Twenty-three

Horton rode slowly down the same narrow deserted country lane just beyond Wootton as he had in October and, more recently, when he'd found Harriet at the house. The tarmacked road gave way to a gravel track. The trees closed in on either side of him and within seconds he was pulling up in front of the solid grey stone wall and the pair of sturdy wooden gates, behind which were more trees and the house. This time, he didn't alight and neither did he press the intercom. Someone would see he was here.

He swung the Harley round and returned along the track until he came to the fields now on his right and a track on his left which he took, heading north towards the sea. After about a third of a mile the track petered out and in front of him was a dense wood. He silenced the engine. There were no public footpaths here. A sign bordering the woods told him they were 'Private' and that 'Trespassers would be prosecuted'. Ignoring it, as he had in October, he climbed the low fence and trekked through the undergrowth until he came out onto a shingle shore with a small inlet to his right that led up to more trees. That inlet was where Horton thought Lomas had come from after taking a small boat up there and mooring it up on the shore out of sight, screened by the trees.

He struck out to his left where the shore widened. A high wall came into view on his left with the Solent on his right, except that, in the fog, he could see nothing save a vague shadow of a yacht at the end of the pontoon.

The foghorns sounded as he made his way towards the yacht, his heart beating fast, his body as tense as steel. He thought of that foggy day in November 1978 when Jennifer had left their home, never to return. Would the same fate await him?

There was a dim light on board, as he had expected. Had the man on board been forewarned that he would come? Would there be two men on the boat waiting for him? Harriet could have telephoned her father to say he was on his way. Her phone could be tapped and her meeting with him known. Or maybe Richard Eames had known that Harriet would call Horton and tell him she had been warned off him. Richard Eames could easily guess his next move. Horton didn't think he had been tailed, but he realized a tracking device could have been planted on his Harley. He hadn't checked for one. The device could have been there for some time. Eames would know exactly where he was and what he had been doing. His appearance at the gates of the house would also have shown up on the monitors, not that Eames would have needed that if his Harley had been fitted with a tracking device. Now all Eames had to do was slip out of the house, leave the grounds by the door in the wall, and climb on to the pontoon and his yacht, knowing Horton would be drawn to that dim light like a moth to a candle. Horton's heart thumped against his chest. This could be where it ended for him.

He climbed on board. The man at the helm turned to face him. Horton found himself confronting not Richard Eames but Wyndham Lomas, as he had half expected. He could hear no other sound, but were they alone? Richard Eames could be down in one of the cabins, silent, still and waiting.

Lomas had abandoned the shorts and sandals for a sailing jacket over a polo shirt and chinos. Rapidly Horton re-thought what he had learned over the last few days and months. His eyes went to Lomas's left hand, yet he knew he wouldn't find what he sought as Dormand's words raced through his mind, Hands are so important, don't you think? They don't lie. Horton had believed that Dormand had been referring to the ring that Mortimer had been wearing in the photograph from 1967, but that was only partly it, because Horton saw that he had meant Mortimer's burned hands.

Lomas said, 'Looking for burns scars? You won't find them.'

Tersely, Horton replied, 'I know. They were on Rory Mortimer's hand. He changed his identity some years ago to Cedric Halliwell. He rescued Zachary Benham from that fire, where you put him after pumping him full of LSD, but unlike Michael Paignton, Zachary wasn't framed for murder; he was meant to die. You started that fire, Gordon Eames. You are Gordon Eames, aren't you? Don't bother to deny it.' Horton could see he was right. 'Twenty-three men died in that fire. Why did so many men have to be sacrificed in order to kill one? How could you lock that door and let all those innocent men die?'

His gut churned with anger and disgust at the thought that this man, who he believed was Jennifer's ghost and possibly his father, was a mass murderer. Would Gordon let him live? Would he kill his own son? Yes, if what Horton believed was true. Gordon Eames, the wild child of Viscount William James Eames, was without compassion. What was the death of one more man to him? It was of no account that he was his own flesh and blood. Gordon had abandoned him as a child, and he'd killed his lover, Jennifer.

'I didn't start that fire or lock those men in and leave them to die.'

Horton studied him carefully. The grey eyes that returned his stare were steady and convincing, and in them Horton thought he detected pain. Or was that what he wanted to see? It looked and sounded like the truth. But was this man simply a skilful liar?

'Then who did?' he asked.

'You've already got the answer to that question. The hand.'

'Halliwell, his real name, Rory Mortimer?'

'Yes, and he got his hand burned as a result. He believed that Zach was inside, but he wasn't, and I didn't rescue him.'

Horton searched Gordon's face, his mind working swiftly. It didn't take him long. 'Zach was never there. But the burns on his back?'

'From another fire in Australia in 1973 when he was working at the bauxite mine in Nhulunbuy.'

Horton began to put together the pieces of what he'd discovered. 'That was how he and you were traced to Australia?'

'Yes. Although we'd taken up new identities, Zach's fingerprints were taken after that fire because his papers were missing, and I wasn't around to stop them doing it. They were matched against criminal records. Not that Zach had been convicted, but he had been arrested during the Vietnam protests in the UK, and it was made certain that his prints stayed on file in case he surfaced somewhere and started to get his memory back.'

'They didn't show up when I had that card you gave me checked with the fingerprint bureau. The fingerprints only matched when Ben, that is Zach showed up in the mortuary, and his prints were taken there because there was no ID for him.'

'His prints were not on the usual records.'

Of course. Horton should have known. 'The intelligence services files. But how did you get Zach's prints on that card?'

'He had handled the card, so too had I, but very carefully up until that point. When I gave it to you, your fingerprints went over mine, therefore only yours and Bens' showed up. I was curious to see what happened. I thought you might destroy the card, or have it checked. If no one came for Ben, then I knew he and Michael were safe.'

'Who authorized the release of Ben's prints?' Who had wanted him to go to the mortuary to see if he could ID the corpse, knowing he couldn't and, consequently, would start probing? Not Richard Eames. That would have been the last thing he wanted. Or was it? After all, it had drawn him here, alone, in the fog. Admittedly Richard Eames wasn't here – unless he was hiding below – but Horton didn't think so. He'd be here soon enough though and was probably observing and listening in on them. Would Richard help his brother kill him just as he helped Gordon kill and dispose of Jennifer? Gordon might not be a mass murderer, but he was still a killer.

But if the prints had been switched to stop Horton probing, then someone knew he had been given that card in October, and that he had asked for a match from the fingerprint bureau. Again, he came back to Richard Eames. He'd have seen him on his security monitors in October, here on the beach, and witnessed him meeting Gordon. Richard Eames had made sure that Danby and his staff didn't witness that. Eames would guess that he would ask for a match and make sure there wasn't one, certainly not to his brother who was supposed to be dead. Richard Eames had thought that was the end of that trail but someone else had released Zachary's prints when the body had been found in the cabin, and Horton thought he knew who that was. Andrew Ducale, the man who had left the photograph on his boat and set him off on this quest.

Horton said, 'So in 1973 when Ben's prints were matched in Australia, Mortimer was sent there to silence you and him. But again, you got Ben away and faked your own death.'

'Someone died, and Richard identified the body as being mine. There probably wasn't much of it left having been on the beach for so long.'

'There would have been fingerprints and dental records.'

'Perhaps Richard was just glad to have me officially declared dead. It suited us both.'

Horton's mind was racing. There was so much he didn't understand. 'Why wasn't Zach in the Goldsmith Psychiatric hospital?'

'When I found him in 1968 in his bedsit, out of his head on LSD, I knew that someone had given it to him without his knowledge. He'd taken some before, yes, but he was not an addict. And this was enough to have killed him, or at the least make him insane. Thankfully it didn't, by some miracle. His life was in danger. I knew that someone had killed Tim Wilson after visiting our estate in Wiltshire and that James Royston's overdose hadn't been accidental. But I didn't know who was behind it. It had to be one of us; Mortimer, Dormand or Paignton. We were all involved in the Radical Student Alliance with our cell being known as the Radical Six. After I found Zach, I called for a private ambulance and put it about that Zach had been committed to the Goldsmith Psychiatric Hospital after losing his mind because of the LSD. In reality, I got him into a private clinic in the New Forest and then across to the abbey on the Isle of Wight by a private boat I hired. I didn't know that twenty-three men would be killed as a result. I should have done, though.'

Again, Horton saw the anger in his eyes but this time there was a weariness about them, or perhaps sadness. Horton had asked the abbot if he or his Brothers had known Ben, but Gordon was talking about 1968, and Dom Daniel Briar hadn't been the abbot then. One or more of the Brothers had probably been there at that time. They might recall a young man suffering from a drug overdose, but probably hadn't connected it with the woodcarving Ben of recent days. And even if they had, they might not have said for fear of betraying a confidence.

Gordon said, 'I stayed with Zach at the abbey and eventually when Zach was better, we left for Australia. He was never completely cured. He had memory problems and hallucinations. He would become paranoid when he was upset or under stress, at other times he seemed perfectly OK. One of the monks in the abbey encouraged him to try wood carving, and he excelled at it. It also helped ease his mind. It calmed him down. It was while I was at the abbey that I learned about the fire. Then, in February, I read that Michael had been arrested for the murder of Roger Salcombe while out of his mind on LSD. I knew he'd been framed and that whoever had done it was the same person who had tried to kill Zach. Salcombe was a burns specialist and a friend of my father's from the war. I discovered later that Michael had read about the Goldsmith Hospital fire in the newspapers. He knew that it had been started deliberately. Like me, he worked out that it must be one of two men, Dormand or Mortimer. Mortimer was missing from college. Michael began to ask around about him, who had seen him, when, where? No one had, but Dormand was in college so Michael reasoned that either Dormand had killed Mortimer and his body hadn't been discovered, or Mortimer had started the fire and was in hiding because he had been injured doing so. He contacted the local hospitals, but no one called Mortimer had been taken in for burns. So he researched burns consultant specialists and found Roger Salcombe.

'He went to see him at his private clinic and told him of his suspicions; that a man he could be treating for burns could be the same man who had killed those twenty three men in the Goldsmith Hospital fire. Salcombe might not have had any idea that was how Mortimer had got his burns. He could have been spun a complete lie. Worried, Salcombe confided in the wrong man.'

Gordon took a breath and moved closer to the helm. The fog wafted around the boat. 'Salcombe and Paignton were dealt with. Paignton didn't die but, by the time his brain returned to something like normal, he was banged up in Wormwood. When he tried to say what had happened, it was made quite clear to him that next time if he opened his mouth, he wouldn't be so lucky as to live. He was moved to Parkhurst Prison on the Isle of Wight. He kept quiet and served his time.'

'And when he came out of prison you looked after him.'

'I got him a new identity. I was, by then, good at it. I knew people who would help me. Michael came to live with me and Ben in Australia. He took what jobs he could. We supported each other, me with my paintings –

'You're Jethro Dinx?' A beachcomber artist. Not of these shores, thought Horton, recalling those paintings in Beachwood House of Australian shores.

'Yes. Ben with his wood carving and other jobs in between when the needs demanded it. Michael's one aim was to find Rory Mortimer, who we eventually discovered had re-invented himself as Cedric Halliwell.'

'You found him through his knowledge of wines.'

'That was our intention, but as it happened Mortimer found me, only he didn't recognize me as Gordon Eames. After all, he thought I was dead.'

'I had an exhibition in Darwin at the same time that Mortimer had stopped over there to attend a wine auction. He had business interests in the Far East, both dubious and legitimate. There was an auction of some rare and vintage wines in Darwin which he thought he might as well take in, being in that part of the world. Michael had also learned of this. You see, Michael had studied wines in prison because he knew how Mortimer, even back in 1967 when we were all young, was a wine connoisseur. It was something of a joke with us all, drinking wine wasn't as fashionable as it is now.'

'And Michael had a good teacher in Jerry Carswell, a fellow inmate.'

'Yes. Michael worked hard and saved hard. Soon he had enough to start bidding for wines at the lower end of the market. He also managed to track down a couple of rare wines. He bought cheaply, put them into auction and made a good profit. Word began to get around that he was something of an expert. He had a good eye and nose for investment. He always kept a watch on the auctions of fine and rare wine in the UK, Australia, America and Paris. He researched who was buying and selling. He came up with a number of regular buyers, one of whom was a Cedric Halliwell, and when an auction came up in Darwin, Michael went, not expecting Halliwell to be there in person, and not knowing at that time if he was really Rory Mortimer. But he thought he might learn more about the top wine investors. He recognized Mortimer instantly.'

'Because of his scarred hand.'

'That and his distinctive ring.'

The ring that Horton thought Dormand had been alluding to on the shore of the abbey that night in October. Hands are so important.

'Mortimer didn't recognize Paignton no more than he did me when he found me in Nhulunbuy. He never met Ben, and he never discovered that Michael and I previously knew one another. Michael deliberately cultivated Mortimer or, I should say, Halliwell's friendship. They had wine in common. He gained Halliwell's complete confidence.'

'No. Although Mortimer never married and wasn't interested in women, he wasn't homosexual either. He was just one of those neutral or asexual men. Michael became Halliwell's personal assistant, secretary, and confidante. He'd flag up the wine auctions, identify those rare and vintage wines which would make good investments, scout for them, track them down in private ownership, do deals and bid at auctions on Halliwell's behalf. We were all getting older, Halliwell included, and his mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be, but Michael's was razor sharp.'

'Possibly the early stages. Michael would also source art for Halliwell to purchase as an investment and advised on other financial matters.'

'Gaining access to Halliwell's property and account, until he was ready to take over and live as Cedric Halliwell.'

'And get what he was owed.'

'Was it Michael's idea to purchase Beachwood House?'

'Yes. He found the property, which, as you know, is isolated. It had a cabin in a bay inaccessible to the public, unless someone got nosy by boat, which they didn't.'

'Not until Carina Musgrove turned up.' Did Gordon know it was Harriet? Horton guessed his brother would have told him by now, unless he had known before.

'Yes, but by then it didn't matter. It was perfect for Ben who wanted a simple lifestyle. Michael easily persuaded Halliwell to purchase Beachwood House as an ideal retreat. By that time, Halliwell was more than happy to let me, as one of his favourite artists, take up occupation in the cabin in the bay, along with Ben, who I told him was my companion. The house was refurbished over the spring and summer.'

'Halliwell instigated that. He met with the architect and the wine people who designed and built that cellar for him. He seemed pretty astute then.'

'He was also briefed and prompted by Michael. We all returned to the UK in June. I bought a small boat for Ben and myself to use.'

'The one I saw on the shore by the cabin and the one you used to motor round to here in October when I met you on the shore.'

'Then Michael Paignton killed Mortimer aka Halliwell.'

'No. He didn't have to.' Gordon Eames smiled. 'Michael wouldn't kill anyone. Even though he'd spent twenty years behind bars for a killing he hadn't committed, and he could have thought he might as well do time for one he did.'

'Then who did? And why come here to the Isle of Wight to do so?' asked Horton.

Gordon Eames made no reply. Horton rapidly thought. He came up with three answers. Because Richard Eames had a property here but then he had properties in Wiltshire and Scotland, not to mention others around the world. Because Michael Paignton had served time at the prison on the Isle of Wight, but then he'd hardly wish to return to a place that held bad memories for him. Because Antony Dormand was at the abbey posing as a monk. Horton's mind flashed back to his conversation with Dormand in October.

'The beachcomber I saw on the shore on Friday. Who is he, Dormand? Is it Rory Mortimer? The sixth man in the photograph?'

'How can you be sure?'

Horton had thought Dormand had meant in 1968, but now he realized he had meant far more recently than that. It was the reason Paignton had persuaded Mortimer to buy Beachwood House. It was the reason Gordon Eames and Zachary Benham had returned here. To make sure that Dormand killed Rory Mortimer.

The forlorn cry of the foghorns pierced the silence of the cabin. Gordon Eames' expression remained impassive, his body still and upright. 'You've worked it out,' he spoke quietly, calmly.

Horton had. Keeping his tone neutral, even though his heart and mind were racing, he said, 'Ben approached the abbey knowing that Dormand was there as Brother Norman. It wasn't just to sell his wood carvings, that was a bonus, the real purpose was to make sure that Dormand recognized him. And to make doubly certain of that, you took Ben's boat on to the shore behind the abbey where you met Dormand. You told him where he could find Mortimer. But why did you think Dormand would kill Mortimer for you?'

'Because Antony Dormand hated Mortimer almost as much as Michael hated Mortimer. Not at first but later when he came to realize how much Mortimer and his master had deceived him.'

The foghorns sounded almost continually. The air was chill yet suffocating. Horton found it difficult to breathe.

Wearily now, Gordon continued, 'In the sixties we were all part of what we thought was a social, political and cultural revolution. I know, awfully Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Heart Club Band. Part of that was a commitment to the communist cause. What we didn't know was that Mortimer was committed to the opposite, as far away from communism as you could get. He was a fascist, as was his master, who was working for British Intelligence. It was Mortimer who killed Timothy Wilson and James Royston.'

'Dormand told you he did, but he was about to take his own life and Mortimer was dead by then. He saw no need to tell you the truth. It wasn't his place to anyway and it would take too long to explain. He told you he had killed Timothy and James because they were traitors, selling secrets to the Russians as Zach had been. But they had no secrets to sell, not that type anyway. Yes, there were riots and demonstrations and plans to disrupt as many public services as possible, and that's all it was. But Mortimer was clever, manipulative and murderous. He was also in the pay of one man, someone who was a committed fascist and had been long before 1939 and all through the war, working for both the British and the Nazis.'

Horton didn't hide his surprise. He had thought Gordon was talking about Richard Eames being this 'master', but Richard hadn't been born then. Before he could comment though, Gordon continued:

'Someone who still believed that the only way forward was the far right. And I discovered who that was. Naively, I confronted him, just as Salcombe had done. His old friend,' he added with bitterness. 'I was twenty-two, invincible and stupid. I told him we would make the story public. I didn't care about the consequences, only I hadn't foreseen that those consequences would be murder. I should have done. He knew he had to kill us to make sure his secret stayed that way. Tim was killed in 1969, James in 1970, Zach was almost killed in 1968, and Salcombe was killed in 1970 when Michael should also have died. Instead, he was convicted of murder. Mortimer would have killed Dormand except that Dormand went missing after James Royson's death. At first, we thought it was because he was distraught. Antony Dormand and James Royston were lovers. But after the attempt on Zach's life, I wondered if Antony had also been dealt with until he surfaced as a monk in Italy where I had travelled for an exhibition of my work two years ago and came across him while I was staying at their guest house.'

'He really was a Benedictine monk then,' Horton said surprised.

'Yes, although I'm not sure he believed in God. He shut himself off from the world once James died and he sort of got used to it. He liked the peace and solitude. He was soothed by the chants, the prayers and the routine. We had a great deal to talk about.'

'Why did you return to Portsmouth in 1978?' Horton asked, his heart beating fast, his mind racing to assimilate all he was learning.

Gordon Eames remained silent for a moment. He shifted and leaned back against the helm. 'It was a mistake. We all make them, but I didn't know at the time the implications of that decision. I was an idiot. I read about my mother's death in the newspapers.'

Horton recalled reading the article in Walters' newspaper earlier of Lady Marsha's death in November 1978, a sudden and unexpected heart attack, and the Viscount's tragic accident on his yacht the year after off the coast of France.

Gordon was saying, 'I thought about it over and over. I felt sick at the thought that they would all be at her funeral and everyone would be sympathetic to my father who'd be looking suitably upset and dignified. In the same article, I read about myself. How I'd been a great disappointment to the family, how I'd blackened its name and tarnished its reputation with drug abuse, criminal behaviour and communist leanings, and how I had died alone in a drugged stupor on an Australian beach. God knows what I thought I was going to do but before I could reason it out, I'd packed a rucksack and was on a flight to England. And even though I had a new identity and passport, my father knew where I was. In fact, I didn't find out until afterwards that he never believed I was dead. Richard had told him he'd identified a body he believed to be mine, but maybe our father got it out of Richard that he'd done that so I could just carry on with my new life.'

'And Richard knew your new name?'

'Not that I was Jethro Dinx, because I only assumed that after 1978. But he knew the name I had been living under in Australia before that. I flew out of Australia on that passport, and my father knew that, as he did when I had arrived in England. He gave instructions that I was not to be stopped.'

And a Viscount had influence enough to do that, Horton thought. Nobility could pull strings and rank.

Gordon said, 'I had three days to kick my heels before the funeral. And three days to cool off. I stayed in Portsmouth where I'd spent some time in my misspent youth. I went to the casino amongst other places and found Jennifer there. I had no idea she was working there. She recognized me. I left almost immediately but she came after me. We couldn't talk for long; she would be missed. She never mentioned she had a child, although I could see that something was troubling her. I told her that I lived in Australia and asked her to leave with me. She said she didn't want to travel under her own name but didn't say why. She said she would tell me everything later. That was enough for me. I said I would get her out without a passport and then could obtain another for her under a new ID. We agreed to meet at Albert Johnson Quay in four days, after the funeral, where we could pick up a cargo boat to some foreign port and then another ship on to another port, and so make our way to Australia. But I changed my mind about going to the funeral. I never went. I just wanted to get out of the country. I had the impression I was being followed, and I thought that when Jennifer and I were talking outside by the pier we were being watched.'

'Then why did you wait that long to meet her?' Horton asked angrily.

'Because I needed time to make arrangements to get us abroad. She didn't know I intended for her to leave with me on that same day we'd arranged to meet. I didn't want her to bring any personal belongings or pack a bag and draw attention to the fact she was leaving. Remember, at that stage I didn't know of your existence. She never showed up. I didn't know where she lived. I couldn't ask in the casino because that would have drawn attention to myself and her. The boat was about to leave. I had to clear out.'

'Leaving her to die,' Horton said with disgust. His father was a coward. He didn't for a moment believe that Gordon Eames hadn't known about him. 'So you left the country,' he said scathingly. 'How do I know you didn't kill Jennifer or the others?'

'Because I would hardly spare Zach and help Michael if I had done so.'

That rang true. With his chest tight, his head spinning, Horton said, 'Jennifer kept the rendezvous but instead of you, she met your brother, Richard. You'd contacted him and asked him for money in exchange for clearing out and keeping silent over the fact that he had falsely identified your body. He agreed. Richard lured Jennifer away and killed her.' It was as Horton had always suspected; Richard Eames was a murderer.

Gordon Eames took a deep breath. The sea mist swept into the boat. Horton could hear the foghorns of the ferries and cargo ships in the Solent.

'It wasn't Richard who met her, but a man who would do anything to protect the fact that he was a traitor and always had been. Who thought Hitler should have won the war and who, after the war, still believed our country would be better served by extreme right wing policies. The same man who had made sure his old friend Salcombe died, along with all of us in the Radical Alliance save his puppet, Mortimer. He wouldn't have spared me, and he didn't spare Jennifer.'

Horton's head spun as he concluded who Gordon Eames was referring to. 'You're saying your father, the Viscount, was responsible for those deaths and Jennifer's?' he said incredulously.

Gordon moved closer to the helm.

'How long have you known this?' Horton demanded, unsure he could believe what he was hearing.

But Gordon didn't answer him directly. 'Richard's sin was turning a blind eye to it and helping to cover it up. Mine was running away from it. Life is messy. People cock up. We make bad decisions and have to live with them. Richard and I remained silent, even when people died. Yes, my father, the Viscount William James Eames, was the master, a traitor and a killer. Protecting his secret for the sake of his family and the country, as he saw it, from socialism and communism, at any cost.'