The Wheel of Fortune (146 page)

“Never mind,” said my father kindly. “In the circumstances I could quite understand you being a little nervous. Kester mentioned the date, oddly enough. In his postluncheon speech he said, ‘Ten years ago on this day I was cursing my family and vowing revenge, but now I’m entertaining them to lunch and enjoying their company!’ He was really most amusing about it! And then he proposed a toast to family solidarity and said what a pity it was that you and Thomas couldn’t be there.”

“My God,” I said before I could stop myself, “he’s bloody clever.”

“Harry,” said Evan, “have you ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Be quiet, Evan!” snapped my father. “That was quite uncalled for. Well, Harry—”

“Dad,” said Wonder Boy urgently from the back seat, “could you hold it for a moment? I’ve got to go to the bathroom or I’ll never make it back to Swansea. Harry, would you mind if …”

I gave him permission to use my lavatory. Then I returned to my study and once more reached for the decanter.

I was interrupted by a mouselike tap on the door.

Slamming down the decanter I flung the door wide and revealed Wonder Boy, dark hair very glossy, blue eyes very bright, tall lean figure smartly clad in a charcoal-gray suit.

“What the hell do you want?”

Wonder Boy saw he had to talk fast. “Harry, I think you’re right. About Kester. I overheard that conversation you had the other day with Dad and Evan so I was on the watch today, just as they were, but I saw something they didn’t see.”

I stared at him. “Go on.”

“I was in the hall when the maid gave him the message you couldn’t come, and he looked like an ancient Roman who’d just heard the circus had been cancelled. He was planning something, Harry, I’m sure of it, and that means Evan’s wrong and you’re not nuts after all. Not that I ever thought you were, I’ve always been on your side because as far as I’m concerned you’re the only sane member of this peculiar family I seem to be mixed up in. I know you’re not crazy about me, and hell, I wasn’t crazy about you at first either, but—”

I held up my hand. “Stop.”

He stopped. We gazed at each other. Like finally spoke to like.

“Well, I’ll be buggered,” I said. I made a quick decision. “I’ll ring you up later. We’ll meet.”

My father’s family seemed to be dividing into separate camps. Ignoring the whisky decanter I slumped down in the nearest armchair and wondered—not for the first time—just where Kester’s mad schemes were leading us.

VI

Gerry’s information was as reassuring as Dafydd’s confidence in my sanity. It was still possible that we were all wrong but I felt the odds that I was making some gigantic mistake had been considerably reduced.

This set me free to worry about the future.

The truth was nothing had been solved because Thomas and I had merely postponed the problem of Kester. Did I seriously think he’d now quietly abandon his plans for revenge? No, I did not. Maddened that we’d eluded him he’d be sure to redouble his efforts, and the very thought of his taking another swipe at us was enough to reduce my steel nerves to pulp. When Thomas turned up for a conference his first comment was “You look awful.”

We drank for a while, two enemies forced into an alliance in an attempt to survive. I was reminded vaguely of the war.

“The worst part,” I said, “is that there’s nothing we can do. We just have to wait till he makes the next move.”

“No chance of you being mistaken, I suppose, old boy? John went on and on about how charming and delightful Kester was.”

“Father’s in blinkers. He can’t bear to do anything but hope for the best.”

“Well, I see his point—it’s a lot more fun than waiting for the worst.” He finished the whisky, added: “Let me know if you think Kester’s getting ready to swing the hatchet again” and drove away in his Hillman with an air of determined optimism.

To his horror I phoned him a week later to announce that Kester had been in touch. “He’s invited me to Oxmoon for a drink, Thomas. I’m just about to leave.”

“Christ! What do you think he’s up to this time?”

“That’s what I have to find out. I’ll report back to you later,” I said, and hung up. I felt as if I were going out on a raid, and beneath my skin the adrenaline was beginning to burn.

I drove to Oxmoon.

VII

“You wouldn’t like some champagne, by any chance, would you?” said Kester casually after greeting me in the hall. “I ordered too much for the family lunch and I’m still trying to lap up the surplus.”

“I’ll stick to scotch, old chap, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh good. I’m awfully bored with champagne myself but people always expect it when they come to Oxmoon to be entertained, so what am I to do?”

We drifted from the hall into the drawing room. We were both trying so hard to be nonchalant that it was a wonder we were able to carry on a conversation at all.

Kester handed me a whisky-and-soda and began mixing himself a gin-and-French.

“I hear the family lunch was a great success, old chap,” I said. “Too bad I missed it.”

“Never mind!” said Kester, giving me his most charming smile. “I’m sure there’ll be other equally enjoyable occasions awaiting you in the future!”

I laughed lightly to indicate gratified agreement. My back was itching. I was sweating from head to toe.

“The future!” said Kester, and drank to it.

“The future!” I echoed, and wondered what the devil was coming next.

I soon found out. Wiping the merry expression off his face Kester said urgently, “Look, Harry, I won’t beat about the bush. I’m in a jam and I need your help.”

This was certainly a novel approach. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s bloody Thomas. You guessed what I was up to, didn’t you, and tipped him off. Well, all right, perhaps it was just as well, perhaps it was rather a mad idea but I couldn’t resist the notion of a grand execution in front of all the family; I thought it was the least I could do to repay him for that scene in ’39. However—” Kester paused to toss back some gin; I was too riveted to speak. “—the scheme failed and that’s that. So the question is what do I do next?”

“What indeed, old chap.”

“Of course he’ll have to go. I only kept him on in order to set him up for the grand execution, and now that the grand execution’s failed … well, it’s obviously best if I eliminate him as quickly and cleanly as possible, but the trouble is I don’t see how I can do it without triggering the most ferocious scene. You know what he’s like when he’s drunk. I’m honestly afraid that if I sack him he may try and beat me up.”

His fear seemed justifiable. I thought of Thomas taking a swipe at me when he was under the influence. “What do you want me to do?”

“Can you be here with me while I fire him? After all there you are, the war hero, the expert in unarmed combat. I’d feel much safer if—”

“Sorry, old chap. I’d rather not be involved.” I tried to imagine the size of Thomas’s wrath if he found out I’d sided with Kester. “Get my father to umpire the proceedings.”

“But Harry, I can’t go dragging Uncle John into this! You know how soft he is about Thomas—he’d try to persuade me to retain him and we’d end up quarreling and I just can’t face any more quarrels with Uncle John, I really can’t.”

I knew the feeling. “Don’t think I don’t sympathize, old chap, but I’m sitting on the fence and I intend to stay there.”

“In that case I suppose I’ll have to rope in Freddy Fairfax and his myrmidons to keep the peace—having a gaggle of solicitors in attendance is rather more the done thing, I daresay, than roping in an ex-commando sporting bared fists, but all the same it’s a pity.”

I said I thought this was a much better idea, and we chatted in a desultory way for some time. I finished my drink. Then I couldn’t resist saying, “Thomas wasn’t intended to be the only victim of your grand execution, was he, old chap?”

Kester raised an eyebrow, and looked sardonic. “Steady on, Harry! It’s only in an Agatha Christie novel that the villain slips cyanide into the champagne!”

“I somehow got the impression you had a pile of mud waiting and Thomas and I were both due to have our noses rubbed in it.”

“If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were suffering from persecution mania! Have another drink.”

“No, thanks. So there was no mud waiting for me?”

“No, but how intriguing! What frightful secret do you have locked up in your pristine past? Obviously you can’t be nervous without cause!”

“I thought you might have found out that I was sent down from Oxford for lechery, drunkenness and general academic failure.”

“No!” said Kester, genuinely astonished. “Were you? Well, I’ll be, damned!”

I set down my glass. “Well, now that we’ve got all that straightened out—”

“Oh, don’t rush off. I’ve got another favor to ask you—a very minor favor this time, you’ll be relieved to hear. You play golf, don’t you?”

“Not since I was up at Oxford. No time. Why?”

“But you do at least know one club from another which is more than I do.”

I conceded a familiarity with golf clubs.

“Good. I’ll tell you the problem: Owen Bryn-Davies—little Owen—is taking the game up and Elizabeth asked me what had happened to Uncle Lion’s clubs. Well, I eventually excavated them from the attics, but I suspect some of the clubs are missing, and I was wondering if the remainder would be of any use to a twelve-year-old boy. Would you mind taking a look? The clubs are in the billiard room.”

This seemed a refreshingly harmless request. I consented.

In the billiard room the table was covered with a dust sheet and the blinds were drawn, but when Kester switched on the lights I saw the battered old golf bag standing by the fireplace. As I moved over to it I automatically kept Kester in my field of vision although when I realized what I was doing I was unnerved. What a neurotic reaction! It was almost as if I expected him to carve me up with a club! Had to pull myself together.

“He’ll need five clubs to start with,” I said briskly as Kester drifted away from me to draw up one of the blinds. “I suggest a spoon, a mid-iron, a mashie, a mashie-niblick and a putter. Now, let’s take a look at what we’ve got here. … Ah, I see a mashie he could use.” I adopted a golfer’s stance with my back to the fireplace and tried a practice swing. “That’s odd,” I said surprised. I tried another. “Wait a minute, are these ordinary clubs? They seem abnormally long. Uncle Lion was a tall man, wasn’t he?”

“Vast. In the family photos he’s even taller, than my father, and my father was six feet two.”

“I suspect these clubs were specially made for him. Tell Elizabeth to take them to the professional at Father’s golf club and ask his advice. It’s possible they may be of no use to Owen at all.”

“What a bore—all right, I will. Thanks, Harry.”

Abandoning the clubs we strolled languidly back to the hall. I had to will myself not to hurry.

“Thanks for the drink, old chap. Sorry I can’t help you with Terrible Thomas. Wish you the best of luck there.”

“Thanks—my God, I’ll need it.”

Was it significant that he didn’t attempt to shake hands? I didn’t know. I was preoccupied with the knowledge that I was about to turn my back on him in order to run down the steps to my car.

I turned my back and ran. Nothing happened. But what on earth had I expected? A knife in the back? I was going crazy—off my rocker, as Dafydd would have said so succinctly.

I started the engine, stalled it, restarted it and let out the clutch too fast. The car lurched forward and almost stalled again. Yes, there was no doubt about it, my nerves were shot to pieces, but why? No idea.

I drove back to Penhale, and all the time I was aware of the vibrations of violence pulsing subtly across the surface of my mind. I thought: I picked up something there, something most people would have missed. And I shuddered. Then I thought of Dafydd saying, “You have a nose for danger,” and I shuddered more convulsively than ever. But I went on driving to Llangennith. I thought Thomas deserved a warning that he was about to be fired, and I certainly wasn’t going to stop him if he immediately roared over to Oxmoon before Kester had had the chance to summon the guard of solicitors.

I reached Stourham Hall. I told Thomas. And that, of course, as I realized later, was exactly what Kester had wanted me to do.

VIII

“I’ll kill the swine,” said Thomas.

“Don’t be a bloody fool. Eleanor, help me convince him it’s not worth going to jail for assault.”

“Harry’s right, Tom,” said Eleanor. “Go over to Oxmoon and make a scene by all means, but for God’s sake don’t start bashing him to pulp. Think how thrilled he’d be if you ended up in jail with your life wrecked.”

“Bloody hell!” yelled Thomas, but he saw the logic. In frustration he said to me, “Let’s go and get drunk.”

But I got out of that one. My girlfriend Norah, the incumbent of the useful flat overlooking the Mumbles lighthouse, was coming to dinner at the Manor for the first time. She had said more than once how much she wanted to meet the boys.

“Watch out,” said Eleanor, temporarily diverted from her husband’s problems by this disclosure. “Once she’s met the boys and told you what darling little cherubs they are she’ll expect you to propose on the spot.”

“Oh no, she’s a career girl, she’s not interested in marriage,” I said but panic assailed me again. Danger seemed to be lurking everywhere that day.

Leaving Thomas still fulminating against Kester I retired to the Manor but I was late and when I arrived I saw Norah’s car was already parked in the drive. Hastening to the drawing room I found her holding her own well against the united curiosity of the four boys.

“Norah, I’m so sorry, I was unavoidably detained. …” I kissed her more to soothe my nerves than to demonstrate affection but at once saw Hal looking at me with hostile dark eyes as his sharp little brain made two and two equal a disloyal-to-Mummy four. Fortunately Charles and Jack were too ingenuous to notice and Humphrey was too young to understand, but even so I was rattled. I spilled the gin.

“Darling, relax! Why are you in such a state?”