“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Think about it. Peter was innocently swimming; Edward ducked him, just out of general nastiness; we all ran away; Edward gave chase — and then Micky cold-bloodedly killed Peter. It has nothing to do with what went before. Why did it happen? What had Peter done?”
“I see what you mean. Yes, it’s puzzled me for years.”
“Micky Miranda murdered Peter Middleton … but why?”
AUGUSTA WAS LIKE A HEN that had laid an egg on the day Joseph’s peerage was announced. Micky went to the house at teatime as usual and found the drawing room crowded with people congratulating her on becoming Countess Whitehaven. Her butler Hastead was wearing a smug smile and saying “my lady” and “your ladyship” at every opportunity.
She was amazing, Micky thought as he watched everyone buzzing around her like the bees in the sunny garden outside the open windows. She had planned her campaign like a general. At one point there had been a rumor that Ben Greenbourne was to get the peerage, but that had been killed by an eruption of anti-Jewish sentiment in the press. Augusta was not admitting, even to Micky, that she had been behind the press coverage, but he was sure of it. In some ways she reminded him of his father: Papa had the same remorseless determination. But Augusta was cleverer. Micky’s admiration for her had grown as the years went by.
The only person who had ever defeated her ingenuity was Hugh Pilaster. It was astonishing how difficult he was to crush. Like a persistent garden weed, he could be stamped on time and time again and he would always grow back straighter and stronger than ever.
Happily, Hugh had been unable to stop the Santamaria railroad. Micky and Edward had proved too strong for Hugh and Tonio. “By the way,” Micky said to Edward over the teacups, “when are you going to sign the contract with Greenbournes?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Good!” Micky would be relieved when the deal was finally sewn up. It had dragged on for half a year, and Papa was now sending angry cables twice a week asking irascibly if he would ever get the money.
That evening Edward and Micky dined at the Cowes Club. Throughout the meal Edward was interrupted every few minutes by people congratulating him. One day he would inherit the title, of course. Micky was pleased. His association with Edward and the Pilasters had been a key factor in everything he had achieved, and greater prestige for the Pilasters would mean more power for Micky.
After dinner they moved to the smoking room. They were among the earliest diners and for a while they had the room to themselves. “I have come to the conclusion that Englishmen are terrified of their wives,” said Micky as they lit their cigars. “It is the only possible explanation for the phenomenon of the London club.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” said Edward.
“Look around you,” Micky said. “This place is exactly like your home, or mine. Expensive furniture, servants everywhere, boring food and unlimited drink. We can eat all our meals here, get our mail, read the newspapers, take a nap, and if we get too drunk to fall into a cab we can even get a bed for the night. The only difference between an Englishman’s club and his home is that there are no women in his club.”
“Don’t you have clubs in Cordova, then?”
“Certainly not. No one would join. If a Cordovan man wants to get drunk, play cards, hear political gossip, talk about his whores, smoke and belch and fart in comfort he does it in his own home; and if his wife is foolish enough to object he slaps her until she sees reason. But an English gentleman is so frightened of his wife that he has to leave the house to enjoy himself. That’s why there are clubs.”
“You don’t seem to be frightened of Rachel. You’ve got rid of her, haven’t you?”
“Sent her back to her mother,” Micky said airily. It had not happened quite that way but he was not going to tell Edward the truth.
“People must notice that she doesn’t appear at ministry functions anymore. Don’t they comment?”
“I tell them she’s in poor health.”
“But everyone knows she’s trying to start a hospital for unmarried women to have babies. It’s a public scandal.”
“It doesn’t matter. People sympathize with me for having a difficult wife.”
“Will you divorce her?”
“No. That would be a real scandal. A diplomat can’t be divorced. I’m stuck with her as long as I’m the Cordovan Minister, I’m afraid. Thank God she didn’t get pregnant before she left.” It was a miracle she hadn’t, he thought. Perhaps she was infertile. He waved at a waiter and ordered brandy. “Speaking of wives,” he said tentatively, “what about Emily?”
Edward looked embarrassed. “I see as little of her as you see of Rachel,” he said. “You know I bought a country house in Leicestershire a while ago — she spends all her time there.”
“So, we’re both bachelors again.”
Edward grinned. “We were never anything else, really, were we?”
Micky glanced across the empty room and saw the bulky form of Solly Greenbourne in the doorway. For some reason the sight of him made Micky feel nervous — which was odd, because Solly was the most harmless man in London. “Here comes another friend to congratulate you,” Micky said to Edward as Solly approached.
When Solly was closer Micky realized he was not wearing his usual amiable smile. In fact he looked positively angry. That was rare. Micky felt intuitively that there was some problem with the Santamaria railroad deal. He told himself that he was worrying like an old woman. But Solly was never angry….
Anxiety made Micky fatuously amicable. “Hello, Solly, old boy — how’s the genius of the Square Mile?”
Solly was not interested in Micky, however. Without even acknowledging the greeting, he rudely turned his vast back on Micky and faced Edward. “Pilaster, you’re a damned cad,” he said.
Micky was astonished and horrified. Solly and Edward were on the point of signing the deal. This was very grave — Solly never quarreled with people. What on earth had brought it about?
Edward was equally mystified. “What the devil are you talking about, Greenbourne?”
Solly reddened and he could hardly speak. “I’ve discovered that you and that witch you call Mother are behind those filthy articles in The Forum.”
“Oh, no!” Micky said to himself in dismay. This was a catastrophe. He had suspected Augusta’s involvement, although he had no evidence — but how on earth had Solly found out?
The same question occurred to Edward. “Who’s been filling your fat head with such rot?”
“One of your mother’s cronies is a lady-in-waiting to the queen,” Solly replied. Micky guessed he was speaking of Harriet Morte: Augusta seemed to have some kind of hold over her. Solly went on: “She let the cat out of the bag — she told the Prince of Wales. I’ve just been with him.”
Solly must be practically insane with anger to speak so indiscreetly about a private conversation with royalty, Micky thought. It was a case of a gentle soul being pushed too far. He could not see how a quarrel such as this could possibly be patched up — certainly not in time for the signing of the contract tomorrow.
He tried desperately to cool the temperature. “Solly, old man, you can’t be sure this story is true—”
Solly rounded on him. His eyes were bulging and he was perspiring. “Can’t I? When I read in today’s newspaper that Joseph Pilaster has got the peerage that was expected to go to Ben Greenbourne?”
“All the same—”
“Can you imagine what this means to my father?”
Micky began to understand how the armor of Solly’s amiability had been breached. It was not for himself that he was angry, but for his father. Ben Greenbourne’s grandfather had arrived in London with a bale of Russian furs, a five-pound note and a hole in his boot. For Ben to take a seat in the House of Lords would be the ultimate badge of acceptance into English society. No doubt Joseph too would like to crown his career with a peerage — his family had also risen by their own efforts — but it would be much more of an achievement for a Jew. Greenbourne’s peerage would have been a triumph not just for himself and his family but for the entire Jewish community in Britain.
Edward said: “I can’t help it if you’re a Jew.”
Micky butted in quickly. “You two shouldn’t let your parents come between you. After all, you’re partners in a major business enterprise—”
“Don’t be a damn fool, Miranda,” Solly said with a savagery that made Micky flinch. “You can forget about the Santamaria railroad, or any other joint venture with Greenbournes Bank. After our partners hear this story, they’ll never do business with the Pilasters again.”
Micky tasted bile in his throat as he watched Solly leave the room. It was easy to forget how very powerful these bankers were — especially the unprepossessing Solly. Yet in a moment of fury he could wipe out all Micky’s hopes with one simple sentence.
“Damned insolence,” Edward said feebly. “Typical Jew.”
Micky almost told him to shut up. Edward would survive the collapse of this deal but Micky might not. Papa would be disappointed and angry and would look for someone to punish, and Micky would bear the brunt of his rage.