The Silver Falcon (23 page)

Farrant had never mentioned the incident again; neither had Barry. But it hung between them, bonding them together. It was a long time ago, but Barry sometimes thought of it. He was glad he had remembered it then. It was going to put his price up.

9

MacNeil had eaten a good lunch; his client had no appetite. When he picked up his water glass the detective noticed that his hand was trembling.

‘You think she's really going to marry him?' It was the second or third time Graham had asked the question. MacNeil gave the same answer.

‘They're lovers; I found that out in Dublin. He spent the last two nights in her suite before they came back. I watched them at the airport. I'd say she was crazy about him.'

‘The bastard,' Graham said slowly. ‘He'd stoop to anything. It's my fault; I should have told her the truth right at the beginning. The day he walked back into Beaumont I should have told her.'

‘Why didn't you?' MacNeil asked. He buttered a biscuit and spread it lavishly with cheese. The English cheeses were very good.

‘I didn't want to let my old friend down,' Andrew Graham said. ‘We'd covered it all for so long. He was a very proud man. He didn't want anyone to know about Richard. What his wife did was bad enough.'

‘Funny,' MacNeil said, with his mouth full. ‘A rich man like him; and so full of troubles.'

Andrew sighed. ‘He was the best man I ever knew. Generous, loyal to his friends, a helluva good sportsman. And he had the lousiest luck in his private life. And he worshipped Isabel. Now I see this. Shacking up with his son. There are times, MacNeil, when I feel inclined to let her get married to him first and find out for herself!' He shook his head. ‘But I can't,' he said. ‘I owe it to Charles.'

‘You better go and see her then,' MacNeil said. ‘Take the papers along with you. That ought to do it. She'll run a mile.'

‘I hope so,' Graham said. ‘I've been trying to think how to handle it. We fell out about him last time; she forbade me the house. What do I do if she won't even listen –' he wasn't asking MacNeil, he was thinking aloud. ‘If he's living with her I won't get a chance –'

‘He's not with her in Paris,' MacNeil said. ‘I was sitting right behind them on the plane. I heard her asking him to come and he said no. As a matter of fact, he's going to be at her house in the country tonight.'

Graham looked up at him. ‘Without her? What for?'

‘Good question,' MacNeil said. ‘I can't figure it out. Why don't you fly to France and see her there?'

‘I think I will,' Andrew Graham said. ‘And you'd better see what the hell Schriber's doing. I don't like it, MacNeil. I don't like him going down there alone.'

‘No,' MacNeil agreed. ‘You never know with guys like that –' He finished his coffee. ‘You're sure,' he said, ‘that this is what's behind it all?'

‘I'm certain,' Andrew said slowly. ‘It all fits into the pattern. And that's what I've got to make her see. You don't know where she's staying in Paris?'

‘Call the trainer – he'll know. And don't try to cover. Say who you are. I'll get myself into some pub near the house at Epsom and take it from there.'

MacNeil signed for the bill and Graham went up to his room. He called Nigel Foster and explained who he was. He wanted to contact Isabel in Paris. Nigel was having his coffee with Tim Ryan and Sally. He covered the mouthpiece and said to Tim, ‘Someone called Andrew Graham asking for Isabel's hotel – says he's an old friend –'

Tim got up and reached for the phone. ‘I'll talk to him,' he said.

‘Andrew? How are you – it's Tim.'

On the other end, Andrew sighed with relief. ‘Thank God – listen, I've got to see Isabel. I can't go into too many details, but it's about Richard.'

Tim's voice changed. ‘What about him?' he said.

‘She's got to be told something. She won't like it, but I'd be grateful for your help. We've got to get her away from him. I can trust you, Tim, I know that. Charles always trusted you. He must be turning in his grave right now.'

‘All right,' Tim said quickly. ‘You can count on me. We're staying at the Ritz. We're taking the seven o'clock plane; you come up to the suite at about nine o'clock. I'll be there and I'll make sure Isabel is too.'

‘That's fine,' Graham sounded relieved. ‘I'll be there. Nine o'clock.' He hung up. Tim Ryan was an unexpected bonus. He'd be a powerful ally. Very powerful. He was going to tell him the same story and show him the same papers. That ought to clinch everything. He started packing his bag with pyjamas, shaving gear and a change of shirt. His hands were quite steady now. Then he put through a call and booked himself onto the six o'clock flight to Charles de Gaulle.

Mrs Jennings was waiting for Richard when he arrived at Coolbridge House. He drove down from London, taking his time; it was a hot evening and the traffic had moved sluggishly on the way out of the city. He had spent the afternoon, not at Cartiers as he told Isabel, but in a meeting with his solicitor. They had been discussing certain clauses in the multi-million-dollar trust his mother had set up for him. He drove slowly round the leafy lanes which had so delighted Isabel on her first visit; occasionally he blasted his horn at a blind corner, and then he passed the Victorian lodge and through the gates up the driveway. The house came upon him, richly glowing in the evening sunlight, a seventeenth-century red-brick jewel in a setting of great trees and lushly stocked gardens.

The housekeeper showed him inside and took his suitcase. He looked round the hall, which Isabel had so often described. Dark and cool, with the faint smell of must that comes with ancient brick and panelling. He followed Mrs Jennings up the stairs and she took him into a room at the end of the corridor. Richard looked round him.

‘This is very nice,' he said. ‘Mrs Schriber's been telling me how beautiful the house is – I'm looking forward to seeing it.'

‘She's been very happy here,' Mrs Jennings said. ‘I must say, sir, she's a charming lady. I don't mind telling you I was ever so worried about the sort of people we might have here, when Sir James decided they'd have to let. But Mrs Schriber looks after it like it was her own home. And there's a note over there, sir. The drawing room's at the bottom of the stairs on the right. I'll put some ice out for you with the drinks tray. And dinner'll be ready at eight fifteen, if that's all right.'

Richard smiled at her. ‘That will be just perfect, thank you.' He picked up the envelope. ‘Richard.' It was one sheet of paper and only two lines, obviously scribbled in a hurry.

‘Darling – I hope you like it. Mrs J. will do everything for you. Wish us luck for tomorrow. I'll ring you after the race. All my love. I.'

The window was open and there was a soft breeze carrying garden scents. It was the sort of house she would fall in love with. He went down the stairs and in to the white and yellow drawing room. He poured himself a Scotch, filled it with ice and sat down in one of the deep armchairs.

There was no sound anywhere. It was the sort of house his mother would have loved. Peaceful, dignified, not vulgarized in any way by new wealth. His real father must have lived in a house like it. She had described him one day, her eyes full of tears, her voice guiltily low. They were alone together in her room at Beaumont. After she and Charles had been married for three years, Richard's real father had come to the house. He came to visit the stud; he was tall and blond, with a gentle manner, and from a similar background in England as her own in Carolina. He had been so nice, she whispered to Richard. So kind. And neither of them had meant to fall in love so quickly. In the space of a week. And then he went away. Back to England. She had never heard from him again. When she found herself pregnant she hadn't known if he or Charles were the father. She hadn't known and neither had Charles until, two and a half years after Richard was born, Andrew Graham had examined Charles for a minor ailment, and the discovery was made that he was sterile. And always had been. She didn't tell Richard what happened. But there wasn't any need. He could imagine. The look was in her eyes. Fear. Physical and mental fear. He sat in the dying sunlight, with the evening shadows creeping through the garden and thought of his mother, with her nervous smile and broken spirit, and the hand holding his glass tightened and tightened. There was a sudden crack and the glass broke. Ice and whisky spilled on him, and blood mingled with it. He had cut himself. He got up, cleared the splinters and the ice away, wrapped his hand in a handkerchief. She was so close to him that night, closer than for a long time. He could almost feel her there. She had believed in life after death; remnants of her early Catholic upbringing clung to her. She had a hope of forgiveness and a trust in a loving God. God the Father. It wasn't a symbol that Richard could accept. Life was a brief excursion into the light, followed by everlasting darkness. There was no Heaven where Frances Schriber could find reward for her unhappy life on earth. There was no Divine justice, nothing but human vengeance if a debt was going to be repaid. He went in to dinner, apologizing to Mrs Jennings for the accident. She stayed behind to wipe up the spilt whisky and search for more glass.

After dinner he began to explore the house. He went upstairs and looked through all the rooms. He found Isabel's bedroom and lingered in it; her presence was in it, as strong as his mother's had been downstairs, he opened the drawers and touched her clothes. And the bed. Large and draped, piled with embroidered cushions. He could visualize her in it, dark hair against white pillows, slender arms linked above her head, smooth breasts. Then down to the hall and through to the kitchens. Old-fashioned. Stone-floored. A range of larders and a game room. Boot cupboards, racks for fishing rods. A row of mackintosh coats, Wellington boots. A game bag. And the cellars. He switched on the light and started down the steps.

‘Tim, you'd no right to do this. I'm not going to see him!'

Isabel faced Ryan angrily. They'd travelled over on the plane with Nigel Foster; Tim had been silent and unlike his easy self. Nigel was staying at Longchamp to be near the horse, he left them at De Gaulle airport in high spirits, predicting a decisive win the next day. Isabel and Tim checked into the Ritz; both were well known there. Charles always stayed in the same suite whenever he came to Paris, and he had insisted on Tim having a room in the hotel. Isabel didn't have time to unpack before Tim came to the sitting room. And then he told her about Andrew Graham. Her reaction was what he expected. She was surprised and then angry. He stayed calm.

‘Why won't you see him?' he asked. ‘He's Charles's oldest friend, and you went through it all together. What are you afraid of, Isabel?'

She swung round; for a moment she nearly ordered him out of the suite. Then she too controlled herself. There was an unpleasant sensation, as if her pulse was running too fast. The word afraid had stung.

‘I'm not afraid of anything he can tell me,' she said. ‘He hates Richard, just because Charles hated him. And I'm not going to be influenced. He's heard about the newspaper story and that's what's brought him running over here. He ought to have something better to do than interfere in my life now. It's none of his business, and I'm going to tell him so!'

‘All right – but don't get so uptight about it. For God's sake just listen to him. That's all I ask you.' He abandoned his impersonal pose and came up to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘I may be your racing manager,' he said quietly, ‘and you can sack me tonight if you like. But I also love you. And that's why I told Andrew to come here. Okay, you've chosen Richard and not me. I can accept that. But I want to be sure he's right for you. And if you're not frightened of hearing something that might prove he's not, then you'll see Andrew and listen to what he's got to say.' He let her go and turned away.

‘I also love you.' She had known it ever since she came to Beaumont. Taken it for granted when she was married, and come closer than she realized during those days in Ireland before Richard came. She came up beside him and touched his arm.

‘Oh, Tim,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry. I'd no right to speak to you like that. I'm not frightened of seeing Andrew. It just seems unfair, when Richard can't defend himself.'

Before he could say anything, Andrew Graham's arrival in the lobby was announced. When he came into the sitting room Isabel came to meet him. She held out her hand. Her voice was calm and cool.

‘How nice to see you, Andrew. Come and sit down. What would you like to drink?' He shook hands with Tim and took a chair. She thought he had aged in the months since she had last seen him. Out of his own environment, he looked smaller, uncertain.

And he was nervous; he kept wiping his hands on his trouser knees and glancing from her to Tim, as if looking for support. He asked for bourbon; until it arrived with Perrier water and ice, they made awkward conversation. She asked him about Joan and his children; he mentioned mutual friends in Freemont, and asked about the plans for the Falcon. Tim said he should back him in the race the next day; he looked to be a certainty. Graham said how pleased Charles would be if he could see it.

Graham drank his bourbon and coughed. Then he looked at Isabel. Some of his old authority had returned. He was Andrew Graham again, best friend of Freemont's most powerful and respected citizen.

‘I don't know if Tim's told you why I'm here,' he said. ‘But I ask you to believe that I wouldn't fly four thousand miles unless it was for a damned good reason. I've brought something to show you. But before I do, I'd like to tell you about Charles and Frances. I know he never talked about it, and looking back, it was a great mistake. I wish I didn't have to do it.' He waited, and Isabel hesitated.