A Dangerous Fortune (26 page)

Slowly and reluctantly, Micky obeyed.

Papa reached across the table with both hands and grabbed him by the lapels. In a voice full of scorn he said: “This entire plan has been put at risk because you have completely failed in the simple, small task allotted to you!”

Micky was terrified of him in this mood. “Papa, you’ll get your rifles!” he said.

“In one more month it will be spring in Cordova. We have to take the Delabarca mines this season—next year will be too late. I have booked passage on a freighter bound for Panama. The captain has been bribed to put me and the weapons ashore on the Atlantic coast of Santamaria.” Papa stood up, dragging Micky upright, tearing his shirt by the force of his grip. His face was suffused with anger. “The ship sails in five days time,” he
said in a voice that filled Micky with fear. “Now get out of here and buy me those guns!”

Augusta Pilaster’s servile butler, Hastead, took Micky’s wet coat and hung it near the fire that blazed in the hall. Micky did not thank him. They disliked each other. Hastead was jealous of anyone Augusta favored, and Micky despised the man for fawning. Besides, Micky never knew which way Hastead’s eyes were looking, and that unnerved him.

Micky went into the drawing room and found Augusta alone. She looked pleased to see him. She held his hand in both of hers and said: “You’re so cold.”

“I walked across the park.”

“Foolish boy, you should have taken a hansom.” Micky could not afford hansom cabs, but Augusta did not know that. She pressed his hand to her bosom and smiled. It was like a sexual invitation, but she acted as if she were innocently warming his cold fingers.

She did this kind of thing a lot when they were alone together, and normally Micky enjoyed it. She would hold his hand and touch his thigh, and he would touch her arm or her shoulder, and look into her eyes, and they would talk in low voices, like lovers, without ever acknowledging that they were flirting. He found it exciting, and so did she. But today he was too desperately worried to dally with her. “How is old Seth?” he asked, hoping to hear of a sudden relapse.

She sensed his mood and let go of his hand without protest, although she looked disappointed. “Come close to the fire,” she said. She sat on a sofa and patted the seat beside her. “Seth is much better.”

Micky’s heart sank.

She went on: “He may be with us for years yet.” She could not keep the irritation out of her voice. She was impatient for her husband to take over. “You know he is
living here now. You shall visit him when you have had some tea.”

“He must retire soon, surely?” said Micky.

“There is no sign of it, regrettably. Just this morning he forbade another issue of Russian railway stock.” She patted his knee. “Be patient. Your papa shall have his rifles eventually.”

“He can’t wait much longer,” Micky said worriedly. “He has to leave next week.”

“So that’s why you’re looking so tense,” she said. “Poor boy. I wish I could do something to help.

“You don’t know my father,” Micky said, and he could not keep the note of despair out of his voice. “He pretends to be civilized when he sees you, but in reality he’s a barbarian. God knows what he’ll do to me if I let him down.”

There were voices in the hall. “There’s something I must tell you before the others come in,” Augusta said hastily. “I finally met Mr. David Middleton.”

Micky nodded. “What did he say?”

“He was polite, but frank. Said he did not believe that the entire truth about his brother’s death had been told, and asked if I could put him in touch with either Hugh Pilaster or Antonio Silva. I told him they were both abroad, and he was wasting his time.”

“I wish we could solve the problem of old Seth as neatly as we solved that one,” Micky said as the door opened.

Edward came in, then his sister Clementine. Clementine looked like Augusta but did not have the same force of personality, and she had none of her mother’s sexual allure. Augusta poured tea. Micky talked to Edward in a desultory way about their plans for the evening. There were no parties or balls in September: the aristocracy stayed away from London until after Christmas, and only the politicians and their wives were in town. But there was no shortage of middle-class entertainment, and
Edward had tickets for a play. Micky pretended to be looking forward to it, but his mind was on Papa.

Hastead brought in hot buttered muffins. Edward ate several but Micky had no appetite. More family members arrived: Joseph’s brother Young William; Joseph’s ugly sister Madeleine; and Madeleine’s husband Major Hartshorn, with the scar on his forehead. They all talked of the financial crisis, but Micky could tell they were not afraid: old Seth had seen it coming and had made sure that Pilasters Bank was not exposed. High-risk securities had lost value—Egyptian, Peruvian and Turkish bonds had crashed—but English government securities and English railway shares had suffered only modest falls.

One by one they all went up to visit Seth; one by one they came down and said how marvelous he was. Micky waited until last. He finally went up at half-past five.

Seth was in what used to be Hugh’s room. A nurse sat outside with the door ajar in case he should call her. Micky went in and closed the door.

Seth was sitting up in bed reading
The Economist
Micky said: “Good afternoon, Mr. Pilaster. How are you feeling?”

The old man put his journal aside with obvious reluctance. “I’m feeling well, I thank you. How is your father?”

“Impatient to be home.” Micky stared at the frail old man on the white sheets. The skin of his face was translucent, and the curved knife of the Pilaster nose seemed sharper than ever, but there was lively intelligence in the eyes. He looked as if he could live and run the bank for another decade.

Micky seemed to hear his father’s voice in his ear, saying
Who is standing in our way?

The old man was weak and helpless, and there was only Micky in the room and the nurse outside.

Micky realized he had to kill Seth.

His father’s voice said
Do it now
.

He could suffocate the old man with a pillow and leave no evidence. Everyone would think he had died a natural death.

Micky’s heart filled with loathing and he felt ill.

“What’s the matter?” Seth said. “You look sicker than I.”

“Are you quite comfortable, sir?” Micky said. “Let me adjust your pillows.”

“Please don’t trouble, they’re all right,” said Seth, but Micky reached behind him and pulled out a big feather pillow.

Micky looked at the old man and hesitated.

Fear flashed in Seth’s eyes and he opened his mouth to call out.

Before he could make a sound Micky smothered his face with the pillow and pushed his head back down.

Unfortunately, Seth’s arms were outside the bedclothes, and now his hands grasped Micky’s forearms with surprising strength. Micky stared in horror at the aged talons clamped to his coat sleeves, but he held on with all his might. Seth clawed desperately at Micky’s arms but the younger man was stronger.

When that failed Seth began to kick his legs and squirm. He could not escape from Micky’s grasp, but Hugh’s old bed squeaked, and Micky was terrified that the nurse might hear and come in to investigate. The only way he could think of to keep the old man still was to lie on top of him. Still holding the pillow over Seth’s face, Micky got on the bed and lay on the writhing body. It was grotesquely reminiscent of sex with an unwilling woman, Micky thought crazily, and he suppressed the hysterical laughter that bubbled to his lips. Seth continued to struggle but his movements were restrained by Micky’s weight and the bed ceased to squeak. Micky held on grimly.

At last all movement ceased. Micky remained in place as long as he dared, to make sure; then he cautiously removed the pillow and stared at the white, still
face. The eyes were closed but the features were still. The old man looked dead. Micky had to check for a heartbeat. Slowly and fearfully, he lowered his head to Seth’s chest.

Suddenly the old man’s eyes opened wide and he took a huge, dragging breath.

Micky almost cried aloud with horror. A moment later he regained his wits and shoved the pillow over Seth’s face again. He felt himself shaking weakly with fear and disgust as he held it down; but there was no more resistance.

He knew he should keep it there for several minutes, to be sure the old man really was dead this time; but he was worried about the nurse. She might notice the silence. He had to speak, for a pretense of normality. But he could not think what to say to a dead man. Say anything, he told himself, it doesn’t matter so long as she hears the murmur of conversation. “I’m pretty well,” he mumbled desperately. “Pretty well, pretty well. And how are you? Well, well. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. Splendid, Mr. Pilaster. I’m very glad to see you looking so well, so splendid, so much better, oh dear God I can’t keep this up, very well, splendid, splendid …”

He could stand it no longer. He took his weight off the pillow. Grimacing with distaste, he put his hand on Seth’s chest where he imagined the heart would be. There were sparse white hairs on the old man’s pale skin. The body was warm beneath the nightshirt, but there was no heartbeat.
Are you really dead this time?
he thought. And then he seemed to hear Papa’s voice, angry and impatient, saying
Yes, you fool, he’s dead, now get out of there
! Leaving the pillow over the face, he rolled off the corpse and stood up.

A wave of nausea engulfed him. He felt weak and faint, and he grabbed the bedpost to steady himself. I killed him, he thought. I killed him.

There was a voice on the landing.

Micky looked at the body on the bed. The pillow was still over Seth’s face. He snatched it up. Seth’s dead eyes were open and staring.

The door opened.

Augusta walked in.

She stood in the doorway, looking at the rumpled bed, the still face of Seth with its staring eyes, and the pillow in Micky’s hands. The blood drained from her cheeks.

Micky stared at her, silent and helpless, waiting for her to speak.

She stood there, looking from Seth to Micky and back again, for a long moment.

Then, slowly and quietly, she closed the door.

She took the pillow from Micky. She lifted Seth’s lifeless head and replaced the pillow, then she straightened the sheets. She picked up
The Economist
from the floor, placed it on his chest, and folded his hands over it, so that he looked as if he had fallen asleep reading it.

Then she closed his eyes.

She came to Micky. “You’re shaking,” she said. She took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth.

For a moment he was too stunned to react. Then he went from terror to desire in a flash. He put his arms around her and embraced her, feeling her bosom against his chest. She opened her mouth and their tongues met. Micky grasped her breasts in both hands and squeezed them hard. She gasped. His erection came immediately. Augusta began to grind her pelvis against his, rubbing herself on his stiff penis. They were both breathing hard. Augusta took his hand, put it in her mouth, and bit down, to stop herself crying out. Her eyes closed tight, and she shuddered. He realized she was having an orgasm and he was so inflamed that he, too, reached a climax.

It had taken only a few moments. Afterwards they clung together, panting, for a little longer. Micky was too bewildered to think.

When Augusta had caught her breath she broke the embrace. “I’m going to my room,” she said quietly. “You should leave the house immediately.”

“Augusta—”

“Call me Mrs. Pilaster!”

“All right—”

“This never happened,” she said in a fierce whisper. “Do you understand me?
None of it ever happened!
”

“All right,” he said again.

She smoothed the front of her dress and patted her hair. He watched helplessly, immobilized by the force of her will. She turned and went to the door. Automatically, he opened it for her. He followed her out.

The nurse looked an inquiry at them. Augusta put her finger to her lips in a hushing gesture. “He’s just dropped off to sleep,” she said quietly.

Micky was amazed and appalled by her coolness.

“Best thing for him,” said the nurse. “I’ll leave him in peace for an hour or so.”

Augusta nodded agreement. “I should, if I were you. Believe me, he’s quite comfortable now.”

 PART II

1879  

 CHAPTER ONE

JANUARY  

1

HUGH RETURNED TO LONDON
after six years.

In that period the Pilasters had doubled their wealth—and Hugh was partly responsible.

He had done extraordinarily well in Boston, better than he could have dreamed. Transatlantic trade was booming as the United States recovered from the Civil War, and Hugh had made sure Pilasters Bank was financing a healthy chunk of that business.

Then he had guided the partners into a series of lucrative issues of North American stocks and bonds. After the war, government and business needed cash, and Pilasters Bank raised the money.

Finally, he had developed an expertise in the chaotic market for railway stocks, learning to tell which railroads would make fortunes and which would never get past the first mountain range. Uncle Joseph had been wary at first, remembering the New York crash of 1873; but Hugh had inherited the anxious conservatism of the Pilasters, and he had recommended only the good-quality shares, scrupulously avoiding anything that smacked of flashy speculation; and his judgment had proved sound. Now Pilasters was the world leader in the business of raising capital for the industrial development of North America. Hugh was being paid a thousand pounds a year, and he knew he was worth more.

When he docked at Liverpool he was met off the ship by the chief clerk of Pilasters’ local branch, a man with whom he had exchanged telegrams at least once a week ever since he went to Boston. They had never met, and when they identified each other the clerk said: “Goodness me, I didn’t know you were so young, sir!” This pleased Hugh, as he had found a silver hair in his otherwise jet-black head that very morning. He was twenty-six.