by John Boyne
‘And then Andrew died,’ she continued. ‘And Mother. Then Father. And now Raymond.’
‘Raymond didn’t die at Leyville, though. He’s not connected with it in any way.’
‘If he hadn’t met me, he wouldn’t have met Owen. And if he hadn’t met Owen, he wouldn’t have been going to his flat that night and he’d still be alive. It’s as much my fault that he’s dead as anyone’s.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Margaret in a stern voice. ‘You had nothing to do with it. The only person to blame for Raymond’s death is that young man who killed him.’
‘Gareth Bentley,’ said Stella quietly.
‘Yes and you don’t have to worry about him because he’s safely locked up in prison and will no doubt be found guilty and that’ll be the end of him.’
Stella grimaced; she hated the idea of executions. There was something so medieval about them, she thought.
‘I don’t want that,’ she said.
‘Well you may not have a say in it. The law’s the law.’
‘If he did kill Raymond,’ said Stella. ‘I would prefer for him to live a long, long life and spend all of it in jail. Hanging would be too swift a release for him.’
‘If he killed him?’ asked Margaret, surprised by the qualification. ‘What do you mean “if”?’
‘Well he hasn’t been found guilty yet, has he?’
‘It’s only a matter of time,’ replied Margaret, who was following the case avidly in the daily newspapers, although she was keeping them far away from Stella’s sight. To read the details would, she knew, only upset her.
Stella sighed and said nothing for a while, picking at her breakfast without making any great inroads into it.
‘Have you spoken to Owen lately?’ she asked after a while.
‘I’ve left messages for him. I haven’t heard back from him.’
‘Will you do something for me?’ asked Stella. ‘Will you call him again and ask him to come down for the weekend? There’s something I want to talk to him about.’
‘If you like. But you’re not going to talk to him about this ridiculous idea of leaving Leyville, are you?’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s something else.’
Margaret narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘What is it, Stella?’
She shrugged her shoulders and wouldn’t look Margaret in the eye; the moment took her back in time ten years to when Stella was a teenager, to that dreadful time just before she was sent away to Geneva. When she had sat down with them both and they had confided in her. Just before Margaret had taken the matter in hand.
‘It’s nothing special,’ said Stella. ‘Just something I want to discuss with him.’
‘I’ll call him if that’s what you want,’ said Margaret. ‘Just be careful with him, that’s all I ask.’
Stella stared across the table. ‘Be careful with him?’ she asked. ‘Be careful with what? He’s my cousin, isn’t he? He’s not going to harm me.’
‘Yes,’ said Margaret forcefully. ‘That’s my point exactly. He’s your cousin. Perhaps you should leave him to live his life in London and you should get on with yours down here.’
‘Anyone would think you don’t like to see the two of us together.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Margaret—’
‘Well, do you seriously expect me to say anything else?’
Stella shook her head. ‘Really, Margaret. Anyone would think that it was you who—’
‘Stop that,’ said Margaret, slapping her hand down on the table. ‘Stop it this instant. You know that I don’t like to talk about those days.’
‘Feeling guilty, are you?’ she asked, aiming to hurt.
‘Of course I don’t feel guilty. What do I have to feel guilty about?’
Stella raised an eyebrow and stood up from her chair and walked over towards the side of the roof, resting her arms on the low stone in front of her.
‘I wonder if things had been different, whether Owen and I would have been friends at all,’ she said. ‘If we would have even known each other.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well if Grandfather had accepted Uncle Henry’s marriage. If they had stayed on here. If Owen had been born at Leyville rather than in France. Of course, none of us would have grown up here then. Father might have moved to London. We would have had a house there. Everything would have been the opposite of what it is now. I would have been the one coming down to visit him. This would have been his home and Andrew and I would have been the poor relations.’
‘If that had happened, then Owen might not have been the boy he is.’
‘You’ve never liked him, have you, Margaret?’
‘That’s not true,’ she replied, offended and pausing a moment to consider it. ‘When he first came here, I welcomed him as much as anyone. If anything I gave him extra attention so that he wouldn’t feel like he didn’t belong.’
‘Which is how he’s always felt,’ said Stella.
‘There’s no one was as kind to that boy as I was. He owes this family a lot, if you ask me. He owes your father a lot. Look at all your father did for him! Took him in when he didn’t have a home. Gave him a decent education. Set him up for life. And how did Owen repay him?’
‘That wasn’t just Owen,’ said Stella quickly, turning around in frustration. ‘Good God, Margaret, you’ve never been willing to accept that have you? You always view him as some sort of predatory beast who—’
‘You were only sixteen, Stella.’
‘And he was fifteen! He was younger than me! If anyone was the predator—’
‘I’m not listening to this,’ said Margaret, rising to her feet. ‘I told you ten years ago that I would never discuss this matter again and I don’t intend to change that now.’
‘All right, all right. There’s no need to get angry about it. I’m just saying that if you looked at things from his perspective—’
‘I’ve been doing that for years, Stella, and it gets me nowhere,’ she said, growing upset now. ‘You have no idea of how much I’ve worried about that boy. Both of you, all three of you, Andrew too, were like my own children. I was like a second mother to you—’
‘Of course you were.’
‘Albeit a second mother who was on the staff and could be dismissed on a whim. I spent years worrying about Owen. Ten years ago I did what I did not just out of concern for you, you know, but out of concern for him too. I did it for you both.’
‘Your best intentions may have ruined us both.’
‘And what Owen became then,’ she continued, ignoring what Stella had said, ‘is no fault of mine. If he’s unhappy because your father disinherited him, well that’s nothing to do with me. If he’s bitter that things went so wrong between the two of you, that’s not my fault. I refuse to take responsibility for his failings.’
‘Why did Father cut Owen off, Margaret?’ asked Stella quietly and Margaret stopped talking for a moment and stared at her, open-mouthed.
‘What was that?’
‘I asked why Father cut him off. He was always so passionate about tradition. And the tradition dictated that the Montignacs inherited on the male line.’
‘Perhaps he had a change of heart,’ said Margaret, stumbling over her words. ‘Perhaps he wanted to leave his estate to his only surviving child.’
‘Did he know, Margaret?’ asked Stella, wondering if she would be able to tell from her face whether she was telling the truth or not. ‘Did you tell him?’
A silence descended between them. The two women stared at each other, Stella wondering whether she had stumbled across a secret entirely by chance, Margaret asking herself whether she had wasted her life on this ungrateful lot.
She didn’t answer and Stella turned around for a moment, shaking her head in frustration; when she turned back Margaret had already gone back inside, leaving the door swinging open and—unusually for her—the breakfast things on the table for Stella to bring back to the kitchen herself.
&n
bsp; 7
FROM ACROSS THE STREET on Cork Mews, Montignac could see the way his young assistant was looking at the woman and couldn’t help but smile and shake his head. Jason Parsons had a habit of falling in love with the various older ladies who spent time in the gallery, although he became flustered and unable to look them in the eye if they started asking him questions or quizzed him about a painting. For all his longing stares he had never yet managed to impress one sufficiently and, to the best of Montignac’s knowledge, his social life was not particularly expansive. Still, on this occasion he seemed to be getting along quite well with the woman who was, he could see even from a distance, an extremely attractive middle-aged lady, the type that often frequented the art galleries along Cork Street but who was usually more of a browser than a purchaser.
Montignac kicked the butt of his cigarette out on the street just as Arthur Hamilton stepped out of the Clarion Gallery next door. He cursed his timing and tried to double-back into the doorway of Pollen House but the older man saw him and raised a hand in greeting, and he had little choice but to continue across the road.
‘Hello there, Owen,’ said Hamilton. ‘Haven’t seen you around the gallery recently.’
‘I’ve been rather busy, Arthur,’ he explained. ‘Some family issues to take care of.’
‘Oh yes,’ he replied, frowning and lowering his voice, despite the fact that there was no one listening in to their conversation. ‘I read about your … unpleasantness in the newspaper. Very bad business.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Coping all right, are you?’
‘Tolerably well,’ said Montignac. ‘Any luck with those missing Cézannes?’
Hamilton shook his head. ‘Not a sausage,’ he said. ‘The whole thing’s a terrible mystery. And, would you believe, I’m having a hideous argument with the insurance people over it. They say I didn’t provide enough security.’
‘Really? I would have thought that was a very secure room.’ The words were out before he realized what he was saying and he tried to keep his face still so as not to betray his regret.
‘What was that?’ asked Hamilton.
‘I’m assuming you kept the paintings in your restoration room upstairs,’ said Montignac quickly.
‘Well yes, but—’
‘I mean that’s exactly where I would have kept them if I’d been in your shoes.’
‘Yes, it is the safest place. It’s very secure. I’m the only one with a key. But how did you know about it?’
Montignac smiled at the man as if he had become senile overnight. ‘Well you showed it to me, Arthur, don’t you remember? About a year ago. I was browsing among your stock one day and you told me that you were working on some restorations for the Tate and would I be interested in taking a look.’
‘I did?’ asked Hamilton, looking away as if to try to recall the encounter.
‘Yes, don’t you remember?’
He thought about it and shook his head. ‘The old brain isn’t what it used to be,’ he said finally with a shrug. ‘You should value your youth, Owen.’
‘I do,’ said Montignac with a smile. ‘I’m trying to enjoy it as much as possible as it happens.’
His eyes darted in the direction of the Threadbare where the lady had moved away from the counter and was now standing in front of one particularly repulsive self-portrait by a Shoreditch artist, her head inclined as she silently judged it. Behind the counter he could see Jason Parsons staring at her with barely disguised longing.
‘I had a look around your place the other day,’ continued Hamilton, oblivious to the fact that Montignac wasn’t fully paying attention. ‘Some very interesting pieces you have there.’
‘Nice of you to say so, Arthur,’ said Montignac with a laugh. ‘Anything you’d be interested in? I could do you a nice deal on one since you’re a neighbour.’
‘Eh, no,’ said Hamilton quickly. ‘No thank you. Probably not quite right for me. They’re more for the young people, I imagine. Would they be your regular customers?’
‘Not at all. The young people don’t have any money, do they? No, we’re more for the undiscerning middle-aged couple with aspirations towards maintaining their fashionability and impressing their Parisian friends when they come on a visit.’
‘Which would explain why we’re never in competition then,’ said Hamilton with a laugh. ‘Well I better get along. Good to see you again anyway.’
‘You too, Arthur,’ said Montignac, shaking his hand. ‘And sorry to hear about the insurance problems.’
‘Oh we’ll sort them out. Never you worry.’
He disappeared down the street and Montignac watched him for a moment. The man was nearly seventy and still working five days a week, eight hours a day in his gallery. He didn’t know whether it was because he loved his work so much or because he couldn’t afford to retire but he had a quick realization that in forty years’ time he did not want to be anywhere near Cork Street, unless he was redecorating his home.
‘There you are, Mr Montignac,’ said Jason as he stepped through the door. ‘Thought you’d run away on us altogether.’
‘I don’t have to answer to you, do I?’ he asked sharply and the boy reddened and shook his head.
‘No, sir. No, I didn’t mean that. I was just—’
‘I’ll be at my desk doing the books if you’re looking for me,’ he said, walking past him without a glance.
‘Hold on, sir,’ called Jason. ‘There’s a lady here to see you.’
‘A lady?’
‘She’s been here for quite some time. Says she needs to talk to you about something.’
‘Which one?’ he asked, looking around at the half-dozen or so ladies walking slowly from picture to picture and gesturing at the sculptures in between.
‘That one,’ said Jason, pointing across.
Montignac studied her; it was the same lady he’d seen talking to Jason from across the street. She was still engrossed in the Shoreditch painting and hadn’t noticed him come in. He frowned, trying to understand why she looked vaguely familiar.
‘I’ll be at my desk,’ he said. ‘You can send her over to me there.’
He went across and sat down and felt an urge to do a quick tidy of the top of the desk, moving the catalogues and folders out of his way and on to the chair to discourage her from sitting and taking up too much of his time as Jason approached the woman and pointed in Montignac’s direction. She stared down at him as if trying to get a sense of him from a distance before looking suddenly relieved and walking through the gallery towards him.
‘Mr Montignac?’ she asked and he nodded in reply.
‘That’s right. We’ve met before…?’ he began, sure that they had but she shook her head.
‘No I don’t think so. I’m Jane Bentley. Gareth’s mother.’
He felt a slight chill inside and couldn’t find a response for a moment. ‘I thought you looked familiar,’ he said finally. ‘He has the look of you.’
‘Do you think so?’ she said, brightening up considerably. ‘People usually say he takes after Roderick’s side of the family. Roderick’s my husband of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Montignac, taking her in. Close up he could see why Jason had been captivated. She was a startlingly beautiful woman, the type who probably looked even better now in her fifth decade than she had in her third or fourth. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, reaching for the catalogues from the chair and aware that he had been staring. ‘Please sit down.’
‘I apologize for calling in unannounced,’ she said, sitting down. ‘But you never seem to be here when I phone.’
‘I have been rather busy lately,’ he admitted. ‘And as my assistant will no doubt tell you, I’m dreadful at returning calls.’
‘You must know what I’m here about,’ she said.
‘Gareth, I assume.’
‘He tells me you’ve been to see him.’
Montignac sighed and pulled a face; he wasn’t sure how much of this he wanted to t
alk about. ‘He asked me to visit him,’ he said, correcting her slightly. ‘And I obliged. I didn’t stay very long, I’m afraid.’
‘I never stay long myself,’ said Jane, looking tired and drawn. ‘I hate the place.’
‘Well I think … that’s the idea,’ he said quietly.
‘How did you find him?’ she asked, swallowing hard and recovering her poise.
‘Scared,’ said Montignac, considering his answer carefully. ‘Bewildered by what had happened. Guilty.’
‘He’s not guilty, Mr Montignac,’ she interrupted quickly. ‘Whatever my son is capable of, he’s not a killer.’
‘No, I meant that he felt guilty,’ said Montignac, correcting himself. ‘Whether he is or not…’ He wanted to suggest that that was for a jury to decide but he felt no urge to cause this woman any further pain and so pulled back.
‘I need to ask you about that night,’ said Jane. ‘I need to know for myself what happened.’
‘I have told the police this,’ he protested. ‘Haven’t they talked to you about it? Or Gareth’s barrister?’
‘I need to hear it from you, Mr Montignac,’ she said firmly. ‘Those few hours you spent with him were the last hours of his freedom. By the end of that night, whatever had taken place has destroyed him. It’s destroyed our entire family. I just need you to tell me yourself. Please.’
Montignac sighed; he had little desire to relive the events of that evening.
‘Have you any children, Mr Montignac?’ she asked after a moment when it became clear that he was hesitating.
That question—that most hated of questions—snapped him back and he felt his lip curl involuntarily. A burning sensation tore through his stomach and as each second passed he willed himself to speak.
‘No,’ he said finally, through clenched teeth.
‘Well if you did have children, you would understand how important this is to me. How I can’t just let it go.’
Montignac sighed. There was something about her that made it clear to him that she wouldn’t be going anywhere until he talked her through it, so he shrugged his shoulders and relented.
‘Like I told the police and Gareth’s barrister,’ he began, ‘I really wasn’t with him for all that long. There’s a pub on Piccadilly that I sometimes go to, the Bullirag. Do you know Air Street?’