by Ken Follett
Samuel was looking thoughtful. "From your point of view it was a pity the coroner made those remarks about Edward's heroism. That made people suspicious. They would have believed that Edward stood on the edge dithering while a boy drowned. But everyone who's ever met him knows he wouldn't cross the street to help someone, let alone dive into a pool to rescue a drowning boy."
This sort of talk was complete rubbish, and insulting too. "How dare you," Augusta said, but she could not muster her usual tone of authority.
Samuel ignored her. "The schoolboys never believed it. David had been to the same school not many years earlier and he knew many of the older boys. Talking to them increased his suspicions."
"The whole idea is absurd."
"Middleton is a quarrelsome individual, like all lawyers," Samuel said, heedless of her protests. "He's not going to let this rest."
"He doesn't frighten me in the least."
"That's good, because I'm sure you'll be receiving a visit from him soon." He went to the door. "I won't stay for tea. Good afternoon, Augusta."
Augusta sat down heavily on a sofa. She had not foreseen this--how could she? Her triumph over Samuel was blighted. That old business had come up again, seven years later, when it ought to have been completely forgotten! She was dreadfully frightened for Edward. She could not bear anything bad to happen to him. She held her head to stop it throbbing. What could she do?
Hastead, her butler, came in, followed by two parlormaids with trays of tea and cakes. "With your permission, madam?" he said in his Welsh accent. Hastead's eyes seemed to look in different directions and people were never quite sure which one to concentrate on. At first this was disconcerting, but Augusta was used to him. She nodded. "Thank you, madam," he said, and they began to set out the china. Augusta could sometimes be soothed by Hastead's obsequious manner and the sight of servants doing her bidding; but today it did not work. She got up and went to the open French doors. The sunny garden did nothing for her either. How was she going to stop David Middleton?
She was still agonizing over the problem when Micky Miranda arrived.
She was glad to see him. He looked as fetching as always, in his black morning coat and striped trousers, a spotless white collar around his neck, a black satin tie knotted at his throat. He saw that she was distressed and he was instantly sympathetic. He came across the room with the grace and speed of a jungle cat, and his voice was like a caress: "Mrs. Pilaster, what on earth has upset you?"
She was grateful that he was the first to come. She grabbed him by the arms. "Something frightful has happened."
His hands rested on her waist, as if they were dancing, and she felt a shiver of pleasure as his fingertips pressed her hips. "Don't be distressed," he said soothingly. "Tell me about it."
She began to feel calmer. At moments like these she was very fond of Micky. It reminded her of how she had felt about the young earl of Strang, when she was a girl. Micky reminded her powerfully of Strang: his graceful manners, his beautiful clothes, and most of all the way he moved, the suppleness of his limbs and the oiled machinery of his body. Strang had been fair and English, where Micky was dark and Latin, but they both had that ability to make her feel so feminine. She wanted to draw his body to hers and rest her cheek on his shoulder....
She saw the maids staring at her, and realized that it was mildly indecent for Micky to stand there with both hands on her hips. She detached herself from him, took his arm and led him through the French windows into the garden, where they would be out of earshot of the servants. The air was warm and balmy. They sat close together on a wooden bench in the shade, and Augusta turned sideways to look at him. She longed to hold his hand but that would have been improper.
He said: "I saw Samuel leaving--has he got something to do with this?"
Augusta spoke quietly, and Micky leaned close to hear her, so close she could have kissed him almost without moving. "He came to tell me he will not seek the position of Senior Partner."
"Good news!"
"Yes. It means that the post will certainly go to my husband."
"And Papa can have his rifles."
"As soon as Seth retires."
"It's maddening the way old Seth hangs on!" Micky exclaimed. "Papa keeps asking me when it will happen."
Augusta knew why Micky was so worried: he was afraid his father would send him back to Cordova. "I can't imagine Seth will last much longer," she said to comfort him.
He looked into her eyes. "But that's not what has upset you."
"No. It's that wretched boy who drowned at your school--Peter Middleton. Samuel told me that Peter's brother, a lawyer, has started asking questions."
Micky's fine face darkened. "After all these years?"
"Apparently he kept quiet for his parents' sake, but now they're dead."
Micky frowned. "How much of a problem is this?"
"You may know better than I." Augusta hesitated. There was a question she had to ask, but she was afraid of the answer. She screwed up her nerve. "Micky ... do you think it was Edward's fault the boy died?"
"Well...."
"Say yes or no!" she commanded.
Micky paused, then at last said: "Yes."
Augusta closed her eyes. Darling Teddy, she thought, why did you do it?
Micky said quietly: "Peter was a poor swimmer. Edward didn't drown him, but he did exhaust him. Peter was alive when Edward left him to chase after Tonio. But I believe he was too weak to swim to the side, and he drowned while no one was watching."
"Teddy didn't want to kill him."
"Of course not."
"It was just schoolboy horseplay."
"Edward meant no real harm."
"So it's not murder."
"I'm afraid it is," Micky said gravely, and Augusta's heart missed a beat. "If a thief throws a man to the ground, intending only to rob him, but the man suffers a heart attack and dies, the thief is guilty of murder, even though he did not intend to kill."
"How do you know this?"
"I checked with a lawyer, years ago."
"Why?"
"I wanted to know Edward's position."
Augusta buried her face in her hands. It was worse than she had imagined.
Micky prised her hands away from her face and kissed each hand in turn. The gesture was so tender that it made her want to cry. He continued to hold her hands as he said: "No sensible person would persecute Edward over something that happened when he was a child."
"But is David Middleton a sensible person?" Augusta cried.
"Perhaps not. He appears to have nursed his obsession through the years. God forbid that his persistence should lead him to the truth."
Augusta shuddered as she imagined the consequences. There would be a scandal; the gutter press would say SHAMEFUL SECRET OF BANKING HEIR; the police would be brought in; poor dear Teddy might have to go on trial; and if he should be found guilty--
"Micky, it's too awful to contemplate!" she whispered.
"Then we must do something."
Augusta squeezed his hands, then released them and took stock. She had faced the magnitude of the problem. She had seen the shadow of the gallows fall on her only son. It was time to stop agonizing and take action. Thank God, Edward had a true friend in Micky. "We must make sure David Middleton's inquiries lead nowhere. How many people know the truth?"
"Six," Micky said immediately. "Edward, you and me make three, but we aren't going to tell him anything. Then there is Hugh."
"He wasn't there when the boy died."
"No, but he saw enough to know that the story we told the coroner was false. And the fact that we lied makes us look guilty."
"Hugh is a problem, then. The others?"
"Tonio Silva saw it all."
"He never said anything at the time."
"He was too frightened of me then. But I'm not sure he is now."
"And the sixth?"
"We never found out who that was. I didn't see his face at the time, and he has never
come forward. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about him. However, if nobody knows who he is I don't suppose he's any danger to us."
Augusta felt a fresh tremor of fear: she was not sure about that. There was always a danger the unknown witness might reveal himself. But Micky was right to say there was nothing they could do. "Two people we can deal with, then: Hugh and Tonio."
There was a thoughtful silence.
Hugh could no longer be regarded as a minor nuisance, Augusta reflected. His pushy ways were gaining him credit at the bank, and Teddy looked plodding by comparison. Augusta had managed to sabotage the romance between Hugh and Lady Florence Stalworthy. But now Hugh was threatening Teddy in a much more dangerous way. Something had to be done about him. But what? He was a Pilaster, albeit a bad one. She racked her brains and came up with nothing.
Micky said thoughtfully: "Tonio has a weakness."
"Ah, yes?"
"He's a bad gambler. Bets more than he can afford, and loses."
"Perhaps you could arrange a game?"
"Perhaps."
The thought crossed Augusta's mind that Micky might know how to cheat at cards. However, she could not possibly ask him: the suggestion would be mortally insulting to any gentleman.
Micky said: "It might be expensive. Would you stake me?"
"How much would you need?"
"A hundred pounds, I fear."
Augusta did not hesitate: Teddy's life was at stake. "Very well," she said. She heard voices in the house: other teatime guests were beginning to arrive. She stood up. "I'm not sure how to deal with Hugh," she went, on worriedly. "I'll have to think about it. We must go inside."
Her sister-in-law Madeleine was there, and began talking as soon as they stepped through the door. "That dressmaker will drive me to drink, two hours to pin a hem, I can't wait for a cup of tea, oh, and you've got more of that heavenly almond cake, but my goodness, isn't the weather hot?"
Augusta gave Micky's hand a conspiratorial squeeze and sat down to pour the tea.
CHAPTER FOUR
AUGUST
1
LONDON WAS HOT AND STICKY, and the population longed for fresh air and open fields. On the first day of August everyone went to the races at Goodwood.
They traveled by special trains from Victoria Station in south London. The divisions of British society were carefully mirrored in the transport arrangements--high society in the upholstered luxury of the first-class coaches, shopkeepers and schoolteachers crowded but comfortable in second class, factory workers and domestic servants crammed together on hard wooden benches in third. When they got off the train the aristocracy took carriages, the middle class boarded horse buses, and the workers walked. The picnics of the rich had been sent by earlier trains: scores of hampers, carried on the shoulders of strapping young footmen, packed with china and linen, cooked chickens and cucumbers, champagne and hothouse peaches. For the less wealthy there were stalls selling sausages, shellfish and beer. The poor brought bread and cheese wrapped in handkerchiefs.
Maisie Robinson and April Tilsley went with Solly Greenbourne and Tonio Silva. Their position in the social hierarchy was dubious. Solly and Tonio clearly belonged in first class, but Maisie and April should have gone third. Solly compromised by buying second-class tickets, and they took the horse bus from the station across the downs to the racecourse.
However, Solly was too fond of his food to settle for a lunch bought off a stall, and he had sent four servants ahead with a vast picnic of cold salmon and white wine packed in ice. They spread a snow-white tablecloth on the ground and sat around it on the springy turf. Maisie fed Solly titbits. She was growing more and more fond of him. He was kind to everyone, full of fun, and interesting to talk to. Gluttony was his only real vice. She still had not let him have his way with her, but it seemed that the more she refused him, the more devoted to her he became.
The racing began after lunch. There was a bookmaker nearby, standing on a box and shouting odds. He wore a loud checked suit, a flowing silk tie, a huge spray of flowers in his buttonhole, and a white hat. He carried a leather satchel full of money slung over his shoulder and stood under a banner which read: "Wm. Tucker, the King's Head, Chichester."
Tonio and Solly bet on every race. Maisie got bored: one horse race was the same as another if you didn't gamble. April would not leave Tonio's side, but Maisie decided to leave the others for a while and look around.
The horses were not the only attraction. The downs around the racecourse were crowded with tents, stalls and carts. There were gambling booths, freak shows, and dark-skinned gypsies in bright head scarves telling fortunes. People were selling gin, cider, meat pies, oranges and Bibles. Barrel organs and bands competed with one another, and through the crowds wandered conjurers and jugglers and acrobats, all asking for pennies. There were dancing dogs, dwarfs and giants and men on stilts. The boisterous carnival atmosphere reminded Maisie powerfully of the circus, and she suffered a nostalgic twinge of regret for the life she had left behind. The entertainers were here to take money from the public any way they could and it warmed her heart to see them succeed.
She knew she should be taking more from Solly. It was crazy to be walking out with one of the richest men in the world and living in one room in Soho. By now she ought to be wearing diamonds and furs and have her eye on a little suburban house in St. John's Wood or Clapham. Her job riding Sammles's horses would not last much longer: the London season was coming to an end and the people who could afford to buy horses were leaving for the country. But she would not let Solly give her anything but flowers. It drove April mad.
She passed a big marquee. Outside were two girls dressed as bookmakers and a man in a black suit shouting: "The only racing certainty at Goodwood today is the coming Day of Judgment! Stake your faith on Jesus, and the payout is eternal life." The interior of the tent looked cool and shady, and on impulse she went in. Most of the people sitting oh the benches looked as if they were already converted. Maisie sat near the exit and picked up a hymnbook.
She could understand why people joined chapels and went preaching at race meetings. It made them feel they belonged to something. The feeling of belonging was the real temptation Solly offered her: not so much the diamonds and furs, but the prospect of being Solly Greenbourne's mistress, with somewhere to live and a regular income and a position in the scheme of things. It was not a respectable position, nor permanent--the arrangement would end the moment Solly got bored with her--but it was a lot more than she had now.
The congregation stood up to sing a hymn. It was all about being washed in the blood of the Lamb, and it made Maisie feel ill. She went out.
She passed a puppet show as it was reaching its climax, with the irascible Mr. Punch being knocked from one side of the little stage to the other by his club-wielding wife. She studied the crowd with a knowledgeable eye. There was not much money in a Punch-and-Judy show if it was operated honestly: most of the audience would slip away without paying anything and the rest would give halfpennies. But there were other ways to fleece the customers. After a few moments she spotted a boy at the back robbing a man in a top hat. Everyone but Maisie was watching the show, and no one else saw the small grubby hand sliding into the man's waistcoat pocket.
Maisie had no intention of doing anything about it. Wealthy and careless young men deserved to lose their pocket watches, and bold thieves earned their loot, in her opinion. But when she looked more closely at the victim she recognized the black hair and blue eyes of Hugh Pilaster. She recalled April's telling her that Hugh had no money. He could not afford to lose his watch. She decided on impulse to save him from his own carelessness.
She made her way quickly around to the back of the crowd. The pickpocket was a ragged sandy-haired boy of about eleven years, just the age Maisie had been when she ran away from home. He was delicately drawing Hugh's watch chain out of his waistcoat. There was a burst of uproarious laughter from the audience watching the show, and at that moment the pickpocket e
dged away with the watch in his hand.
Maisie grabbed him by the wrist.
He gave a small cry of fear and tried to wriggle free, but she was too strong for him. "Give it to me and I'll say nothing," she hissed.
He hesitated for a moment. Maisie saw fear and greed at war on his dirty face. Then a kind of weary resignation took over, and he dropped the watch on the ground.
"Away and steal someone else's watch," she said. She released his hand and he was gone in a twinkling.
She picked up the watch. It was a gold hunter. She opened the front and checked the time: ten past three. On the back of the watch was inscribed:
Tobias Pilaster
from your loving wife
Lydia
23rd May 1851
The watch had been a gift from Hugh's mother to his father. Maisie was glad she had rescued it. She closed the face and tapped Hugh on the shoulder.
He turned around, annoyed at being distracted from the entertainment; then his bright blue eyes widened in surprise. "Miss Robinson!"
"What's the time?" she said.
He reached automatically for his watch and found his pocket empty. "That's funny ..." He looked around as if he might have dropped it. "I do hope I haven't--"
She held it up.
"By Jove!" he said. "How on earth did you find it?"
"I saw you being robbed, and rescued it."
"Where's the thief?"
"I let him go. He was only a wee lad."
"But ..." He was nonplussed.
"I'd have let him take the watch, only I know you can't afford to buy another."
"You don't really mean that."
"I do. I used to steal, when I was a child, any time I could get away with it."
"How dreadful."
Maisie found herself once again becoming annoyed by him. To her way of thinking there was something sanctimonious in his attitude. She said: "I remember your father's funeral. It was a cold day, and raining. Your father died owing my father money--yet you had a coat that day, and I had none. Was that honest?"
"I don't know," he said with sudden anger. "I was thirteen years old when my father went bankrupt--does that mean I have to turn a blind eye to villainy all my life?"
Maisie was taken aback. It was not often that men snapped at her, and this was the second time Hugh had done it. But she did not want to quarrel with him again. She touched his arm. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to criticize your father. I just wanted you to understand why a child might steal."
