A FIRE BURNED IN THE FIREPLACE, TURNING THE CLOSED confines of the library suffocatingly hot. Leatherbound books that had never been cut open lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Brandy and port were decanted and waiting on the low tables. Comfortable armchairs were scattered across the carpeted floor. A gold shovel hung over one wall. A box of Romeo y Julieta cigars sat open on one table, next to a cutter and matches. The butler stood silently, like a waiting owl, besides the drinks tray. He poured out measures and handed them to the assembled guests. He clipped cigars.
Edgar accepted the drink reluctantly. He felt heavy and befuddled, the unaccustomed meal (he was usually a frugal eater) and wine combining with the heat to make him feel out of sorts. He waved away the offered cigar. Baron Feebes and Ernesto Salazar were already smoking with great enthusiasm. They were seated by the fireplace.
A couple of men who Edgar had not yet been introduced to stood chatting together under a painting of three barren islands surrounded by ships. From overheard conversation he knew them to be Colonel Green, latterly of the 20th Lancers regiment, now retired, and a Mr Jacobs of Hong Kong – a banker of some sorts. Both men seemed ill at ease in the gathering, and had kept their distance all evening.
The three ladies present – Edna, Edith, and Emma Wallace – sat at one sofa against the far wall from the fire, clutching their drinks and chatting quietly.
Finally, the American, Earl Cody, sat alone in an armchair in the shadows, in a sort of reading nook. The lit tip of his cigar glowed when he drew on a smoke.
Edgar hesitated, not sure where to turn. He saw the room in tableau, each figure bent under some unseen weight, anchored and tethered to Baron Feebes as he sat at ease in his armchair, smoking his cigar and drinking his brandy. Edgar didn’t know where to sit. He stood there, feeling helpless.
‘You. Oxford man.’
It was the American, his voice thick with drink. Of course it was him, Edgar thought. It was always going to be him.
Earl Cody leaned forward. For a moment his face passed into the light. The manic hatred that had so animated him earlier had left his face. He seemed tired and withdrawn, bags under his eyes, the hand holding the cigar almost imperceptibly shaking.
‘Sir?’ Edgar said politely.
‘Come here.’
Edgar hesitated. He was aware of the others, watching, pretending not to. The hatred they were too afraid to show but which poured out of each and every one of them towards this man.
He went over.
‘Sit.’
Edgar sat.
‘Enjoying the party?’ Cody said.
‘Very much so, sir.’
Cody laughed.
‘Have a cigar,’ he said.
‘Thank you. I don’t smoke.’
‘Have a cigar, boy!’
Cody clicked his fingers. The butler hurried over, a freshly cut cigar extended. Edgar took it. The butler applied a match. The thick smoke filled Edgar’s mouth and he coughed. The butler withdrew.
No one was watching them. They were studiously avoiding the two of them, Edgar thought. It was as though they were in their own private bubble.
‘Why do you hate them so?’ Edgar said.
‘Hate?’ Cody contemplated the lit end of his cigar. ‘They’re not worthy of hate, boy. They are merely…’ He waved a hand and let it fall. ‘Pieces.’
‘Pieces?’
‘To be used when needed, then discarded,’ Cody said. He heaved himself out of the chair with some effort.
‘Have you seen the gardens?’ he said. ‘They really are magnificent.’
‘It’s night-time,’ Edgar said.
‘Let’s get some air. Indulge me. You might learn something.’
‘Very well,’ Edgar said stiffly. He made to put the cigar away.
‘Bring that with you!’
The American stalked out of the library. Edgar followed. Only Edith looked up when he left. She gave him a quizzical look. He shrugged.
It made him feel better, though, that she checked.
He left the room. Along corridors and carpets and servants gliding out of sight at his approach. Following the malevolent figure of the American and the stench of his cigar.
At last they reached doors that opened onto the outside. Fresh, cool air and the smell of fresh flowers. It was a balm to Edgar’s senses. It felt good on his face, the air, after the hellish heat of the library.
‘Do you know me?’ he said to Cody. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’
‘Your name is Edgar Waverley,’ Cody said, not bothering to even look at him. ‘You were illegitimately born, in Ireland, to a Miss Annie Connolly, current whereabouts unknown. You were adopted by Lily and John Savage. Savage died by suicide after defrauding his partners of a significant sum of money. You were blissfully unaware of this information until this moment. Sit down.’
Edgar sat. He felt light-headed.
‘My mother,’ he said. The words wouldn’t come. His mother was his mother. Not…
‘Be a man about it,’ Cody said. He turned his face to Edgar then. Shoved it close, his breath reeking of brandy and cigar. ‘Everyone comes from somewhere.’
Edgar couldn’t take it in. Yet things fell into place despite themselves. His father’s mysterious death. His mother’s dear friend who’d given him the… given him…
He fumbled in his pocket, took out the old gold watch.
‘It was hers,’ he said, surprised.
Surprised, too, at how calm he felt.
Everyone had to come from somewhere, after all.
Cody took the watch and turned it over. The light from inside the house caught the gold and the inscription.
‘Feebes?’ Cody said. He grunted.
‘What?’ Edgar said.
‘Huh.’
Cody gave him back the watch. He seemed to have lost interest.
‘Can you walk?’ he said.
‘I’m not a child.’
‘Good. Then stand up.’
Edgar did. His legs held. He’d think about it later. Not now. Maybe not for a long time, he thought.
Cody ambled down a garden path. It was dark. Edgar followed him. He felt compelled.
‘You know why you are here?’ Cody said.
‘I was invited… My friend, Roddy…’
He felt the weakness of his reply immediately.
‘You know why they are all here?’ Cody said.
A weekend away… festivities in the countryside… dinner, drinks, some hunting in the morning, perhaps… He’d never hunted, he wasn’t a proper gentleman…
‘No,’ he said, defeated.
‘To look at them you’d think them simple,’ Cody said. ‘You’d think me simple, too. Or the old colonel from the Lancers, say. Or the lady who writes mystery books and wears too much perfume. That skinny Jew girl, or the banker from Hong Kong, or the industrialist from Peru, or that Irish lady who don’t talk much. They’re all… known. They are the face that they show to the world. And you believe it.’
Edgar didn’t know why they were there. The American was a brute. Yet he seemed melancholy. Cody said, ‘But you should never believe it, Edgar Waverley of Oxford, who doesn’t yet know what he wants to be when he grows up. You should never believe it, because people are not, and never are, simple. And for every face they show the world there is one they keep for themselves.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s my job to uncover it,’ he said. ‘That secret face.’
‘Why?’ Edgar said.
‘Because then it can be used against them,’ Cody said.
They’d reached some sort of hedge maze and there they stopped. All was quiet. Edgar wondered uneasily if they would go into the maze. He was afraid to follow Cody further into the dark. But the man had stopped. He smoked his cigar, mopped sweat from his brow. Edgar’s cigar had gone out. He stared at it for a moment, confused, then dropped it in revulsion on the ground and trod on it.
‘It’s a waste,’ Cody said.
‘What did they do?’ Edgar said. ‘What do you have on them?’
Cody smiled. He shook his finger in Edgar’s face.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘That’s their business.’
‘Then what’s mine?’
Why had he spoken? He stood stock-still. He thought he heard a rustle in the maze. A squirrel, most likely.
‘You are, or were until recently, at any rate, friends with Roderick Holmwood,’ Cody said. ‘Heir to the Holmwood fortune. And by friend I mean that you were fucking.’ He stared at Edgar. Edgar stood still.
‘I don’t care, in particular,’ Cody said. ‘In case you were wondering. And no one cares about you at all. Holmwood, though… He’s a useful man to have something on. So. Now the baron does.’
Edgar steadied himself. A silent, deeply buried anger was rising through him. He kept it in check.
‘Then what?’ he said. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘The baron lands the trophy fish,’ Cody said. ‘But sometimes he lets me keep the minnows. How much money do you have?’
‘What? I don’t have money, man, I’m a student!’
‘I don’t need much,’ Cody said. ‘Ten pounds should do it.’
‘Ten pounds! I don’t have that kind of money!’
‘Then get it,’ Cody said. ‘What do you have on you now?’
Edgar fished out his wallet. ‘I have two pounds and five shillings,’ he said.
‘That will do, to start,’ Cody said. He looked bored now. Edgar stared at him. He felt he was somehow living in a nightmare.
‘But this is all I have,’ he said.
Cody just waited. Edgar wanted to kill him very much just then. He handed over the money.
‘That’ll do,’ Cody said. ‘Remember one other thing, kid.’
‘What’s that?’
‘When someone shows you who they really are – believe them.’
He patted Edgar on the shoulder. Then he walked away, and melted into the dark.
Damn him! Edgar thought. Damn him to hell! He began to shake. The night was so very dark and yet he felt unseen eyes watching. He leaned against a tree. He was suddenly sick. It came out of him, the horrible food and the sickly wine and that brief rancid taste of the cigar in his mouth. It all came out and down on the roots of the tree.
‘I’ll fucking kill him,’ he said.
‘Who?’
He jumped. It was Mrs Edna St James, her face in the moonlight different to her party face. Sad, a little lost.
‘Nobody,’ he said.
‘Earl Cody?’ she said. ‘I often wish… Yes.’
‘What do you owe him?’ Edgar said. ‘What do they have on you?’
She looked into his face, searching – searching for something. What, he didn’t know. Whatever it was, she didn’t find it. She sighed.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘You are being dramatic, child. Drama is more my department, don’t you know?’
‘I am not a child,’ Edgar said. At that she smiled.
‘That you very much are, still,’ she said. ‘But what you will grow into… Well, that could be interesting. Walk me back to the house?’
‘Of course,’ he said. He tried to wipe himself down. He made a sorry sight, he thought. She looked at him and shook her head.
‘I’ve seen worse at these parties,’ she said.
Edgar nodded. He offered her his arm. Edna St James took it and they walked back together slowly. The house towered above them, mock-Gothic, indifferent. Too big for anyone to live in but a statement of permanence, of wealth. He hated them all just then. He realised, with some surprise, that it wasn’t going to fade this time. Something had changed in him. He wondered how one learned to live with hatred.