Dead Certainty

by Glenis Wilson

  ‘Are you saying my mother was promiscuous? Are you, Uncle George?’ Anger and hurt made my voice rise.

  ‘Shush.’ He glanced round nervously to make sure nobody had heard my outburst, but the pub was more than half-empty and, in our corner alcove, our conversation went unheard.

  ‘No, of course I’m not saying such an untruth.’

  ‘Then just what are you saying?’ I deliberately tried to unclench my fingers but found it difficult.

  ‘Your dear mother was beside herself with grief when your father died so unexpectedly. She adored him, had never looked at another man during their marriage. Don’t you see?’ He pushed his face close to mine. ‘That’s why I married Rachel. I knew there was no chance for me. Elizabeth was deeply in love with John.’

  I took a shuddering breath, tried to calm down. I was finding this conversation unpleasant but I realized the truth needed to be known. Uncle George’s revelation had been like the opening of Pandora’s box and couldn’t now be undone.

  ‘Then how come she got pregnant? Whose baby was it if it wasn’t your—’

  ‘I blame myself,’ he blurted out, not meeting my eyes. Red suffused his face, turning it to beetroot colour. ‘I do, I blame myself. In the fragile state she was in, I should never have left her that day … But Rachel had rung, said she needed me. So what else could I do?’ He looked at me imploringly. ‘I’m married to Rachel.’

  ‘Uncle George,’ I said very slowly and carefully, ‘you’re not making any sense.’

  He took out a large handkerchief and mopped his face. His breath was now coming in sawing gasps. I looked at him, saw an elderly man in a highly distressed state and made a decision.

  ‘Come on.’ I stood up. ‘We’re both going back to my cottage.’ He started to protest. ‘No, please don’t argue. You won’t need any more bottle. You’ve done the hardest part – at least, I think you have. And neither of us feels too good right now. Let’s drive home before we feel any worse, OK?’

  He nodded, slumping in his seat.

  ‘You’re right, son. I can’t speak for you but it’s taken it out of me.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ I slid a hand beneath his elbow. ‘Let’s head home.’

  Back at my cottage I sat him down on the settee and poured us both a small brandy.

  ‘I’m driving …’

  ‘Medicinal. And you’ve had a good meal.’

  He reached for the tumbler gratefully, knocked off the tot and leaned back against the cushions, closing his eyes. His high colour had drained away now, leaving him looking pale and worn. I was feeling pretty shattered myself. It had been an almighty shock to learn he was not Silvie’s father after eighteen years of assuming he was. Even his wife, my Aunt Rachel, hadn’t known. She, too, thought he was Silvie’s father. And had made his life a living hell because of it. He’d never said a word to the contrary. He must have been totally besotted with my mother. The whole situation beggared belief. But equally devastating was the question the disclosure threw up: if Uncle George wasn’t responsible, who was Silvie’s father?

  I realized at that moment why Nigel, the solicitor, had been so insistent on keeping the name of Silvie’s trust fund benefactor a secret. It hadn’t been Uncle George at all but her real father who had signed the document. So, who was he?

  I’d have to let Uncle George tell me in his own time. He wasn’t a young man and no way did I want to pre-empt a heart attack or stroke. His high colour in the pub suggested it wasn’t an unlikely possibility.

  Over on the desk my mobile rang, the shrill sound making Uncle George jump and open his eyes.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll take the call outside.’

  He closed his eyes wearily and I took the phone into the kitchen.

  ‘Harry Radcliffe.’

  ‘Harry, darling, it’s Annabel.’

  My fingers tightened around the phone and my heart leapt as it always did at the sound of her voice. Oh, how I wished she was here right now, wished I could hold her, share the shattering news. See her reaction, listen to what she had to say. Her presence was always balancing and soothing. And, by God, I needed a bit of balance right now.

  ‘Harry? You still there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m here.’

  ‘Are you all right? You certainly don’t sound it.’

  ‘No, not really. But I will be soon.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘Had a bit of a shock, that’s all.’ Bit of a shock! What a bloody understatement.

  ‘Darling, I’m so sorry. Can you handle some more pressure?’ She carried on before I could reply. ‘It’s the nursing home. They’ve been trying to ring you for the past couple of hours but had no joy. So, they rang me to see if I could get hold of you.’

  ‘Annabel, nothing would give me greater pleasure right now than to have you hold me, believe me, but what do they want? Is something amiss with Silvie?’ The recollection of the attack on her life hit me. ‘Is she OK … Not been hurt …?’

  ‘Whoa, slow down, Harry. Nothing like that. But she is poorly. Apparently her temperature’s gone up and she’s very restless. They want to know if you could go over and calm her down. She always seems to find your visits calming, reassuring.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK, because you really don’t sound it.’

  ‘Sure I am, don’t worry. I’ll go over in a few minutes.’

  ‘They said straight away, if you could, please, Harry. And that was an hour ago – more.’

  ‘Yes, I will, but I’ve got Uncle George here. I’ll have to see him safely off home first.’

  ‘Oh, right, I see.’

  ‘Thanks for calling me. Er, Annabel, I … I really need to talk to you, later, if it’s possible …’

  ‘If it’s important come round to the house tonight. I should be back from work around five or just after.’

  ‘Thanks, I will. Bye, my love.’

  I pushed the mobile back into my pocket and went to see how Uncle George was going on.

  The brandy had brought a healthy colour to his face and he looked much better. On seeing me he scrambled to his feet. Before he could say anything I told him the gist of the phone message. ‘So I have to go over to the nursing home.’

  ‘’Course you do. I quite see that. And I’m off home.’

  ‘Will you be OK driving? I could nip you over.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. We’ll speak another time, son, eh?’

  ‘Yes. It’s kept for eighteen years – another few days won’t make any difference.’

  Except his disclosure had already made a difference, and we both knew it. My perspective had shifted from thinking of him primarily as Silvie’s father to the more unsavoury one of simply my mother’s lover. At least I knew the truth about Uncle George’s role. The other fact, establishing just who was Silvie’s natural father, would eventually become clear in any case as soon as she reached her eighteenth birthday, which was only a couple of weeks away. I had to admit feeling relief that her trust fund was obviously now going to be paid over and her financial future, from being seriously questionable, now looked secure.

  I was approaching seventy thousand words already completed on Elspeth’s biography and, if I plugged away, could possibly finish it by then. The book would net me a substantial sum – enough to run my personal ship until I received the hospital verdict as to whether or not I’d ever be able to ride again. But if I’d still had to support Silvie, the future would certainly have been grim – for both of us.

  I saw Uncle George safely into his car and waved him off. I was sure that he, like myself, sighed with relief that the upsetting and difficult meeting was over, at least for now.

  And with the time at only one thirty I had three and a half hours free to drive over to comfort Silvie before I could meet up with Annabel and give her the facts.

  In the event, Silvie responded, as she always did, to my reassurance, and after only half an hour at her bedside her temperature had ret
urned to normal and she had calmed down and drifted off into an untroubled sleep.

  I managed over two hours’ work on the book, punctuated by several mugs of tea, took a quick shower and set off for Leicestershire.

  Annabel had said not to come to her office in Melton Mowbray but to her home instead. It was a delicate situation, visiting my own wife in the home she shared with another man. But I really needed to see her, to tell her about Uncle George’s disclaimer and get her rational point of view.

  The irony of it struck me as I slowed down and drew up at the entrance to her long, curving drive. I’d been over to soothe Silvie and now found myself in a similar situation of being in need of calming down. I checked my watch. She’d said she’d be home after five and it was about twenty past now. Engaging first gear, I turned in through the open gates and slowly drove all the way down to the house.

  Parking up, I rang the bell. The sound ebbed away and a couple of minutes later the door opened.

  ‘Why, Harry …’ There was surprise in Sir Jeffrey’s voice as he stood in the doorway.

  My heart sank. He was the last person I wanted to see. I’d hoped for a quiet chat alone with Annabel. It didn’t look like I’d get one now. He collected himself first.

  ‘Do come in … I take it you want Annabel?’

  What a damn fool question to ask me. He knew the answer, knew the choice between us was down to Annabel herself. Suddenly, unexpectedly, I saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and recognized myself. For all his wealth and status, he was still a man, prey to insecurity like the rest of us. And right now his emotional insecurity was showing.

  ‘Hello, Sir Jeffrey.’

  He held up a hand instantly. ‘No, please, Harry, Jeffrey is fine, just fine.’

  I nodded. ‘Afraid I need to speak to Annabel …’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Well, yes … and no.’

  He became the perfect host. ‘Come on inside, do have a glass, something cheering.’ He waved me through to the lounge. It was a massively proportioned room done very cleverly in toning russets and warm colours. The open fireplace was screened by a beautifully worked tapestry and flanked on either side of the hearth by tall stone jugs holding dried grasses. He poured us both a whisky from the decanter on the walnut sideboard and thrust one into my hand.

  ‘Can I help?’

  The query was genuine, as was the look of concern in his grey eyes. I could see why Annabel had described him as a good man.

  I took a sip of whisky. ‘To be frank, er, Jeffrey, I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. It’s just me, I’m afraid. I’m reeling a bit at the moment.’

  ‘I’m sure Annabel can balance you up. Have to say she’s good at that.’

  I smiled briefly. ‘My thoughts exactly, which is why I’ve come, to be honest. I’ve had an almighty shock, silly really, but it does seem to have knocked me for six.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me, or perhaps you’d prefer to wait and tell Annabel?’

  I was about to opt for the latter but, strangely, found myself giving him the facts instead. He sat quietly and listened, didn’t interrupt and waited until I’d finished. I took another sip of whisky. I hadn’t meant to tell him. But, catching a glimpse of the vulnerable inner man, somehow my view of him had changed and our relationship seemed to have moved on. I didn’t think we could ever be friends, but I had warmed a little towards him.

  ‘My word, it’s a facer, isn’t it? Not surprised it’s thrown you. As you said, there’s nothing anyone can do, just have to accept it. But I know how fond Annabel is of Silvie. You certainly did the right thing in coming.’ He stopped speaking.

  Footsteps were coming down the hall towards the lounge. The door opened and Annabel came in, stopping abruptly when she saw Sir Jeffrey talking to me.

  ‘My dear.’ Jeffrey rose and, going across, gave her a welcoming kiss.

  I sat and stared at the contents of my glass.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ She turned a wide-eyed look at us.

  ‘Not a problem, no,’ Sir Jeffrey reassured her. ‘But Harry’s had some rather disquieting news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘To do with Silvie,’ I said.

  ‘You were going to visit her … Is she worse?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, she was sleeping peacefully when I came away. But today Uncle George disclosed something which came as a hell of a shock.’

  ‘You’ve already told Jeffrey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  So I did.

  She sat down, her brow furrowed, stunned by the unexpected news. Sir Jeffrey hastily poured her a whisky and placed the glass in her hands.

  ‘What a bombshell,’ she whispered and sipped the spirit gratefully. ‘All these years … and George wasn’t to blame.’

  I knew instantly that she was thinking of the emotional abuse he’d suffered from Aunt Rachel. And not simply emotional – he’d been banned from the marriage bed as well. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to Aunt Rachel that she was punishing herself at the same time. They were two unhappy people caught by circumstances and their own moral codes.

  ‘Why did he keep quiet?’

  ‘To protect my mother’s reputation.’

  ‘A tragedy.’ Annabel shook her head.

  I understood but Sir Jeffrey was looking confused.

  ‘Well, we don’t know it’s one, I mean, until we discover the father’s identity …’

  Annabel caught his hand. ‘Darling, you’re so sweet. I wasn’t referring to Silvie, because for one thing, I don’t think it will have any effect at all on her. I was thinking of Uncle George’s wasted life.’ She turned to me. ‘Harry, would it be possible to sort it out with George’s wife, do you think?’

  I thought of the ingrained bitterness of eighteen years and shook my head. ‘I don’t know. You’d be better at guessing than I would.’

  ‘Unless your Aunt Rachel asked me for help, there’s really nothing I can do.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I agreed ruefully, ‘I do see that. But then Uncle George needs to tell her himself and I can’t see him having the courage.’

  Sir Jeffrey cleared his throat. ‘Does Uncle George know who the father is?’

  ‘He knows.’ I drained my glass. ‘But confessing left him in a bit of a state, so we agreed he’d tell me about how it happened – and who it was – later, in a few days.’ I didn’t add probably next Friday when Aunt Rachel wasn’t on the radar.

  ‘I would say,’ Annabel said thoughtfully, ‘it’s most likely a male friend of Uncle George’s and a married man.’

  The simple logic of her words had us nodding agreement.

  ‘He did start to say he blamed himself for leaving my mother but it was my fault I cut him short at that point. He was pretty upset, red-faced, gasping. I thought it best to get him out of the pub and back home to the cottage.’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ Annabel agreed. ‘His stress level would have been incredibly high.’

  ‘And in a couple of weeks or so it’s Silvie’s eighteenth birthday. The man, whoever he is, who set up the trust fund may have to sign its release. I don’t really know but certainly the solicitor does.’

  ‘A possibility, of course.’ Sir Jeffrey nodded. ‘The man might do the decent thing and admit his paternity.’

  Annabel looked at her watch, tutted reprovingly and stood up. ‘Time I was attending to dinner. You will stay and join us, Harry?’

  ‘Another time, possibly, thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s very boring of me but I have work to do on Elspeth’s biography. She’s begun cracking the whip.’

  Annabel giggled. ‘And she certainly knows how to.’

  ‘Yes.’ I smiled back, thinking of her illustrious earlier days as a jockey.

  ‘Tomorrow evening, then?’ Sir Jeffrey added his support to Annabel’s suggestion.

  ‘No, sorry. Elspeth has me booked for her family party tomorrow night.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Annabel, sensing
my lack of enthusiasm, squeezed my arm. ‘When you’ve finished the book we’ll fix a date.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘and thanks.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Your sane common sense.’

  ‘Haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Well, I feel better anyway.’

  I took my leave and motored back to the cottage.

  Opening the fridge door I scanned the near-empty shelves, the hunk of cheddar cheese going hard, and wished myself back at Annabel’s table. She was a fabulous cook. Come to think of it, she was a fabulous woman full stop. And she’d chosen Sir Jeffrey for her lover. And, damn the situation to all hell, I was actually beginning to like the man.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Murder!’ The Land Rover lurched sharply to the left as Mike jerked round in his seat to stare at me.

  We were driving along watching his string of racehorses on the gallops. It was six thirty on Saturday morning and first lot was out doing their stuff. The riders were dressed in drab jackets concealing body protectors but jauntily topped with defiantly bright-coloured silk quarters over crash caps. It was a glorious morning, the sun already up and a sky so incredibly blue and wide it seemed to stretch to infinity. A morning to give thanks for being alive. Except Carl Smith wasn’t, as I’d just told Mike.

  ‘Yep. Murder in the first. Totally unsuspecting, unarmed, unzipped—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police established he was facing the urinal, taking a leak because his urine was all over the floor and down his trousers. He couldn’t have known who his attacker was. The blow came from behind, aimed at mid-thigh level. Broke his right femur, pitched him headfirst and his forehead connected with the porcelain. They think he was knocked out cold.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘But that wasn’t what killed him.’

  ‘No? What then?’

  ‘His attacker apparently dragged him into the nearest cubicle, thrust his head down the lavatory pan and held him there.’

  Mike slammed both feet out and the vehicle stopped suddenly, tossing us against the seatbelts. He twisted round to face me. ‘My good God! It could have been you, Harry.’ His face had blanched to the colour of chalk.