The Eden Passion (80 page)

"Can't it wait until morning?"

"No," John thundered. "Are you coming or not?" His voice fell. "I need your help."

At last Andrew started after him. "I do recall Sir Arthur mentioning a Morley Johnson. Perhaps he—"

That was enough. Then John was running, narrowly avoiding a collision with the maid, who was just entering the room bearing a tray laden with sandwiches. "Your meal, sir," she called after him.

But he was already on the staircase a flight below, and Andrew had to run to catch up.

It was approaching dusk the following evening before they managed to put all the pieces of the grim puzzle together. In chambers in the Temple borrowed from a sympathetic and helpful Sir Arthur, they slumped before a massive table cluttered with the results of their investigation.

Andrew spoke first, moved by John's quiet grief. "You have ample grounds to bring criminal charges against the man," he said bluntly. "I'm sure you realize that."

But Andrew wasn't certain if John realized anything. He sat before the table, his elbows propped up, his hands cradling his head. With his face thus obscured, it was impossible to read any expression, though from the slump of his shoulders and his prevailing silence, Andrew knew well the depth of his despair.

In the absence of a dialogue, Andrew commenced a monologue. "I don't know when I've seen a more blatant corruption of power of attorney," he began. "Is the man a fool? The youngest, most uninformed law student knows the ethics of principal and agent, and that both carry with them incredible responsibilities."

He talked on, warming to his subject. "The agent is bound to exercise proper skill and use the proper means for carrying out the functions which he undertakes. Thus when he is employed to buy, he must not be the seller; when he is employed to sell, he must not be the buyer."

He looked in amazement about the table at the proof that this simple law had been mercilessly trammeled. There they were, deed after deed, hundreds of them listing Morley Johnson as seller, Morley Johnson as buyer, not even bothering to reissue them under a false name, with the exception of the first eight or ten. So daring a criminal act, Andrew could not imagine, and he tried to stir John to speech with the simple announcement, "Well, no matter. We'll

meet Mr. Johnson soon enough in a court of law. Then we'll let a magistrate decide the weight of his punishment."

He looked down on John's bowed head and saw his hands trembling. "John?" he inquired softly. "There's nothing more we can do here. Why don't you go home and rest? Ill take care of the next few steps. A courier will be on his way to Taunton by morning to serve Mr. Johnson with a list of charges. A court date will have to be set, but I-"

All at once John pushed away from the table and walked toward the windows. With his back to Andrew, he finally spoke, though his words were as incredible as the events of the long night and day. There will be no court case, Andrew," he commenced quietly, "no criminal charges."

Andrew started forward. "I don't think you understand—"

John turned. In the light of dusk, Andrew thought he looked one hundred years old. "I'm afraid the lack of understanding is on your part, Andrew," he said, as though every word required a major effort, "and what I'm going to tell you undoubtedly will only compound your confusion, but you are entitled to know."

He turned back to the window as though he found it difficult to look at Andrew. "I murdered a man once," he began, "and Morley Johnson was the only witness to that murder." He looked down at his hands with a curious expression, as though they were appendages which did not belong to him.

As the astonishing confession filled the room, Andrew sat slowly in a near chair. "Who . . . ?" he began, and never finished, for John was speaking again.

"No one you would know," he said, "a piece of garbage named Humphrey Hills who had done terrible damage to someone ... I loved very much. At any rate, I took it upon myself to relieve the world of his presence, and Johnson witnessed it, and covered for me.

At last he faced Andrew, a strange look of relief on his face. "I've never told anyone before." Curiously, he laughed. "No, Morley Johnson is not a fool, Andrew. He's a very clever man who knew better than I what he was doing that day."

While Andrew had questions, he knew better than to ask any of them. "I'm . . . sorry," he murmured.

"Why?" John demanded with renewed energy. "Again, I am in your debt. Thank God for your obsessive habit of reading the Lon-

don Times's financial section. Otherwise we might have lost more than we've already lost. We might have lost Eden."

Suddenly he stopped pacing, as though the thought had descended upon him like a nightmare. The bleak mood lasted only a moment, then he returned to the table, dragged out his chair and sat again.

"I'm going to ask you to do some favors for me, Andrew," he commenced, his hands clasped before him.

"Anything," Andrew murmured, still stunned by the recent confession.

"First, I want you to go immediately and pay the delinquent tax. Then I want the deed to Eden Castle reissued in the name of Lord Richard Eden."

Andrew leaned forward with a question, though he never had a chance to pose it, for John rushed on.

"Then I want you to journey to Taunton, or wherever it was that Sir Arthur said Johnson was living now. And I want you to tell him that I am desirous of seeing him immediately. Tell him it will be to his advantage to come. He'll understand those words."

He hesitated, as though coming to the most difficult part of his request. "And then," he went on, "I want you to journey to Eden for me.

Andrew noticed that John's hands were trembling. "And I want you to report back to me on precisely what you find there." His voice fell. "Will you do that for me, Andrew?"

Andrew was moved by the silent suffering. "Of course," he agreed. "I'll do anything you ask."

Apparently the display of loyalty had a disastrous effect on John. As though to hide this new weakness, he stood angrily and glared down at the scattered proof of corruption. "Damn that man!" he exploded. He strode to the door and called back. "Be about it, Andrew. Immediately. Leave tonight if possible. Stay as long as necessary. I'll look after things here. Keep me informed."

Then he was gone. Andrew heard the echo of his boots as he walked down the arcade, leaving only the memory of his amazing confession in the chamber.

Murdered a man! Under what circumstances? He'd failed to tell Andrew that, and for some reason Andrew had the feeling he would never know. And perhaps he didn't want to know. Again he thought with loving sympathy upon John Murrey Eden.

Just when he had worked so hard to arrange a dazzling future, his

mysterious past surfaced in splintered disarray, and as always the primary victim in such a tug of war was the present.

Nine days later, in the morning post, John received the following letter postmarked Taunton, North Devon, in a familiar and meticulous handwriting:

My dearest John,

I arrived in the village of Taunton two days ago, and with my first inquiry concerning Mr. Morley Johnson, the local publican responded, "You mean the fool who lives in the Folly?" And that, my friend, set the pace for all further inquiry. The locals seem to feel real animosity to the Johnsons, though a few pointed out that they had brought business their way. But most viewed him with less than respect and many laughed openly as though he had become a humorous bit of local color.

The following morning I set forth to find the man, and located him on a large estate at the center of which sat one of the most incredible structures it has ever been my misfortune to view. I would be fascinated to have Chiswell take a look at it and identify its style. I'm afraid that it would tax even his vast architectural knowledge.

Damn the house, John cursed impatiently. Did you find the man?

After having waded through hordes of children playing on the green, I found myself confronted with a disreputable-looking butler who informed me that Mr. Johnson was busy and not receiving this morning. I stated that I had journeyed from London and that it was a matter of importance, and as we were arguing, the man himself emerged from the solarium, announced that he was Mr. Morley Johnson and he was surprised to find such a crude display of manners on the part of a "Londoner."

Oh, my dear John, there is no way to describe the man except to state that he possesses not one redeeming grace. After much talking, I convinced him that it might be worth his while to hear me out, and I was promptly escorted into the solarium, where I met a bewigged woman whom he identified as his wife.

At this point I confess to a deception. I identified myself as the solicitor for the John Murrey Firm, withholding the name of Eden, and watched the interest on Johnson's face mount. Of

course he had heard of you. "What Englishman that respects money has not?" was his reply. When I told him that you wanted to see him in your offices in Belgrave Square as soon as possible, he seemed puzzled. But it was the wife who coyly suggested that such a large and prosperous firm surely needed the services of more than one solicitor. I pleaded ignorance, of course, simply that I had been sent to fetch him. But that one veiled suggestion obviously set him to thinking, and finally he shook my hand warmly and invited me to stay for dinner, which I declined, and escorted me back to my carriage, assuring me that he would prepare immediately for the journey to London.

So in conclusion, I suspect that any day you will have him on your doorstep. Still, I am disappointed that we cannot bring criminal charges against him. Never have I seen a more worthy suit. But I'm respectful of your position and with all love and concern now warn you that it will not serve your purpose to do violence against him. My advice is that you relieve him of all further contact with your family, then sweep him from your doorstep for the trash that he is.

Trust everyone is well there. Give all my love. The weather here is wretched, a cold driving rain. I'm off to Eden now to do your bidding, and will return to London as soon as possible.

Your devoted and loving servant, Andrew Rhoades

Slowly John folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope. He leaned back in his desk chair and took the letter with him as though he did not want to part with this frail link which connected him to Andrew's love and loyalty.

How blessed he was with Andrew's friendship. Yet how often had he told the man that? Never, to the best of his recollection. Now he admonished himself, vowed to be more verbal in his appreciation of those around him, of those who served him, and as though the admonishment itself was the solution to the problem, he leaned forward, slapped the letter on the desk, shouted to one of those faceless servants to come and light the lamps and looked forward with relish to the arrival of Mr. Morley Johnson.

It was as Andrew had predicted. The next afternoon, as John was discussing with Alex Aldwell the need to hire fifty additional men,

John looked out of the window and saw a carriage stop before his house.

He'd never seen such a carriage short of a royal procession, gilt and purple with an indistinguishable coat of arms emblazoned on the side, while atop the high seat sat a coachman bedecked in a uniform trimmed with gold braid. He held a fine leather horsewhip in his hand.

Alex saw his interest outside the window and moved close to see for himself. "Gawd," he muttered, "is it the Queen we're doing business with now?"

John gave no reply and continued to watch the pretentious arrival, the footman hopping down, affixing a low stool before the carriage door. A few moments later, the man emerged, lavishing attention on his dandified garments, straightening his lavender satin waistcoat, stroking the small conceit of an Elizabethan beard which grew on his chin.

At first John didn't recognize him, would have passed him by in a crowd. Then recognition dawned and with it the memory of that day at Eden in the small library, the man Humphrey Hills speaking those most incredible words.

"Leave me," John whispered.

"About the additional men—"

"I said, leave me," John repeated.

"Will you be needing—"

"I need nothing now, but wait outside."

Then Alex was gone and John heard the butler open the door, and long before he was ready for it, though it was the moment he had wished for, the bastard appeared in the door, struck a pose, and pronounced, "Mr. Murrey, my name is Mr. Morley Johnson and I believe you sent for me."

John did not reply, curious to see if the man recognized him. Apparently not. The full beard and the passage of almost ten difficult years had created an effective mask. "Mr. Johnson," he said, not rising from his chair, not making any gesture for the man to come forward.

But he did anyway, as John knew he would, removing his top hat, revealing thin nondescript graying hair. He shook off his cape while casting a close eye over the opulent office. "Very grand, these houses," he pronounced, uninvited. "For myself, I would have been comfortable in one, but my wife insisted upon a country seat. I'm

sure you know women, Mr. Murrey. Whatever it is the neighbors have, the wife wants one bigger and better."

He laughed knowingly and displayed his first awkwardness at not having been invited to take a seat. Clearly a man never to suffer from the lack of an invitation, he selected an overstuffed chair near the desk and sat.

John watched with an almost trancelike fascination. There is no way to describe the man except to state that he possesses not one redeeming grace. As that fragment from Andrew's letter crossed his mind, he was aware of the man gaping at him, as though at last John's prolonged silence was beginning to bother him.

"You . . . did send for me, Mr. Murrey?" Johnson began. "Correct me if I'm wrong."

John leaned back in his chair. "I did indeed, Mr. Johnson," he said, and found that he could scarcely look at the man.

Fortunately there was no need, for obviously Morley Johnson had worked out in his own mind the purpose of this interview and now took the floor as though it were his to take. "I must confess, Mr. Murrey," he began, "I was shocked when your man Rhoades told me that a firm as large as yours had the services of only one solicitor. I immediately thought how dangerous. One man, even an exceptional one, cannot possibly look after the vast entanglements of an enterprise such as yours."

"You've heard of us, then?" John prodded.

Morley Johnson laughed. "Heard of you!" he repeated. "Who in all of England has not? I may live in the country, Mr. Murrey, but I am not a rustic. London papers are delivered weekly to my foyer, and I read them from cover to cover, and for the last two years it has become quite impossible to pick up the London Times without seeing your name and your magnificent accomplishments written up in glowing detail."