All the Pilasters were ugly, but Samuel was the worst, she thought. He had the big nose, but he also had a weak, womanish mouth and irregular teeth. He was a fussy man, immaculately dressed, fastidious about his food, a lover of cats and a hater of dogs.
But what made Augusta dislike him was that of all the men in the family he was the most difficult to persuade. She could charm old Seth, who was susceptible to an attractive woman even at his advanced age; she could generally get around Joseph by wearing down his patience; George Hartshorn was under Madeleine’s thumb and so could be manipulated indirectly; and the others were young enough to be intimidated, although Hugh sometimes gave her trouble.
Nothing worked on Samuel — least of all her feminine charms. He had an infuriating way of laughing at her when she thought she was being subtle and clever. He gave the impression that she was not to be taken seriously — and that offended her mortally. She was much more wounded by Samuel’s quiet mockery than she was at being called an old bitch by a trollop in the park.
Today, however, Samuel did not wear that amused, skeptical smile. He looked angry, so angry that for a moment Augusta was alarmed. He had obviously come early in order to find her alone. It struck her that for two months she had been conspiring to ruin him and that people had been murdered for less than that. He did not shake her hand, but stood in front of her, wearing a pearl-gray morning coat and a deep wine-red tie, smelling faintly of cologne. Augusta held up her hands in a defensive gesture.
Samuel gave a humorless laugh and moved away. “I’m not going to strike you, Augusta,” he said. “Though heaven knows you deserve a whipping.”
Of course he would not touch her. He was a gentle soul who refused to finance the export of rifles. Augusta’s confidence came back in a rush, and she said disdainfully: “How dare you criticize me!”
“Criticize?” he said, and the rage flashed again in his eyes. “I don’t stoop to criticize you.” He paused, then spoke again in a voice of controlled anger. “I despise you.”
Augusta could not be intimidated a second time. “Have you come here to tell me that you are willing to give up your vicious ways?” she said in a ringing voice.
“My vicious ways,” he repeated. “You’re willing to destroy my father’s happiness and make my own life miserable, all for the sake of your ambition, and yet you can talk about my vicious ways! I believe you’re so steeped in evil that you’ve forgotten what it is.”
He was so convinced and passionate that Augusta wondered if perhaps it really was wicked of her to threaten him. Then she realized he was trying to weaken her resolve by playing on her sympathy. “I’m only concerned for the bank,” she said coldly.
“Is that your excuse? Is that what you’ll tell the Almighty, on the Day of Judgment, when he asks you why you blackmailed me?”
“I’m doing my duty.” Now that she felt in control again she began to wonder why he had come here. Was it to concede defeat — or to defy her? If he gave in she could rest assured that soon she would be the wife of the Senior Partner. But the alternative made her want to bite her nails. If he defied her there was a long, difficult struggle ahead, with no certainty of the outcome.
Samuel went to the window and looked out at the garden. “I remember you as a pretty little girl,” he said meditatively. Augusta grunted impatiently. “You used to come to church in a white dress with white ribbons in your hair,” he went on. “The ribbons didn’t fool anyone. You were a tyrant even then. Everyone used to walk in the park after the service, and the other children were scared of you, but they played with you because you organized the games. You even terrorized your parents. If you didn’t get what you wanted you could throw a tantrum so noisy that people would stop their carriages to see what was going on. Your father, God rest his soul, had the haunted look of a man who cannot understand how he has brought such a monster into the world.”
What he was saying was close to the truth and it made her uncomfortable. “That all happened years ago,” she said, looking away.
He went on as if she had not spoken. “It’s not for myself that I’m worried. I’d like to be Senior Partner, but I can live without it. I’d be a good one — not as dynamic as my father, perhaps; more of a teamworker. But Joseph isn’t up to the job. He’s bad-tempered and impulsive, and he makes poor decisions; and you make it worse, by inflaming his ambition and clouding his vision. He’s all right in a group, where others can guide him and restrain him. But he can’t be the leader, his judgment isn’t good enough. He’ll harm the bank, in the long run. Don’t you care about that?”
For a moment Augusta wondered if he was right. Was she in danger of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs? But there was so much money in the bank that they could never spend it all even if none of them ever did another day’s work. Anyway, it was ridiculous to say that Joseph would be bad for the bank. There was nothing very difficult about what the partners did: they went into the bank, read the financial pages of the newspapers, loaned people money and collected the interest. Joseph could do that as well as any of them. “You men always pretend that banking is complex and mysterious,” she said. “But you don’t fool me.” She realized that she was being defensive. “I’ll justify myself to God, not to you,” she said.
“Would you really go to my father, as you have threatened?” Samuel said. “You know it could kill him.”
She hesitated only for an instant. “There is no alternative,” she said firmly.
He stared at her for a long time. “You devil, I believe you,” he said.
Augusta held her breath. Would he give in? She felt that victory was almost in her grasp, and in her imagination she heard someone say respectfully, Allow me to present Mrs. Joseph Pilaster — the wife of the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank….
He hesitated, then spoke with obvious distaste. “Very well. I shall tell the others that I don’t wish to become Senior Partner when my father retires.”
Augusta repressed a smile of triumph. She had won. She turned away to conceal her elation.
“Enjoy your victory,” Samuel said bitterly. “But remember, Augusta, that we all have secrets — even you. One day someone will use your secrets against you this way, and you’ll remember what you did to me.”
Augusta was mystified. What was he referring to? For no reason at all the thought of Micky Miranda came into her mind, but she pushed it aside. “I have no secrets to be ashamed of,” she said.
“Don’t you?”
“No!” she said, but his confidence worried her.
He gave her a peculiar look. “A young lawyer called David Middleton came to see me yesterday.”
For a moment she did not understand. “Should I know him?” The name was disturbingly familiar.
“You met him once, seven years ago, at an inquest.”
Suddenly Augusta felt cold. Middleton: that had been the name of the boy who drowned.
Samuel said: “David Middleton believes that his brother Peter was killed — by Edward.”
Augusta wanted desperately to sit down, but she refused to give Samuel the satisfaction of seeing her rattled. “Why on earth is he trying to make trouble now, after seven years?”
“He told me he was never satisfied with the inquest, but he remained silent for fear of causing his parents even more distress. However, his mother died soon after Peter, and his father died this year.”
“Why did he approach you — not me?”
“He belongs to my club. Anyway, he has re-read the inquest records and he says that there were several eyewitnesses who were never called to give evidence.”
There certainly were, Augusta thought anxiously. There was mischievous Hugh Pilaster; a South American boy called Tony or something; and a third person who had never been identified. If David Middleton got hold of one of them the whole story might come out.
Samuel was looking thoughtful. “From your point of view it was a pity the coroner made those remarks about Edward’s heroism. That made people suspicious. They would have believed that Edward stood on the edge dithering while a boy drowned. But everyone who’s ever met him knows he wouldn’t cross the street to help someone, let alone dive into a pool to rescue a drowning boy.”
This sort of talk was complete rubbish, and insulting too. “How dare you,” Augusta said, but she could not muster her usual tone of authority.
Samuel ignored her. “The schoolboys never believed it. David had been to the same school not many years earlier and he knew many of the older boys. Talking to them increased his suspicions.”
“The whole idea is absurd.”
“Middleton is a quarrelsome individual, like all lawyers,” Samuel said, heedless of her protests. “He’s not going to let this rest.”
“He doesn’t frighten me in the least.”
“That’s good, because I’m sure you’ll be receiving a visit from him soon.” He went to the door. “I won’t stay for tea. Good afternoon, Augusta.”
Augusta sat down heavily on a sofa. She had not foreseen this — how could she? Her triumph over Samuel was blighted. That old business had come up again, seven years later, when it ought to have been completely forgotten! She was dreadfully frightened for Edward. She could not bear anything bad to happen to him. She held her head to stop it throbbing. What could she do?
Hastead, her butler, came in, followed by two parlormaids with trays of tea and cakes. “With your permission, madam?” he said in his Welsh accent. Hastead’s eyes seemed to look in different directions and people were never quite sure which one to concentrate on. At first this was disconcerting, but Augusta was used to him. She nodded. “Thank you, madam,” he said, and they began to set out the china. Augusta could sometimes be soothed by Hastead’s obsequious manner and the sight of servants doing her bidding; but today it did not work. She got up and went to the open French doors. The sunny garden did nothing for her either. How was she going to stop David Middleton?
She was still agonizing over the problem when Micky Miranda arrived.
She was glad to see him. He looked as fetching as always, in his black morning coat and striped trousers, a spotless white collar around his neck, a black satin tie knotted at his throat. He saw that she was distressed and he was instantly sympathetic. He came across the room with the grace and speed of a jungle cat, and his voice was like a caress: “Mrs. Pilaster, what on earth has upset you?”
She was grateful that he was the first to come. She grabbed him by the arms. “Something frightful has happened.”
His hands rested on her waist, as if they were dancing, and she felt a shiver of pleasure as his fingertips pressed her hips. “Don’t be distressed,” he said soothingly. “Tell me about it.”