The Inheritance

by Simon Tolkien

  Stephen never really knew what he was going to do when he grew up, but it would be something that would change the world. He would follow in his father’s footsteps. Except that now he knew where those footsteps led.

  Stephen felt as if he had lost his hold on everything. His father’s shame was his shame. And yet he could not stand aside and do nothing. He had to make a stand. And for that he needed Silas.

  Dressing quickly, he went in search of his brother and found him eventually, crouched over a tray of developing fluid in a makeshift darkroom that Silas had created in one of the unused cellars under the west wing. And Stephen had to practically force his brother out into the sunlight. He had no intention of discussing inside the confines of the house what they had overheard.

  The brightness of the day did not accord with either brother’s mood. Stephen had torn a piece of green wood from the branch of an oak tree and was using it to behead the stalks of nettle and cow parsley growing in the hedgerows beside the road, while Silas walked with his head hunched over between his shoulders, as if hiding from the sun overhead.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Stephen, angrily swishing his stick from side to side through the still air. “He lied to me about everything.”

  “What did you expect him to do?”

  “I expected him not to have killed those people. In a bloody church too.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you couldn’t keep your illusions. That’s part of growing up, I guess.”

  “What? Finding out our father’s a mass murderer?”

  “He’s not my father.”

  “Well, he’s the nearest you’ll ever get to one.” Stephen paused, regretting his words. “Sorry, Silas,” he went on after a moment. “I know it’s not easy being adopted, but it doesn’t mean you haven’t got a responsibility.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving this man Carson for a start. The sergeant’s already left. But perhaps you didn’t know that.”

  “Just because Ritter’s gone doesn’t mean he’s going to kill Carson,” said Silas doggedly. “I don’t recall Ritter saying he was going to do that.”

  “Not in so many words. But that’s what he meant. It was clear as a pikestaff. Don’t be so bloody naïve.”

  Silas glanced up, and it seemed like there was a ghost of a smile playing around his thin lips.

  “We’ve got to do something,” said Stephen insistently.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Warn the man. Go to the police. Do something.”

  “We don’t know where he is to warn him. And you better think carefully before you go to the police.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what’ll happen to Dad if you do. That’s why. Maybe you can get him to stop the sergeant.”

  “You! Why not we?”

  “Because I don’t want to,” said Silas, raising his voice for the first time. “It’s all so easy for you, isn’t it Stephen? Running around like a knight in shining armour dealing out justice right, left, and centre. But you don’t know what it’s like to have as little as I have. Maybe, if you did, you wouldn’t be so happy to throw it all away.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I won’t get involved. That’s what.”

  “You weren’t so reluctant when it came to dragging me round to Dad’s window last night, were you?”

  But Silas would say nothing more. It was as if a wall had gone up between them, and they walked back to the house in an angry silence.

  Outside the front door Stephen put his hand on his brother’s arm, determined to make one last effort to get him to change his mind.

  “This is about more than you and me, can’t you see that, Silas? This is about right and wrong. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. You’ve got to stand up and be counted.”

  Stephen could feel Silas’s arm tighten under his hand. Silas hated to be touched. But Stephen didn’t let go. He needed an answer.

  Finally Silas looked up into his brother’s eyes, and Stephen felt the distance between them open like a chasm.

  “Count me out,” said Silas. He almost spat out the words.

  And Stephen lost his temper. Letting go of Silas’s arm, he raised his open hand in one fluid movement and smacked his brother across the face. Immediately he regretted what he had done, but it was too late. Silas gave him one last look of pure hatred and ran into the house.

  Sitting in his prison cell, Stephen remembered that look in Silas’s eye. Did his brother hate him still? Stephen didn’t know. The truth was that Stephen could not read Silas. He had always been the opposite of Stephen. He held everything back, while Stephen wore his heart on his sleeve. Stephen was always the favourite, and yet Silas never complained, never protested, not even about Stephen’s staying at home all the time he was away at school. There was something unknowable about Silas, and Stephen had always felt the distance between them as a reproach. He couldn’t help it that he was the natural son, the favoured child, but it still made him feel guilty. Stephen wanted to be a good person, and Silas made him feel that he wasn’t.

  As he grew older, Silas had seemed to cultivate a studied politeness. He spoke slowly and carefully, as if he had thought out exactly what he was going to say before he said it, and sometimes he seemed just like a puppet master, watching events that he had set in motion but refusing to participate in any of them. It was Silas who had engineered Stephen’s estrangement from their father and had then reunited them less than a month before the old man’s murder. Why? John Swift wanted Stephen to point the gun at his brother, but Stephen wouldn’t—or couldn’t. To accuse Silas would be to betray himself. It wasn’t Silas who had shot their father in France or sent the blackmail letter. That was Carson. But Carson was dead. And if it wasn’t Carson who had shot John Cade, then who had? Who had?

  Stephen had never forgotten that day when he broke with his father. For the first and last time in his life, he rushed into the study without knocking. And looking up from a manuscript, Cade had needed no more than a moment to know that the time for pretending was over. He sat back in his chair and sighed, waiting for what was to come.

  “You lied to me,” Stephen shouted with tears in his eyes. “Everything you’ve ever said was lies.”

  “Who told you?” asked Cade, ignoring his son’s accusation.

  “You did,” said Stephen with a bitter laugh. “I heard you talking last night. In here. You’re guilty, Dad. Guilty of everything.”

  But Cade did not react to Stephen’s anger. He sat silently, looking up at his son as if he was measuring him, and this only served to enrage Stephen further.

  “Why?” he asked, half shouting, half crying. “Just tell me why!”

  “It was an accident,” the old man said. “Things got out of hand.”

  “An accident! Killing all those innocent people. It was a massacre. That’s what it was.”

  But Cade shrugged his shoulders and opened his hands, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “It was a long time ago,” he said.

  Stephen was dumbstruck, horrified by his father’s apparent indifference to the enormity of his crime.

  “So what are you going to do, Stephen?” the old man asked after a while, breaking the silence.

  “Do? I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Well, before you do anything, think what a trial will do to me. It’ll kill me, you know. I’m not a well man, Stephen.”

  Stephen looked at his father, disgusted by the pleading tone in his voice.

  “This isn’t about you,” he said. “It’s about what’s right and wrong.”

  “All right. Well, think of your mother then, if you don’t care about me. Is this what she would have wanted? To have her family disgraced?”

  “It’s you who did that. Not me.”

  “Please, Stephen. I haven’t much longer to live. You know that. Going to the police won’t solve anything.”

  Suddenly Stephen felt deflated. The fight went out
of him as he realised that there was nothing he could do to change the past. His father was right. A trial would achieve nothing.

  “What about Carson?” he asked in a flat voice, keeping his eyes on the floor.

  “What about him?”

  “If I keep quiet, Carson goes free. You’ll call that psycho off. Yes?”

  “Yes, I swear it. On Clara’s grave I swear it,” said Cade, suddenly animated as he sensed the chance of escape for the first time.

  Stephen didn’t know whether to believe his father or not. All he knew was that he had gone as far as he could go. He felt torn up inside. He couldn’t stand to spend another minute in the man’s presence.

  “You’re not my father,” he said flatly. “Not anymore. I’m going, and I’m not coming back.”

  But it hadn’t been that easy. The shame had followed Stephen wherever he went, growing inside him like a tumour, until he had finally gone home and ended up sitting in this prison cell, fighting for his life, paying for his father’s crimes.

  SEVEN

  Trave arrived late, anxious to avoid if possible another encounter with Thompson, and earned himself a malevolent glance from the judge as the swing door banged closed behind him and he took a seat at the side of the court.

  Silas was already in the witness box, and he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor as he answered the prosecutor’s questions, studiously avoiding the eager stare of his brother, who was gazing at him expectantly across the well of the courtroom. Trave realised that it must be four months or more since the two had last met.

  Unsurprisingly, Silas looked more ill at ease than when Trave had seen him at the manor house the day before, but there was the same lack of expression in his voice as he answered the prosecutor’s questions, and the way in which he always seemed to think before he spoke made Trave more sure than ever that the young man was hiding something. Not for the first time Trave wished that he’d had the chance to interrogate Silas in that same windowless interview room at the back of Oxford Police Station, where he had questioned Stephen on the day after the murder. The trouble was that the evidence against the younger brother was just too strong. Trave had had no option but to charge the boy, and that had put an end to further investigation. Trave stirred in his seat, trying unsuccessfully to shake off his frustration and concentrate on the evidence.

  “How would you describe the relationship between your brother, Stephen, and your father?” asked Thompson, getting straight to the point.

  “When?”

  “Let’s say, in the last two years of your father’s life. I don’t think there’s any need to go back further than that.”

  “They were estranged.”

  “They didn’t speak to each other at all?”

  “Not as far as I know. My brother was at the university, and my father lived at home. He never went out,” Silas added, as if it was an afterthought.

  “Why was that?” asked Thompson.

  “He couldn’t because of his health, but he was also concerned about security. Although less so toward the end. I don’t know why. In the last couple of months he would sit outside in the garden sometimes, which he never used to do before. But he still didn’t leave the grounds.”

  “What was wrong with your father’s health?”

  “He was shot in the lung while on a trip abroad about three years ago. He never really recovered.”

  “Was he working? During his last two years?”

  “Yes. He’d retired from the university, but he was writing a book on illuminated manuscripts. That was his real field of expertise. Sasha helped him with the research, and I did the photography.”

  “What did that involve?”

  “My father had his own collection, and I was mainly documenting that. He wanted to use as many of his own manuscripts as possible in the book.”

  “I see. This collection must be very valuable.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you believe would happen to the manuscripts after your father died?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it. I suppose I assumed that Stephen and I would inherit from my father. That is until I heard him talking about his will with Sergeant Ritter.”

  “This is admissible hearsay, my lord. It will go to the defendant’s state of mind,” said Thompson, anticipating a defence objection.

  “Very well, Mr. Thompson. Carry on,” said the judge. He looked almost benign this morning. The trial was going well. The prosecution seemed to have everything: motive, fingerprints, and now a history of ill will between victim and defendant. Getting a conviction should be child’s play.

  Thompson turned back to his witness and asked Silas to tell the court about the conversation he’d overheard.

  “They were in my father’s study.”

  “And where were you?”

  “I was in the corridor outside. I heard them talking about the will, and so I stopped to listen. They didn’t see me.”

  “What did they say?”

  “It was my father who was speaking. He was telling Sergeant Ritter that he didn’t have long to live. I don’t know how he knew that, but I assume his doctor had told him. And it was then that he told Ritter that he was intending to change his will. The house, my home, was going to become a museum for the manuscripts, and Ritter was to be one of the trustees.” A note of emotion had crept into Silas’s voice when he was speaking about the house, but it was immediately suppressed. “I don’t know who the other ones were going to be,” he added. “My father’s solicitor, perhaps.”

  “How did you feel about what you heard?” asked Thompson.

  “I was shocked. Obviously. I hadn’t expected it. I suppose I felt betrayed.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I tried to talk to my father, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s hard to explain. We didn’t have the sort of relationship where I could talk to him about things like money.”

  “Did you do anything else about the situation?”

  “Yes. I went to talk to my brother, so that we could decide what to do. He was in his rooms at New College. Mary was there too, but I waited until she left.”

  “How did your brother react to what you told him about the will?”

  “He was very upset.”

  “Just that. Upset?”

  “He was angry too. You need to understand—Stephen was in a very confused state those first two years he was up at Oxford. Our father had always been very important to him, and when they quarreled, it was like . . .” Silas hesitated looking for the right word, “it was like a light went out somewhere inside him. He didn’t seem to believe in anything anymore. I didn’t see him very often but I know that he drank a lot. He tried to cover it up, but I think he was very unhappy.”

  “Please stop the witness from speculating, Mr. Thompson,” said the judge, stirring in his seat.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Thompson. “Tell us, Mr. Cade, what you and your brother decided to do about your father’s will.”

  “We agreed that Stephen should try to end his quarrel with our father. He is the natural son, whereas I was adopted. He always got on better with our parents when we were younger, and I—we—felt that my father might listen to him. Stephen’s always been better at speaking his mind than I have.”

  “So what did you do?” asked Thompson.

  “Do?” Silas seemed momentarily lost, remembering a childhood that he always tried to forget.

  “Yes,” said Thompson, failing to keep the impatience out of his voice. “What did you both decide to do in order to end your brother’s quarrel with your father?”

  “Stephen wrote a letter, and I took it back with me to Moreton and gave it to our father. He agreed to allow Stephen to visit, and my brother came out for lunch on the following weekend. He brought Mary with him.”

  “Was your father enthusiastic about the meeting?” asked the judge, holding up a hand to stop Thompson’s next question. “How did he respond to the olive branch?”

 
Silas didn’t answer for a moment, and when he did, he seemed almost surprised at what he was saying.

  “I don’t know. It was like he was indifferent. He didn’t seem to care much what Stephen did. Whether he came or whether he stayed away.”

  “Why?” The single word escaped from Stephen in the dock as if it was a sudden exhalation of breath, and it brought an immediate response from the judge.

  “You will be silent, young man. Do you understand me?” Murdoch’s voice was harsh, meant to make Stephen realise the power arrayed against him. “If you are not silent, you will be removed.”

  Murdoch stared at Stephen Cade a moment longer and then nodded to Thompson to continue.

  “How did the lunch go?” asked the prosecutor.

  “It was okay,” said Silas. He had looked up at his brother for a moment when Stephen had shouted, but now he had reverted to his former posture with his eyes fixed on the dark wood of the witness stand in front of him. “I mean, it was fairly awkward,” he went on, “but that was only to be expected. Stephen hadn’t seen my father for two years.”

  “Was the will discussed on that day?” asked Thompson.

  “No. I don’t think Stephen saw my father alone, and there was obviously nothing said about it at the lunch. Anyway, Stephen wasn’t going to talk to my father about the will straightaway. That only changed because of what I saw in his diary.”

  “What was that?”

  “An appointment for my father to see his solicitor at three o’clock on Monday, June eighth, about the will.”

  There was something too precise about Silas’s recollection of time and date, thought Swift, leaning back in his chair. It was frustrating. He wanted the chance to rattle Silas Cade and see what came out, but his client wouldn’t let him. Swift was convinced that Silas knew more than he was letting on.

  “Is this the entry you’re talking about?” asked Thompson handing up the same engagement diary that he had shown to the solicitor the previous day.