ORIGINALLY, THE HOUSE HAD BEEN A LODGE. IT HAD BEEN EXPANDED by more than one architect into something of a visual mishmash, its roofline a forest of chimneys and gables of different designs. It had bowed windows and Gothic windows and a bit of Tudor half-timbering thrown in here and there, with the final entry into the main courtyard being achieved through an archway that could have been lifted intact from a cathedral apse.
The courtyard itself was like the setting for an opera, with windows, outlooks, and balconies at every level and of every imaginable character. Here, with a carriage turn before it, was the main door of the house.
On the steps to the main doors, Sir Owain Lancaster waited to meet the car. As before, he was not alone. Behind him, lurking in the background like a diffident Iago, came Dr. Hubert Sibley.
The car stopped before the entranceway. The driver exchanged a few words with his employer, presumably to account for the damage to his vehicle, before returning to it and opening the door for Sebastian to step out.
Sir Owain did not offer his hand.
He said, “Permit me a grim smile at the irony of my position. I hold honors from three universities. My patents have amassed fortunes and my factories supply the armies of the world. But my fate and future happiness now lie in the hands of the watchdog to the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy.”
“There’s nothing about my presence that should make you feel threatened,” Sebastian said. “My function here is only to observe and advise.”
“And yet my liberty will depend on the advice that you give.”
“Think less of it as a matter of liberty, and more a matter of your well-being.”
“It’s very hard not to think about liberty when you face the prospect of losing it.”
With the pleasantries dispensed with, Sir Owain led the way inside.
The entrance hallway had a stone-flagged floor with a rug on it and light oak paneling on its walls. A wide stairway led to a gallery above.
On the short walk to Sir Owain’s study they passed a long glass case containing a scale model of a warship, the original of which had been built in one of Sir Owain’s yards. The air inside the house was colder than the air outside and had a musty odor. Sebastian saw no sign of any staff.
Sir Owain’s study was dominated by a large kneehole desk with a captain’s chair behind it. On the desk were a typewriting machine and a binocular microscope in brass. There was a wall of books, with a set of green baize steps for reaching the upper shelves.
Sebastian said, “Do you understand why it’s necessary for me to be here?”
Inviting Sebastian to sit while seating himself in the captain’s chair, Sir Owain said, “I understand that any man with the taint of madness and a fortune is fair game for the Masters of Lunacy. As little as fifty pounds a year or a thousand in the bank will get their attention.”
“You merely need to convince Sir James that you are competent to remain in charge of your own affairs.”
“Convince him? Or convince you?”
Sebastian waited.
Sir Owain went on, “Given that I must, I believe that I can. Doctor Sibley, here, is my constant companion and the guarantor of my sanity.”
By now, Dr. Hubert Sibley had joined Sir Owain behind the desk. He remained standing, more like a valet than a medical man.
Sebastian looked at Sir Owain again and said, “So do you consider yourself insane?”
“No,” Sir Owain said. “But I can understand why others might. Is that in itself not some kind of proof?”
Dr. Sibley then spoke up and said, “I have prepared you a full report of my observations and a fair copy of Sir Owain’s treatment diary.”
Sir Owain looked at him, and Sibley nodded. Then Sir Owain opened a desk drawer and took out a folder of typewritten papers, tied with a ribbon. He placed the folder on the desk and slid it toward Sebastian.
“My life is in these pages,” he said. “There is no part of it that is not subject to Doctor Sibley’s supervision. Whether it’s my health or my business or the management of the estate.”
“No part of it at all?”
“None.”
Sebastian was finding that Sibley’s presence made him vaguely uncomfortable. Not so much a man, more a slimy shadow. Hanging around in the corner like an undertaker’s mute.
He looked at the man and said, “Where are you living, Doctor?”
“I live here at the Hall,” Sibley replied, “with Sir Owain. Constant companion means exactly that.”
“I can’t help observing that to ensure Sir Owain’s liberty you seem to have given up your own.”
“I am well rewarded. The work is light and the life is pleasant. I believe you’ll find that our arrangement is the equal of any more oppressive or restrictive regime, and offers a humane and enlightened alternative.”
“In other words … as long as you’re steering Sir Owain and whispering in his ear, I should recommend against any form of asylum.”
“Sir Owain is not mad,” Dr. Sibley said.
“What is he, then?”
Sir Owain spoke up for himself. “I speak my mind, I say what I see, and for reasons of their own some choose to call me mad because of it. The mere whiff of the word around a rich man brings the Masters of Lunacy running. Lawyers and parasites with no other interest than to get control of a man’s fortune and squander it. They are a plague, and it’s the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor who moves ahead of them and marks the foreheads of the doomed.”
At that point he realized that Sibley was giving him a warning look.
“Is one possible opinion,” Sir Owain amended.
“You can hold whatever opinion you wish,” Sebastian said, and he reached for the folder on the desk. “Believe me. I have a duty to be impartial, and my employer is a fair man. I will read this report. I shall pass along the treatment diary for someone more medically qualified to assess. And I shall establish whether this live-in arrangement is a genuine form of care or a deliberate ploy to stave off the appropriate legal process.”
Dr. Sibley said, “How can we convince you?”
“Don’t try to convince me. Just conduct yourselves as you normally would. Sir Owain.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been reading your book.”
A new and subtle tension seemed to enter the room.
“As have many,” Sir Owain said with care.
“A well-wrought piece of fiction,” Sebastian suggested, and waited to see Sir Owain’s response.
Sir Owain could not help it. He looked at his doctor. His doctor said nothing, but the implication hung there. I can’t prompt you. Be careful.
“If you say so,” Sir Owain said.
“What do you say, Sir Owain?” Sebastian pressed. “Do you still insist on it as an honest account of your Amazon adventure? Is it a faithful memorial to those who failed to return?”
Sir Owain looked again at the doctor, who now was looking at the floor as if to show that any response was Sir Owain’s, and Sir Owain’s alone.
Sebastian went on, “Just between us. In this room. Do you still hold it to be the truth? Or is it, as so many say, a miscalculated hoax that has caused the loss of your position and earned you the scorn of your peers?”
Dr. Sibley could keep his silence no longer.
“This is unfair,” he said.
“I know it, Doctor Sibley,” Sebastian said. “It’s not a choice that I’d care to be faced with. Stick to my story and be deemed insane, or abandon it and stand revealed as a fraud.”
“And whatever I answer,” Sir Owain said, “you’ll have the option of calling it a response that I learned for the occasion, to achieve an end.”
“And so we go round and round.”
“If a man can feign sanity to perfection, is he not therefore sane?”
“Why did you view the bodies of those dead girls?”
The abrupt change of tack threw Sir Owain for a moment, as Sebastian had meant it to.
He floundered for a moment and then said, “They were found on my land. And I wished to offer my help.”
“Ah, yes. Your theory. Torn by beasts.” From the deep pocket inside his coat, Sebastian took his copy of Sir Owain’s book and searched for the page that he’d located and marked. “You must be aware that the exact same phrase occurs here in your mendacious memoir.”
“It’s but a phrase, Mister Becker,” Sir Owain said. “You saw the condition of those children. Tell me that the wording is anything other than accurate.”
Sebastian regarded him for a few moments.
Then he closed the book.
“Please call your car for me,” he said, and rose to his feet.
Sir Owain seemed bewildered.
“Is that it?” he said. “What happens now?”
“I’ll be in the area for a day or two. Making my inquiries. You’ll hear from me again.”
“When will we know the decision?”
“That, I cannot say. The decision won’t be mine to make.”
HE DECLINED a tour of the house. He’d seen a sufficient number of great houses to know that the gentry were equally indifferent to magnificence and squalor, and that their homes were no guide to anything. He’d once reported on a marquis who kept a pig in his dining room, and Sir James had been happy to sign him off.
As the car was once more drawing up in front of the building, Sir Owain said, “Who will pay for my broken window glass?”
Sebastian said, “I think you will.”
“You speak sharply to me,” Sir Owain complained. “In a way I do not believe I deserve. But how can I respond in kind to a man who has power over my liberty?”
“If I seem sharp, sir, then I apologize. I do not mean to be. You can be assured that my only interest is in the facts behind the matter.”
“Then,” Sir Owain said, phrasing his courtesy in such a way as to leave no doubt that he was sorely aggrieved by the obligation, “I should support your discovery of the facts in full. My car and driver are at your disposal during your stay. Wherever you may wish to go. Just telephone the house and I’ll send them out.”