“Did you ask him?”
“No need. Ken told me straight off. He seemed to think it was funny. I mean, he was chuckling about it when I got to his bed. ‘What do you reckon, Ray?’ he said. ‘Sir Walter died without leaving a will. His sister’s just been in to tell me. Reckoned I ought to know.’ That seemed to tickle him. Which was some achievement, seeing how much pain he was in. I pretended not to understand, but it was plain as the nose on your face what he meant. Sir Walter didn’t make a will because he no more had a wife living to leave his money to than he had—”
“A son.”
Braddock stared at me, then slowly nodded. “That’s how I read it.”
“And Delia wanted to make sure Ken knew about Sir Walter’s intestacy?”
“Apparently. I don’t know why. After all, it made no difference, did it? Roger inherited the lot, will or no will.”
“But it proves she knew.”
“That it does.”
I thought for a moment, then said, “Can I use your phone? I need a taxi.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Back into Brighton. In a hurry.”
“Going to see Delia, are you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take you in my car, if you like.”
“All right. Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, we were heading west along the south coast road towards Brighton in Braddock’s patched-up old Metro. The first couple of miles passed in silence. We both had plenty to think about, complicated in Braddock’s case by a continual struggle to keep the windscreen clear of condensation.
By the time we were out of Saltdean and into the open country between there and Black Rock, the significance of Sir Walter Colborn’s intestacy had begun to expand in my mind. It went beyond underlining his awareness that Roger wasn’t his biological son, well beyond. Braddock had set the ball rolling for me by saying it made no difference. But it did. Potentially, it made all the difference in the world.
“That’s it,” I suddenly said aloud.
“That’s what?” asked Braddock, glancing round at me.
“Don’t you see? Roger inherited as Sir Walter’s son under the rules of intestacy. If it had been shown at the time that he wasn’t his son, he wouldn’t have inherited. The estate would have gone…to Gavin and Delia, presumably. Still would now, come to that. Gavin would press his claim even if Delia refrained. He’d have Roger by the short and curlies.’
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m no lawyer. Maybe Gavin would have a case, maybe not. What I am sure of is that Roger wouldn’t want to be tied up in the courts for years finding out.”
“You mean Derek’s been a bigger threat to him than we reckoned?”
“Looks like it.”
“Then what do we do?”
“You do nothing. Leave it to me. I think I see a way to cut the ground from beneath Roger Colborn’s feet. And it’s going to be a pleasure.”
I had Braddock drop me in Clifton Terrace, just round the corner from Powis Villas. He was clearly still struggling to catch up with my thinking, preoccupied as he was with a question other concerns kept pushing to the back of my mind: where was his godson?
“I don’t care if Roger Colborn comes out of this smelling of roses or horse manure, Mr. Flood, just so long as Derek comes to no harm.”
“I reckon Derek’s lying low,” I lied. “Waiting—wisely—for the trouble he’s caused to blow over.”
“And when will it blow over?”
“If I have anything to do with it…” I gave him what I intended to be a reassuring smile. “Today.”
It wasn’t till I reached the door of 15 Powis Villas that I realized just how hollow that reassurance was. I couldn’t force Delia to tell me anything. Her husband was an unknown quantity. And they might both simply be out.
That last was my dismal conclusion when several lengthy prods at the doorbell went unanswered. I stepped back for a view of the drawing room through the front bay window. The room was empty.
Suddenly, I was aware of a movement behind me, dimly reflected in the window. I turned to find Delia Sheringham regarding me quizzically from the pavement. She was dressed for the weather, in raincoat, gloves, scarf and hat. The well-stuffed Waitrose carrier bags in either hand made it unnecessary to wonder where she’d been.
“Toby,” she said. “This is a surprise.” She marched up the drive to where I was standing. “And a relief.”
“In what way a relief?”
“I overheard two women in the queue for the checkout talking about Lodger in the Throat. One of them went last night.”
“Unlike me.”
“Exactly. But I see you’ve recovered from…whatever was wrong.”
“Hardly.”
“You’ll be on tonight, though, I’m sure. Did I mention that John and I have tickets?”
“You did. But I wouldn’t count on seeing me on stage. Or of feeling in the mood for a night at the theatre.”
“Why on earth not?”
“I’ve something to tell you.”
“Do you want to come inside?”
“I should think you’d want me to. It’s the sort of thing best discussed behind closed doors.”
“You’re being very mysterious, Toby.”
“Case of having to be.”
She sighed and bustled past me to the door.
Once we were inside, she led the way down the hall past the dining room to a large kitchen at the rear, instructing me over her shoulder to bring along the post that was lying on the mat. The kitchen windows looked out over a small, high-walled garden. I dropped the post onto the table as she stowed a few perishables in the wardrobe-sized fridge. Then she took off her coat, hat and scarf and filled the kettle.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks.”
“John’s playing golf. It’s something of a Saturday morning ritual, come rain or shine. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.”
“I doubt it.”
She looked at me sharply. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I doubt you’ll tell him I’ve been here.”
She went on looking at me, saying nothing. I held her gaze. Then the kettle came to the boil. She spooned coffee into cups. “How do you like it?”
“Black. No sugar.”
“Same as me.” She handed me my cup, took a sip from hers and flicked through the post.
Suddenly impatient, I took the photograph out of my pocket and dropped it onto the sheaf of letters. She stopped flicking.
“What’s this?”
“I found it in an album at the Oswins’ house. That’s Derek. And his father. At Beachy Head, in the summer of nineteen seventy-six.”
“Really? I don’t quite see—”
“And that’s your sister-in-law’s car.” I stabbed at the image of the Jaguar in the lay-by. “She took the picture.”
“That seems singularly improbable.” Delia sat down at the table and sipped some more coffee. “I don’t believe Ann knew the family.”
“She and Kenneth Oswin were lovers.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She glanced reprovingly up at me.
“I won’t if you won’t.” I sat down opposite her. “I’ve worked it out, Delia. I understand. I know.”
“What do you know?”
“That Roger is Kenneth Oswin’s son, not Walter’s.”
“This is utterly preposterous.” She took yet another sip of coffee. “I think it might be best if you left.”
“I can prove it.”
She frowned at me. “I don’t think so.”
I took out Derek’s pocket dictation machine and stood it on the table. “I have a tape I want you to listen to. When you’ve heard it, you’ll have to change your tune. You may as well do so now.” The only response I got to that was a toss of her head. “You know it’s true, Delia. You’ve always known. Ann confided in you. Gavin doesn’t know obviously, otherwise—” I broke off. “Why don’t I just play it?�
��
“If you feel you must.”
“Oh yes. I do feel I must.” I pressed the PLAY button. And leant back in the chair.
Delia recognized Walter’s voice at once. Her considerable powers of self-control couldn’t suppress a flinch of surprise. She looked at me with a mixture of outrage and amazement, in which there was also a trace of fascination. Then, as the exchanges between her long-dead brother and her still-longer-dead sister-in-law proceeded, her gaze shifted to the machine itself and stayed there, fixed and focused, as if the tape inside was more than just a recording device, as if it held the souls and secrets of those two dead people she still loved.
The recording ended with Ann’s whispered words, “He knows.” I leant forward, pressed STOP, then REWIND. “You want to hear it again?”
Delia licked her lips. “No.”
“There’s a date on the label. Seventh October, nineteen ninety-five.”
“May I see?”
“Sure.” I ejected the cassette and showed it to her.
“I don’t recognize the writing.”
“Nor do I. The medium’s, perhaps.”
“You think what we’ve heard…was a séance?”
“Nothing else it could have been. And hardly shock news to you, Delia. I could tell from your expression that you understood the context straight off. My guess is Walter told you he was going to a psychic in the hope of contacting Ann.”
“Very well.” She drew herself up. “As far as that’s concerned, you’re correct. Walter became interested in spiritualism in the last year or so of his life. He told me of his intention to consult a medium who’d been recommended to him and he asked my opinion.”
“Which was?”
“That such people are charlatans trading on the gullibility of grieving people.”
“You evidently didn’t convince him.”
“That was clear to me at the time. Where did this tape come from?”
“Same place as the photograph.”
“How can Derek Oswin have come by it?”
“He’s been preparing his case against Roger for years. Presumably, the tape originated with the medium. How Derek got hold of it I don’t know. I’d be happy to ask him. If I could find him.”
“I fail to see how this…recording of a con trick…damages Roger.” She looked as if she believed her own words. But I knew she didn’t. She couldn’t.
“The medium mentions the look on Walter’s face at the maternity hospital. That’s what convinced Walter he was really talking to Ann. Doesn’t it convince you?”
Delia shrugged and said nothing. Her mouth tightened.
“They as good as come out and admit it. Roger wasn’t their child. It’s implied in more or less everything that’s said.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is. Even if the medium is just acting a part, Walter isn’t. ‘Does Roger know?’ he asks. ‘Did you tell him?’ What’s he referring to, Delia? What’s he so anxious about?”
“I really can’t—”
“Yes, you can, God damn it.” I thumped the table as I spoke, rattling the cups in their saucers. Delia started back in her chair. “Walter died intestate. He made no provision for Roger. He left no will naming him as his son. Irresponsible bordering on incomprehensible for a well-organized businessman with a large estate, wouldn’t you say?”
“It was…an unfortunate oversight.”
“Bullshit. It was a tacit acknowledgement of the truth. Unlike your visit to Kenneth Oswin in hospital to tell him about Walter’s intestacy. There was nothing remotely tacit about that.”
I’d wrong-footed her at last. She looked confused, weakened by a surfeit of contradictions and evasions. Braddock was right. She hadn’t recognized him.
“You were seen, by an old friend of Ken’s from Colbonite.”
“They must have…made a mistake.”
“Ken told him why you’d been there. He laughed about it.”
Delia closed her eyes for a moment and drew a long breath. Then she looked at me with much of her placidity and deliberation restored. “Why are you doing all this, Toby?”
“Does it matter?”
“I believe it does. Your motive is actually transparent. To win back Jenny. As simple as that.”
“And pretty reasonable, given the kind of man—the kind of family—she’s got herself mixed up with.”
“And what kind is that?”
“You tell me, Delia.”
“There have been tensions. Difficulties. I don’t deny it. Since you insist upon pressing the point, I’ll admit you’re correct about Roger’s parentage. Ann formed an attachment with Kenneth Oswin the summer before Roger was born. Walter was often away on business. Kenneth was shop steward at Colbonite and Ann fancied herself as some kind of socialist. She and Walter were going through a rough patch. He was…neglecting her, I suppose. And she was always…attracted to risk. Her pregnancy was a slap in the face for Walter. The doctors had already told him by then, you see, that he couldn’t father children of his own. So…” Delia spread her hands eloquently. “You may judge for yourself the anguish it caused. Ann told me the whole sordid story. She seemed in some strange way proud of herself. She delivered the son Walter craved. Our parents were delighted. They had no idea the baby wasn’t really their grandson at all.”
“What about Gavin? He definitely didn’t know?”
“I was the only member of the family in on the secret. Walter was deeply hurt, of course, but he doted on Ann quite pitifully. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. He even agreed not to sack Kenneth Oswin because Ann threatened to leave him if he did. And he raised Roger as a loving father would. He never took out on him any of the pain he must have felt. In a sense…” Her voice drifted into silence. She smiled weakly. Then she resumed. “I think that was his revenge. To make Roger so much like himself. To steal him from Ann. And he became more ruthless, of course. The Colbonite workforce—including Kenneth Oswin—suffered for that.”
“Why did Ann kill herself?”
“Self-destructiveness was part of her nature. As for the immediate cause, I can only guess. Shortly before her death, she confided in me that she’d decided to tell Roger the truth. He may not have reacted as she’d expected.”
“Meaning?”
“I think she wanted him to forgive her for betraying Walter. I think she wanted to…reclaim him. To have his blessing, as it were.”
“Which wasn’t forthcoming?”
“Perhaps not. I don’t know. Roger and I have never discussed it. I don’t even know for a fact that she went ahead and told him.”
“You heard the tape.”
“And you heard my opinion of mediums.”
“Is that why you visited Kenneth Oswin in hospital? To find out if Roger had told him he knew he was his son?”
There came another weak smile and a faint nod of her head. “How very perceptive of you, Toby. Yes. It had long troubled me. With Walter gone, I felt I could safely ask the question.”
“What answer did you get?”
“An unsatisfactory one. Kenneth told me Roger had said nothing to him on the subject. Ever. And yet…I wasn’t sure I believed him.”
“Why should he lie?”
“Ah. Clearly there are limits to your perceptiveness. But, as I said earlier, your motive is a narrow one. You seek only a reconciliation with Jenny. Have the decency to admit it, since you’ve obliged me to be so painfully honest. If she walked into this room now and said she wanted to revive your marriage, you’d happily forget Derek Oswin and Roger’s alleged character flaws.”
“They’re more than character flaws. Do you know why I missed the performance last night? Because your nephew held me prisoner and set in motion a plan to have me arrested for assaulting a prostitute.” The outburst had carried me too far. But it was too late to back out. “Roger’s scared, Delia. Do you know why? Not because he’s afraid I’ll steal Jenny from him. But because he’s afraid Gavin will steal his inherite
d wealth from him, along with Wickhurst Manor, if he can prove Walter wasn’t Roger’s father and Roger therefore wasn’t his rightful heir.”
“Nonsense.”
“You know it isn’t.”
“On the contrary. I know it is. Listen to me carefully, Toby. You clearly have no understanding of the law. Even if Gavin could prove Kenneth Oswin fathered Roger, which would be next to impossible, he’d have no hope of persuading a court to overturn the settlement of Walter’s estate on him, since Roger was born in wedlock and acknowledged by Walter as his son.”
Now she had wrong-footed me. “Are you certain?” I mumbled.
“I made it my business to find out. As I’m sure Roger has. He has nothing to fear on that score.”
“But—”
“Which means he has no reason to engage in risky and illegal actions designed to prevent either you or Derek Oswin publicizing matters that can at worst merely embarrass him.”
“He held me in a locked room at Wickhurst Manor last night. And he instructed a drug dealer he knows called Sobotka to set me up on an assault charge. The police are probably already looking for me.”
“Really?” Her expression was suitably sceptical.
“Really. And truly.”
“It doesn’t seem very likely.”
“But it happened.”
“So you say. But—” The ring of the wall-mounted telephone, modulated by the burbles and rings of various extensions elsewhere in the house, silenced Delia. She frowned, then rose smartly from her chair, marched across to it and picked up the receiver. “Hello?…Oh, hello, darling. Still at the club?” The caller was clearly her husband. My attention drifted.
If Delia was right about the legal position, as I didn’t seriously doubt she was, the tape and the photograph amounted to nothing but proof of a long-ago infidelity that posed no threat to Roger Colborn. But something did. That much I knew for certain. Something more than my love for Jenny and any affection she still harboured for me. But what could it be? What—
“Are you sure about this?” A note of urgency had entered Delia’s voice.
When I looked towards her, I saw concern and puzzlement etched on her forehead. “What can they possibly have been looking for?…Surely not. It’s unthinkable…I’ve heard nothing from him…Of course…All right, darling…Yes…See you then. ’Bye.”
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