Next of Kin

by John Boyne

  ‘He disinherited me, Jasper,’ said Montignac without a trace of embarrassment. ‘He left it all to my cousin.’

  ‘To Stella?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So that means you’re—’

  ‘Stony broke and up to my eyeballs in debt,’ he replied cheerfully, lifting his champagne flute and draining it in one mouthful.

  ‘I wouldn’t have believed it,’ said Jasper, shaking his head in surprise.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ replied Montignac in a disinterested tone.

  ‘And is she still seeing that flower fellow or is she on the market?’

  Montignac turned to face him and his lip curled slightly. He could feel a twinge of temper burning at the back of his brain and fought to control it. Jasper swallowed nervously, aware that he had caused offence.

  ‘Perhaps that didn’t come out quite right,’ he began but Montignac interrupted him by standing up and making a polite bow to the assembled group.

  ‘Gentlemen, it’s very late and I’m very tired. I’m afraid I have to take my leave of you,’ he announced.

  ‘Oh you’re not going already, are you?’ asked Gareth, who felt a peculiar desire for him to stay and for the others to leave instead. The manner in which he had answered Jasper back was exactly how he would have liked to have behaved at the roulette table earlier and he wanted to learn a little about it.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Nice to have met you, Mr Bentley. Alexander,’ he added, with a nod to his friend. ‘Come and see me soon.’

  And with that he turned on his heel and marched away, determined this time to escape the club without further assault.

  10

  THE RAIN HAD STARTED, only a light drizzle at first but threatening more, and Montignac buttoned his overcoat and reached inside his pockets for his gloves but they weren’t there; he frowned, wondering whether they had fallen out at Claridge’s earlier, in his haste to get away from Stella and Raymond, in the pub from which he had been whisked away against his will or whether they had slipped out in the cloakroom of the Unicorn Ballrooms. They had been quite an expensive pair of leather gloves and he was sorry for the loss of them.

  He glanced up the street for a taxicab but there was nothing coming yet. He looked at his watch and sighed in exhaustion; it was already half past midnight. Although only twenty-five years old, Montignac had never been one for late nights and the thought of rising at seven thirty after only a few hours’ sleep to spend another day in the gallery, worrying about money, filled him with misery.

  ‘Mr Montignac!’

  A voice called out from behind him and he looked around, unsure which of the many people from inside might have followed him out and for what reason, and was surprised to see his new acquaintance, Gareth Bentley, bounding towards him like a hound pursuing a rabbit, a broad smile plastered across his eager young face.

  ‘Mr Bentley,’ he said. ‘Hello again.’

  ‘Please, call me Gareth,’ he replied. ‘Alexander said you live in Bedford Place.’

  ‘That’s right, yes.’

  ‘Are you getting a taxicab?’

  ‘Yes, do you want to share?’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Montignac with a shrug of the shoulders, pleased to share the expense even if it would be just a trifling amount. He considered in his head for a moment the fact that there could be no such thing as trifling amounts for him any more; every shilling needed to be accounted for. ‘But were you finished with your party?’

  ‘Oh I’d had enough of that,’ said Gareth dismissively as if the whole evening had been nothing important and merely a prelude to getting home again.

  ‘Didn’t they mind you leaving so suddenly?’ Montignac asked, considering the speed with which he had followed him out of the club.

  ‘They’ll barely even notice,’ he replied, anxious to change the subject. ‘Anyway, I was tired. It was time to go home.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Montignac. ‘So are you for Bedford Place too then?’

  ‘Tavistock Square,’ he said. ‘But we can drop you off and I’ll take it the rest of the way. If that’s convenient for you, I mean.’

  Montignac shrugged and pointed down the street. ‘Well we should probably start walking this way then,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll find it easier to pick one up on the main road. They don’t often come down here.’

  Gareth nodded and they began to walk along together as the rain continued to drizzle down on them. The street seemed surprisingly empty of people and the traffic was light.

  ‘I was glad of the opportunity to leave actually,’ confided Gareth. ‘I’m not much good at long nights out.’

  ‘Not even on your birthday?’

  ‘Especially not on my birthday. It reminds me how old I am.’

  ‘And how old is that?’ asked Montignac, guessing that he was no more than twenty or twenty-one years old for he had a very youthful countenance to him, clear of skin and full of good health. His personality seemed childlike too, as if he had never known the difficulty of life as an adult; his stride along the street betrayed a happy-go-lucky, entirely carefree young man.

  ‘Twenty-four,’ said Gareth sadly. ‘Ancient.’

  Montignac laughed. ‘Well I’m twenty-five,’ he said. ‘We’re not exactly on the scrap heap yet, you know.’

  ‘I feel like I am.’

  Montignac sighed; he didn’t really have the energy for vanity such as this. If all the boy had to worry about in his life was the trauma of entering his twenty-fifth year, then he wasn’t doing too badly for himself. After all, he himself was wondering whether he would even see the end of his.

  ‘My cousin died when he was eighteen,’ said Montignac, wondering whether it was terribly hypocritical of him to mention this. ‘I think he’d have given rather a lot to get to our age.’

  Gareth nodded but didn’t offer any condolences as Montignac had failed to congratulate him on his birthday earlier. It seemed ridiculous to him to offer sympathy to a man he didn’t know over the death of a boy he never would.

  Montignac whistled suddenly as a cab approached and it slowed down and they got inside. ‘Bedford Place,’ he said, pleased to be out of the rain at last. ‘And then on to Tavistock Square.’

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ said the driver as he pulled out again.

  ‘So how do you know Alexander?’ asked Montignac after a moment. ‘I haven’t heard him mention you before.’

  ‘We met at my club,’ explained Gareth. ‘Well my father’s club, actually. White’s, in StJames’s. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a member, although I rarely have the time to go there.’

  ‘Well then you know that it’s Alexander’s too. I go there sometimes to read the newspapers in the late afternoon and he’s often to be found sitting there, engrossed in a book.’

  ‘Yes, apparently he calls that work,’ said Montignac.

  ‘He told me that. It seems like rather a good job if you ask me.’

  Montignac shrugged. ‘And Jasper Conway,’ he asked. ‘He’s a particular friend of yours?’

  ‘Not really,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘He’s more friends with Alexander than with me. I don’t like him enormously, if you want to know the truth.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Montignac, who didn’t care for Jasper either. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s terribly vain and arrogant and never pays for anything. And he cost me thirty pounds tonight which I could scarcely afford to lose and he seemed to take great delight in doing so. To be honest I left because I knew he’d end up insisting that I pay for his trip home too. That and the fact that he kept forcing me to drink.’

  Montignac looked across at him. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a silly thing,’ said Gareth, shaking his head. ‘I’m not really supposed to take too much. It can affect me quite badly. I did very well tonight, though; I only had a couple of gla
sses.’

  ‘And did he force you to bet on the roulette too?’ asked Montignac.

  ‘Well no, but—’

  ‘Then it seems a little harsh to blame him for your own mistakes, don’t you think? Although I agree with you entirely in your judgement of him. He’s a leech. And a spineless coward too. I could tell you stories about that one that would make you avoid him like the plague.’

  Gareth nodded but didn’t ask for further details; he watched through the windows as the streets rolled by and wished that the traffic was heavier and their conversation could continue for longer yet. Staring at his reflection in the dark mirror his eyes drifted again towards his companion’s bright white hair which stood out in stark contrast to his own dark, unruly thatch. He had found Montignac’s dismissal of Conway enormously refreshing. He suddenly felt tired and let out a tremendous and unexpected yawn.

  ‘What time do you have to be up at in the morning?’ asked Montignac, trying to make conversation as they continued their journey along Oxford Street and towards Bloomsbury.

  ‘Whenever I feel like it,’ said Gareth. ‘I don’t have any work to go to.’

  ‘Really? And there you were coveting the lifestyle of the idle rich earlier. It sounds to me like you’re one of their number.’

  ‘Well I’d like to be,’ laughed Gareth. ‘If my father would allow it. But I rather think my days of wine and roses are drawing to a close. I’m about to be sucked into the family business.’

  ‘Which is…?’

  ‘The law. My father’s a barrister. Well he’s a judge, actually. He’s the head of the Rice Chambers.’

  Montignac nodded and searched his memory for the name; there was a flicker of recall there somewhere and he chanced across it. ‘Roderick Bentley,’ he said. ‘The judge who sentenced Domson to death. He’s your father.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  ‘I see,’ said Montignac thoughtfully.

  ‘He refuses to support me any more unless I get a job and I can’t find one to suit me so I’ve decided to bite the bullet. Tonight might have been my last night as a free man. Perhaps I should have got drunk after all.’

  Montignac nodded as the cab turned the corner from Russell Street into Bedford Place and he gave the driver the number of his flat.

  ‘Do I take you to mean that you’d rather not be heading for a career in the law yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not. It makes me feel like my whole life is being taken away from me.’

  ‘And do you have any preference for what you’d like to do instead?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Gareth, shaking his head. ‘It’s ridiculous really to get to this age and never to have given any thought to the subject. I feel like I’ve wasted my youth, Mr Montignac.’

  ‘Well it’s not over yet.’

  ‘No, but I’m not sure I’m built for work. It’s like we were saying earlier. I’d like to be one of the idle rich.’

  Montignac smiled. ‘In order to join that class, one needs a sizeable inheritance or a lack of scruples.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have any scruples,’ said Gareth.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well I suppose I’ve never really been tested,’ he added with more caution.

  ‘They’re unnecessary things,’ said Montignac, staring straight ahead and lowering his voice. ‘Anyone has the choice about committing certain acts in order to improve the condition of one’s life. It’s whether or not one is willing to proceed with those impulses or not that counts.’

  ‘Anything to keep me away from the Rice Chambers,’ replied Gareth flippantly.

  ‘Whether one would lie, for example,’ continued Montignac.

  ‘Everybody lies.’

  ‘Or steal.’

  ‘Depends who it was from, I suppose.’

  ‘Or even kill.’

  Gareth turned and stared at his companion, who immediately broke into a forced smile and patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t look so appalled,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just idle chatter.’

  The cab pulled up and Montignac hesitated before saying anything else, aware that the young man hadn’t replied to the last suggestion.

  ‘Listen, Gareth,’ he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out his card. ‘I think I know a little bit about the predicament you’re in and I might be able to help you. My details are all down here. Why don’t you call on me over the next few days and we’ll meet again and discuss it?’

  Gareth took the card and stared across at this relative stranger, almost unable to believe his luck. ‘Do you mean you might have a job for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he replied. He looked out the window towards his flat and opened the cab door quickly, unwilling to discuss it further tonight. ‘Just call on me,’ he said, stepping out on to the street. ‘You might find that it’s to your advantage.’

  He nodded and put the card in his overcoat pocket as Montignac closed the door and waved them off. Young men with connections, such as Gareth Bentley was, were always young men worth getting to know.

  The young man in question was driving across Woburn towards Tavistock Square when he realized that Montignac had done to him exactly what Jasper Conway had been planning on doing: leaving him to pay the full cost of the taxi. And yet somehow he didn’t seem to mind so much any more.

  He put his hand to his pocket several times in order to make sure that the card was still there, just in case it had mysteriously disintegrated or vanished into thin air over the previous few minutes.

  Before arriving home he checked for it three more times before deciding to hold it in his hands for safe keeping. The last thing he wanted was to leave it behind in the taxicab.

  THREE

  1

  THE THREADBARE ART GALLERY opened its doors for the first time in 1930, specializing in the presentation and sale of contemporary art. The owner, Mrs Rachel Conliffe, was a middle-aged lady of independent means who believed that the young painters and sculptors of London were being shamefully overlooked by their local gallery owners, most of whom were stuck in an artistic time warp. To counter this she made it a rule that nothing produced before the death of Queen Victoria could be put on display in her gallery; Edwardian was fine, Georgian even better. The critics mocked at first; it seemed to stand out as an anachronism in the row of commercial galleries along Cork Street, which were notorious for their neglect of younger artists, but it slowly began to develop a reputation for eccentricity and the art-buying public drifted curiously towards it. Within a couple of years a purchase from the Threadbare had become something of a status symbol, a whisper to the world that one was of a fashionable mind and not stuck wallowing in the dull traditions of the past.

  Mrs Conliffe maintained a hands-off approach to the business, showing up once every few weeks to cast an eye over the new displays, but she made a comfortable living from a distance and preferred not to involve herself in the daily operations. For that she had hired Owen Montignac, a talented and personable young Cambridge graduate, after her original manager had left for a position in the Tate; Montignac’s appointment came under the recommendation of his late uncle, who had been a business acquaintance of Mrs Conliffe’s husband for many years.

  The morning after the meeting with Nicholas Delfy at the Unicorn Ballrooms, Montignac woke earlier than usual, at around six thirty, and was unable to get back to sleep. He found that no matter what problems were weighing him down—financial concerns, worries about Stella’s forthcoming marriage, the possibility of being ripped apart by Delfy’s thugs—they tended to make their appearance only at night, like owls or vampires. And on this occasion, there was only one problem pressing on his mind: money.

  He rose and washed, eating a light breakfast before leaving his flat an hour later. It was a fine summer’s morning so he was able to walk to the gallery as usual. The time alone and fresh air might, he hoped, help to clear his head. His options were limited now. Four weeks to raise ten thousand pounds. The idea was absurd. And aft
er that there would still be the matter of raising four times that amount before the end of the year, but he dismissed that from his mind for the moment as being beside the point. He had to concentrate on the initial payment first.

  He considered how much money he had left in his savings—just under nine hundred pounds—and wondered whether it would be worthwhile taking that to a different casino later in the day and trying to win enough money to pay Delfy back what he owed him, but he quickly shrugged this idea off before he could even countenance it; it had been thinking like this that had got him into this mess in the first place.

  The shocking thing, the thing that made him sick to his stomach whenever he thought of it, was how his uncle had cut him off. It was one thing for him to decide to leave his fortune to Stella—after all, she was his only surviving child and he could just about have understood this decision—but to leave him with nothing at all? It was beyond cruel.

  They had gathered, Stella and he, in the library at Leyville the morning after the funeral and Sir Denis Tandy, Peter Montignac’s lawyer, was waiting for them when they shuffled in. Stella looked pale and drawn, as if the events of the previous few days were beginning to take their toll on her, while Montignac himself felt energized and excited by what was to come. Finally, the stolen Montignac fortune would return to where it rightfully belonged. An injustice would be set right.

  ‘Stella, Owen,’ said Sir Denis, looking up from the reading desk and rising to greet them. ‘How are you both feeling this morning?’

  Stella shrugged and said nothing, lowering herself heavily into a wing-backed armchair, her eyes lingering for a moment on the sinister document laid out on the desk.

  ‘We’re both quite tired,’ said Montignac. ‘I don’t think either of us has had much sleep over the last few days. It will be nice to get things back to normal.’

  ‘Well they’re not going to get back to normal, are they?’ Stella pointed out irritably. ‘I mean Father’s not coming back so I don’t see how normal is a possibility.’

  Sir Denis opened his mouth but found that he had used up all his words of condolence already and could find no more. He was unimpressed with Stella’s attitude. It was one thing to mourn and be upset during a funeral, that was perfectly understandable, but once it was over? Well then it was only good form to return to normal and pretend that nothing had ever happened. Showing emotions never did anyone any good. He didn’t respond to her and moved around behind the desk as Montignac sat down opposite him.