Keeping Secrets

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? You seem to have covered the territory brilliantly.’

  ‘In for a penny . . .’ he said.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  He thought about this. Peculiarly, perhaps, there had been something comforting about his spying. It let him control the jealousy which had been driving him to despair. After that, he saw now, his professional instincts took over and he simply couldn’t stop. The old Renoir had returned with a vengeance. If he didn’t feel completely sullied by what he’d done – going through her letters, her emails, her belongings – it was only because there had been something to find. Though did that justify his snooping? He didn’t know.

  ‘Well anyway,’ Kate said when he hadn’t replied, ‘congratulations. You seem to know it all.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he said, looking out the window. The leaves on the lime were almost full and blocked the view of the park. ‘I know what, and I know who, but I still don’t know why.’

  Kate laughed harshly. ‘Conrad said you threatened him. He thinks you believe he’s been blackmailing me. He was very offended by that.’

  ‘I guess I wished he was blackmailing you. I was still hoping that this was all his idea. That would make it all a lot easier to understand.’

  She seemed suddenly subdued by this. He looked at her with curiosity. ‘When did it all start?’ he asked.

  She inhaled slowly before speaking, and when she started to talk she did so slowly and deliberately. ‘Towards the end of last year, Roddy came to see me. It must have been two or three weeks before Christmas. We’d agreed the price for the Gatehouse and land, and I thought he was coming to tell me when we would exchange. But no, he said he’d had second thoughts; he wanted more money for the properties. A lot more money.’

  ‘How much more?’

  ‘Over £800,000. I said it was ridiculous. We were almost paying market price already, and if he went to open sale he wouldn’t get much more than what we agreed, and who knows what sort of people he’d get to live on the estate. Plus, my mother would never stand for it. As you know,’ she said wryly, ‘my mother’s views carry a lot of weight with my brother.

  ‘Then Roddy came clean. He said he’d got himself in trouble, some company in Latvia he’d put a lot of money into had gone belly up. If he couldn’t raise the money to pay what he owed in the next few months, he’d have no choice but to sell Belfield.’

  ‘So you decided to help him?’

  ‘I didn’t see any real choice. I know you feel differently about things, but Belfield has always been my home. My only home. I thought it would kill my mother if the place were sold. Roddy would be left high and dry – I know, I know, it’s not as if he’s been thriving anyway.’ She stopped momentarily, then added, ‘And then there was us.’

  At this, he waved a hand dismissively; he didn’t want to hear it. ‘What did the speech have to do with it? Why did Benedict have a copy of your speech?’ And, asking this, he realised she was due to give it the very next day.

  ‘Nothing, really, except that originally I thought I’d stick my neck out and actually name names. You know, when I talked about companies using expert systems to inflate their stated reserves.’

  ‘And Acer was top of the list?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. But I’ve changed it, made the criticism more general so there’s no link between it and the trades in Acer shares we’ve been planning for tomorrow. It seemed too big a coincidence to go unnoticed. It was Conrad who pointed that out.’ She added caustically, ‘My speech is positively anodyne now.’

  So now he knew why Benedict had the bowdlerised speech on his computer; Kate was reassuring him that she wasn’t taking any unnecessary risks. What had she written – will this do? Something like that. On discovering it, the email had sounded to Renoir like that of a schoolgirl trying to please a favoured teacher. But it wasn’t like that. Benedict hadn’t been Kate’s Svengali. Accomplice yes, lapdog possibly, but not demonic master.

  ‘What did you need Benedict for anyway?’ he asked, unable to keep the jealousy out of his voice.

  ‘I needed somebody to help with the trading. I couldn’t go to you, now could I?’ she said bitterly. ‘Good old upright Renoir, Mr Morality. I knew what you’d say, “Well, it’s a hard thing, but I guess Belfield has to go.”’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But also,’ and her voice softened, ‘I thought we’d be happy there. I thought we could make a go of it in the Gatehouse.’

  ‘All right,’ he said curtly, ‘so I was out of the help equation. But why Benedict and not someone else?’

  ‘He knows all about this sort of thing; I think he was born trading dodgy. If anyone could figure out a way to do it, it would be Conrad. And I suppose he felt he owed me one.’

  ‘Owed you one?’ he asked but Kate merely shrugged. ‘So,’ said Renoir, ‘you used the Dead Man’s Hat. That’s what Ticky called it.’

  She nodded. ‘You said it was foolproof. If that woman hadn’t run away to Florida and tried to write a bogus cheque, you said she’d never have been caught.’

  ‘How did you find Mr Urowski?’

  ‘Who?’ She seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  For all his distrust, he believed her. Benedict had told him the truth: Kate knew nothing of the incriminating details. It was almost chivalrous of the man, Renoir had to admit. He asked, ‘What was in it for him? You?’

  ‘I wasn’t sleeping with him, if that’s what you think. Not in the years before I met you, and no, not since.’

  He believed her, but could not keep himself from saying with heavy sarcasm, ‘He must love you very much.’

  Kate ignored his tone. ‘Benedict doesn’t really love anybody.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s one of those people who want whatever they can’t have. He’d love to have seen you off, I’m sure, but believe me, as soon as you’d gone away his interest would evaporate. He had his chance with me years ago, and he didn’t take it.’

  ‘You’ve been better off without him. Though I’ve never understood why you married Angus.’

  She looked again at her glass, then spoke quietly with her head down. ‘Maybe I needed a husband.’

  He looked at her, trying to read her expression, slowly picking apart her words. She wouldn’t return his gaze, still staring at her drink. ‘You needed a husband,’ he said slowly, then waited as the full sense of this sunk in. ‘Were you pregnant?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said, lifting her face up and throwing her hair back, almost defiantly.

  ‘But not by Angus,’ he half asked, half announced.

  She nodded.

  ‘So who was the father? Or weren’t you sure?’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Renoir,’ she said softly. ‘Yes, I knew who the father was.’

  ‘Benedict.’

  ‘Yes. And yes, he did know, though, actually, he didn’t want to know.’ She spoke in a low voice, wistfully, almost a whisper.

  He didn’t say a word and she went on. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I was determined to have the baby; it’s not something I can explain. But I knew I didn’t want to raise a child alone. Maybe that was cowardly, but at the time I thought my child should have a father. I knew how much that mattered.’

  ‘And Benedict wouldn’t act the part.’

  She shook her head. She seemed close to tears. ‘He did offer to pay for the abortion.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He paused as this sunk in. ‘So you latched onto Angus. Did he know the baby wasn’t his? Or did you trick him into it?’

  ‘Try and give me some credit, Renoir. I would never do that, whatever you think. Of course I told Angus.’

  ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’

  ‘Yes, I was, but I was waiting. It’s only been a year and a half since you moved over here; I didn’t even know if you liked it. Actually, I still don’t. It may sound strange, Renoir, but I fell so much in love with you that I couldn’t actually believe you felt the same. It’s seemed like a
dream half the time; I kept thinking the dream would end and you’d scarper back to California. You know, “London was fun but it just wasn’t me.” There was also Emily; I didn’t know what knowing might do to your relationship with her.’

  ‘I love Emily,’ he said without hesitation.

  She nodded. ‘I know that now, but I wasn’t sure before. She needs a father, yet Angus isn’t much of one. But I didn’t know if you wanted that. I still don’t. I mean, if you’d shown the slightest interest in marrying me, I’d have told you straight away.’

  ‘I didn’t think you cared about that,’ he said, discomfited. ‘I didn’t want it to look like I was after your money. I know what people think.’

  ‘Oh, fuck “people”. You can’t build a life on what “people” think. People will always think that about you, to our dying days. But I know you’re not like that’ – and she gave the barest hint of a smile – ‘though sometimes I think it would all have been easier if you were. Only I don’t seem to have enough money, after all. Which is why I’ve got into this mess. Though if you really loved me, why couldn’t you leave it alone?’

  ‘I thought our only hope was my not leaving it alone. How could we have lived with such a secret between us?’

  ‘You of all people can’t talk that way about secrets.’

  He paused, feeling uncertain, for he knew she was right. Finally he said, ‘I went along with something once because I had to. I couldn’t do it again.’

  ‘No one was asking you to.’ Kate put her glass down on the coffee table. ‘Well, now you know it all. You don’t have to spy any more; there’s nothing left to find out.’

  ‘If you do this,’ Renoir argued, ‘it won’t be the end. It never is. What makes you think that if you bail Roddy out now, he won’t do it again? He’s not going to change.’

  ‘I’ll just have to take that chance.’

  They sat silently for a while. Outside the rush hour traffic noise was picking up, and a horn sounded. Kate said, ‘Before I do anything, I’m going to tell Roddy you know.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Renoir. ‘I am. I’ll go down tonight and talk with him. If tomorrow’s D-Day, it’s not as if it can wait.’

  She didn’t say anything. He got up from his chair. ‘I better get going, Kate. I’ll take the car if you have no objection.’ She nodded dully. ‘I’ve got to go by the Gatehouse anyway and get . . .’ And he paused, searching for indeterminate words. ‘Some things,’ he said at last.

  His words hung between them in a kind of no-man’s-land neither dared to explore. Did Kate think ‘get some things’ was code for collecting his stuff before he left for good? He couldn’t tell, because he wasn’t sure himself.

  She looked up at him, too upset for tears. ‘Oh, Renoir,’ she said, her voice cracking slightly. ‘Has it really come to this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said evenly, and left the flat.

  He got to Belfield at the far end of dusk. Again, Beatrice was in the kitchen, seated in front of the small television watching a CSI show. She seemed a little embarrassed when Renoir came in, and turned it off.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ she said. ‘What a surprise? Is Kate with you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m on my way to the Gatehouse. I was hoping to have a word with Roddy? Is he in?’

  ‘No, actually. He went out with his gun about half an hour ago. He said there’s a fox in Burdick’s Field that’s been bothering the pheasants. I’m sure he won’t be very long. Would you like some coffee, or a drink?’

  ‘No thanks. When he comes in would you ask him to give me a ring at the Gatehouse? Tonight if at all possible. I’ll be up late.’

  ‘Of course. Will we see you tomorrow?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll have to play it by ear. I’ll ring you.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, looking slightly puzzled. She must have sensed that something was amiss.

  He found Roddy sitting above the irrigation pond near the top of Burdick’s Field. Approaching him quietly from behind, Renoir felt a peculiar sense of déjà vu, and realised it was triggered by the memory of his Uncle Will sitting on the rough diving board by the frog pond, smoking a Winston, its tip glowing in the dark.

  Then Roddy moved and the vision dissolved.

  ‘Don’t shoot me, Roddy. I’m not a fox.’

  ‘Then don’t sneak up on me like that.’ Roddy stood up with his shotgun.

  ‘I need to talk to you. Let’s go into the house.’

  At the Gatehouse the back door was unlocked. Inside a light was on in the corridor between the mud room and the kitchen. Renoir walked through and turned on the kitchen lights. To his surprise he saw a bottle of Famous Grouse and a used glass on the table in the centre of the room.

  ‘Who’s been in here?’ he asked as Roddy followed him into the room. ‘Was it you?’

  Roddy nodded and put his gun on the table, then poured himself another drink.

  ‘Do help yourself,’ said Renoir sarcastically. ‘How the hell did you get in?’

  ‘I’ve got a key of course. Didn’t you know that? Kate left one at the Hall for emergencies.’

  ‘You might have asked. If I’d come in alone I’d have thought someone had broken in. I might have called the police. I like visitors to my house to be invited.’

  ‘Let’s be honest, old boy, it’s not really your house, now is it? Technically, you don’t own any of this – who, therefore, has the better right to be here? I’m the brother of your girlfriend; I own the estate, not you. Should the police arrive, I would claim a completely understandable confusion.’

  ‘But what were you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you of course. There was a fox in the field, and I expected you in the house.’ He took a drink of straight whisky, and said sharply, ‘Two different kinds of vermin.’

  Renoir ignored this. ‘Roddy, I know all about Acer Oil.’ He couldn’t tell if Roddy was surprised by this, for his expression didn’t change. ‘It’s madness, Roddy. You will all get caught. If I can discover the scam, so can other people. It wasn’t exactly rocket science discovering how it’s supposed to work.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s entirely foolproof, or at least it was until you poked your nose in.’

  ‘You’ll end up losing a lot more than Belfield.’

  Roddy went to the sink and added water to his glass, though this struck Renoir as closing the stable door after the horse had bolted. ‘Look,’ said Roddy, and his voice was softer now. ‘Be reasonable. Why don’t you come in with us? I’ll cut you in myself from my share – Kate never has to know.’

  Renoir just looked at him.

  ‘Then do it for Kate,’ said Roddy. ‘She’s utterly besotted with you, Renoir; I admit it, even if I can’t understand it. Now perhaps you don’t feel the same,’ he said more dryly, ‘but that needn’t matter. You’ll make her very happy, while you enjoy a prosperous way of life doing whatever you want. Apples, raspberries, you can try bananas for all I care.’

  Renoir still said nothing, and Roddy seemed to mistake his silence for active consideration of his offer. ‘Name your price, Jack. I’m sure we can come to some agreement.’

  Renoir shook his head. ‘Can’t you see how offensive that is to me?’

  Roddy lowered his voice. ‘And can’t you see how close you’ve come to destroying everything?’ He put his glass down on the table between them, then reached for the gun. Renoir tried to grab the barrel end but Roddy was too quick, and swung the gun off the table. He took two steps back towards the sink, holding the shotgun with its barrels down.

  Renoir felt his adrenalin surge but tried to stay calm. ‘So it was you who shot at me after the horn went that day?’

  ‘What?’ said Roddy, incredulously.

  Renoir believed him. So it must have been Hal, after all, trying to land Renoir in it. And scare him. ‘Did Kate tell you I was coming down?’

  ‘She did.’ He laughed thinly. ‘I think she was concerned how I would react to your interference.’ H
is voice was crisp again, and hostile. ‘She was right to be concerned,’ he announced, and Renoir kept his eyes on the barrels of the shotgun. Agitated memories suddenly crowded in, and he felt momentarily panicked by what he saw in his mind’s eye: the screen door to the porch gave way and the man in the Stetson took two steps forward, and the barrels of that gun slowly lifted, and the boy grabbed the knife on the table in panic.

  But there was no knife on this table. Renoir shook off the mesmerising fear that was beginning to envelop him and stepped quickly around the table, reaching out with his hand to push the shotgun barrels towards the floor. Roddy tried to lift the gun, and this time Renoir grabbed the stock with both hands. They wrestled briefly for control of the gun, and Roddy was surprisingly strong. But then instead of pulling at the shotgun to wrest it away, Renoir pushed it, and Roddy slid backwards as if the floor were greased. Keeping the pressure on, Renoir propelled him without hesitation straight into the larder, where Renoir suddenly let go of the gun. As Roddy fell back heavily against the shelves, dropping the shotgun, Renoir swung the heavy door shut and turned the oversized key in the lock.

  He stood listening at the door for a moment. ‘Roddy?’

  ‘WHAT?’ came a muffled roar through the thick door, and Renoir was relieved that he sounded enraged rather than hurt. ‘Let me out of here,’ the voice commanded. Then, more pleadingly: ‘I wasn’t going to hurt you.’

  ‘Oh? What were you trying to do?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I was going to put you in here until tomorrow afternoon. After the trade went through. I didn’t want you persuading Kate not to go through with it.’

  ‘Great minds think alike, I guess. But you’ll be safe as houses, and God knows, you’ve got plenty to eat and drink – I think there’s even another bottle of whisky in the wine rack. I’ll make sure someone comes and lets you out.’