Jeffrey Archer - Sons of Fortune

Nat was discharged from St Patrick’s on Thursday evening, and no one on the hospital staff imagined for a moment that Fletcher would still be around by the weekend, despite his mother trying to convince him that he should take it easy. He reminded her there were now only two weeks to go before election day.

During the longest week in his life, Ben Renwick continued to wrestle with his conscience, just as Dr Greenwood must have done forty-three years before him, but Renwick had come to a different conclusion; he felt he’d been left with no choice but to tell both men the truth.

The two combatants agreed to meet at six a.m. on Tuesday morning in Dr Renwick’s office. It was the only time before election day that both candidates had a clear hour in their diaries.

Nat was the first to arrive, as he had hoped to be in Waterbury for a nine o’clock meeting, and perhaps even squeeze in a visit to a couple of commuter stations on the way.

Fletcher hobbled into Dr Renwick’s office at five fifty-eight, annoyed that Nat had made it before him.

‘Just as soon as I get this cast off,’ he said, ‘I’m going to kick your ass.’

‘You shouldn’t speak to Dr Renwick like that, after all he’s done for you,’ said Nat, with a grin.

‘Why not?’ asked Fletcher. ‘He filled me up with your blood, so now I’m half the man I was.’

‘Wrong again,’ said Nat. ‘You’re twice the man you were, but still half the man I am.’

‘Children, children,’ said the doctor, suddenly realizing the significance of his words, ‘there is something a little more serious that I need to discuss with you.’

Both men fell silent after hearing the tone in which they had been admonished.

Dr Renwick came from behind his desk to unlock his safe. He removed a file and placed it on the desk. ‘I have spent several days trying to work out just how I should go about imparting such confidential information to you both.’ He tapped the file with his right index finger. ‘Information that would never have come to my attention had it not been for the senator’s near-fatal accident and the necessity to check both your files.’ Nat and Fletcher glanced at each other, but said nothing. ‘Even whether to tell you separately or together became an ethical issue, and at least on that, it will now be obvious what decision I came to.’ The two candidates still said nothing. ‘I have only one request, that the information I am about to divulge should remain a secret, unless both of you, I repeat, both of you, are willing, even determined, to make it public’

‘I have no problem with that,’ said Fletcher, turning to face Nat.

‘Neither do I,’ said Nat, ‘I am after all, in the presence of my lawyer.’

‘Even if it were to influence the outcome of the election?’ the doctor added, ignoring Nat’s levity. Both men hesitated for a moment, but once again nodded. ‘Let me make it clear that what I am about to reveal is not a possibility or even a probability; it is quite simply beyond dispute.’ The doctor opened the file and glanced down at a birth certificate and a death certificate.

‘Senator Davenport and Mr Cartwright,’ he said, as if addressing two people he’d never met before, ‘I have to inform you that, having checked and double-checked both your DNA samples, there can be no questioning the scientific evidence that you are not only brothers,’ he paused, his eyes returning to the birth certificate, ‘but dizygotic twins.’ Dr Renwick remained silent as he allowed the significance of his statement to sink in.

Nat recalled those days when he still needed to rush to a dictionary to check the meaning of a word. Fletcher was the first to break the silence. Which means we’re not identical.’

‘Correct,’ said Dr Renwick, ‘the assumption that twins must look alike has always been a myth, mainly perpetrated by romantic novelists.’

‘But, that doesn’t explain...’ began Nat.

‘Should you wish to know the answer to any other questions you might have,’ said Dr Renwick, ‘including who are your natural parents, and how you became separated, I am only too happy that you should study this file at your leisure.’ Dr Renwick tapped the open file in front of him once again.

Neither man responded immediately. It was some time before Fletcher said. ‘I don’t need to see the contents of the file.’

It was Dr Renwick’s turn to register surprise.

‘There’s nothing I don’t know about Nat Cartwright,’ Fletcher explained, ‘including the details of the tragic death of his brother.’

Nat nodded. ‘My mother still keeps a picture of both of us by her bedside, and often talks of my brother Peter and what he might have grown up to be.’ He paused and looked at Fletcher. ‘She would have been proud of the man who saved his brother’s life. But I do have one question,’ he added, turning back to face Dr Renwick, ‘I need to ask if Mrs Davenport is aware that Fletcher isn’t her son?’

‘Not that I know of,’ replied Renwick.

‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Fletcher.

‘Because among the many items I came across in this file was a letter from the doctor who delivered you both. He left instructions that it was only to be opened if a dispute should arise concerning your birth that might harm the hospital’s reputation. And that letter states that there was only one other person who knew the truth, other than Dr Greenwood.’

‘Who was that?’ asked Nat and Fletcher simultaneously.

Dr Renwick paused while he turned another page in his file. ‘A Miss Heather Nichol, but as she and Dr Greenwood have since died, there’s no way of confirming it.’

‘She was my nanny,’ said Fletcher, ‘and from what I can remember of her, she would have done anything to please my mother.’ He turned to look at Nat. ‘However, I would still prefer that my parents never find out the truth.’

‘I have no problem with that,’ said Nat. What purpose can be served by putting our parents through such an unnecessary ordeal? If Mrs Davenport became aware that Fletcher was not her son, and my mother were to discover that Peter had never died, and she had been deprived of the chance of bringing up both of her children, the distress and turmoil that would quite obviously follow doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘I agree,’ said Fletcher. ‘My parents are now both nearly eighty, so why resurrect such ghosts of the past?’ He paused for some time. ‘Though I confess I can only wonder how different our lives might have been, had I ended up in your crib, and you in mine,’ he said, looking at Nat.

‘We’ll never know,’ Nat replied. ‘However, one thing remains certain.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Fletcher.

‘I would still be the next governor of Connecticut.’

‘What makes you so confident of that?’ asked Fletcher.

‘I had a head start on you and have remained in the lead ever since. After all, I’ve been on earth six minutes longer than you.’

‘A tiny disadvantage from which I had fully recovered within the hour.’

‘Children, children,’ admonished Ben Renwick a second time. Both men laughed as the doctor closed the file in front of him. ‘Then we are in agreement that any evidence proving your relationship should be destroyed and never referred to again.’

‘Agreed,’ said Fletcher without hesitation.

‘Never referred to again,’ repeated Nat.

Both men watched as Dr Renwick opened the file and first extracted a birth certificate which he placed firmly into the shredder. Neither spoke as they watched each piece of evidence disappear. The birth certificate was followed by a three-page letter dated 11 May 1949, signed by Dr Greenwood. After that came several internal hospital documents and memos, all stamped 1949. Dr Renwick continued to place them one by one through the shredder until all he was left with was an empty file. On top were printed the names Nathaniel and Peter Cartwright. He tore the file into four pieces before offering the final vestige of proof to the waiting teeth of the shredder.