The Wheel of Fortune (156 page)

“Ah, it’s still a nice little nook, believe me,” said Rory, “for the cuckoo that’s looking for a nest.”

Everyone shifted uneasily. I instantly decided to try and gloss over the Kinsella brothers.

“Gerry!” I said, drumming up my next ally. “Your turn.”

“I’m with Harry all the way,” said Gerry firmly to the rest of the table. “Since Kester—on his own admission—can no longer cope this is quite clearly the best possible solution.”

“Thank you, Gerry,” I said. “Well, I daresay Evan and Lance would agree with that. Now, what I’d like to do next is to report on the condition of the estate and outline my plans for the future. I haven’t yet had the time to conduct a comprehensive investigation, but—” I stopped.

Evan was on his feet.

“Yes?” I said abruptly. “Did you want to say something?”

“I want to give my opinion on what you’ve done.”

“Fine,” I said, heart sinking. “Let’s hear it.”

Evan took a deep breath, glanced around the table and said, “This is wrong.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Declan give his small subtle smile.

I kept calm. “Go on. The whole purpose of this meeting is for us to have a free and frank discussion.”

“This is wrong,” repeated Evan, not looking at me, “and I can’t condone it. I draw the line.”

As if I hadn’t enough problems. Declan Kinsella sits shrouded in cigar smoke like the demon king in a pantomime. Owen Bryn-Davies is looking as if he wished he had a hatchet to swing. Rory’s been drinking brandy since breakfast and looks as if he’s about to wreck everything in sight. And to cap it all my bastard half-brother starts drawing lines.

“I’m not questioning that Kester’s voluntarily given you Oxmoon,” Evan said, finally nerving himself to look at me. “What I’m questioning is the morality of your act of acceptance. If Kester can’t cope then I think we should set up a family trust to run the estate for him so that he can remain master here. Oxmoon belongs to Kester. You’ve no right to it while he’s still alive, Harry, and if you’re as well intentioned as you’re trying to make us all believe you are, you’ll give Oxmoon back to Kester and work with us all to achieve a more satisfactory solution.”

“Hear, hear!” shouted Rory, but Declan still said nothing. I knew then that he was preparing to make a big entrance. With consummate skill he was waiting for the right moment when he could move in to take control of the scene.

“Look, Evan,” I said, straining every nerve I possessed to keep my voice calm and reasonable, “the plain truth is that I’m the only one who’s qualified to run this place and I’m the one, no matter how we arrange the legal side, who’s going to end up running it. Now, because he realized this, Kester made this purely voluntary decision—”

“You shouldn’t have let him,” said Evan.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Gerry. “Can’t a man dispose of his property as he pleases?”

“He was insane with grief!” shouted Rory.

“Not legally speaking,” said my solicitor.

“I agree,” said the sycophant Carmichael, anxious to show me how willing he was to turn traitor.

“But he was certainly very disturbed,” said that old idiot Fairfax, “and I must say I did wonder if—”

We were getting into deep waters. I had to haul us out at once. “Gentlemen,” I said, “let me put an end to any suggestion that I might have taken advantage of Kester while the balance of his mind was disturbed. I acted in good faith. I took Oxmoon because I honestly and sincerely believed that that was what Kester wanted. But if I’m wrong of course I’ll give it back to him. All he has to do is ask.”

A second after I’d finished speaking I realized I’d made the biggest possible mistake. To those who suspected me of extortion I had just confirmed that I had such a hold over Kester that he would never dare seek Oxmoon’s return.

I broke out in a cold sweat but before anyone could comment on the disaster Geoffrey said unexpectedly, “What I can’t understand is why we’re wrangling like this—or indeed why we’re here at all. It’s good of Harry to explain what’s going on, but why argue about whether or not he should own Oxmoon? After all, legally speaking the ownership’s a
fait accompli
.”

“Not quite,” said Declan Kinsella, and rose to his feet to annihilate me.

VII

“Gentlemen,” said Declan, and when he was sure he had everyone’s attention he pointed his finger at me. “This
thief—
this
traitor
—”

Had to stop him, had to. No choice. A nightmare. “Oh, come off it, Declan—you’re not in the Dail now!”

“—this
rogue
—this
villain
—”

How did I stop him? For Christ’s sake, what the bloody hell did I do? “Cut the melodrama and get to the point!” Had to keep calm. Had to keep very, very reasonable. Sanity personified. Hold fast, stand firm—I took a deep breath. “I suppose Kester’s been saying—”

“Kester’s not said one word to me; not one word has he said,” said Declan, discarding his English accent and sliding with sinister speed into an Irish-American rasp. “But can’t I see with my own eyes that he’s destroyed with grief, shattered beyond description, with his life wrecked and his world in ruins? Ah no, there’s no need for him to speak! I know my brother Kester, through and through I know him, and if there’s one thing I know about my brother Kester, gentlemen”—Declan flung out his arms in a gesture which riveted everyone’s appalled attention—“it’s that he would never—never in a million years—
never,
I tell you gentlemen!—surrender Oxmoon voluntarily.”

“I swear—”

“Keep your oaths, Harry Godwin! You’ve told enough lies today!”

I somehow got to my feet. “I absolutely insist,” I said, “that Kester surrendered Oxmoon of his own free will.”

“And I absolutely insist,” said Declan to the family, “that this thief stole it from him—and I don’t just call you a thief, Harry Godwin! I call you a blackmailer and an extortionist! I call you a liar, a cheat and a fraud!”

I turned at once to Davison. “That statement must be actionable. I want a writ issued for slander.”

Declan laughed. “Oh, you’d never sue me!” he said. “Never! You’d be too afraid of what truths might come out in the witness box!”

All the lawyers made an attempt to intervene. Amidst the babble of voices I heard Edmund quaver, “That’s enough, Declan. That’s enough. No more.”

I had only one retreat which offered a hope of dignity and that retreat was into the role of an English gentleman. “I must ask you to oblige me,” I said to Declan, “by removing yourself immediately from my house.”

“It’ll never be your house!” said Declan. “Oxmoon belongs to Kester and it’ll be Kester’s till the day he dies!”

He walked out with Rory at his heels. It was a magnificent exit. Turning away I managed to wipe the sweat from my forehead by pretending I had something in my eye. “Well, really!” I said, affecting nonchalance. “What a performance!” I sank down in my chair again and finished my coffee. “Lance, ring the bell, would you? I feel we all need a shot of brandy to recover—there’s nothing so exhausting, is there, as a well-acted Irish farce!”

The lawyers tittered obediently but only Richard was brainless enough to laugh with genuine amusement. Owen Bryn-Davies was looking more like a hatchet man than ever. Lance was white. Evan was ashen. Edmund was again mumbling horrified at my side.

“Terrible behavior … terrible things he said … terrible, terrible … If John were alive—”

“If my father were alive,” said Evan, “we wouldn’t be here.” He walked straight up to me. “I don’t know if there’s any truth in what Declan said. I don’t even want to know. But I think you should give Oxmoon back to Kester.”

“Quite. Now can you either keep quiet or run off and be a clergyman somewhere else? I’m finding your halo a bit tiresome.”

Another bad mistake. I was betraying how rattled I was. Well, not just rattled. Shattered. I was scratching my neck, scratching my face, every inch of skin was throbbing, and when the parlormaid wheeled in the drinks trolley I poured myself a triple brandy.

Somehow I pulled myself together sufficiently to outline my plans for the future of the estate, and somehow everyone contrived to listen with a show of politeness. But I couldn’t decide whether to close the meeting without referring to Declan’s accusations or whether I should make another attempt to laugh them off. Which course would look less guilty? I didn’t know, couldn’t decide. Whatever I did I felt my guilt would be declaimed.

Then I thought of Kester murdering Thomas.
There
was the villain. All I had to do was behave like the innocent man I was.

“… and I can’t let this meeting close,” I heard myself say, “without stressing that from start to finish I’ve only tried to do what’s right. I absolutely deny every one of Declan’s hysterical accusations.”

My audience muttered soothing platitudes but God alone knew what each man was thinking. I wound up the meeting. The lawyers then left, Gerry accompanying them to the front door, while Edmund and his sons wandered away to the drawing room to join the women. Owen suddenly remembered a vital phone call he had to make. Within seconds I found myself alone with Evan, Lance and Dafydd.

“I must be on my way,” said Evan.

“Far be it from me to stop you.” I turned my back on him and confronted Lance. “You’re making a big success of keeping your mouth shut! What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Lance looked at me with Bronwen’s green eyes, said politely,

“I thought it was a vile scene. Excuse me, please” and followed Evan into the hall.

“Tough,” muttered Dafydd. “Surprising.”

“Under Evan’s thumb.” I made sure the door was shut before demanding: “What’s your verdict on that bloody assassin Declan Kinsella?”

“If he knew Kester had killed Thomas he’d have kept his big mouth shut. You’re okay, Harry. He knows nothing.”

“I suppose Kester revealed that Oxmoon had been extorted from him but refused to say how it was done.”

“And he never will. Kester won’t want to confess to anyone, least of all to the brother who’s sentimental about him, that he’s nothing but a bloody murderer.”

“Yes, but what are the odds on a man like Declan making a shrewd guess or two? My God, how he rocked them just now!”

“So what? Nothing was proved, was it? And nothing can ever be proved. It’s just his word against yours and in the end you’re the one people will want to believe because it’ll be more comfortable to believe you than to believe him. Keep calm. Brazen it out. He can’t touch you.”

“No, of course he can’t,” I said.

But I was on the rack.

VIII

A week later Bronwen came to see me. She was wearing black and I noticed how that drained the color from her, emphasizing the faded red of her hair and the transparent quality of her skin. She looked ethereal, remote, like someone who had traveled a long, long way to see me from another world which no one could describe. Kissing her I said, “I’m very glad to see you.” I had seen little of her since my father’s death. She had spent day after day in seclusion, and her children had thought it best to leave her undisturbed.

We sat down. I tried making small talk but she didn’t respond so at last I fell silent and the silence wrapped us together until I felt her mind entwining itself with mine.

At last I said, “Evan’s been worrying you about me, hasn’t he?”

“Oh, I see far beyond Evan.”

I thought of those razor-sharp powers of observation grasping realities no one else could perceive.

“I’m all right, Bronwen. And so’s Kester.” I groped for the words to answer her unspoken questions. “This is our way of living with each other,” I said at last. “We’ve finally resolved the problem.”

She was silent again. Eventually I put my arm around her. “Tell me,” I said. “Come on, you didn’t come all the way to Oxmoon to say nothing.”

“I came to remind you of your promise to Johnny.”

Now it was my turn to be silent.

“You said you’d go away, start afresh.”

“I would have done. But Kester’s done it instead, so all’s well.”

She shook her head. “I’m no fortune-teller,” she said. “I’ve always told you that. But when one knows two people very well one senses instinctively how they’ll behave in a certain situation, and I’m sure—I’m just so sure—”

“Yes?”

“Kester’s going to come back for Oxmoon, Harry. Your final clash with him is still to come.”

Couldn’t tell her this was impossible. Couldn’t explain how I had the whip hand. “It’ll be all right, Bronwen, I promise you. I know everything’s going to be all right.”

But did I know?
Did I?

Neurotic question. Of course I knew. I beat back the paranoia. Kester might well try to cook up some plot with Declan but the truth, was that any plot would be doomed to failure. He couldn’t declare he’d relinquished Oxmoon under duress unless he disclosed he was a murderer, and unless he could prove he had handed over Oxmoon under duress he could never recapture it.

So I was safe—safe yet subtly divided from Bronwen, who believed I was doing the wrong thing. But she didn’t know Kester was a murderer, did she? She didn’t realize I’d had to move against him to protect myself from his aggression. She didn’t understand that it had been more or less my moral duty to act as I had—damn it, it
had
been my moral duty, no “more or less” about it. One really can’t let unconvicted murderers go running around persecuting innocent people; only the most naive would claim that retribution should be left entirely to God, and besides … isn’t God supposed to help those who help themselves?

I’d never been quite sure whether I believed in God. When I was being a man of action I didn’t. When I was being a musician I did. On the whole I thought there was probably something out there somewhere, but whatever it was, I felt sure it could do with a human hand helping it along occasionally—for the best possible motives, of course. I’d given God a helping hand in assigning this retribution to Kester, although I had to be careful how I phrased that interpretation of my conduct because everyone knew about the maniacs who walked around and claimed to be God’s instrument all the while they murdered everyone in sight. Well, I wasn’t murdering everyone in sight. I’d simply put right a wrong, and my conscience was absolutely clear—although I did wish Bronwen hadn’t reminded me of my promise to my father.