He looked around, dazedly. He’d chosen a quiet spot, just where the drive bent round into the road. You couldn’t see the house from there, but a boarded-up potting shed nearby seemed to remind him that he was on Brenner property. He stared at it, and then down at his left hand, opening and shutting it. The skin was still seamed with scars, and always would be.
“You want me to leave J.B. when this is over,” he said, reading my mind. “But it’s not as easy as that. He wants me to stay. If I do go, he’ll revert to being an invalid within months.”
“You’re not an office boy. Surely you want to go back to London, to the sort of job you were trained for?”
He didn’t seem to hear me. “When he saw what they’d done to my hand, he cried!” He pressed both his hands to his forehead. “I can’t think straight about this, Sue. Of course I always intended to go back to London. Of course he’s an unreasonable, selfish, tyrannical... only, in everything except blood, I’m his son. Can’t you see that?”
I didn’t want to. “We’ll discuss it later. We’ll go back to my flat tonight so that you can get a good night’s sleep, and talk it over tomorrow when you’re feeling better.”
He didn’t say anything to that. I said I ought to be going. He grasped my wrist.
“Bianca — she’s not harmed you? I’ve not had a moment’s peace since I heard she’d got you. She’s jealous, I’m sure. It’s not safe for you to go back there...”
I shook my head, and got out of the car. He had been working for this for six months, and I wasn’t going to upset his plans at the last minute. Besides, I wanted to be in on the showdown. I was to regret my decision, but at the time it seemed the right one.
“Go and get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll see you at noon.” He watched me out of sight.
*
I laid the dining-room table for seven; Julian was to be at the head with Ruth on his right, opposite Bianca who had placed John Brenner — the guest of honour — on her right, and Charles on her left. I was to sit between J.B. and Robert, across the table from Charles.
I cooked lunch automatically; turkey and all the trimmings, a salad, brussels and roast potatoes. There was a syllabub and a Stilton cheese to follow.
At five minutes to twelve Julian emerged from his den and handed Bianca a cutting from one of the Sunday newspapers, reporting on financier John Brenner’s speech the previous evening in Birmingham. Bianca was on her third whisky; both of them were dressed to kill. The Maudsleys arrived at three minutes to twelve. Both looked as if they’d slept badly, and Robert was at his inhaler. Neither of them seemed to fill out their clothes properly.
“Funny thing,” said Robert, accepting a glass of soda water with a splash of whisky in it, “Man came in from the Fraud Squad yesterday morning and asked for me. I was busy with a client, so only had time to pop out and tell him he could look where he liked. Same story as before — checking on a complaint from a client who thinks he’s been defrauded. Wish you’d been in, Julian — would have made it look better.”
“I had a headache!” said Julian petulantly.
Ruth coughed. “I wished I’d still been working at the office when Robert told me about it. He thinks I’m just being fanciful, but I don’t like to think of policemen poking into our files so long after...”
“Human nature,” said Bianca, her voice jagged as she helped herself to whisky without soda. “I suppose some stupid old cow has just woken up to the fact that Oliver Ashton fiddled the books months ago, and is worried that he might have cheated her too. She loses her false teeth in fright, and tears straight off to the police without first checking that her money’s safe.”
“I suppose so,” said Ruth. “But you must admit it is odd. I told Robert to ring the Inspector in charge of the case and have a chat with him, but we couldn’t get hold of him again yesterday.”
Nobody offered me a drink. I wandered over to the window which overlooked the drive.
“My father is always five minutes late,” said Julian, his voice itchy with irritation. “Just like Charles.”
A silver-grey Rolls crept over the gravel drive and decanted a tall man with a thatch of hair the colour of dirty cream. He wore an expensive tan, and a silvery grey suit — to match the Rolls, I suppose. His physique was similar to Julian’s, in that he was also stork-thin and narrow-shouldered, but there the resemblance ended. Nose, chin and brows jutted forward above scrawny neck. His body inclined forward from his hips as he shot instructions at the chauffeur, his eyes restlessly scanning the drive. His fingers snapped, indicating nervous tension.
Charles’ car swung into the drive and parked beside the Rolls. Charles had shaved and changed into his brown leather outfit, but I didn’t think he’d slept since I saw him that morning. He still twirled keys, but had forgotten his gloves. The chauffeur drove off in the Rolls. Charles and J.B. spoke together for a moment. Much of a height, they were also on the same wavelength mentally; a sentence half begun by one was completed by the other, and a grimace was responded to with a shrug and a quick shake of the head.
“At last!” sighed Bianca, as Charles rang the door-bell. Then the newcomers were in the room, and J.B. was explaining that he’d sent the car back for some minor adjustment to the tuning, and that Charles would take him back to Whitestones later. Charles hung back, allowing J.B. to take the stage. J.B. greeted everyone in turn; an affectionate word for his son, a smile when he was complimented on the previous night’s speech by Robert — and then Bianca introduced me and I felt a wave of hostility emanate from him. His eyes tried to beat me down. He had very thin-lidded eyes, deeply set. He smiled at me, but it was a mere twitch of facial muscles, a social necessity, not intended to be taken seriously. I understand that he was jealous of me and my influence on Charles. I stared back at him, produced my sweetest and falsest smile and told him that I’d been longing to meet him.
Liar! his eyes said.
Charles slipped his arm under mine. “Aren’t you drinking, Sue?” I relaxed. J.B. glared at us both, and turned away. He knew now that if it came to a battle between us, I would take Charles away from him.
“Yes, we must all drink to our reunion,” said Bianca gaily.
“And to the happy couple,” added J.B., with a crocodile grin. “I gather Charles is getting a licence on Monday. We ought to drink to Charles and Sue as well, don’t you think?” I revised my first opinion of him. He had something up his sleeve, and it wasn’t going to be a walkover for me.
“The happy couple!” toasted Robert.
“Charles and Sue!” echoed J.B., sipping at a drink placed in his hand, and then putting it down as if he suspected it might have been poisoned.
“What are we all standing for?” asked Julian. “Take the weight off your feet, father.”
“I might as well,” said J.B., sinking into a chair and passing one hand across his face as if washing it. “Not feeling quite the thing today. Pity we’ve got that appointment at half three, or we could have taken our time over lunch, but as it is, I wonder if we might eat early if it doesn’t upset your arrangements too much...”
“Three o’clock,” said Charles. “The appointment is at three, and at their place, not at Whitestones.”
J.B. stared at him. “I told you...”
“They couldn’t make any other time.”
The clash left reverberations in the air. Both men had strong personalities and both could be abrasive; both were now frowning. I checked on the expressions worn by the Brenners and Maudsleys and found them all registering satisfaction.
“Shall I serve lunch now, then?” I asked Bianca. She nodded.
J.B. stood up, or tried to, and then sank back into his chair. His face registered anger. “Cancel it! I will not have my orders set aside.”
Charles shrugged and asked if he might use the phone. I wondered if this little exchange had been a put-up job or not; I came to the conclusion that if I had to wonder about it, the others would be taking it for the real thing. I came to anot
her conclusion. I liked J.B. about as little as he liked me, and that under no circumstances whatever would I live under the same roof as him, or allow Charles to go on working for him.
I put the food on the table while the others drifted in. Julian didn’t look into his father’s eyes when he spoke to him, but addressed a spot just below J.B.’s collar. As we sat down, Ruth made a brave attempt at sociability, complimenting J.B. on the gaily-patterned shirt and matching tie that he was wearing.
“A Christmas present,” said J.B. He didn’t even glance at Charles, but I knew who had given them to him. Bianca started to carve; I thought it was typical of the Brenner household that she should undertake this function. Julian poured wine. Neither Charles nor J.B. wanted it.
J.B. yawned and tried to smother it. “I’m glad you rang me, Julian — been thinking for some time that we ought to make up our quarrel — blood’s thicker than water, and... anyway, I wanted to discuss this question of my Will with you. It wasn’t altogether fair of me to disinherit you as I did. I was too hasty.” Having let off his firework, he lapsed into silence.
The conspirators exchanged glances. Charles stolidly helped himself to the salad. Bianca slashed at the turkey angrily. J.B. started washing his face again.
Charles leaned forward. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Of course,” snapped J.B., removing his hand. “Yes, a good opportunity, as I was saying... especially with Robert being here as well. Almost providential.”
“What changes were you thinking of, father?” asked Julian, his voice going high.
“With the coming of Old Age, one fears death more and not less,” said J.B., smiling. I could see it was all a party trick, and that he could lay charm on with a trowel, just as Charles could do. “One begins to think of all the sins of commission and omission which one may have committed. One has more time for reflection, for reading, for thinking how little it matters if one doesn’t always get one’s own way.” I found his plea touching, even while my brain warned me it was calculated. He filled his glass with water, and sipped at it, staring down the table at Julian. “You are my only son, after all. In some sense you are what I have made you. Need I say more?”
“You mean,” said Bianca with care, “that you are going to reinstate Julian as your heir?” I could see her brain struggling with the problem: ought they to call their plan off, and risk the old man changing his mind again — or carry on?
J.B. sighed. He was only playing with his food. “I’m not sure that that would be a good thing, Bianca. Julian has done better than I expected since he started work for Oliver — for Robert here. The job seems to have provided him with a certain measure of stability. It may well be that a modest inheritance...”
“A modest inheritance!” Bianca’s voice was strident. “I thought you were talking of reinstating him as your heir!”
J.B. yawned again. He was speaking more and more slowly. “Forgive me. I appear to be in need of another injection sooner than... I should explain that I have no intention of leaving all my money to Julian since he has neither the brains to administer the estate properly, nor the sense not to let you squander it for him. What I had in mind was to establish a Trust Fund in favour of my old college, so that they may build a Science Laboratory, bearing my name. Then there are various bequests to servants — annuities, and so on. I want to settle a sum on Julian sufficient to bring him in an income of two thousand pounds a year, and to buy him a partnership in Oliver’s old firm... that is, if Robert here agrees.”
Everyone stopped eating, except Charles. Bianca’s eyes were wild. She fixed them on her husband, who was looking at his father with the sick, intense glare of a trapped animal. His chin trembled.
J.B. dabbed at his lips. “What do you think of the idea, Robert? I thought you might appreciate some extra capital, and if Julian puts in only a minimum of work... it would have to be a proper partnership agreement of course, with Julian getting his due share of the...”
“What about me?” demanded Bianca. “What becomes of me under such an agreement? Two thousand a year, and slaving at that second-rate firm? We could hardly keep this house going and... my dress bills alone...”
“No one asked your opinion,” said J.B. His hands trembled. He stilled them by laying them flat on the table. “What do you say, Julian?”
It was a straightforward bribe. If J.B. could buy off Julian and Robert, he would save his own life. It also offered Julian freedom from Bianca, because if he accepted she would leave him. She would never confine herself to that sort of income.
Julian didn’t seem capable of speech. He clutched his glass with both hands, and then took one away to cover his wobbling chin.
“We must think about it, eh?” said J.B., granting him extra time.
“No need,” said Bianca. “Julian and I think alike. He deserves better at your hands. Shabby treatment, indeed, for your only son. You talk of blood being thicker than water, but...”
“Julian?” asked his father.
“I...” Julian shook his head.
Robert reached for his inhaler. His eyes went from Julian to Bianca and back again. He cleared his throat. “From my point of view, I wouldn’t mind having the extra capital... but of course it’s up to Julian to decide.”
Ruth Maudsley was crying, as was usual with her in times of stress.
Julian drained his glass and filled it again. His face was as pale as Charles’. “What about the yacht, father? And Whitestones? Then there’s the flat in Paris, and...”
“You couldn’t afford to keep them up. If I did leave them to you, you would use them for a while, then they would become neglected and eventually have to be sold. I don’t like to think of their being neglected. The Paris flat will be sold on my death, and the money will go to a French orphanage. Whitestones will be offered to the National Trust with a suitable endowment. The yacht will be sold and the money turned into the Trust Fund. Think about it; I am offering you a comfortable if not lavish income for life. I will even buy you into the Maudsley firm straight away, if you like. Provided I live long enough after that, there wouldn’t be any death duties on the purchase price. I will guarantee you freedom from poverty, but I will not contribute to your unhappiness by offering you luxury.”
We all knew what he meant. I thought it was a very fair offer, and I had no doubt at all that it was a genuine one.
Julian looked as if he were about to be sick. His wife stood up abruptly, throwing her knife and fork on to the table. We all saw him stiffen under her eyes.
“If you make a Will like that,” he said to his father, “then I’ll contest it in the Courts. I am your only son and I deserve to be your only heir.”
There was a sigh of defeat from J.B. I suddenly felt cold. The faces of the conspirators bore identical expressions of grey implacability. Ruth had even stopped crying, now that everything was decided.
“Will you collect the plates, Susan?” asked Bianca. “And bring in the syllabub and cheese.”
“Not for me,” said J.B.
“Just coffee then, Susan,” smiled Bianca, and led the way out of the dining-room. I wondered if Charles might help me to clear away, so that we could have a word together, but he stuck close to J.B.
By the time I had brought the coffee into the living-room everyone except Julian had settled down around the fire. Julian wandered around, not looking into anyone’s face, fiddling with this and that. Charles looked remote; the profile of his head looked like a cameo, pale against the dark wood of the armoire. Robert alternatively inhaled and sneezed. Ruth was trying to hide her tear stains by putting too much powder on her face.
“Coffee?” I asked J.B., who appeared to be on the verge of dozing off. He looked right through me.
“Charles — did you cancel that meeting?”
“You know I did,” said Charles quietly.
“Can’t trust anyone!” observed J.B. “Do you think I don’t know you pry through my papers?”
It was Bianca’s cha
nce, and she took it. “Not only your papers, but your cheque-book, too. Have you had a look at your bank statement recently? Charles has been milking you for months.”
“What?” J.B. struggled to sit upright. “What was that?”
“Didn’t you know?” cooed Bianca. “This precious Charles of yours, this son of your oldest friend, this so-clever personal assistant of yours has been putting blank cheques in with the household ones for you to sign. Then he makes them out payable to himself afterwards. Didn’t you know he was doing it? He boasted to us that you didn’t, but surely you must at least have suspected what was going on.”
“No!” said J.B., putting out a hand to stop her. His face contorted with pain as he bent over as if hinged at the hips, one hand clutching his suit jacket over his heart, and the other flailing the air.
I heard myself say, “Heart pills — he must have some!” He groped in his pocket for a box while I ran for a glass of water. By the time I got back, he was able to sit up and take a pill. He didn’t look as bad a colour as I had expected.
“Now listen,” Charles was saying.
“No, you listen to me, sir!” gasped J.B. “If half what she says is true, then I’ll see you join your father in jail. I’ll put my accountants to work on this the moment I get back to Whitestones, and if there is as much as a single cheque unaccounted for... Get out of my sight!” He threw the glass of water at Charles. It missed, but some of the water splashed darkly against the leather of Charles’ jacket.
“Out!” grinned Bianca, pointing to the front door.
Charles hesitated. “His injection — you can see he’s in a bad way, and not only from the heart attack...”
“I’ll inject myself, thank you,” said J.B., struggling out of his chair. “Julian, if you’ll help me into your den for a moment...”
His face shining with strain, Julian took his father’s arm and helped him out of the living-room and into the den. Nobody moved until Julian returned, closing the door of the den behind him.
Sue for Mercy Page 10
