A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(35)
She was reluctant to ask but she was more reluctant to remain in ignorance. So she picked her handbag off the floor and opened it, making a pretence of searching for a breath mint as she said in an offhand manner, “I expect the salt air does one a lot of good. How have your nights gone since you’ve been here, darling? Any uncomfortable ones?”
He flicked her a look. “You shouldn’t have insisted I come to his bloody party, Mother.”
“I insisted?” Margaret touched her fingers to her chest.
“ ‘You must go, darling.’ ” He did an uncanny imitation of her voice.
“ ‘It’s been ages since you’ve seen him. Have you even spoken to him on the phone since last September? No? So there you are. Your father will be extremely disappointed if you stay away.’ And we couldn’t have that,”
Adrian said. “Guy Brouard mustn’t ever be disappointed when there’s something he wants. Except he didn’t want it. He didn’t want me here. You were the one who wanted that. He told me as much.”
“Adrian, no. That’s not...I hope...You...you didn’t quarrel with him, did you?”
“You thought he’d change his mind about the money if I showed up to see him in his moment of glory, didn’t you?” Adrian asked. “I’d parade my mug at his stupid party and he’d be so damned happy to see me that he’d finally change his mind and fund the business. Isn’t that what this was all about?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You aren’t suggesting he didn’t tell you about refusing to fund the business, are you? Last September? Our little...discussion? ‘You don’t show enough potential for success, Adrian. Sorry, my boy, but I don’t like throwing my money away.’ Despite how many buckets of cash he distributed elsewhere, of course.”
“Your father said that? ‘So little potential’?”
“Among other things. The idea’s good, he told me. Internet access can always be improved and this does look like the way to do it. But with your track record, Adrian...not that you actually have a track record, which means we’ll now need to examine all the reasons why you don’t.”
Margaret felt the outrage slowly spill its acid into her stomach. “Did he actually...? How dare he.”
“So pull up a chair, son. Yes, do. Ah. You have had your difficulties, haven’t you? That incident in the headmaster’s garden when you were twelve? And what about the hash you made out of university when you were nineteen? Not exactly what one looks for in an individual in whom one plans to make an investment, my boy.”
“He said that to you? He brought those things up? Darling, I’m so sorry,” Margaret said. “I could just weep. And you came over anyway after that? You agreed to see him? Why?”
“Obviously, because I’m a stupid lout.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I thought I’d give it another try. I thought if I could just get this thing going, Carmel and I might...I don’t know...gi ve i t another go. Seeing him—having to put up with whatever he dished out to me—I decided it would be worth it if I could save things with Carmel.”
He’d kept his attention determinedly on the road as he admitted all this, and Margaret felt her heart go out to her son despite all the characteristics about him that frequently maddened her. His life had been so much rougher than the lives of his half-brothers, she thought. And she herself was to blame for so much of what had been rough about it. If she’d allowed him to have more time with his father, the time that Guy had wanted, had demanded, had attempted to get...That had been impossible, of course. But if she’d allowed it, had taken the risk, perhaps Adrian’s way would have been easier. Perhaps she would have less to feel guilty about.
“Did you speak to him again about the money, then? On this visit, dear?” she asked. “Did you ask him to help you with the new business?”
“Didn’t have the chance. I couldn’t get him alone, what with Miss Melontits hanging all over him, making sure I didn’t get a moment to score any of the cash she wanted for herself.”
“Miss...Who?”
“His latest. You’ll meet her.”
“That can’t be her real—”
Adrian snorted. “It should be. She was always hanging round, thrusting them into his face just in case he started thinking of something that didn’t immediately relate to her. Quite the distraction, she provided. So we never talked. And then it was too late.”
Margaret hadn’t asked before because she hadn’t wanted to elicit the information from Ruth, who had sounded on the phone as if she was already suffering enough. And she hadn’t wanted to ask her son as soon as she saw him because she’d needed to assess his state of mind first. But now he’d given her an opening, and she took it.
“How exactly did your father die?”
They were entering a wooded area of the island, where a high stone wall richly covered in ivy ran along the west side of the road while the east side grew thick groves of sycamores, chestnuts, and elms. Between these in places the distant Channel showed through, a sheen of steel in the winter light. Margaret couldn’t imagine why anyone would have wanted to swim there.
Adrian didn’t reply to her question at first. He waited till they’d passed some farmland, and he slowed as they came to a break in the wall where two iron gates stood open. Tiles inset into the wall identified the property as Le Reposoir, and here he turned in to a drive. It led in the direction of an impressive house: four storeys of grey stone surmounted by what looked like a widow’s walk, the inspiration, perhaps, of a former owner who’d undergone some form of enchantment in New England. Dormer windows rose beneath this balustraded balcony, while beneath these windows the fa?ade of the house itself was perfectly balanced. Guy, Margaret saw, had done quite well for himself in retirement. But that was hardly surprising. Towards the house, the drive emerged from the trees that tunneled it and circled a lawn at the centre of which stood an impressive bronze sculpture of a young man and woman swimming with dolphins. Adrian followed this circle and stopped the Range Rover at steps that swept up to a white front door. It was closed and it remained closed as he finally replied to Margaret’s question.