THE MESSAGE WAITING FOR HIM AT THE HOTEL DESK WAS WRITTEN on War Ministry stationery. The handwriting was large, the signature enormous.
Chapel,
I under stand from my wife that we are now related. We must meet again. Please join us for dinner tonight at my residence in Bedford Park.
G. Mansworth
P.S. Bring this letter.
Mansworth's house and lawn were illuminated with bright lights that evening. Policemen walked the perimeter, conveying a sense that the more humble world that lay a few feet beyond the minister's fence was a dark and insignificant domain.
Tom wondered how much this perception was shared by his host as he alighted from a cab and surveyed the security around him. Several policemen examined his invitation while an officer apologetically patted down the doctor's pockets, explaining that there had been threats to the minister's life. Apparently, Geoffrey Mansworth, minister of war, leader of the armed forces, and the man who could bring Arthur Chapel home, enjoyed precisely the kind of importance and public loathing he had achieved as a schoolboy at Hammer Hall.
Eve met Tom at the door. Her face and shoulders were powdered and pale, like those of an alabaster goddess.
“Thank you for this,” he said softly.
Though anxious, Eve looked pleased. “Geoffrey can't wait to see you. He remembers you very well from school. How odd,” she went on, “since you knew each other for only a year.”
“It was a memorable year,” Tom replied cautiously.
“He's engaged with a meeting in the library at the minute, but he'll be with us shortly.”
How much did Mansworth remember? Tom recalled his dreadful smile at the summit of Hammer Peak after Arthur Pigeon's fall. Had time changed him at all? It seemed unlikely. Audrey had reminded Tom that Mansworth was still contesting his father's will and was staunchly determined to prevent his sister and Oscar from sharing the family fortune.
Another couple was waiting in the sitting room.
“You've inspired me to bring the family together, Tom,” said Eve. “This is my sister-in-law, Penelope, and her husband, Oscar Limpkin.”
“Tom!”Oscar shot up from his chair. Now fifty-one, with a broad, unforgettable grin and a graying red mustache, he simultaneously shook and embraced Tom. “Is it really you? Good heavens, isn't this a peach! I never thought I'd see you again, Tom, never! Penny, this is Tom!”
Last seen by Tom through a bedroom window in Kensington, Penelope Limpkin's pretty face had become frail over the years. She offered him a timid but earnest smile. “Hello, Tom,” she said. “I'm so glad to meet you. Isn't it so very kind of Eve to invite us here? Geoffrey and I haven't spoken for years.”
What a price she had paid for marrying Oscar, Tom thought.
“I told you our luck would improve, Penny!” Oscar's eyes danced, and Tom could see his old friend concocting a plan. “Tom, I musthave a private word with you! Please excuse us!” He took Tom's arm and steered him out of Eve's earshot. “You are precisely the man I need to speak to,” he whispered. “My next biography is about Geoffrey Mansworth, and as I remember, you knew him as a boy.”
“I did,” Tom replied.
“Well, I shan't hold back this time, Tom. The public will know the truth about him. No more chummy biographies for me. I'm going to write the facts!”
“Is that prudent,” Tom said, “given your kinship?”
Oscar squinted at Tom indignantly. “He is a warmonger, a profiteer, and he has denied his own sister her birthright! People must know what kind of a man—”
“What kind of a man, indeed!” boomed a voice.
Tom turned to see a figure standing at the threshold. The eyes were puffy, and the skin was pale and blotched with bruises. One hand clutched a silver-handled stick. He was a mere shadow of the man pictured in the silver frame. He stepped into the room with painful, cautious movements, his whitened knuckles pressing the stick for support. This was a very sick man, Tom guessed.
“I knew you would come,” said Mansworth, without addressing Tom by name. He sat slowly before the group, gasped, and gestured for a glass. Eve was ready with the sherry and placed it in his hand. Mansworth nodded his thanks, but Eve hung behind him, more like an attendant, Tom thought, than a wife.
“Oscar? Penelope? What a pleasant surprise. Eve, you've put together quite a committee for me.”
His wife looked slightly wounded by his remark. “It's a nice change, isn't it, to see family?”
Mansworth's eyes skated warily to Eve, then to Tom. “Yes. Well, at the very least, my past has caught up with me.”
“Yes, Geoffrey,” said Oscar, gloating. “Tom is going to tell me about your childhood for my new biography!”
Mansworth answered Oscar's remark with a dead stare. “My childhood? How convenient,” he said finally. “Between Penelope, Tom, and my wife, you won't need to consult me at all!”
When his sarcasm produced no amusement, Mansworth looked disappointed. He studied his sherry for a moment.
“The book will be authentic, Geoffrey.” Oscar savored his next words, clearly wishing to irritate the man. “People will be able to weigh your past deeds against your aspiration to be prime minister. Tom and I are old friends. He'll tell me everything”
Mansworth eyed Tom over the rim of his sherry glass, and remarked with mock sorrow: “Are my secrets no longer safe with you?”
“For a price, perhaps,” Tom replied.
Mansworth's smile faded. “What brings you here?” he growled. “Surely it can't be the weather.”
“The war,” Tom replied.
“The war,” echoed Mansworth. “I advise keeping at a safe distance from it.” He smiled. “Go south, Bedlam. Go south.”
“My son has been shipped to La Bourse, in northern France. I'd like to have him back. Perhaps you can win the war without him.”
Mansworth nodded gravely. “Well, my friend, at the beginning of the war we took soldiers no shorter than five foot eight. Now we'll take them at five foot three. They're allneeded now. What's his rank?”
“He's an assistant bombardier in the South African Heavy Artillery.”
“Artillery?” Mansworth gave a sniff. “I wouldn't move him from the artillery. His chances there are better than in the trenches.”
His casual indifference brought sudden tears to Tom's eyes. He sat down. Eve saw his reaction, and she put her hand on his shoulder in consolation. Mansworth's eyes met hers, but she kept her hand where it was, as if in defiance of him.
“Penny and I also have a son in the war, Tom,” said Oscar brightly. “He was at Suez, and at the fall of Jerusalem. An officer; a captain, actually, and only twenty!”
“So has Audrey,” said Tom.
“Audrey yes,” said Oscar. “Poor Audrey.”
The group's shared sympathy caused Mansworth to wince. He interrupted the ensuing silence. “Well, every war needs soldiers,” he said. “And sacrifices. Losses too.”
“All the more reason to end it,” said Oscar.
Mansworth glared at him. “It keeps our economy going. It is paying for your dinner and the wine in your glass. So spare me a lecture, Oscar. Those are the terms of my hospitality.”
Mansworth turned his eye to the dining room. At once, the kitchen maid appeared to welcome the guests to dinner.
Eve glanced apologetically at her guests and ushered them into the dining room. Amid the silver settings and candlelight, the conversation seemed to wander aimlessly, as it invariably does when the subject on everyone's mind has been banned. By the time dessert was served, Mansworth had begun to complain of pain and announced that he was retiring to bed.
Tom asked if a doctor was treating him.
“Ten doctors. Ten doctors, each with a different opinion!”
“Has any suggested a kidney ailment?”
“Probably,” growled Mansworth. “I can't remember.”
“I would prescribe eight glasses of water a day and absolutely no strong drink,” Tom said.
“And I would suggest you go to hell!” Mansworth smiled, his eyes skating to his other guests. “I have no intention of giving up the very things that make my life tolerable!”
“You have a beautiful wife, a precious daughter,” replied Tom sharply. “What else is worth dying for?”
Mansworth flinched; sentiment was apparently more painful to him than his physical infirmities. “Help me up the stairs, Doctor.”
With Tom flanking him, Mansworth slowly ascended the winding staircase of his mansion. He paused at the top, turned his scrutiny to the guests lingering in the dining room, and leaned closer to Tom. “I have something to say to you in confidence,” he said. “I shall look into bringing your son back. It may take some time. In return, I would appreciate it if you would do me the favor of resisting Oscar's inquiries. I won't have him blacken my name.”
Tom stared at Mansworth. “Very well,” he said. “If you bring my son home.”
“What's the boy's name?”
“Arthur Chapel.”
“Arthur?” Mansworth frowned. “You didn't name him after Arthur Pigeon, did you?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I did it to remember him,” replied Tom. “He was like a brother. I betrayed him for my own gain—and yours.”
Mansworth said nothing but led Tom into his lavish bedroom. Tom recognized Eve's touches—a small framed Corot of the Grand Canal hung at her side of the bed, and a photograph of Josephine stood on the table. A heavy brass telephone sat on the table at Mansworth's side.
The war minister removed his jacket, wrapped a silk robe around his bloated frame, and lay down on the bed. He looked at Tom. “Arthur Pigeon,” he mused. “How far we've come since then. Think of the good you've done, Tom. You're a doctor. You've saved lives, I'm sure. My father gave you that education.” He smiled. “I'm war minister.” He nodded slyly. “Your role in my destiny has not been forgotten, Tom. Look what we've achieved together!”
“Together?” Tom stared at him.
“I think Eve loved you once,” replied Mansworth. “We married sisters. You must admit that our lives are curiously linked.”
“There is no comparison between us,” Tom replied. “I heal the sick. You commit men to die. My son is at war. Your daughter is safe at home. If you had any compassion, Mansworth, you would end the war. End it tomorrow. Bring them all home. Pass the order. Retire. You'll change the lives of thousands in a day. Give back the sons to their mothers, the husbands to their wives, the children to their families.”
Mansworth chuckled, amused by Tom's fervor.
“How poetic you sound,” he murmured. “First you ask me to save your son, then you ask me to save every boy in uniform. Don't you know, Bedlam, that half of the country would tar and feather me if I brought our men back without victory?”
“The other half would thank you.”
Mansworth closed his eyes. “I'd like to be prime minister one day. You see, I have to do more than run the war effort. I have to make sure we do it with honor.”
“How many more men will die while you maneuver your political career?”
Mansworth grunted. “Remember our bargain, Doctor,” he replied, smiling faintly, and then he began to snore. A dark shadow crossed the doorway; it was the valet, coming to pick up the clothes and hang them in the wardrobe. For a quiet moment, Tom marveled at a missed opportunity: if only he'd brought his medical bag, he could have given the wretched man an overdose of morphine and ended the debate for good. But he had made a bargain for the life of his son.
AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, Eve was waiting for him.
“Is he dying?” she asked.
Tom knew better than to reply to such a direct question. “You must encourage him to go to hospital. He's very ill.”
Eve shook her head. “He'll never agree to that,” she replied. “To enter a hospital would be an invitation to his enemies to bring about his retirement from government.”
“Eve,” Tom began, “I understand that you wish him to succeed, but he will not live to be prime minister if he doesn't receive treatment.”
She flinched at his words. “Can you truly believe I'm that ambitious? I have no influence upon him. I've proposed many dinner guests, but you're the first person he's agreed to see. He suggested inviting Oscar and Penelope. What did he ask of you? There must have been something. Some favor.”
Tom noticed that Eve's alabaster makeup faded at the base of her neck to reveal her true skin color. Under the circumstances it seemed an appropriate flaw. “Was it about me?” she continued. “I told him I loved you once. Did he show any concern? Any jealousy? He's a possessive man.”
The poor woman, Tom thought. Had she invited him merely to light some jealous spark in her husband? How mercenary we are in the name of family. But he couldn't lie to her about Geoffrey Mansworth. He had lived with one devastating lie for thirty-five years.
“Eve,” he replied. “Geoffrey doesn't want me to tell Oscar about events in his childhood. He's afraid it will ruin his political prospects.”
Eve paused; then her composure snapped. “Damn him,” she sobbed. “God help me, Cortez,” she whispered. “If it were not for Josephine, I'd wish him dead.”