Ken Follett - A Dangerous Fortune

“Sit down by me,” Greenbourne commanded. Hugh looked at Maisie. She shrugged and sat down, and Hugh followed suit.

“I hear you two are married,” Greenbourne said.

“Last month,” Hugh said. “My first wife didn’t contest the divorce.” Nora was living with a whisky salesman and it had taken Hugh’s hired detective less than a week to get proof of adultery.

“I don’t approve of divorce,” Greenbourne said crisply. Then he sighed. “But I’m too old to tell people what to do. The century is almost over. The future belongs to you. I wish you the best.”

Hugh took Maisie’s hand and squeezed it.

Greenbourne addressed Maisie. “Will you send the boy to university?”

“I can’t afford it,” Maisie said. “It’s been hard paying the school fees.”

“I’d be glad to pay,” Greenbourne said.

Maisie was surprised. “It’s kind of you,” she said.

“I should have been kinder years ago,” he replied. “I always put you down as a fortune-hunter. It was one of my mistakes. If you were only after money you wouldn’t have married young Pilaster here. I was wrong about you.”

“You did me no harm,” Maisie said.

“I was too harsh, all the same. I don’t have many regrets, but that’s one of them.”

The schoolboys began to file into the hall, the youngest sitting on the floor at the front and the older boys on chairs.

Maisie said to Greenbourne: “Hugh has adopted Bertie legally now.”

The old man turned his sharp eyes on Hugh. “I suppose you’re the real father,” he said bluntly.

Hugh nodded.

“I should have guessed a long time ago. It doesn’t matter. The boy thinks I’m his grandfather, and that gives me a responsibility.” He coughed in an embarrassed way and changed the subject. “I hear the syndicate is going to pay a dividend.”

“That’s right,” Hugh said. He had finally disposed of all the assets of Pilasters Bank, and the syndicate that had rescued the bank had made a small profit. “All the members will get about five percent on their investment.”

“Well done. I didn’t think you’d manage it.”

“The new government in Cordova did it. They handed over the assets of the Miranda family to the Santamaria Harbor Corporation, and that made the bonds worth something again.”

“What happened to that chap Miranda? He was a bad lot.”

“Micky? His body was found in a steamer trunk washed up on a beach on the Isle of Wight. No one ever found out how it got there or why he was inside it.” Hugh had been concerned in the identification of the body: it had been important to establish that Micky was dead, so that Rachel could marry Dan Robinson at last.

A schoolboy came around handing out inky handwritten copies of the school song to all the parents and relatives.

“And you?” Greenbourne said to Hugh. “What will you do when the syndicate is wound up?”

“I was planning to ask your advice about that,” Hugh said. “I’d like to start a new bank.”

“How?”

“Float the shares on the stock market. Pilasters Limited. What do you think?”

“It’s a bold idea, but then you always were original.” Greenbourne looked thoughtful for a moment. “The funny thing is, the failure of your bank actually enhanced your reputation, in the end, because of the way you handled things. After all, who could be more reliable than a banker who manages to pay all his creditors even after he’s crashed?”

“So … do you think it would work?”

“I’m sure of it. I might even put money into it myself.”

Hugh nodded gratefully. It was important that Greenbourne liked the idea. Everyone in the City sought his opinion, and his approval was worth a lot. Hugh had thought his plan would work, but Greenbourne had put the seal on his confidence.

Everyone stood up as the headmaster came in, followed by the housemasters, the guest speaker — a Liberal member of Parliament — and Bertie, the head boy. They took their seats on the platform, then Bertie came to the lectern and said in a ringing voice: “Let us sing the school song.”

Hugh caught Maisie’s eye and she smiled proudly. The familiar notes of the introduction sounded on the piano, and then they all began to sing.

An hour later Hugh left them having tea in Bertie’s study and slipped out through the squash court into Bishop’s Wood.

It was hot, just like that day twenty-six years ago. The wood seemed the same, still and humid under the shade of the beeches and elms. He remembered the way to the swimming hole and found it without difficulty.

He did not climb down the side of the quarry — he was no longer agile enough. He sat on the rim and threw a stone into the pool. It broke the glassy stillness of the water and sent out ripples in perfect circles.

He was the only one left, except for Albert Cammel out in the Cape Colony. The others were all dead: Peter Middleton killed that day; Tonio shot by Micky two Christmases ago; Micky himself drowned in a steamer trunk; and now Edward, dead of syphilis and buried in a cemetery in France. It was almost as if something evil had come up out of the deep water that day in 1866 and entered their lives, bringing all the dark passions that had blighted their lives, hatred and greed and selfishness and cruelty; fomenting deceit, bankruptcy, disease and murder. But it was over now. The debts were paid. If there had been an evil spirit, it had returned to the bottom of the pond. And Hugh had survived.

He stood up. It was time to return to his family. He walked away, then took a last look back.

The ripples from the stone had disappeared, and the surface of the water was immaculately still once again.