Read Online A Ghost at the Door by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Dobbs
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Flatt’s on Harrington Sound. Everyone
knows that, don’t they, now?’
‘She ever been married that you know of?’
Vince scrunched up his face. ‘Nah. Not that I know. No way, not her. She’s not a – you know, what d’you call them? – a woman’s woman. That’s not what I
mean. She just seems a little old-fashioned. Catholic. From Ireland, I guess.’
‘I think she may have been a business partner of my father’s.’
‘What does he say?’
‘Not much. He’s dead.’
Vince spent a moment digesting the information. It seemed clear that Harry wouldn’t be making just a social call. ‘Not really sure what business she’s into,’ he said,
‘but no one’s ever really sure what other people are into here, unless you’re a bartender. And even I have a few other irons in the fire.’ He stared hard at Harry, drew
closer. ‘How long you staying, mister? You’re on your own, right? You interested in a little action, maybe?’
‘What sort of action?’
‘Whatever. Golf, if that’s your thing. Sailing. Fishing.’ A gentle pause, a raised eyebrow. ‘A little local culture, maybe.’
Harry smiled but shook his head. ‘No, thanks, Vince. I’ve got a brand-new fiancée and she’s all tucked up at home waiting for me.’
Except Harry was entirely wrong. She wasn’t.
Jemma wasn’t the sort to sit idle at home. In any case, she was deeply hacked off with Harry, but that wasn’t the end of the story: her exasperation masked an even
deeper concern. She could put up with being left behind on his trip to Bermuda, and there was no way she could wangle the time away from teaching, but in his determination to get to the truth about
his father’s death she had also seen and sensed a side of Harry that she didn’t recognize and didn’t much care for. He’d convinced himself there was some funny business
about it – he said his burning ear told him so – and he was deaf to every word of caution and reason she threw at him. It was beginning to seem like an obsession. She’d glimpsed
that in him before, of course, but had never had to confront it. The cold deliberation, the lack of flexibility, a machine that was programmed for a single purpose and seemed to have no off switch.
He was going to find Susannah Ranelagh and that was it. Even as she fretted she realized it was partly her own fault – she was the one who’d pushed him off on his search for his father
in the first place, so she wouldn’t wail and whine. She’d started the whole affair; she decided she might as well help finish it. Get the old Harry back. So, even as he was being pimped
by the bartender she was sitting on their sofa, wearing his slippers and one of his old shirts, finding comfort in his smell and going through the file about his father.
She read every scrap of paper in it, the bits she had seen before and those that were new to her, particularly the small bundle of letters of condolence. There weren’t many of them, fewer
than a dozen, bound up with a rubber band, and some so perfunctory and formal that they were addressed only to ‘The Family of Mr Johnson E. Maltravers-Jones’. Professional advisers, in
the main. A pathetic epitaph for any man’s life. Yet there was one letter that was different and took her interest. It was addressed directly to Harry and began,
I hope you will remember me. As an old friend and business associate of your father’s, our paths have crossed on a few occasions when you were younger and your mother
was alive. Although I haven’t seen you for many years, your father kept me abreast of your progress on a regular basis. He took great pride in your achievements. You must miss him
terribly.
Jemma noticed that the letter bore the marks of so many creases that it must at some point have been screwed up and thrown away, only later to be retrieved and smoothed, not entirely
successfully.
Now he is gone [the letter continued], I can do little other than to offer my profound
knows that, don’t they, now?’
‘She ever been married that you know of?’
Vince scrunched up his face. ‘Nah. Not that I know. No way, not her. She’s not a – you know, what d’you call them? – a woman’s woman. That’s not what I
mean. She just seems a little old-fashioned. Catholic. From Ireland, I guess.’
‘I think she may have been a business partner of my father’s.’
‘What does he say?’
‘Not much. He’s dead.’
Vince spent a moment digesting the information. It seemed clear that Harry wouldn’t be making just a social call. ‘Not really sure what business she’s into,’ he said,
‘but no one’s ever really sure what other people are into here, unless you’re a bartender. And even I have a few other irons in the fire.’ He stared hard at Harry, drew
closer. ‘How long you staying, mister? You’re on your own, right? You interested in a little action, maybe?’
‘What sort of action?’
‘Whatever. Golf, if that’s your thing. Sailing. Fishing.’ A gentle pause, a raised eyebrow. ‘A little local culture, maybe.’
Harry smiled but shook his head. ‘No, thanks, Vince. I’ve got a brand-new fiancée and she’s all tucked up at home waiting for me.’
Except Harry was entirely wrong. She wasn’t.
Jemma wasn’t the sort to sit idle at home. In any case, she was deeply hacked off with Harry, but that wasn’t the end of the story: her exasperation masked an even
deeper concern. She could put up with being left behind on his trip to Bermuda, and there was no way she could wangle the time away from teaching, but in his determination to get to the truth about
his father’s death she had also seen and sensed a side of Harry that she didn’t recognize and didn’t much care for. He’d convinced himself there was some funny business
about it – he said his burning ear told him so – and he was deaf to every word of caution and reason she threw at him. It was beginning to seem like an obsession. She’d glimpsed
that in him before, of course, but had never had to confront it. The cold deliberation, the lack of flexibility, a machine that was programmed for a single purpose and seemed to have no off switch.
He was going to find Susannah Ranelagh and that was it. Even as she fretted she realized it was partly her own fault – she was the one who’d pushed him off on his search for his father
in the first place, so she wouldn’t wail and whine. She’d started the whole affair; she decided she might as well help finish it. Get the old Harry back. So, even as he was being pimped
by the bartender she was sitting on their sofa, wearing his slippers and one of his old shirts, finding comfort in his smell and going through the file about his father.
She read every scrap of paper in it, the bits she had seen before and those that were new to her, particularly the small bundle of letters of condolence. There weren’t many of them, fewer
than a dozen, bound up with a rubber band, and some so perfunctory and formal that they were addressed only to ‘The Family of Mr Johnson E. Maltravers-Jones’. Professional advisers, in
the main. A pathetic epitaph for any man’s life. Yet there was one letter that was different and took her interest. It was addressed directly to Harry and began,
I hope you will remember me. As an old friend and business associate of your father’s, our paths have crossed on a few occasions when you were younger and your mother
was alive. Although I haven’t seen you for many years, your father kept me abreast of your progress on a regular basis. He took great pride in your achievements. You must miss him
terribly.
Jemma noticed that the letter bore the marks of so many creases that it must at some point have been screwed up and thrown away, only later to be retrieved and smoothed, not entirely
successfully.
Now he is gone [the letter continued], I can do little other than to offer my profound
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