Death by Sheer Torture (22 page)

‘Ah—hence the stinginess!’ said Kate.

‘Precisely. Lawrence wanted to leave the estate as intact as possible to Peter, and via Peter to the eldest of the Squealies, whom he loved.’

‘They have names!’ said Maria-Luisa, suddenly, in English.

‘Quite right. I beg your pardon. To . . . Pietro, is it? Mario? Pietro, yes. Lawrence did not dare to make over the estate to Peter in his lifetime, in case it aroused questions about the death of his first wife. That’s why he’d gone to great lengths to keep his second divorce quiet and scandal-free. And all the time my father was slowly—not outrageously, but surely—milking him of money. And Lawrence knew that after he died, Peter would be milked in the same way. That wasn’t the only drain on the estate: over the past few years his son had been filching pictures from the house and selling them off.’

‘Come off it, Perry,’ said Peter, with a cunning expression on his face. ‘That was done with his consent. To keep paying off
your
damned father.’

‘It’s possible,’ I said. ‘Plausible. Perhaps we can leave it at that. We could prove it one way or the other by getting an expert to look at the signature on the authorization to sell which you gave to the Newstead Abbey people. Shall we do that? No? Well, personally I suspect that he did not authorize that or any other sale, but he did consent to cover up for you afterwards. That, as I said, is a minor matter. What does seem to be clear is that my father, in the last few weeks, began to make his demands more pressing. Why? Well, I don’t know, but I wonder whether
it wasn’t just for fun. Just as the tortures got more and more extreme, so Lawrence had to wriggle more, otherwise my papa didn’t get his kick. And Lawrence took the necessary steps and killed him in the only way he could think of. He simulated an “off-day” —’

‘I said he was often spoofing,’ said Kate.

‘—got out from Kate’s wing in the lift, got easily over to the Gothic wing, used the scissors he had secreted earlier, hid them
also
on the ground floor, near the wing which had no connection with him or his, and went back to Kate’s.’

‘Doesn’t sound as if he was having a senile fit to me,’ said Kate.

‘As far as we are concerned, that is the explanation we must press,’ I said patiently. ‘Ultimately it will be up to the police doctors, and the psychiatrists. If Uncle Lawrence is the man I take him for, he will make mincemeat of the psychiatrists. I would think it in the highest degree unlikely that he will ever come to trial. What is important is that we all, now we have heard the truth, put it
absolutely
out of our minds. I need hardly say I have no intention of acting on this information. Everything will remain as it was, and Pete will take over when Lawrence dies—or, as I suspect, rather before.’ I looked round at him. Peter was expressing no great gratitude, but he did look relieved. ‘Well, that’s all I have to say. I’m sorry it took so long. Now I need a drink, and I expect you do too.’

I drew my fist across my forehead. It was wet as hell, and my clean shirt was nastily damp. But all that mattered was that I had got through it. I had managed it. Lawrence was on his way to some kind of clink, and I was out of the wood. Soon Jan and Daniel and I would be out of the snake-pit and on our way to Newcastle.

But then suddenly things took a terrible turn. So far, I had been in control, immaculately in control. Now the situation developed an impetus, took a direction, which
was none of my choosing. The end of the nightmare had been in sight: suddenly the scenario changed and a totally new nightmare took over, of terrifying dimensions.

‘Hold!’ said Sybilla.

Sybilla must be the only person in the world today who can say ‘Hold!’ and not mean to get a laugh. I was on my way to the drinks tray, but I stopped in my tracks. Was she begrudging me a glass of their lousy sherry?

‘Perry, my dear boy,’ said Sybilla, fluttering a bit of magenta drape in my direction. ‘I know I speak for all of us when I say we understand and appreciate the
nobility
of your gesture of renunciation. The generosity and selflessness of it staggers one, simply takes away the breath! It is a gesture in the true Trethowan tradition. But it will not do, dear boy!’

‘Aunt Sybilla, it is not a selfless —’

‘It simply will not do! I know that in what I am about to say I speak for Kate —’

‘Oh, rather!’ said Kate. ‘For once!’

‘—and naturally Mordred will agree with me too. I know I speak for them when I say that right must be done. Grandfather Josiah’s intentions were made perfectly plain: the house and the associated properties, shares and money went to the
legitimate
heir in the
male
line. (His view of women was regrettable, but of its time.) His feelings, were he to find out that the house and the
large
sums of money and land that go with it had descended to someone born on the wrong side of the blanket, are not to be thought of. He was brought up a Presbyterian! The moral standards required of his domestic servants were strict even for those times. I can only say that for all of us, you, Perry—on Lawrence’s demise, or incapacity, which, as you say, seems only too likely—will be,
must
be, head of the family.’

‘You’re pretty quick to give away my property,’ said Peter resentfully.

‘I should have thought it would be clear even to one of your intellectual capacity that one thing the property is not, is yours,’ said Sybilla, with more than her usual asperity.

‘Aunt Sybilla!’ cried Cristobel. ‘Peter has
always
been brought up to regard himself as heir.’ She was rewarded by a look of venomous suspicion from Maria-Luisa.

‘Then he should have
acted
as such,’ said Sybilla. ‘Peter has
never
been committed to the family, as a family. I fear that Peter has never been committed to anyone but himself. Hard words, especially of a Trethowan, but how true! I know that Kate and I and Mordred have been
fearful
of our future, when Lawrence should pass on. Our very living here might have been threatened! He might have demanded rent! It is quite clear that we owe no loyalty to Peter.’

‘Pete’s a robber,’ said Kate.

‘Indeed, if I understand you right, Peregrine, Peter has in fact
known
of this for some time, and kept it quiet.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think so. But —’

‘How unworthy!’ pronounced Sybilla, with dire finality. ‘Now you, Perry—I can only say that as soon as you came into this room the other day, I marked you down as a man of real sensitivity. Of truly refined feeling. And of deep
family
feeling.’

I almost laughed out loud at the blatant mendacity of the woman. ‘Aunt Sybilla,’ I said. ‘I think this conversation should be nipped in the bud straight away. I simply could never agree to take on the responsibilities that owning Harpenden would entail. I have no desire to. You forget that my commitment to the family is even less than Peter’s. I have had nothing whatever to do with it for fourteen years.’

‘That is quite irrelevant, my dear boy! The result of an unfortunate misunderstanding. One has only to look at you, standing here now, to sense in you the qualities of a
Trethowan. I’m sure you, Jan dear, will bear me out that Peregrine is, and thinks of himself as, a true Trethowan, and is proud of it!’

‘Perry’s always been very taken up with his family,’ said Jan. ‘He thinks of you a lot.’

The treachery of it! The blank treachery! I threw Jan a glance of impending thunder.

‘There!’ said Sybilla triumphantly. ‘Nor, Peregrine, can you think only of yourself in this. There are the interests of your dear little boy to consider. It’s unthinkable that he be deprived of what is undoubtedly his by right.’ (At this point a squawk came from Maria-Luisa.) ‘By right!’ repeated Sybilla magisterially. ‘You must think what is best for Daniel.’

‘I do not think that inheriting large wads of money is necessarily the best thing that can happen to a man,’ I said. ‘Quite the reverse. Nor do I think I want Daniel saddled with a ridiculous white elephant of a house.’

It was the wrong thing to say altogether. ‘I like it here,’ said Daniel stoutly. ‘I think it’s scrumptious here!’

‘Precisely,’ said Sybilla. ‘You would confine the poor child to a tiny little flat in—where is it?’

‘Maida Vale.’

‘Maida Vale. Goodness me, I remember it being built. It was where London businessmen kept their fancy women! And very suitable it was too, no doubt, for such a purpose. But it is hardly an ideal place for a growing child. When one thinks too of Jan, it is surely obvious what an eminently gracious
chatelaine
of Harpenden she would make. Your father, my dear, you said was —?’

‘A house-painter,’ said Jan.

Aunt Sybilla was unperturbed. ‘I have always maintained that what the Trethowans needed was an infusion of working-class blood.’.

‘Uncle Lawrence did his best,’ I said, ‘but you didn’t seem exactly delighted.’

Sybilla ignored me. ‘Then surely we can regard it all as settled. We cannot allow you, as a result of a truly
Quixotic
whim, of some
absurd
notion of chivalry, to rob yourself and your lovely little boy of your rightful heritage.’

I drew my fingers round my shirt collar, and felt them wet from the sweat. This was coming altogether too close. ‘This is truly nonsensical, Aunt Syb,’ I said. ‘I’m a working man, I love my job. I have no intention of giving it up to take over a useless fortune I haven’t earned, and a monstrous house I’ve always loathed. I hope to do something a little more useful with my life.’

‘Maintaining the heritage of the Trethowans is hardly useless,’ said Sybilla. ‘And it is a job you are eminently suited for. It has been clear to us, Perry, since you arrived, clear to Mordred, and to Kate, and to me —’

‘You’d make a lovely head of the family,’ said Kate. ‘And fancy Jan’s father being a house-painter!’

‘As I was saying, Kate dear, we have watched you, Perry, since your return among us. We have seen you . . .
expand!
It is clear that your job, admirable and useful in its rather prosaic way, does not
stretch
your capacities.’

‘I always understood you found my
size
horribly unspiritual,’ I said.

‘Let us not take amiss words spoken in the heat of the moment. I have in fact always had a
penchant
for large men. We must remember that Grandfather Josiah was himself a fine, large man.’

‘I will not be compared to Great-Grandfather Josiah!’ I shouted.

‘It’s true, Perry, you know,’ said Jan, compounding her treachery. ‘You have grown into the place. Just looking at you walking around the grounds, it seemed you belonged here.’

‘He’s certainly been acting as if he owned the place since he came, if that’s what you mean,’ said Pete resentfully.

‘And so he will
!’ said Aunt Sybilla. ‘Come, Peregrine, do tell us that my poor, feeble words have made you see sense.’

‘No, Aunt Sybilla,’ I said. ‘Quite the reverse. Nothing on earth would induce me to take on the burden of Harpenden. I shall return after the weekend to my poky little flat in Maida Vale, and when I bump my head on the low ceilings and bang my elbows into inconvenient cupboards I shall not for one moment regret not being the owner of Harpenden. Of course I shall hope to see you all often in the future—’ (lies! lies!) ‘—but I fear I shall never under any circumstances become head of the family. The secret will remain a secret.’

But then the slippery Sybilla suddenly changed her tack. ‘That, I’m afraid, is hardly possible.’

‘You swore —’

‘Oh, certainly. If one takes note of such things. The law certainly takes no cognizance of them. But what precisely have I sworn? Not to reveal that your mother, by coincidence, discovered the existence of the first Mrs Trethowan. No doubt I shall hold to my oath. But there are many more ways than one of coming at a fact such as that.’

‘Clever old Syb!’ said Kate.

‘The date of Florence Trethowan’s death can certainly be established by enquiry at Somerset House, or wherever they keep the records these days. No doubt Australia has an equivalent if that fails—I believe they have kept excellent records there since convict times. I shall write off tomorrow if you are obdurate. It may be, of course, that she is not dead, even now. Conceivably there is a Lady Trethowan in some Old People’s establishment in Bondi, or Manley, the sleeping partner in a hat shop. That would be the best evidence of all. So you see, your mother is not the only possible witness to the irregularity of Peter’s birth.’

‘Why the hell do you go on about that?’ Peter burst out. ‘I thought the Trethowans were supposed to be so bloody unorthodox.’

‘Unorthodox, maybe, but
never
illegitimate.’ Chris looked at the floor, her face burning. ‘Come, Perry, be sensible about this. Accept gracefully your
true
position! Do not have greatness
thrust
upon you!’

‘Come on, Perry,’ said Kate. ‘I bet you’ve got a
lovely
seat on a horse! And you’d make a topping magistrate!’

‘I do think you ought to give it a try, Perry,’ said Jan. ‘You’ve got to remember, it was only your father you disagreed with, not the whole family.’

‘I do like it here,’ said Dan, with the obstinate monotony of childhood. ‘Would it all be mine?’

I stood there in anguished thought. The twisters, they’d got me. An oath meant nothing to an elderly snake like Sybilla who has a privileged position to defend. Even my own wife and son had crossed the picket lines to the other side. They had trapped me, beaten me on to the ropes. I thought of living here, day after day, month after month, year after year; thought of sitting nightly at the head of the table, listening to Sybilla’s vinegarish asininities, enduring Kate’s boisterous puppyishness, being the butt of Peter’s sniping. I thought of Dan growing up with the Squealies. I thought of sitting on the bench, going to rural shows, mixing with the Northern gentry, who would remark behind my back that I was the son of that Trethowan who had been murdered while—had you heard?—guffaw . . .