TOM TROD A STUNNED AND BITTER PATH BACK TO HIS HOTEL, BY turns feeling sick then perplexed by the certainty of Mr. Griff's information. William Bedlam had been right, the truth of the matter was a disappointment. All his life he had yearned for a brotherly alliance, but Geoffrey Mansworth was more of a Cain to his Abel.
He felt compelled to reveal this news to Mansworth, but before he did, he took steps to confirm the facts. The next day he visited the General Register Office. He waited another day, expecting to savor the satisfaction of a mystery solved, but his disgust grew all the more intense in consideration of this kinship. It was bad enough to be related by blood to a murderer, but this murderer had been blessed with all the advantages of wealth and class. Geoffrey Mansworth's privilege, his education, even the fatherly efforts of Bronson Mansworth (a more doting parent, indeed, than William Bedlam) had produced a villain with the blackest heart.
TOM SENT MANSWORTH a telegram asking to see him. The reply came quickly.
As he hailed a cab to Bedford Park, he noticed a man pacing outside the hotel. His loud, checkered suit was familiar.
“Oscar? What are you doing here?”
Oscar Limpkin looked startled to see him. “Oh, hello, Tom. On your way somewhere?”
“Mansworth's house.”
“Oh?” Oscar averted his eyes. “News of your son, perhaps?”
“As far as I know, there hasn't been any news about Arthur,” Tom replied.
Oscar frowned. “Mansworth is a liar. Ask him about Arthur,” he said. “See what he says. Press him, Tom. He owes you that.”
Alarmed by Oscar's tone, Tom dismissed the cab. He studied his old friend. “Oscar, what are you doing here? Were you coming to see me? What do you know?”
Oscar groaned. “Look,” he said. “I've the worst news. Arthur may be dead, Tom. A fellow I know heard that they found some of Arthur's kit after an explosion near Vermelles. It's most likely that he's been killed.”
Tom stared at his old friend. “Oscar,” he said. “Lie to me. Tell me my son is coming home. Spare me this misery.”
Oscar looked feebly back at Tom and shook his head. “I'd like to be wrong, Tom, you know that.”
TOM WAS USHERED into Mansworth's study without being aware of his cab ride to Bedford Park or the greetings of the police officers. Grief stricken, he clung to one source of hope—the man Mr. Griff had identified as his brother.
“Eve has taken Josephine to the theater,” Mansworth explained; he was looking particularly vulnerable this evening. His ankles were bloated and swelled around the edges of his shoes. His eyes were puffy, his skin pale. “Brandy?”
“No, thank you,” said Tom. “And you shouldn't have any either.” “Good heavens, you're not here to discuss my health again, are you?” Tom searched Mansworth's face. He was looking for some shared trait, some signal of their kinship, some reason to like the man. “Have you a birthmark here?” he inquired, pointing to his own collar.
Mansworth mirrored Tom's gesture and revealed a faint red spot. “Yes, why?”
“I have it on good authority that we are brothers. Geoffrey, you were given away by my father shortly after you were born in a Vauxhall slum. Bronson Mansworth adopted you.”
Mansworth laughed softly. “Oscar didn't tell you this, did he? It sounds like something he would dredge up.”
“No, not Oscar—your adoption certificate at the General Register Office, with a small notation of your former parents, William and Emily Bedlam. Were you ever told of your adoption?”
The war minister paused—it seemed an implicit acknowledgment. “How long have you known?” he growled.
“Just a few days,” Tom replied.
Mansworth nodded. “We should toast. But you wouldn't approve, would you, Doctor?” He sat down and rubbed his ankles. “As a boy walking with my father, I sometimes passed the time looking for kinship in passing faces. It was a careless pastime. I had a fine home, everything I could want. I never wished for a brother—or a sister, for that matter. Now I have both. How lucky I am.” The detachment in his voice belied this last remark.
Tom stood, rigid and unamused. “How lucky, indeed.”
Mansworth's smile faded. “You can always count on me, Tom; you know that, don't you?”
“I'm glad to hear it,” Tom replied. “Have you any news?”
“News?”
“Of my son.”
Mansworth took a cautious sip of brandy and issued a nod. “As a matter of fact, I've learned that Arthur is safe and well.”
“He is?” Tom felt a sickly wave of relief—it was not conviction but desperate hope. “Can you bring him back?”
Mansworth examined his brandy glass. “No, but I assure you, he's perfectly safe. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Where is he?”
“I've no idea, but my sources guarantee that he's perfectly safe. Perfectly safe”
The odd repetition was dismaying. It reminded Tom of Bill Bedlam's assurances of his brother's safety. Then, he became struck by Mansworth's expression: it harkened back to the summit of Hammer Peak, that same starkly calculating stare, waiting for Tom to believe that Arthur was safe. But now, he was assuring him of his own son's safety. It was just as transparent.
“You're a liar, Geoffrey. I think you're leading me on. You haven't a clue where my son is.”
“Tom, honestly, you can count on me.”
“I've learned from Oscar that Arthur probably died in an explosion in Vermelles.”
Mansworth looked away. “Well, Oscar is hardly a reliable source. His books are pure fabrications!”
“I should believe you, then?”
“Well”—Mansworth smiled—“I'm responsible for thousands of soldiers, a nation at war, our collective future—”
Tom could bear it no longer. “Spare me the hustings speech, Geoffrey!” he cried. “You're a murderous scoundrel and a liar. Oscar would never lie to me. He's more of a brother to me than you could ever be.”
Mansworth shifted uneasily. “How dare you? I made you a promise. That should count for something. Oscar and I have our differences, but you and I are bound, now, as brothers—”
“Bound, yes, but by lies. By a murder you committed! And Oscar can rely on me as a knowledgeable source. People must know what a wretched creature you are, Geoffrey. God help us if you become prime minister.”