Next of Kin

by John Boyne

  ‘Easily? Your son might have been killed!’

  ‘I should tell you that I’ve resigned as a judge.’

  Jane’s eyes opened wide. ‘Resigned?’ she asked. ‘But why?’

  ‘You think I could continue to serve now?’

  ‘Well of course! Why not?’

  Roderick smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘I’ve always had a particular image of myself,’ he said. ‘As an honest man. A true man. But look what I’ve done. A couple of days ago I found myself running into Keaton’s office begging for my proxy vote back, trying to buy back my pride, but it was already gone. Even if he’d let me, it wouldn’t have mattered. We both would have known what my price was.’

  ‘But this is ridiculous, Roderick. You’re throwing your career away for nothing.’

  He stood up and looked out the window. ‘I think we should get away,’ he said. ‘Move away from London altogether. Sell up and go somewhere more peaceful. What do you think?’

  ‘But the garden parties,’ she said, protesting. ‘And they say the coronation will go ahead as planned next summer.’

  ‘That life is over now,’ he explained to her. ‘It doesn’t matter that he got off in the end. He did nothing wrong, but I did. And so that life is over. You need to realize that.’

  Jane stood in the centre of the room, looking from left to right. To one side she could hear the sounds of her friends all drinking and laughing in the next rooms, the celebrations for the return of their son. To the other, there was Roderick, telling her that it was all pointless, that they could celebrate all they wanted but the life they had known was just a distant memory now.

  She looked in both directions and, for the life of her, didn’t know in which direction to walk.

  9

  THE HOUSE SEEMED UTTERLY deserted. Compared to the Christmases of his childhood there was something unforgiving about Leyville now. Montignac’s aunt, Ann, had always made the house seem incredibly festive, with an enormous Christmas tree in the downstairs hallway that stretched halfway up the house, past the staircase, in the direction of the first-floor bedrooms. The mantelpieces were always covered with holly and cards; stockings were pinned by the fireplace. Wrapping paper and presents were to be found in every nook and cranny. There was nothing like that now, just the stark emptiness of the rest of the year and the echoing silence of generations that had passed through the house and died.

  Montignac went from room to room without sight of anyone. Even the small parlour that for years had served as Margaret Richmond’s private retreat, where she would go with a book when the children were getting too boisterous for her, was deserted. He checked the kitchen and the fridge was stocked with food for the following day but nothing festive, no turkeys or Christmas puddings, just a stuffed chicken and a small ham. He assumed she had gone into town; he had declined the invitation for Christmas and had only changed his mind earlier that morning and taken the lunchtime train.

  The morning had been spent tying up some loose ends. He had got enormous satisfaction out of going to the Unicorn Ballrooms and handing Nicholas Delfy his forty thousand pounds.

  ‘You know,’ Nicholas said, ‘this really has accrued more interest payments over the last few months.’

  Montignac stared at him and didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

  ‘But since you’ve done such a magnificent job collecting the money in time, I’ve decided to let you off them and call us quits.’

  ‘Very big of you, Nicholas,’ said Montignac, relieved. ‘It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. But I got there in the end.’

  ‘I never doubted you for a moment. And forgive me if I implied that you would come to any harm should you have failed. You know I only say such things to protect my business concerns.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Montignac with a smile.

  ‘And, since it’s Christmas, I have a little present for you,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Really?’ he asked, surprised. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve reinstated your credit here. You are welcome to play at my tables again. Shall we say a ten-thousand-pound credit limit to begin with? No point in learning to run before you can walk.’

  Montignac laughed and shook his head. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘It’s a very generous offer but my gambling days are behind me. From now on, whatever I have, I keep.’

  Delfy nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But if you ever change your mind, you know where to come. Although I have to say, Owen—and I only say this because I’m curiously fond of you—I think you’re right to quit while you’re ahead.’

  ‘Not that I am very far ahead,’ he admitted. ‘I just gave it all to you. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a rebate for getting it here in time, is there?’

  ‘No chance whatsoever,’ said Delfy cheerfully. ‘But always worth asking. What will you do now anyway?’

  Montignac shrugged. ‘Try to start the new year off better than the last,’ he said. ‘I’m flat broke, have no prospects, very little income and no chance of a decent inheritance any more. But there again, if I can make forty thousand pounds for you in under six months, just imagine what I could make for myself in twelve.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Delfy, reaching across and shaking his hand. ‘Shall I trust that I won’t see you here again then?’

  Montignac nodded and left for good, waving a cheeky goodbye to Henderson and Dempsey as he went, happy that Delfy had never allowed them to get to grips with him.

  It was in this spirit of cheerfulness that his legs had guided him towards Liverpool Street and he had taken the train to Leyville. Twelve months earlier he had been there while his uncle Peter was still alive; now there was just him and Stella left, and even she was due to leave shortly. Although there was still the matter of persuading her to stay; that or find out whether Margaret had been sincere in her threats. But perhaps, after all, she was right. Perhaps they could make it work between them.

  Margaret Richmond had complained that Leyville was too big for just one person when she was worrying about being left there alone. But as he wandered from room to room Montignac felt himself disagreeing with her. Had it come to him—like it rightly should have—he would have revelled in its opulence and grandeur. He would have ruled his estates with discipline, like the Montignacs of old. He wouldn’t have just handed the place over—lock, stock and barrel—to the National Trust.

  He went upstairs to his bedroom but there was very little left there belonging to him. The bed wasn’t made up and he frowned; he would have to ask Margaret to do that later and she would grumble about being treated like a servant again. Stepping outside he glanced down the corridor towards Andrew’s room, the door of which was rarely opened any more, and then further along towards the door of Stella’s room. He stepped along to it quietly and stood there, pushing the door open slightly, and looked inside. Of course his eye was drawn automatically to the bed. He felt a shiver run down his spine. It was here that Andrew must have stood on the morning of his death when he had discovered them. Here he had watched them before turning on his heel and leaving the house, gun in hand. Montignac had never been sure why he had done that; perhaps in his confusion and fury he had decided to shoot rabbits rather than shoot his cousin, Owen. For that, his life had probably been spared. Stella hadn’t seen him, of course. It was up to him to get up and claim a missed appointment and run off into the woods after him.

  He shook his head quickly; he knew there was nothing to be gained from these memories. They were too bad, just like most of the memories of those years. But if Leyville had come to him, if the stolen property had been returned to its rightful master, then things would have been fine. Everything that had happened would have been for a reason.

  He stood there for a few moments and remembered what Margaret Richmond had said to him the last time they had met, in the tea shop just beside the Old Bailey. She had begged him to get Stella to stay. There was nothing to stop them any more, she said, and the more he thought about it the m
ore he realized that she was right. All those years of dreaming about her, the countless missed opportunities, the inability of any woman to enter his soul like she had done. Perhaps things could be different now.

  Perhaps—and it was almost too much for him to hope—but perhaps he could live a happy, decent life.

  A thought occurred to him and he bounded up the stairs two at a time to the top floor, then took the side stairs to the small door leading to the roof. He knew, even as he reached for the handle, that it would be unlocked and sure enough it was. There was a light breeze blowing outside, the sun was starting to set, and taken together it felt like a beautiful evening, the beginnings of a new world. He looked to his right, past the picnic table, and there she was.

  ‘Stella.’

  She spun around in fright and put a hand to her breast as she laughed.

  ‘Owen,’ she said. ‘You have to stop doing that to me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘I didn’t think anyone was here.’

  ‘They’re not. Margaret’s gone into town. She won’t be back for a while. You’ve come for Christmas after all?’ she asked, and he was unsure whether she had betrayed a note of hope in her voice.

  ‘If I’m welcome,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you are. It’s your home too. I’ve always told you that.’

  He nodded and looked out at the grounds, standing beside her on the parapet. ‘It’s beautiful this time of night, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Very clear for December too. You can see right across the estates. It’s no wonder our ancestors loved this place so much.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s quite something. I was just thinking how this would be my last Christmas here.’

  ‘Your last one?’

  She turned to him and nodded. ‘I was going to tell you when I came to London next week. I’ve booked my passage. I’m sailing on the Queen Mary on the third of January.’

  He nodded and sighed. ‘You’re sure then?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Montignac bit his lip. It was so difficult to find the words to express himself correctly. There were so many years of repressed feelings, so much anger and pain that had, as their strange and bewildering foundations, love.

  ‘Do you think…’ he began, before shaking his head. ‘Do you ever think that if things had gone differently, we could have been happy here?’

  She looked at him, lost for words, that old expression on her face that meant they weren’t to talk about such things. But it was too late for that, he felt, and it was time to tell her.

  ‘There’s no one here, Stella,’ he said gently. ‘It’s just you and me. And soon you won’t even be here any more. Just tell me what you think.’

  Years of silence on her part crumbled too and she found herself exhaling deeply and shrugging her shoulders. ‘Nothing could have been different, Owen,’ she said sadly. ‘It was so long ago anyway that it’s hard to remember now.’

  ‘I remember everything,’ he said. ‘Every word. Every gesture. Every moment we shared together.’

  ‘You can’t,’ she replied with an insensitive laugh and he didn’t know whether she was being honest or not.

  ‘I do,’ he said.

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘But why?’ she asked.

  He turned and looked directly ahead. There are moments in life, he decided, when one must speak or lose the opportunity forever. This was such a moment and it was time to speak.

  ‘I don’t think you should go,’ he said, unable to look at her. ‘I think you should stay at Leyville. I think we should stay here together.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘I mean we should do what we promised we would do all those years ago. We should be together forever.’

  ‘Owen, we were just children then…’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not children any more. We could do this. You’ve always wanted to, I know you have.’

  She laughed nervously and looked away. ‘Have you been drinking?’ she asked, a poor joke to lighten the moment.

  ‘No, I haven’t been drinking,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m not Gareth Bentley.’

  ‘Don’t mention his name,’ said Stella, looking away.

  ‘Well he’s a part of this, isn’t he? You wanted to stay at Leyville, you can’t tell me that you didn’t. And now you actually can. You can stay here with the man you love.’

  She stared at him as if he had lost his reason.

  ‘Owen,’ she said slowly. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But…’ She looked away and hesitated before continuing. ‘Owen, I’m not in love with you.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘You told me you were.’

  ‘I told you I was ten years ago. And I was then. But I’m not now. Times have changed.’

  ‘But they don’t change,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders, confused by her; he had always believed she still loved him. He had built his life around this illusion. ‘You’ve just forgotten, that’s all. You’ve forgotten how we felt about each other. We can fix things now. I can forgive you, you know, and you could—’

  ‘Forgive me?’ she cried. ‘Forgive me for what?’

  ‘For what you did, of course,’ he said with a laugh. ‘For leaving me like you did when you went to Geneva. For costing us our child. I can forgive you for everything if we start afresh. Heaven knows I need forgiveness too. We’re neither of us perfect. But look at how I took care of you then, how I looked after you. You think it was easy getting rid of Andrew like that? It wasn’t. It was horrible. But I did it for you. For us. So we could be together. And now all I ask is that you remember your feelings and bring them back to life. Here. This is our birthright. It’s my birthright,’ he said forcibly.

  She took a step backwards, away from him, and wrapped her shawl further around her shoulders; the night was growing chillier now.

  ‘What do you mean by getting rid of Andrew?’ she asked. ‘Getting rid of him how?’

  ‘That day,’ he explained. ‘He saw us, you see. He saw us in bed together.’

  ‘Andrew—?’ she asked, appalled.

  ‘So of course I went after him. You knew this. He’d gone with his gun. If your father had been in the house he might have gone directly to him. Perhaps he took the gun to prevent Uncle Peter from killing me, I don’t know. But I went after him and confronted him. You knew this,’ he repeated.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘No, it never happened.’

  ‘Of course it did. You didn’t really think it was an accident, did you?’

  ‘You said his gun was faulty, that it misfired on him.’

  ‘I had to say that, don’t you see? He told me he was going to expose us. He said that he would tell his father and that I would be turned out of Leyville. He said that I never had any business being here in the first place when, of course, let’s be honest with each other, I had more right to be here than any of you thieves who stole it from me.’ The spittle was bouncing from his lips as he moved closer towards her. ‘But what could I do, Stella, you tell me that? What could I do? What would you have done in my place? He would have told, we would both have been ruined and I would have lost my birthright just like my father did. They killed him, you know. If they had left him alone he would have been here with my mother, not in France. They killed him by disowning him.’

  ‘Owen, your father died in the war—’

  ‘Did you think I could let him do that to me?’ he continued, ignoring her. ‘To you? Do you think I could let anyone do that to you, Stella? You were for me, don’t you understand that? You were part of my birthright too. You belong to me.’

  She was shaking her head slowly, tears starting to fall down her cheeks.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, beseeching him. ‘No, none of it’s true.’

  ‘You knew it, Stella,’ said Montignac, crinkling his brow in confusion. ‘At the back of your m
ind you always knew it was true.’

  ‘He was my brother!’ she screamed, so loud that the birds lifted in unison from the surrounding trees, a screeching cry emanating from them as they scattered into the sky above. ‘He was my brother. You killed him for … for…’

  ‘For you! And I’d do it again. I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt you. Anyone who laid a finger on you.’

  Stella stood at the parapet, resting a hand on it, trying to steady herself. The tears stopped. A million thoughts ran through her mind, each one more outlandish than the last. Finally they dispersed and clarified and the fragments settled into one perfectly distilled thought. She stared at her cousin and spoke quietly to him.

  ‘You killed Raymond, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘It was you.’

  Montignac looked away for a moment and laughed, as if the idea was totally absurd, but then looked directly at her, fixing his gaze on her eyes. She was all he could see now. A decade’s pain seared through him, and his mother’s pain, and his father’s pain, their pointless deaths. Caused by her family.

  ‘He was no good for you,’ said Montignac. ‘You needed me, not him.’

  She gasped and her face grew pale. She felt she would be sick. Her legs seemed to buckle beneath her.

  ‘It was you,’ she said. ‘It was you all along. And you framed Gareth Bentley for it. I should have guessed.’

  ‘I saved him in the end, didn’t I? And Stella, it’s over now,’ he beseeched her, although he knew this would fall on deaf ears. In a few minutes the work of a lifetime had been undone. There would be no piecing it back together now. He had no choice. He offered her a final chance. ‘We can be together, like we always said we wanted to be. It’s up to you.’

  She stared at him and shook her head. ‘After I went to Geneva,’ she said in a clear voice, ‘I cried over you for a few months. And after six months, I met someone else, just someone who passed through my life. No one special, just someone who made me forget about you entirely. And in all the time from then until now, I’ve never given you more than a second thought. You meant nothing to me. Nothing at all.’