The Wheel of Fortune (170 page)

“Fine. What does all that ultimately mean?”

“It means that how Kester died doesn’t matter. It means that you should stop right here and go no further. There are worlds existing which any sane man should be afraid to enter, and the world which your father shared with Kester was one of them.”

“Let’s try and translate that into basic rational English. Are you trying to say that the solution to this mystery is so unnerving that I’m bound to go mad myself if I find out?”

“I’m saying that both those men staked a claim to you in the past. I’m saying that they could still tear you apart. I’m saying that unless you stop now you could wind up right in the middle of their metaphysical nightmare.”

“And how would you, a clergyman, deal with a metaphysical nightmare?”

“I would pray for an act of redemption.”

I got up, wanting to terminate the conversation not only because I was unnerved that the word “redemption” had surfaced again but because I was having a hard time deciding what to say next. I respected him as a man and believed that the world of the spirit was as real to him as the world of the mind was to Pam, but I felt I was temperamentally unsuited to both theology and psychology and I believed I should be interested only in concrete facts. Yet here was this highly intelligent man propounding a thesis to which I somehow had to find a courteous reply.

Finally I said, “You’ve got a lot of courage to say that to me when my skepticism must have been so very obvious. I admire your guts. Thank you for being honest.” I moved to the door.

“I haven’t reached you, have I?”

“Oh yes, you have, but not quite in the way you intended. I’m now more determined than ever to get to the bottom of all this.”

“Then all I can do is pray for you.”

“Sure. Do anything that’ll stop you worrying about me. But I don’t believe in metaphysical nightmares, Evan, and I don’t believe there’s anything here which can’t be explained rationally. I’m going on.”

XI

NOTES ON EVAN:

His accident theory is flawless but the only problem is that there isn’t a shred of proof to support it. I was particularly interested in his somewhat cynical attitude to my father’s alibi. It’s quite true that Dafydd would do anything for my father. The way to prove Evan’s theory would be to bust that alibi because if my father stayed to watch Kester drown he’d have arrived back at the cottage much later than he said he did and the odds are he would have missed Dafydd altogether. It wouldn’t have taken Dafydd long to change the washer on that tap.

NOTE:
Why did this alibi prove so unbustable? Was there an independent witness who could swear Dafydd was at the cottage when he said he was? I can’t remember so it’s more vital than ever that I recheck his evidence in the inquest report.

The suicide theory would appear to be in shreds, although ideally I’d like another witness to confirm that Kester was euphoric only hours before he died. But if he was on a big creative high I can’t believe he’d abort it by jumping into the sea.

The extortion is still a puzzle, and before I really start believing Declan’s story I’d like another piece of evidence that would link Thomas’s death squarely with some form of neurotic or peculiar behavior on Kester’s part. This is because I agree with Evan that Kester was a man of peace, and if he was indeed driven to commit a crime and cover it up, then the circumstances must have been very bizarre indeed.

And talking of the bizarre brings me to Evan’s metaphysical bullshit. I want to dismiss it, but there does appear to be a weird dimension to this story and that dimension keeps on surfacing. From Gerry I got the impression that my father and Kester were like mirror images
—
and that’s certainly weird since I know they were utterly dissimilar. Then Lance said they were both mad in an occult sense which he was too fey to define further, and now Evan says they were possessed by something which he doesn’t quite have the nerve to call the Devil. I don’t believe any of this, of course, but nevertheless it’s hard not to form the opinion that my father and Kester were on some very way-out trip indeed. But what were they tripping out on? Mutual paranoia would certainly be a more rational explanation than evil spirits, but why should the paranoia have existed? Probably only someone like Pam could dream up an answer to that one; but I don’t want to get involved with psychiatry any more than I want to get involved with religion.

VERDICT:
Evan was helpful and
—
before he degenerated into mysticism
—
very credible, but ultimately he was baffling. Did I really get to the bottom of what he believed? Two sides, he said, of a schizophrenic personality. Weird. But I don’t believe in that kind of claptrap. I’m a rationalist.

Soldier on.

XII

When I reached home it was after midnight but as I drove into the stable yard I saw there was a light still burning in my father’s room. I switched off the engine. I thought I saw the curtain shift but I was some yards away and it was impossible to be sure. As I watched the light went out.

I wondered what he was thinking.

XIII

Waking at seven I brewed some coffee and reread my notes. I had lost the habit of eating breakfast; my years on the road as a singer had meant that morning was a dead time for me, and I had grown used to combining breakfast and lunch in a noontime meal.

When the coffee was finished I drew up a shopping list which included more mousetraps. The mouse population of Oxmoon was spirited. Small wonder that Pam’s cat was looking so sleek. I toyed with the idea of borrowing it for a night or two.

The shops opened at nine and after collecting the items I needed in Penhale I drove on to Llangennith to see my mother’s half-sister Eleanor.

Stourham Hall had been converted into holiday flats which supplemented Eleanor’s income during the summer months. Probably it needed little supplementing as the pig farm was prosperous and my grandfather Oswald Stourham had left money to both his daughters, but Eleanor was a businesswoman and never let an opportunity to make money pass her by. At this time she was in her sixties, gray-haired and heavily lined, but I still found her much as she had always been. I looked at her and saw the Nineteen Thirties, a vanished world where people said “Jolly good!” and asked “Who’s for tennis?” and played huge black discs of Noël Coward songs on something they called a gramophone.

“How simply splendid!” said Eleanor, ushering me into the living room of her flat on the ground floor of the Hall. “I wondered when you’d turn up—I saw Pam at the W.I. meeting last night and she said you’d come to Oxmoon to meditate. Glad you’ve cut your hair. Your father must be thrilled. How is the poor old stick? Pam said he was a bit better but of course one can’t believe a word these psychiatrists say.”

I knew Eleanor was fond of me; her own son had emigrated to Australia, and after that she had taken a deeper interest in her four nephews, so in deference to her affection I took time to chat with her over a cup of coffee. Twenty minutes elapsed before I allowed myself to broach the purpose of my visit.

“Aunt Eleanor, would you mind talking of the past?”

But old people love talking of the past. I had noticed by this time that when people reach the end of their lives they automatically turn back to the beginning as often as possible as if the present had become unimportant and only the past was real.

I embarked on my set speech. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Kester—”

But no explanations were needed. Eleanor at once launched herself into her reminiscences.

“Ghastly Kester!” she exclaimed. “Oh sorry, old boy, he was rather a chum of yours, wasn’t he, but honestly! What a creature! Of course, you were too young, poor little chap, to understand a
thing,
but if you want my opinion—”

“Yes, I do. Very much. Do you think he committed suicide?”

“God knows, my dear; I was too glad he was dead to care. Oh yes!
There’s
someone who got what was coming to him, no doubt about that! No doubt about it at all. …”

XIV

“Kester was morally responsible for Tom’s death,” said Eleanor fiercely. “Tom slaved for years to run that estate for a ridiculously small salary, and yet Kester sacked him for no good reason and without a word of thanks! No wonder Tom got drunk and smashed himself up in his car! Too bad he didn’t smash up Kester! Of course I implored him not to at the time because I didn’t want him ending up in jail, but if I could have foreseen how that day would end …

“Yes, old boy, it really did end with Tom crashing his car. Of course Declan Kinsella’s allegations later were absolutely riveting, but there wasn’t a word of truth in them, unfortunately. Why am I so certain? Heavens above, I should have thought it was obvious the story was a complete fairy tale! In fact it would take an ex-terrorist like Declan to dream up a story of a faked car crash. God knows what goes on in Ireland but two Welshmen brought up to be English gentlemen just don’t stoop to that kind of uncivilized behavior—and even if they did, the story’s still incredible because if Kester had somehow killed Tom, why would he have appealed to Harry for help and why on earth would Harry have helped him? You answer me that! Well, you can’t, of course, those two questions are unanswerable. No, Declan invented that story to put your father on the rack, no doubt about that at all; but let me tell you this, old boy: if Kester
had
killed Tom, it wouldn’t have been by accident! He’d have murdered him!

“Oh yes, I know Kester liked to pretend he was a pacifist and I know a lot of people thought he was soft, but that was all stuff and nonsense! The truth was he was as tough as they come, just like his mother—and
there
was a game old war-horse if ever there was one

“No, I certainly shed no tears for Kester when he died and I certainly didn’t waste time wondering about how it had happened, but for what it’s worth I don’t think he committed suicide. If he was the suicidal type I think he would have killed himself after Anna died, but he didn’t, did he, and if he could survive that then I’d say he could survive just about anything. I suppose his death was an accident. Accidents do happen, don’t they, and he wouldn’t be the first person who’d drowned on an expedition to the Worm. But one thing I know for certain, old boy, and I was so glad it was clearly proved at the inquest: Harry didn’t kill him. No matter how much you may be worrying about Kester, at least you don’t have to start worrying about
that.…
”

XV

She offered me more coffee and there was a pause while she refilled my cup. Then as I reached for the sugar bowl she began talking again.

“Your father had a rough time,” she said. “I felt sorry for him. I’m very fond of your father, Hal. There are plenty of people who can’t stand him, but I think he’s a good man. He was a loyal husband to Bella, and … well, you’re grown up now and I can admit to you that his marriage couldn’t have been easy.”

There was a silence. I was stirring my coffee but my hand halted. I glanced up.

“Yes,” said Eleanor reflectively, not looking at me, “he must have had a hard time. Bella … well, I was fond of your mother, Hal; she was a sweet child in many ways but she wasn’t very good at being grown-up. I don’t mean she was mentally defective. Mentally she was all there—just—but emotionally she never grew much older than thirteen. And that’s a burden for a man, you know—well, of course you’d know. You’re a man yourself and you can imagine now what it must have been like for your father to come home from the war when he was your age and find he had four little sons, money worries and a wife who couldn’t cope with any of them. Poor Bella! She needed looking after almost as much as you children did.”

There was another silence. The spoon was still stationary in my cup.

“But your father stuck by her,” said Eleanor. “In the end he failed to cope with this awful obsession she had to be pregnant the whole time, but my God, at least no one could say he didn’t try. Heavens, I even remember him going with her to the gynecologist because she insisted on taking over the birth-control problem and he wanted to make quite sure she could manage! Of course she got pregnant straightaway but that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Poor Harry, he was absolutely frantic. I felt so sorry for him. What a mess! But it wasn’t his fault.”

The coffee had long since stopped swirling. I removed my spoon and laid it in my saucer.

“But he stuck by her,” repeated Eleanor, “and after she died he stuck by you four boys. To be honest I never thought he would. I thought he’d palm you off on his father and Bronwen and make a fresh start with another woman as soon as it was decently possible, but no, he stayed with you at the Manor and he struggled on alone. I suppose you probably took it all for granted and grumbled about him behind his back—children are such insensitive little brutes!—but I admired him. Parenthood’s a hard grind. It’s all very easy for childless men like Kester to give little tea parties and play at being a father, but when all’s said and done that’s got very little to do, has it, with what parenthood’s really all about.”

She stopped. I had become aware of a tap dripping in the nearby kitchen. It dripped on and on and on.

“Of course we all know Harry was a war hero,” said Eleanor, “but I think his heroism really began when the war was over. I’ll never believe that Harry was the villain of the Oxmoon saga, Hal. I think the real villain was your cousin Kester.”

XVI

NOTES ON AUNT ELEANOR:

Her views on Kester ought to be valueless because of her rampant prejudice against him, yet her opinion chimes with Gerry’s so I can’t dismiss it out of hand. This vision of a dangerous aggressive Kester I find very disturbing. It’s so contrary to all the memories I have of him.

VERDICT:
From the point of view of my investigation it was disappointing. I found out nothing new about Thomas’s death and merely got another vote for the accident theory. Yet from a strictly personal point of view I can hardly write the interview off as a waste of time. The truth surfaced here all right, but it wasn’t the truth about Kester and Thomas. It was the truth about my parents’ marriage.