Winterking (1987) Read online

  since been much involved with your studies.

  “So, as it happened, we both missed knowing the good

  Morag. More’s the pity. Such a thoughtful man! Did you

  know that even on his deathbed, seeing his end and seeing as

  well, I might say, that another would soon come after him, he

  had four hundred bottles of the finest porter laid freshly aside

  in the pantry?. . . ”

  Harwood began to fidget in his chair.

  “Yes, I know,” said Wykeham, shaking his head. “It

  would appear he is something of an ass.”

  Harwood looked incredulous. “He says he’s now your

  guardian.”

  Wykeham nodded. “Yes of course,” he put in quickly,

  making as little as possible of the other’s surprise. “My father

  and mother died when I was quite young. A shipping accident I am told, although it hasn’t prevented the lawyers from .. . . Not that I minded.” He paused. “You might skip the

  second page. It’s the third that matters.”

  Harwood shuffled the papers. His forehead wrinkled.

  Damned if he could think of Wykeham at the mercy of

  lawyers and guardians. Frankly, now that he put his mind to

  it, he could not think of anyone less likely to be intimidated

  by men of any stripe. But guardians. That was new. He hadn’t

  suspected Wykeham was an orphan. Without really thinking

  what he was saying, he blurted out: “This Morag fellow left

  some property, is it?”

  “No.”

  “It says— let me find it— a will. . . .”

  Harwood became aware of Wykeham s eyes again.

  “Morag was the executor,” Wykeham said quietly. “It’s

  my grandfather’s will. The property has been in my family for

  years. The executor, who is always a minister of some sort,

  gets the use of the parsonage. Now that Morag is dead there

  is a new man.”

  “Y-yes. Quite,” said Harwood, annoyed at getting it

  wrong and almost stammering. It’s those damn eyes, he

  thought. He was still holding the letter. “But what is this

  business about leaving school?”

  “It begins on the third page,” said Wykeham.

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  Harwood glanced hurriedly at the second sheet but

  realizing Wykeham was watching, he put it aside for the next.

  The first paragraph consisted mainly of accounts: so much

  for tailors, for booksellers, for a wine-merchant. Harwood

  added them mentally and was shocked by the sum. The man’s

  robbing him, Harwood thought, but then he noticed that the

  bills were in every case Wykeham’s. Paid, all paid, Harwood

  thought gloomily. He moved in his chair and settled down

  again to read. There was mention of builders and gardeners

  and a particularly old man, a gamekeeper, who for no reason

  was being especially difficult and then:

  “So I would be obliged, Mr. Wykeham, if you might

  spare a day to come and talk with him.”

  Harwood went back to read it once more.

  “. . . ‘South Wood' is cleared. Morag, to do him credit,

  saw to that last autumn before his decline. He was wonderfully thorough and found twenty new men for the work, each under fifty. Nonetheless, you may be certain, I rechecked the

  Register myself. Not a man born before ’96 and most thirtyish

  or younger. I mean them to start fencing ‘Black Wood’ as soon

  as the ground warms. So there is progress! All the same there

  is rather a hitch up at ‘Black Wood,’ in the Keeper’s Cottage,

  to put it exactly.

  “John Chance he calls himself. The man’s nearly eighty

  and hunched over like a tree in a gale. Still he fairly howled

  when we tried to evict him. He says we ‘daren’t’ move him,

  says he has a paper that gives him rights there, though of

  course he wouldn’t show it. But the police won’t touch him.

  They were boys on the place when Chance was younger. He

  taught them to snare rabbits or some such!!? In any event,

  they’re no help nor want to be. So Chance stays where he is.

  And I am powerless.

  “It’s you he wants. He told me himself, twice. ‘Send me

  the Heir,’ he shouted (shouted, mind you). ‘He'll speak with

  me.’ Naturally, I said it was quite out of the question. But I

  really don’t know what else to do— what with the ground

  almost ready. And the delay will cost! So I would be obliged . . .”

  Harwood skimmed the rest, down to the name, Timothy

  Longford, and a postscript, scribbled precariously close to the

  bottom, inquiring whether Wykeham would be kind enough

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  to secure two volumes, already purchased by Longford and

  only waiting delivery, at a bookseller on Abbey Street.

  Harwood turned the last page over.

  “Is that it?” he asked rather defensively, afraid he had

  missed something else. “You're leaving school in order to fire

  a gamekeeper?”

  Wykeham seemed to concentrate very hard. “In a way I

  suppose I am ,” he said carefully. “Except, of course, I very

  much doubt I shall end up firing him.” He stood. “I just

  wanted to say good-bye.” Wykeham held out his hand.

  “You are serious.”

  As he squeezed Harwood’s fingers Wykeham smiled.

  “It would seem that I must be.”

  2

  .

  Harwood met with two more students after lunch but was

  not, he realized, very helpful. When the latter had gone,

  he spent another half an hour looking through his notes for a

  Saturday morning class on Blake, trying to decipher, without

  quite remembering how it went, the line of an argument he

  had made at least a dozen times. At last, seeing no improvement in his wits, he closed the book resentfully, rose and, taking his coat from his chair, hurried out onto the common

  without thinking to fasten the door. The afternoon was still

  bitter with the hard breath of sleet in the wind. The cold

  went straight through him and he pulled the coat tighter.

  The coat was nearly twelve years old and had a frayed

  collar; little strips of torn lining trailed beneath the hem. He

  could well imagine how he looked in it. For the price of the

  woodcut he might have purchased a better than adequate

  replacement. But the chill wouldn’t last, he was certain, for it

  was nearly April and with the good weather he could get by

  in his shirt-sleeves. Damn, he thought, remembering the

  door.

  In the middle of the common he turned. There were

  puddles all around him; his shoes squelched as he zigzagged

  over the huge brown lawn until he was brought up short

  under the clump of elms. In the shade of vanished summers

  troops of young men had worn away the grass, leaving a patch

  of bare earth. In the drizzle the patch had become a shallow

  pond. Harwood looked about dismally. He was just turning

  his neck when something stirred in the branches: a black

  smear. But when he faced it squarely, he saw it was a crow.

  Its raffish head crooked sideways, absurdly, like a thief caught

  in the act.

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  It’s the money, Harwood thought with a start. He remembered the extraordinary sums he had seen in the letter and knew, in a moment of utterly useless honesty, he would

  have chucked school himself, would have chucked it, in fact,

  a damn sight faster than Wykeham.

  His Grace the Duke of West Redding pulled out his

  watch and, scanning the face, made a mental note to remind

  Maintenance to adjust the wall clock by a minute. He was

  sharply aware of the quiet. As he waited he listened. He

  heard the faint patter of rain on the windows, the distant

  clank of his private elevator as it climbed the two hundred

  eleven feet from the public corridor in the bank’s main lobby.

  The ledger which had been in his personal care for thirty-

  eight of his sixty years lay closed on the desk in front of him.

  Precious little leisure he had had in those years; although,

  truthfully, he had not sought it. He had been eager and

  clever, capable of prodigious work and infinite care. The

  young men of his own generation, who by station and training

  might have seemed more worthy of the chance, had professed

  to be horrified by his diligence, his eighteen-hour days, his

  independent and consuming studies of asset depreciation,

  exclusions and trusts. To be perfectly honest, if by some

  miracle he could have been given a second crack at it, he

  doubted he could have managed it again himself. A miracle

  indeed! The Duke touched the closed ledger with his manicured fingers. He did not choose to open it for one last look.

  This morning, as he dressed, he had found himself

  whistling. He had stood at the window of his town house

  overlooking the Park. Gazing across at the shadowy towers of

  the College, he had seen a quizzical smile reflected back at

  him in the glass. Certainly he had no immediate plans, but it

  was agreeable and stimulating to think of what he still might

  do. On his doorstep he had waved aside his driver and,

  unmindful of the rain, had instead set olf walking. He had

  taken a roundabout route, following the High Street down to

  the river and only then turning, nearly reversing his tracks,

  before heading north again along Chapel Street. Even so, the

  public doors had not yet been opened when he marched into

  the office of the senior clerk.

  "Send me Houseman," the Duke had said.

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  Caught between duty and surprise, the senior clerk had

  sputtered.

  "H e’s quite bright, I believe,” the Duke had said

  reassuringly.

  The clerk had small black eyes and a dry mouth like a

  lizard’s. He had shaken his head slightly. “Your Grace," he

  had said unhappily, “he’s no more than a boy.”

  “He’s twenty-two,” the Duke had said, half to himself,

  . . as I was."

  From behind his desk the Duke rose, large and unbent

  despite his age, and came out into the center of the room just

  as the young man slid the brass cage to his left and stepped

  from the elevator. Houseman himself was tall, only casually

  erect, with thick, long arms and huge square hands which at

  first glance seemed ill suited for quiet tasks with ink and

  paper. Now, although he had been watching for months, the

  Duke found himself studying the young man with renewed

  curiosity.

  He saw clearly what had made the senior clerk nervous.

  Although they met you straight on, Houseman’s alert dark

  eyes, having made their judgment, were inclined to look

  about on their own. For a moment the young man’s face had

  turned, gazing down over the city through the rain. The dull

  sound of thunder rolled on the air. It was not a face, the

  Duke decided, made content by waiting.

  “Thank you for coming,” the Duke greeted him.

  Houseman nodded.

  “You would do me an added favor,” the Duke said, “if

  you would sit in my chair.” His voice was quiet, his own face

  still.

  Houseman’s gaze lingered there a moment, then unhesitatingly he walked behind the desk. But he stood, his back to the room, as though transfixed. On the window, one drop

  edged toward another. When the wind joined them, they fell.

  “They were all betting you would pick Roger Henshaw,”

  the younger man said.

  “He's not gone without notice. Remember that. You will

  have need of him.”

  “I know,” Houseman answered, without irony. “I would

  have picked him if it had been my choice.”

  The Duke smiled.

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  “Then you will remember.” The Duke pulled a second

  chair up to the desk so that at last Houseman sat in the first,

  the great chair, his hands to either side of the ledger.

  Houseman felt at once that the chair suited him as it

  would not a smaller man.

  "What is expected?” he asked.

  “In a very few minutes,” the Duke said, “a young man

  will come here. A summary record of the affairs of his family

  is before you. He does not manage them and will riot, even in

  part, for several years more. For the moment you will deal

  almost exclusively with a man named Longford. There are

  letters concerning him in the vault. From what I have seen

  he is a fool, as the two others I have known in his position

  have been. That does not matter. For thirty-eight years it was

  one of my responsibilities to make certain that the trustees

  and guardians were of no significance. Now it is yours. It is

  entirely legal. Longford holds but a limited copy of the will.

  He cannot begin to imagine its true scope or complexity. The

  full will is here. Its authority, duly granted and affirmed,

  rests— as long as you have the confidence of the heir— with

  you. In time the young man will doubtlessly wish to share

  some little part of it himself but only by way of amusement.

  You will find he really has no interest in day-to-day business.

  It’s the long view you must take with him. If you do, he will

  be generous.”

  The Duke flicked his watch open.

  “He will want to speak with you at some length,” he

  said, “to see what you are like. You must be entirely candid.

  He will make a point of that and yet I shouldn’t worry. It will

  not be a test. If he hadn’t faith in my judgment, 1 should not

  have been here to greet you.”

  “Shall I see him often?” Houseman asked.

  There was such a long silence that Houseman, who

  under other circumstances would have been immune, became embarrassed.

  “Only once,” the Duke said finally. He took a deep

  breath. “That is the reason for this talk. Generally you will

  confer by letter.”

  One side of the older man’s face twitched ever so slightly.

  It would have been kinder, Houseman knew, to ignore it. But

  at the very last moment, when he might have let pity rule

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  him, it struck him that there was something important here

  and he would not let it pass.

  “Yet, Your Grace, you know him. And rather well, b
y

  your description.”

  The Duke did not look up. “I knew the grandfather. Met

  him here in this room.” His head straightened. “Just once,”

  Both men heard the clank of the elevator.

  The Duke was already standing. By the time the brass

  cage slid back he had slipped from the room. Nevertheless

  the door to the outer office remained slightly ajar. There was

  another long silence.

  When the dark young man stepped onto the carpet,

  Houseman found himself listening to the rain rather than

  staring. For a moment the room seemed dwarfed by the

  sound of rain. The young man came no closer and Houseman

  realized that he too was listening. Then the wind changed,

  taking the rain away from the glass. The young man went on

  listening. Small creases turned up at the corner of his mouth.

  “You have my thanks, Your Grace,” Wykeham said fondly.

  With a deep satisfied click the door pulled shut.

  A bell on a hook jingled when he entered the shop.

  The wind had reversed his umbrella, cracking two of its ribs.

  Wykeham abandoned it by the door. A pool of water collected

  under his feet. Trying to get his coat unbuttoned with numb

  fingers, at first he did not notice the woman sitting by the

  warming stove and peering up at him angrily. He dug about

  in his inside pocket for a handkerchief.

  “Is it books you’re wanting?” the woman said impatiently.

  Her voice was foreign. The sound of distant streets rang

  at the back of it, the old faded music of crowded twilight

  streets where as a girl she had walked boldly under the eyes

  of sailors. She had not known then that those same streets

  stretched over the sea nor had she known the dream of the

  man with his black whiskers, a parcel of books in his duffel,

  when he smiled from the doorway.

  “Bod0?” Wykeham asked. The woman’s face, which

  once may have been as haughty and brave as the pictures of

  heroines in her husband’s books, was no longer pretty, but

  when she laughed with surprise he was nearly certain it had

  been so.

  “Do you know it?”

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  “I have stopped there,” he said, coming across the floor

  to stand by her, warming his hands at the stove. Her eyes