Page 9 of All of Us Murderers

“For God’s sake, will you exert yourself for once in your life!” Bram snapped. “Do you mean to let Hawley have it all? To let that lecher marry a mere child, an innocent, because you cannot bestir yourself to pluck a fortune that is dangled before you?”

“I am not obliged to marry the girl to protect her from other people’s damn fool decisions.”

“You are the damned fool here. You could be rich!”

“Why do you care?” Zeb demanded. “What possible right do you have to speak as if you give a damn for my prosperity?”

“That is unfair,” Bram said, red creeping up his neck. “Legally, I was not obliged—”

“Oh, go to the devil.”

“It was left to my discretion!”

“You played a dirty trick on me and you know it.”

“Listen, will you?” Bram said. “I can emphasise to Wynn that Hawley is despicable, and grossly unfit to marry a young girl. You can present yourself well to Jessamine with a little effort. Together we can ensure she chooses you, and that Wynn supports the choice.”

His brother, offering to support and help him because he cared about Zeb’s future, just like a big brother should. Zeb folded his arms. “All right, what’s the idea?”

“An alliance,” Bram said. “You are idle, irresponsible, and incapable of applying yourself, in no way fit to manage an estate. But Wynn respects my judgement, even if this girl has wormed her way into his favour. So we will present a united front to Wynn. I will inherit and steward Lackaday House, and you will marry the girl, supported by a generous allowance from the estate. Thus Wynn’s house and his charge will both be in good hands, and that wretch Hawley may take himself off back to his stinking stews. What do you say?”

Zeb couldn’t say anything at all for a moment, in the sheer breathlessness of hurt and outrage. “You are proposing that you and I split an inheritance? That I stake my future on being your pensioner? You are proposing that to me? Are you joking?”

“I am perfectly willing—”

“Rubbish.” Zeb was quivering with anger old and new. “Absolute rubbish. I don’t know if the worst part of it is that you think I’m stupid enough to believe you, or that you believe it yourself while it’s coming out of your mouth. You puffed-up hypocritical fraud.”

Bram’s face reddened even more. “I can make or break you in Wynn’s eyes. If you and I work together, we can secure this. Go against me, and I will ensure he doesn’t entrust the house or the fortune to you, even if you get your hands on Jessamine. And since you can scarcely afford a wife—”

“You are in no position to talk about people who can’t afford their wives!”

“Mind your tongue. All I need do is speak to Wynn and you will be out on your ear tomorrow,” Bram snarled.

“Please do. I’d be delighted to leave.”

“Spare me the cant, Zebedee. And drop this pretence of disinterest. You aren’t interested in a fortune, when you have no home or job or prospects to return to?

Ha. I see what it is: you are trying to claim the moral high ground, angling for the inheritance as blatantly as Hawley.

Well, I won’t have it. I won’t be pushed out of the way by your plotting. ”

He turned on that and marched off. Zeb banged his fist on a standing stone, in lieu of his brother’s nose.

There were a number of things he would have liked to say—heated denials, a recap of the reasons he had to resent Bram, or simply five minutes’ analysis of his brother’s personality and appearance.

Mostly, however, he just wanted to leave.

But he wouldn’t be doing that, since he’d let Wynn talk him into staying, so he should probably make the best of things.

With that in mind, he took a brisk walk to the wall and back, for health, or at least to let his annoyance reduce to a simmer, and then returned to the house.

He brought his satchel, pen, and paper down to the library, in the hope that none of his relatives would choose that room to sit in.

Bram, a critic by trade, only read books in order to pronounce a public verdict on them, and Zeb doubted that Hawley had ever read a book in his adult life. He wasn’t interested in other people.

It was blissfully empty and he settled down at the desk. The chair was placed with its back to the many-paned window, letting him see the door, but he nevertheless built a quick wall of books in case anyone came in, so he could snatch his papers out of the way before they were observed.

It didn’t take him long to find his place. He’d spent much of the journey here thinking through what he needed to do, and itching to do it, and he was soon entirely lost in his work.

“Zeb!”

The voice cut through his absorption. Zeb hated being disturbed from deep thought; it had all the unappealing qualities of being woken from deep sleep, and nobody ever apologised for doing it.

In fact, they generally seemed to behave as if Zeb had wronged them by cruelly forcing them to ask for his attention twice.

He blinked dizzily at his papers now, swimming up from the depths to reorient himself: library, Lackaday House, Gideon—

Gideon?

“What the—”

Gideon was standing right by him, looking tense, or possibly annoyed. Zeb swept his papers up, ruffled and embarrassed. “I didn’t hear you come in. Will you please cough or something?”

“I did cough.”

“Cough louder.”

“Pay more attention.”

“I was paying attention,” Zeb snapped. “I was working. I can’t help it if you sneak up—”

“I walked up. I can’t help it if you don’t listen.”

“I don’t listen when I’m concentrating, as you very well know! That’s what concentration is!”

It was an all too familiar argument, which had used to be affectionate.

Zeb tended to alternate between wildly skittering thoughts—Gideon had called them ‘quicksilver’—and deep absorption in a subject to the exclusion of all else, whereas Gideon could apply himself an appropriate amount to the thing he was meant to be doing.

Zeb had no idea how Gideon could do it so easily. Gideon had no idea why Zeb couldn’t.

He didn’t want to think about that, or talk about it either.

“Was there something?” he asked. “I assume you’re not just here for a chat. Oh, actually, I should probably warn you, you’re going to be assailed by my relatives. Bram intends to tell you off for filling Jessamine’s head with ghost stories.”

Gideon blinked. “I haven’t done that.”

“Well, she is convinced you saw a ghostly monk and is telling everyone so. Bram disapproves of the very mention of ghosts, but Hawley is going to bother you about it in order to impress Jessamine by pretending to believe her, and that will doubtless put you between a rock and a hard place. My advice is to say something provocative about modern art and leg it while they’re shouting. ”

Gideon’s lips twitched. It was just for a second, and Zeb could see him suppress it, but it was there, and with that tiny near-smile Zeb’s heart hurt all over again, as if it was a year ago, the wound still fresh.

Just memory, he reminded himself. Just echoes of past feelings. It didn’t matter any more.

“Noted,” Gideon said, and then added, almost reluctantly, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Did you want me? That is, you came to find me. Was there a reason for that, is what I meant.”

“Uh. Yes. Yes, there is. You told Wynn you wanted to leave.”

“I did. I do.”

“Good,” Gideon said briskly. “Are you packed? I can order the motor now.”

“Did Wynn say to do that?”

“He doesn’t have to give me step-by-step instructions. You want to leave, I want you to leave, so—”

“No, but I said I wouldn’t leave,” Zeb said. “Wynn and I discussed it and I agreed to stay.”

Gideon’s face hardened visibly. “Of course you did.”

“There’s no of course about it. I’d very much rather not be here, but he asked me in terms I couldn’t refuse.”

“Of course. So you’ll just have to stay here, looking nobly above the undignified scramble for inheritance? Very effective.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Zeb demanded. “Gideon, this is me. You know perfectly well—”

“I know your work ethic perfectly well; I was your supervisor long enough,” Gideon snarled, low-voiced and furious.

“I dare say never having to lift a finger again would suit you no worse than it would suit most people. Just stop playacting, for God’s sake.

If I have to sit here watching you woo your damned cousin, you could at least be honest about what you’re doing! ”

“I’m not!” Zeb yelped. “I don’t want any part of this, and I’m not wooing Jessamine and—are you jealous?”

Gideon’s pale skin had always been treacherous. The colour flamed in his cheeks now, an ugly red. “Go to hell,” he said thickly. “Go to hell, Zeb.”

He walked out on that. Zeb stared after him.