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I found Holmes before the fire in his room, the third of Gabriel Hughenfort s
diaries in his hands and a scowl on his face.
Now, Holmes, I said. It isn t all that bad.
Sophomoric, he muttered.
I glanced over his shoulder at the pages he was reading, and chuckled.
Hardly surprising he was seventeen. Every-one that age is consumed by
earthshaking matters and philosophical speculations. Holmes grunted and
turned a page. You have to admit that his observations on the natural history
and farming of Justice are quite perceptive.
One might wish he d stuck with badgers and squirrels and left the French
philosophers in their place, he grumbled, tossing the volume onto the
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chair-side table.
He d have grown out of it. He d have made Justice a fine master. What do you
think of the letters?
The official notification is not that used for an honourable discharge, but
that is hardly conclusive, as whoever was filling out the form could so easily
have taken up the wrong one. The one from the Reverend F. A. Hastings is
considerably more suggestive.
I wondered if I was imagining that air of I don t care what anyone else
says in his praise for the boy.
You were not. I should say Hastings knows a great deal more than he was
willing to set onto paper. We need to speak with him.
And the letter from Gabriel?
Undated, much travelled, long carried, thrice wet, he judged succinctly.
Written weeks in advance, then placed in his pack and either forgotten or
else left there against the chance that he was caught without warning. Some
soldiers had two or three such, lest one be lost in an attack.
Too ashamed, or too terrified, to write later?
There is no knowing. Yet, he added, and reached for the journal again.
Wait, Holmes. Put that down for a moment; I have something to tell you.
He was surprised when I told him what I had discovered about Gabriel
Hughenfort s true parentage, but by no means astonished, and I felt again that
he d have put it together as soon as he knew Iris better. He tapped his teeth
with his pipe. An ideal solution, I agree, and not even much of a
circumvention of the line of inheritance, since without a son Henry would have
handed it over to Marsh in any case, and thence to Gabriel. Of course, had
Henry had a son of his own after Gabriel, an ethical problem might have reared
up. But he did not, and snipping Marsh out of the succession was neat indeed.
It is, however, by no means common knowledge.
Obviously not. My lips are sealed, Russell.
Other than the romance of philosophy, what do you make of the journals?
He looked down at the volume he had held on to, lying across his knee, then
picked it up and laid it on top of the others. A son any man could be proud
of, he said painfully, and went to dress for dinner.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In January 1914, Marsh s brother Lionel Hughenfort had married a woman named
Terse, who was at least five years older than he, and six months pregnant
when they married. She gave birth in early April, and christened the boy
Thomas. Lionel died of pneumonia in late May. For the past nine and a half
years, the family bank in London had issued cheques twice each month to an
accountant in Lyons. He in turn dealt with the distribution of funds to Mme
Hughenfort, who moved house a great deal. Once a year, representatives of the
London bank travelled to Paris to meet with Terse and Thomas, in order to
reassure themselves and the family that the boy and his mother were still
alive and receiving their monies.
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That was, according to what Alistair and Iris told us Sunday evening and
Monday morning, the only contact the boy s mother would permit. No living
Hughenfort had ever seen either member of this truncated branch of the family.
This vacuum, inevitably, had been filled over the years by rumour and
speculation, with the result that Terse Hughenfort had become, in the
collective mind of the English side, a raddled, aged harlot with bad teeth,
hennaed hair, the wrong kind of lace on her garments, and a death-grip on her
source of income, young Thomas. While the sixth Duke was alive, nothing
further had been done about the boy, apart from an increase in the monies sent
to cover the cost of schooling a duke s nephew. I had the impression that the
boy, and Lionel before him, had been sore spots in Henry s mind, the less
prodded the better.
When the title had passed to Marsh during the summer, locating the boy was
one of his first tasks. Messages accompanied the next two cheques, and then a
stern letter with the third. All three fell into the hole in Lyons. Finally, a
bank employee was dispatched with the fourth cheque in hand, and an ultimatum
to the Lyons accountant: There would be no further monies if the family did
not hear from Mme Hughenfort herself with a suggestion for when and where the
family might meet the boy.
She managed to drag the affair out several weeks, claiming a minor ailment,
and the boy s schooling, until the threat was made good, and no cheque was
sent on the first of October. She capitulated, but declared that she and the
boy would come to London. The Hughenforts would foot the bill, naturally and
(her letter ended, on a spirited note) she expected both tickets and hotel to
be first-class; the heir deserved no less.
Phillida was piqued at the effrontery, and would have dumped mother and son
in some second-rate establishment near Charing Cross, but Sidney, continuing
his amiable support for the boy, had professed himself amused by Mme
Hughenfort s transparent desire for a luxurious holiday, and suggested they
grant it. In the end Marsh agreed. He would not, however, place them in one of
the very top establishments: That would be a cruelty, to turn the raised
eyebrows of staff on a woman with pretensions and a budget. The bank was
directed to locate an hotel with ornate decorations and a heavy trade in
foreigners who did not know any better, and to reserve a suite for the
visitors there.
Terse and Thomas Hughenfort were to arrive Tuesday, and meet their family
for luncheon on Wednesday. Train tickets were sent, a letter of introduction
for the hotel and a supplemental cheque, for incidental expenses such as a
warm coat for the boy, or (more likely) a new dress for the mother.
We intended to be there when they arrived; in fact, we would be with them
long before they arrived: Holmes and I planned to join their small party at
the earliest possible moment, namely, when mother and son arrived at the Gare
de Lyons in Paris to board the train for London.
The amount of organisation such an operation would require was not going to
be possible within the well-populated walls of Justice Hall. Thus, early on
Monday morning, Holmes, Iris (who was looking her age today, having ordered
Alistair home and spent the night nursing her husband unaided), and I took our
leave of Marsh, the Darlings, the remaining house guests, and the servants in
the person of their representative, Ogilby.
We rode in demure silence to the station, allowed our bags to be carried
inside, and watched the Justice Hall car slide away. Three minutes later,
Algernon drove up; we loaded our bags into the car, and set off for Badger.
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This minor ruse merely saved explanation; the Darlings might hear that we had [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]