Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [97]
“It is, however, by no means common knowledge.”
“Obviously not. My lips are sealed, Russell.”
“Other than the romance of philosophy, what do you make of the journals?”
He looked down at the volume he had held on to, lying across his knee, then picked it up and laid it on top of the others. “A son any man could be proud of,” he said painfully, and went to dress for dinner.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In January 1914, Marsh’s brother Lionel Hughenfort had married a woman named Terèse, who was at least five years older than he, and six months pregnant when they married. She gave birth in early April, and christened the boy Thomas. Lionel died of pneumonia in late May. For the past nine and a half years, the family bank in London had issued cheques twice each month to an accountant in Lyons. He in turn dealt with the distribution of funds to Mme Hughenfort, who moved house a great deal. Once a year, representatives of the London bank travelled to Paris to meet with Terèse and Thomas, in order to reassure themselves—and the family—that the boy and his mother were still alive and receiving their monies.
That was, according to what Alistair and Iris told us Sunday evening and Monday morning, the only contact the boy’s mother would permit. No living Hughenfort had ever seen either member of this truncated branch of the family. This vacuum, inevitably, had been filled over the years by rumour and speculation, with the result that Terèse Hughenfort had become, in the collective mind of the English side, a raddled, aged harlot with bad teeth, hennaed hair, the wrong kind of lace on her garments, and a death-grip on her source of income, young Thomas. While the sixth Duke was alive, nothing further had been done about the boy, apart from an increase in the monies sent to cover the cost of schooling a duke’s nephew. I had the impression that the boy, and Lionel before him, had been sore spots in Henry’s mind, the less prodded the better.
When the title had passed to Marsh during the summer, locating the boy was one of his first tasks. Messages accompanied the next two cheques, and then a stern letter with the third. All three fell into the hole in Lyons. Finally, a bank employee was dispatched with the fourth cheque in hand, and an ultimatum to the Lyons accountant: There would be no further monies if the family did not hear from Mme Hughenfort herself with a suggestion for when and where the family might meet the boy.
She managed to drag the affair out several weeks, claiming a minor ailment, and the boy’s schooling, until the threat was made good, and no cheque was sent on the first of October. She capitulated, but declared that she and the boy would come to London. The Hughenforts would foot the bill, naturally—and (her letter ended, on a spirited note) she expected both tickets and hotel to be first-class; the heir deserved no less.
Phillida was piqued at the effrontery, and would have dumped mother and son in some second-rate establishment near Charing Cross, but Sidney, continuing his amiable support for the boy, had professed himself amused by Mme Hughenfort’s transparent desire for a luxurious holiday, and suggested they grant it. In the end Marsh agreed. He would not, however, place them in one of the very top establishments: That would be a cruelty, to turn the raised eyebrows of staff on a woman with pretensions and a budget. The bank was directed to locate an hotel with ornate decorations and a heavy trade in foreigners who did not know any better, and to reserve a suite for the visitors there.
Terèse and Thomas Hughenfort were to arrive Tuesday, and meet their family for luncheon on Wednesday. Train tickets were sent, a letter of introduction for the hotel—and a supplemental cheque, for “incidental expenses” such as a warm coat for the boy, or (more likely) a new dress for the mother.
We intended to be there when they arrived; in fact, we would be with them long before they arrived: Holmes and I planned to join their small party at the earliest possible moment, namely, when mother and son arrived