy appeared to announce a buffet lunch was ready.

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  Winnie Tremethick sat at the small desk in her room. The sun shone across the teak surface and brought out the wood’s rich glow. She reached into her enormous handbag and found the note Larry MacLean had passed to her. She pursed her lips and prayed it might reveal a connection between herself and the mysterious American.

  She unfolded the single sheet of paper and looked over the neatly written list. Her attention was immediately drawn to three dates MacLean had circled in red. He’d told her earlier he thought he’d narrowed it down. She adjusted her glasses and looked at the first date.

  1957, October - November

  Winnie thought back to the late fifties. She’d been married with two young children and a husband who returned home from the pub later each night. Her son’s birthday was Halloween. He would have turned ten in 1957. There was nothing unusual about that year. No memory of an American. It was just herself, the kids, the farm and Arnold and his drink. She thought about how her life had been when she was 28. She wondered if she might have been happier if she had been stronger and insisted that Arnold not get drunk every night. If wishes were fishes, she thought. She moved her finger down the page to the next red-circled date.

  1960, January - October

  Winnie moved her life story ahead three years and thought about 1960. Her son Ken became a teenager in 1960, a strong young man at the beginning of the decade that would almost ruin him. Joy, her daughter, would have been 12. Shy for her age but already a beauty. Arnold had stopped his nightly visits to the pub, but spent the evenings with a bottle of cheap scotch until he passed out in front of the fire.

  Her life had been unimproved from 1957. Her only pleasure was the children. She thought hard, but there had been no American. She shook her head in frustration and moved to the last dates MacLean had highlighted.

  1965, February – December

  Winnie’s life had changed in the autumn of 1964 when Arnold stumbled and fell into a threshing machine he was repairing. She was a widow at 36. Ken had been gone for two years, drawn to 1960’s London like a moth to a flame. Winnie feared he’d be as consumed, she never heard from him. Joy was seventeen and had taken a job in Glasgow as a hotel receptionist.

  Both children wanted to be as far from the farm as they could get. They blamed her for the premature death of their father. It was unwarranted, but a cruel fact nonetheless. Winnie’s heart was heavy as she ran through the memory of her lonely year.

  Then her heart skipped a beat as she recalled events that occurred in the springtime of that year. Yes, it had been April or May of 1965. Her memories flooded back, and her eyes opened wide as she remembered a long-forgotten but remarkable time.

  She recalled being woken one rainy night by a noise, but being unable to see anything outside in the darkness, had gone back to bed and forgotten about it. The next morning she’d thrown a waterproof over her head to go out and feed the chickens. The percussion of rain on the coat was loud, and at first, she missed the faint sound from the lane as her hens flocked greedily around her feet.

  When she heard the noise again above the sound of raindrops and chickens, she went to the gate and looked up the lane. She couldn’t see anything, but she heard something. Whatever it was, it was out of place in her familiar surroundings. Winnie turned to get out of the thick weather and back to the house, convinced she was hearing things, when she heard a voice calling for help.

  Winnie left the yard and walked up the lane, cursing the foul weather. She stopped when she saw torn up grass at the side of the road and a much-disturbed hedgerow. She peered into the undergrowth and saw a motorcycle on its side
. There was a young man pinned under it, and he was calling weakly for help. Winnie dropped the coat and plunged into the hedge immediately, calling out to the boy. He was so relieved to see a helper he began to cry, which Winnie thought a bit soft until she saw his mangled leg.

  It took an hour of hard physical effort to free his leg and Winnie was soaked by the time she dragged the man free of the wreck. She sat him against a tree and gave him a thermos of hot tea and hurried to fetch her sturdy horse. Winnie was a strong woman but she knew that, after the effort of freeing the man, she had no strength to carry him back to the house. Eventually, with the young man grunting with pain at each bump and jolt, she got him slung over the horse and into the dry barn.

  She piled straw deep on the floor and helped the stranger onto its softness. She looked at his leg, tutted, and went to get her kitchen scissors and first-aid box. When she returned the man had passed out. It was a mercy for the poor fellow, and she quickly tended his wounds. Nothing felt broken, but he groaned through his unconsciousness when she touched his left shin where the skin was torn and ragged. Winnie cleaned the wound with warm water and stitched the worst of the cuts. When she was finished, she threw thick blankets over him and made her trustworthy dog lay next to the stranger. If the young man tried anything foolish with her, the dog would give him a whole new set of wounds to worry about.

  Winnie called her horse to duty once more and together she and the animal retrieved the broken motorcycle. It looked like a complete wreck as it lay on her cobblestone yard, but she covered it with a tarpaulin and returned to the barn to check on her patient.

  Winnie trembled at the memory. She had not thought about these events for many years, but the images flooded back with clarity now. She closed her eyes and remembered the rest.