Armistice (27 page)

Following the episode with the girl Perceval Dore was extremely disappointed that Anthony had gone off without a word. He found his son in his apartment, which, in his annoyance, he entered without knocking. Anthony was sitting at his desk in his lounge, quite still.

“Have you any idea to what that girl was referring?”

“No,” replied Anthony, not looking at his father.

“You've no idea to what letter she referred?”

“No.”

“It's completely inexplicable to you?” spelled out Dore Senior, in a way that also communicated: “For God's sake why don't you look at me when I'm talking to you?”

“It's plainly some plan she and Priest have cooked up to get him off the hook,” said Anthony, making fleeting eye contact. “She throws more mud and they hope that some of it sticks.”

“It's strange mud to throw; to accuse you of being in possession of a letter,” replied his father.

“It's bizarre, I agree,” replied Anthony. “Only they can account for the grotesque workings of their minds.”

Now his son looked at him directly, and Perceval could see the hurt in them. He silently swore to himself that Priest and the girl were going to pay for their cruel injustice. On the desk in front of Anthony he noticed his son's bible, the one he knew Anthony's mother had given him. His tone softened.

“Seeking solace?” he asked. “Turning the other cheek is in Matthew, if I remember rightly.”

“I know,” said Anthony, again looking away. Hiding his upset emotions, his father speculated.

Perceval picked up the bible and it was all Anthony could do to stop himself snatching it from his hands. He tried not to stare at the hefty holy book as his father opened it at the index.

“Gossip spreads faster than a forest fire and is harder to extinguish. Has either Priest or the girl ever demanded money from you?”

“Money? No,” said Anthony, unable to stop his eyes widening as he glimpsed the stolen letter peeping out from between the pages of the Good Book.

“I don't understand what they're up to. If there was never any card game I don't understand what they're trying to achieve. I'm going to have to question them both, as well as Major James. Is there anyone else you can think of whom I should talk to?”

Anthony could only shake his head as he watched the stolen letter escape the pages of the bible and drop silently to the floor. He tried not to look at it as if, by not doing so,
his father would fail to notice it. Indeed, Perceval had not seen it, so lost was he in his thoughts. The letter lay on the floor.

Anthony considered making an elaborate dive on top of it, but he couldn't imagine any explanation that could possibly account for such an action. His father paced, and turned sideways to look out of the window. Anthony seized the opportunity to rise from his seat and stand on the letter.

“The crowd's gone,” said Perceval. “It's amazing how they materialize and disappear.”

Anthony didn't respond. He just wanted his father to leave.

“Shall we dine together this evening?” his father suggested.

Anthony suddenly took his father's arm and aimed him toward the door saying: “Yes, let's have dinner together—my treat.”

Perceval smiled and tried to turn and replace the bible on the desk where it had lain. But Anthony didn't want him to turn back into the room, and tried to press him the other way.

“I still have your mother's bible,” said Perceval, handing it to his son.

“Do you want to borrow it?” said Anthony.

“Borrow your bible? No.”

“Are you sure?” said Anthony, still managing to keep his foot on the letter on the floor.

“Quite sure,” replied Perceval, thinking his son's behavior rather odd. He offered it again to Anthony, this time successfully.
Anthony tucked it under his arm and still tried to encourage his father out of the door.

“You're not taking a bible to dinner, are you? I think I'd find that rather inhibiting,” said Perceval, attempting levity.

At which point Anthony had to adjust his balance, which resulted in him having to put more weight on the foot that was standing on the letter, and he slipped on it. Perceval grabbed his son: “Steady on!” and held him up. The letter had been sent skidding across the floor.

“Hold on. What's that?” said Perceval. “You've dropped something.” He walked a few steps, bent down to pick up the letter, held it out to Anthony. As it passed between them Perceval glanced down and just caught sight of the addressee. It wasn't Anthony Dore. The intended recipient was Philomena Bligh. His son turned and unlocked a draw in a desk and slipped the letter inside. While locking the drawer Anthony felt that in order to appear to be behaving naturally he must look at his father, but when he did so Perceval's back was to him. He was already gazing out of the window again.

At Jonathan's apartment block the concierge dialed him and passed Philomena the handset. “Jonathan, it's me. I haven't gone home yet.”

Jonathan slumped against the wall. She'd come back! Despite his confessing to her that he'd fixed the fateful game of brag, she wanted to see him again!

“Jonathan?” he heard.

“Yes, I'm here,” he replied, huskily.

“I've something to tell you—something else has happened,” said Philomena.

“What's happened?” It sounded like more trouble.

“And I need more money to pay a taxi driver.”

“I'm coming down!”

Jonathan paid the taxi and it drove away in the evening darkness. Philomena hovered at the side of the doors, inside the vestibule, holding her luggage. When Jonathan came back into the building he tentatively faced her, didn't ask her what she was going to do now, didn't want to appear to assume that she wished to come up to his apartment.

“I've missed my train,” she said flatly, aware that the concierge would eavesdrop.

Jonathan nodded, awaited further information.

Wary of being overheard, Philomena leaned into Jonathan and whispered: “Anthony has stolen one of my letters from Dan.”

“He's what?” exploded Jonathan.

Philomena silently shushed him.

“He's stolen one of—”

“Yes, I understood,” said Jonathan. “I just can't believe it.” He remembered where they were, glanced around, saw the concierge not looking at them but almost definitely listening. He turned back to Philomena, whispered, over-enunciating: “Look, I was determined not to ask this, but do you want to come up?”

“May I?” returned Philomena, relieved at his invitation, but not letting on how much.

He nodded and stood aside. Carrying her own bag she crossed the floor, passing close to Jonathan but not touching. They entered the lift and waited for the doors to close. The concierge studiously affected indifference. When the lift jerked into motion Philomena said in her normal voice, “I think the night porter let him into my room when I wasn't there.”

“What did this letter say?” urged Jonathan.

“Nothing relevant. It was from weeks before the end.”

“It's not a letter that mentioned Anthony Dore?”

“No. Dan never mentioned him,” said Philomena.

“Why would Dore steal a letter from Dan to you?” Jonathan puzzled, still searching for a motive.

“I don't know. But I think he has,” said Philomena, sounding rational when in fact all she'd acted upon was a gut feeling and guesswork. “I returned to the hotel and accused the surly porter and he didn't deny—”

Jonathan was incredulous again: “You did what, the who?”

Philomena didn't reply because the lift had jerked to a halt at Jonathan's floor. He led the way to his apartment. The door was ajar the way he'd left it when responding to Philomena's request for help. In the kitchen she neither deposited her luggage nor sat down. He paced, picked up a bottle of brandy, paced.

She said, “I went back and accused the surly porter of accepting money to let someone into my room and he didn't deny it. After that I went to Anthony's house and accused him.”

Jonathan stopped pacing and stared at her. “You did what?”

“Please stop haranguing me,” said Philomena, “I accused Anthony Dore—”

“I'm not haranguing—”

“Just let me explain. I accused Anthony—”

“To his face?” Jonathan interrupted, unable to contain himself.

“I didn't see him. I shouted it, at his house,” said Philomena, making it sound an everyday sort of thing to have done.

Jonathan's jaw dropped open.

“His father came out to warn me off—oh, and Major James was there, but he drove off.” Philomena transferred her paisley bag to her other hand. “So that's how I missed my train,” she said.

“Tell me the beginning of the story,” insisted Jonathan, sitting down at the table.

“You know my sheaf of letters? Well I got onto the train and I noticed that one was missing, and for a moment I just felt desolate that I'd lost it. Then I had this sudden realization that he'd stolen it from my—”

“Not like that. Put your bag down, take your coat off, sit down and tell me everything,” ordered Jonathan.

When she'd finished and he had asked all the questions he needed to, he poured himself a large drink. They sat in silence for a while. Jonathan couldn't help a wry smile.

“What?” she demanded.

“So now you too believe Anthony Dore is guilty of something that you are unable to prove.”

“Yes,” said Philomena, not smiling.

Jonathan blew out a stream of air.

“They're really going to come for us,” he said. “I've been called to appear before my head of chambers first thing.”

“Is that bad? Of course it is. Stupid of me.”

“I'll be expected to resign,” said Jonathan. “They won't be able to back me. What I can't predict is whether Dore'll sue me. If he does I'll have my day, or few days in the sun, picking away at him in the witness stand, but ultimately, no proof. They might not bother suing you as you haven't slandered him.” Philomena's eyes flickered. Jonathan's sixth sensed nudged him. “You haven't told anyone about all this, have you?”

“Yes, I have actually,” admitted Philomena.

“Who?” demanded Jonathan.

“Someone who won't repeat it.”

“Who?”

“A friend,” she soothed.

“Who? Tell me their name.”

“I don't know their name.”

“What? How can they be a friend?”

“Because they are,” said Philomena, shrugging her shoulders.

Jonathan shook his head and looked askance at her.

“She won't tell anyone anything,” stated Philomena.

“So it's a woman?” pounced Jonathan.

“She—won't—tell,” repeated Philomena, separating the words for emphasis. “I trust her. She confided in me and vice versa. She knows I'm not going to go around blabbing, and I know she's not.”

Jonathan appeared to finally accept this. He nodded several
times. But Philomena could see that there was still something eating at him.

“Did you tell her about me?” he asked, his voice catching.

“About you? Yes, you are a major part in the—”

“Did you tell her what I did?” he interrupted.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze, “yes I did tell her.”

Jonathan stood and moved away the few feet to a corner of the room. He stood side-on to a cabinet, running his fingers over the work surface atop it. Philomena rose and went the other way, to the window. Their conversation split into separate trains of thought for a few moments.

“Perhaps I should just announce what I did then I wouldn't have to worry about who knows and who doesn't,” said Jonathan.

“She's a good woman, American, my friend whose name I don't know.”

“In the old days Anthony and I could have had a duel,” Jonathan said.

“You must stay in the law,” said Philomena. “There must be a way.”

“Not that I'm the type. Nor he.”

“Isn't there some kind of appeal you can make?” said Philomena.

Jonathan tossed his head back, emptied his drink. “I'm not sure about this brandy,” he said.

“William Rust is back in his rooms,” murmured Philomena.

“He told me he was going there,” answered Jonathan, restoring their duologue.

“You've seen him again?” asked Philomena.

“Briefly. In hospital. I think he's going to be all right. The police officer in charge is a veteran. He doesn't want to charge him.”

“You
see
,” said Philomena, turning to him, “you help people. People who really need it.”

Jonathan returned to the table, poured himself another drink. “I should have told Dan I'd rigged the game. He would have scrapped the IOU.”

“I don't know if he would,” argued Philomena. “He might have said that the Dores only got rich by cheating anyway. He said that anyone who was rich was crooked in some way, or their ancestor who'd become rich was crooked. He might have argued that it was all right to cheat a crook's descendant. Have you told anyone else?”

“That I rigged the cards? No.”

“It doesn't make it any less of a murder, does it?” said Philomena.

Jonathan looked sharply at her. Anthony Dore was guilty?

Yes, her eyes confirmed, she was saying that. She believed him. Those eyes!

She sat down. He mirrored her.

“That I rigged the game could be used to make Anthony seem like a victim,” Jonathan said, testing her commitment.

“But to use the fact that you dealt the cards he'd have to admit that there was a card game!” she countered, with twice his energy.

His eyes flared. “I didn't deal them, I rigged them,” he
reminded her. “That I confess to it doesn't absolve me. I told you because I was unable to hide the full extent of my involvement any longer—not just out of fear that you might learn it from Anthony Dore's version if it were to be published; I couldn't continue to conceal such a terrible secret from you. It was poison that would only spread.”