Page 7 of All of Us Murderers

Zeb had had several things to say about that tale, but the last sentence struck it all from his mind. “He did what?”

“He made a bargain. He would grow old, but no wife or child of his should do the same. He married immediately, in the hope of children to exchange for his own longevity, and some say he murdered his first wife when it became apparent the marriage would not be fruitful.” He smiled. “Superstition does slander the dead.”

“Wait. What do you mean, bargain? With whom? Are we talking about a deal with the devil?”

“Such is the story.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Zeb said. “The old buzzard sat around with skulls and pentagrams or what-have-you, chanting Latin and selling souls? How absolutely typical of this family. Although, where is this story from? It can’t be Walter: he’d hardly tell people.

‘By the way, I sacrificed your soul to Satan, hope you don’t mind’—”

“It is no laughing matter!”

“Oh, it’s ridiculous,” Zeb said. “I’ll take your word Walter did something like that, and one might well look askance at the number of wives he got through, but really, what a lot of nonsense.”

“The facts speak for themselves. Walter lived to seventy-eight. No other Wyckham since his bargain has reached fifty.”

“It happens! People get ill. Childbirth is dangerous. There are accidents. Your father, uh—”

“He drowned in the mire, out walking one misty winter’s day. He stepped off the path, and the treacherous ground pulled him under. A long, slow, agonising death, crying out for help that never came. He was forty-seven.”

That was rather more detail than Zeb had wanted.

“Yes, fine—not fine, I’m very sorry to hear it—but the point is, he had an accident.

My father had a cancer. Hawley’s father was killed in a brawl in a public house.

These things happen, especially if you’re Hawley’s father; I’m amazed it took him so long to get his head kicked in. It’s a matter of chance.”

“Chance? Then consider this piece of chance: I had my forty-ninth birthday in June. A few weeks later, I saw my doctor. He gave me less than a year.”

Zeb’s jaw dropped. Wynn nodded slowly. “I have never mentioned the Wyckham curse to him; he would mock as you did. And yet he told me in so many words that I will not see my fiftieth birthday.”

“Good God,” Zeb said blankly. “Really? Good God. I am so very sorry, Wynn. I had no idea. You are seeking help? Have you had a second opinion?”

“There is nothing to be done. Man’s allotted span is three score years and ten, the Good Book tells us, but not for Wyckhams. Not for Walter’s wives or children, and it seems not for his grandchildren either. Unless we take Walter’s route, eh?”

“Wynn, stop this. You can’t just sit down and wait to die because of superstition.”

“It is not superstition that will kill me.” Wynn patted his heart. “Don’t worry about me, dear boy. I shall face my fate in my own way. And that information was for you alone, hmm? Don’t tell Jessamine. Don’t tell anyone. I want your word on that.”

“But—”

“I mean it. I don’t want it put about, especially now, with the inheritance unresolved. I have only told you this so you understand that I am not asking lightly when I beg that you will stay.”

“Yes, but—”

“I want to order my affairs as best I can,” Wynn said.

“I want to be sure of Jessamine, and Lackaday House, and of the hands they will both go into. But I have very little time left to me, so I ask you once more, Zebedee, as a dying man. Promise me to stay for this fortnight and to consider my offer with an open mind. I will not resent whatever decision you make, but please, give me this time. Call it a meaningless comfort to a superstitious old fool, if you choose. But you can help me face the end knowing I have done my best. I would be grateful for that.”

Zeb felt his shoulders sag, but there was no choice at all. “Yes. Of course I will.”

***

All of that had swallowed the morning. Luncheon at Lackaday House proved to be an exceedingly informal affair, with cold chicken, bread, and cheese.

Elise did not take luncheon; Bram attended in angry, offended silence that reminded Zeb of too many meals with their father.

Hawley made it down late, his heavy lids suggesting he’d been up half the night with two prostitutes and a bottle of brandy.

“Morning, bright eyes,” Zeb said. Jessamine giggled.

Hawley gave a lazy grin. He was a very handsome man in his louche way; he looked like he’d give you an extremely good time, and also the clap.

“Sarcasm so early, Zeb? Please. And you must be my new cousin, Jessamine.” He gave her a very slow up-and-down, well balanced to seem fascinated rather than intrusive. “Ah, yes. Yes, I see.”

“See what?” Zeb asked, hoping he wouldn’t have to do something chivalrous. Hawley was bigger than him.

“How I would paint you,” Hawley replied to Jessamine, holding her gaze.

Bram gave a very audible snort. “You mean, with splashes and daubs of the sickly shades you favour? Jessamine’s likeness deserves to be a likeness, not an upended palette.”

“For a man who looks at so much art, you don’t see,” Hawley said, with the passionate intensity he always adopted for discussion of Art, capital A. “You have a very limited vision of portraiture.”

“If by that you mean I have standards—something of which nobody could accuse you—”

“On the contrary. I have superb taste.” Hawley sent an admiring glance at Jessamine, who was watching round-eyed. “You see what you are told to see, Bram, and order other people to see the same things. I see Beauty.”

It was going to be like that, then. Zeb had neither the skill nor the desire to compete with Hawley in the matter of seducing young women, but he didn’t want to sit here watching him charm the girl and make Bram look like a smug prick, although that was admittedly not hard.

He wondered if Elise would take a hand, and which of the men she’d want to spite more.

He looked away, and saw Gideon watching the show.

He was seated at the end of the table, eating in silence as he had last night.

His expression was neutral, but Zeb would have put money that it hid contempt, and he couldn’t blame the man.

Gideon had a good face for contempt, too, with deep-set, pale blue eyes, and that authoritative nose, which radiated disapproval all by itself.

If this house was really on the site of an ancient evil monastery, Gideon would have been perfectly cast as the sinister abbot with who knew what crimes lurking under his cassock.

It was hard to believe, looking at him now, that he ever smiled.

That was dismally wrong. He was a serious man, but Zeb knew, none better, how much his eyes could warm and crinkle at the edges, how his face could light up with amusement or desire or love—

“Cousin Zeb!” Jessamine said, possibly not for the first time.

“You are being addressed,” Bram snapped, adding, “Oaf.”

“Uh—right. Sorry, Jessamine, I was miles away. What was that?”

“I found the book, Cousin Zeb,” Jessamine announced. “I read the first chapter. It’s awfully strange, isn’t it? I’m not sure I like it, but I want to read on.”

“What book is that, my dear?” Bram asked in an indulgent sort of way.

“The Monastery. By Walter Wyckham.”

“You gave her that, Zebedee?” Bram said, brows gathering like thunderclouds. “What absurd irresponsibility!”

“It’s Cousin Wynn’s copy, from the library,” Zeb protested. “I’m not sure I’d start with that one, but I read them at her age.”

“You are not a young lady.”

“It is my great-grandfather’s book,” Jessamine said. “And I want to read it. I must read it.”

That sounded a bit fervent. Young people were exhausting, Zeb thought with the wisdom of twenty-eight.

“I went to the stone circle earlier,” he remarked to the table, changing the subject without shame.

“I’d like to take a walk around the grounds and see all the follies after lunch. Would anyone care to join me?”

“Oh, I will show you!” Jessamine exclaimed.

“I cannot resist such a tour guide,” Hawley said, laughing at her in a charming sort of way.

“Bram knows the grounds already, of course, having spent so much time here making himself pleasant to Wynn. I dare say you will want to attend your wife this afternoon, Bram: I suppose she has the head-ache? She so often does.”

Bram’s face darkened. Zeb put in hastily, “I’d love a tour. Do you know, Jessamine, are there any remnants of this monastery the house was built on?”

“Of the what?” Bram demanded, diverted. “Monastery? Here? Nonsense.”

“It is not,” Jessamine said. “Cousin Wynn told me. It was a place of terrible crimes—”

The ensuing conversation, or argument, about Lackaday House’s alleged monastic origins went on for some time. Zeb fixed his eyes on his plate, rotated his ankles under the table as if flexing his feet was a substitute for escape, and wished one could eat lunch with fingers in one’s ears.

“It is not!” Jessamine shouted, the volume making him look up.

“Of course it is,” Bram said.

She was clearly upset, with reddening cheeks and sparkling eyes. “It is not imagination,” she said fiercely. “We have seen it. I have seen it.”

“Miss Jessamine, Mr. Wynn prefers you not to discuss this subject,” Gideon said quietly. “He asked that you respect that.”

“But it’s true! He knows it is true, and so do you!”

“Really?” Hawley said. “You’ve seen a ghost, Grey?”

He sounded mocking. Jessamine said, “Don’t laugh,” in a low, almost savage tone.

“Don’t fire up, sweet cousin,” Hawley told her.

“Although you do look remarkably well when you’re angry; I wish more women had that gift.

I’m sure Bram does too, given dear Elise’s temper.

But I am not laughing at you, believe me.

I don’t know what you have seen, but I quite believe that the earth could have bubbles, just as water does.

There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy. ”

“How original,” Bram muttered.

“You sounded sceptical,” Jessamine said.

“Did I? Perhaps it is simply that Mr. Grey does not strike me as a man to whom visions would be given,” Hawley said, with a touch of sneer.

“I associate such things with the airy, artistic, imaginative soul, not the administrative one. I quite believe you have that temperament, Jessamine; I venture to say I do too. If there are spirits to be seen, I hope I shall see them. Perhaps we might go ghost-hunting together.”

Gideon said, sharply, “Don’t—” and stopped as abruptly.

“Don’t?” Hawley said. “No, what was that you started to say, Grey? Don’t what?”

“I beg your pardon.” Gideon’s mouth was tight.

Hawley’s lips curled. “You fascinate me. I must know now. What did you see?”

“Mr. Wynn does not want this subject spoken of.”

Hawley’s nostrils flared. He never liked refusals. “I asked you a question, Grey. You will answer me.”

“He doesn’t work for you,” Zeb said. Maybe Gideon hated him and always would; Zeb still wasn’t going to sit here while Hawley picked on him. “Ask Wynn about it, if you’re so interested. It’s a lovely day out there. Who’s coming for this walk?”