Page 26 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
He didn’t have the luxury of fine feelings, nor the time for compassion. He had lived his whole life on the knife’s edge of survival, and now he had a chance to earn his way back to the only place on earth where he thought he might belong. He was a swindler, born and bred; a creature of back alleys, smoke and mirrors, whispers and lies. He didn’t know any other way to be.
CHAPTERTEN
Turner was being devilish slippery. One minute he was holding Lawrence’s hand, and the next he was sliding away whenever Lawrence got too near. Which just went to show that Lawrence would never understand how other people worked. Machines had the decided advantage in predictability, even this bloody machine, which had just suffered its third short circuit of the afternoon.
“Bugger and fuck,” he muttered. “Shite.”
No reaction from Turner’s desk, not even a flash of the impertinence Lawrence had come to look forward to.
There was a coughing sound from the doorway, and Lawrence turned to see Halliday.
“What do you want?”
“A friendly visit, Radnor.” The vicar’s voice had that irritatingly soothing register that people used on invalids and children. And fully grown madmen, apparently.
“Not interested.” Lawrence went back to his work.
“Perhaps I’ll see the vicar out?” That was Turner, taking any opportunity to put distance between himself and Lawrence. “I have to speak with Mrs. Ferris about tea, anyway. She’s sending up enough scones and muffins for a score of people, and while they’re delicious, I thought that she could perhaps send a basket over to the Kemps instead.”
Lawrence thought he heard Halliday repeat “scones and muffins” in tones of incredulity, as if it were so very remarkable that such items were present at Penkellis. Just because Lawrence preferred the same foods every day—it was one less thing to think about, and a very sensible practice he was surprised more men didn’t adopt—didn’t mean he was a stranger to the notion of variety. Even if hehadforgotten about it during the first weeks of Turner’s employment.
But as he got used to having Turner around, the habits of ordinary life gradually returned to him. At first he felt like he was remembering details from a book about the customs of a foreign land, vague and unfamiliar. People ate at regular hours, so he had Mrs. Ferris send proper meals for the secretary. People’s living quarters were generally not festooned with cobwebs, so he had Janet tidy up the blue bedchamber. People—at least wealthy people—had baths drawn in their bedchambers, instead of washing at the pump, so Lawrence hauled bathwater up three flights of stairs.
Turner had gotten slippery immediately afterwards. Lawrence had now endured two days of painstaking efficiency and indifferent cordiality. Gone was the man who had asked appalling personal questions. Now the secretary moved silently about the room, writing things down, putting things away. Every piece of furniture had been turned upside down and inside out, its contents cataloged and labeled in Turner’s neat copperplate hand. He was invisible and efficient, and exactly the sort of secretary Lawrence might have wished for a month ago.
Lawrence was well and truly sick of it.
“Excellent idea. Capital,” Halliday agreed, and he and Turner left together. Barnabus trotted alongside, because he was a wretched turncoat and eight years of loyalty meant nothing compared to the fact that Turner kept bits of muffin in his coat pocket.
To hell with all of them. Lawrence liked being alone. This notion he had gotten into his head about enjoying Turner’s company was nothing more than a delusion. He was mad, and mad people had strange turns of mind. That was all. It would be much more remarkable if he didnothave episodes of delusion, all things considered.
Then why did he feel like he was lying to himself? Surely not. Did Turner’s dispassionate, straightforward argument that Lawrence was not in fact mad really amount to anything but the pretty speech of a man much accustomed to giving pretty speeches?
Now that was a thought. Lawrence pushed away the cursed battery and leaned back in his chair. What made him so certain that Turnerwasskilled in flattery? Perhaps because it had been Isabella’s stock in trade, Lawrence had learned to detect a honeyed tongue.
Perhaps because Turner, like Isabella, only wanted to get close to Lawrence for a reason.
Now, as to what that reason might be, Lawrence could only speculate. Isabella had found herself pregnant and in need of a husband. Lawrence hadn’t seen any reason not to oblige her. Oh, he had been very, very young and shockingly naive. But at least he had gotten Simon out of the bargain, for however brief a time.
Too late, he remembered to tuck that thought away with the rest of his memories of Simon.
But why was Turner here? What did he need from Lawrence? It was time he gave Turner’s motives serious consideration. Secretaries didn’t have dubious upbringings and they didn’t know how to wrestle men nearly twice their size. And even if they did, a secretary of Turner’s competence didn’t volunteer for a post miles from any civilization.
After Turner had made that comment about Penkellis being filled with items a person might find worth stealing, Radnor had half expected the secretary to disappear with an assortment of treasures. But he was still here, and so were all the things that might be stolen. At least, he assumed they were. It wasn’t as if he took an inventory of the place. But he had to suppose that Mrs. Ferris would mention any significant theft.
Wouldn’t she? It wasn’t as if Lawrence had encouraged his servants to speak to him. Quite the contrary.
It had been a quarter of an hour since Turner left, more than enough time for the man to have finished his business in the kitchen. Lawrence could safely venture forth without worrying about running into him in the corridors and having to watch the man make an excuse to slide away.
Just to be safe, he took a winding route to the back of the house. His path took him through what had once been the portrait gallery. Strictly speaking, it still was the portrait gallery, even if the portraits were draped in cobwebs and covered in a film of dust and soot. His ancestors appeared to be regarding him from behind a mist.
How many of these Earls of Radnor had been mad? In pride of place was a portrait of Father and Percy, and it might have looked like the portrait of any other father and son, if you didn’t know that Percy, at the time he sat for the portrait, was making a habit of raping the kitchen maid. Father was too drunk to notice or too proud to care. But they looked quite respectable in the painting, as did all the rest of the earls and countesses and assorted Browne family hangers-on who were captured in oil and canvas.
Radnor caught his own murky reflection in a clouded window. He didn’t even look respectable. He looked positively disreputable, like a well-fed medieval hermit, only worse. His beard would not have been out of place on a prison ship. He had put on a jacket so as to avoid embarrassing Sally—Mrs. Ferris, he reminded himself—but still managed to look like a castaway.
Good. Quite right for the outside appearance of a man to reflect his inner character. This way, anyone would know straightaway to keep their distance. That was safer for everybody. Turner had the right idea in staying away. They had been getting closer than any madman deserved, sharing kisses and confidences like a pair of courting lovers.
The other night when he had visited the kitchens, they had been cold and dark and quiet. Now, poised on the top step, he could hear women laughing and smell meat roasting. If one didn’t know better, one might think this was an ordinary kitchen in an ordinary house. He descended a few more steps and picked up bits of conversation.
