To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 47

It wasn't long after that that Mr. Astor was shown into the inspector's office in angrily dignified silence, but the handcuffs clinking behind him told Timothy that persuading him to come had been a difficult business. And yet he had the audacity to nod to the Wrights in frosty good taste, as if two burly attendants were not standing behind him. "Afternoon Charles, Margaret—Timothy." His eyes roved to his nephew's leg, and Timothy seemed to shrivel up inside.

There was something utterly appalling in the act that made all of Sam's predictions, all of Mr. Bradley's angry threats—all of it real. Timothy wished for the innocence he'd had a few days ago. He'd never liked his uncle, but this brought shame upon them all.

Neither of his parents returned the greeting. Mr. Wright regarded him as if he were a stranger, and Mrs. Wright bit her lip, focusing on Mr. Montgomery's desk.

The inspector clasped his hands, dipping his chin as if getting to something unpleasant. "Mr. Astor, I am going to be plain with you."

"By all means." Timothy's uncle pasted a look of indulgence on his shiny round face.

"We have good reason to suspect that you have been paying someone to commit the Dare Murders for you."

Mr. Astor blinked. "I beg your pardon? What murders are you speaking of?"

Timothy bit back a snort. Ignorance might look like innocence, unless he was pretending to be oblivious enough not to have noticed the talk of every paper in Thameton. Timothy knew his uncle was not that stupid.

The inspector smiled faintly. "I am speaking of the deaths of Mr. Basken, Mrs. Armstrong, Mr. Graham, and Mr. Webb. Each of which, I am told by a certain Jack Bradley, had good reason to be in your bad books."

Mr. Astor laughed. "Then the man is insane! I've never met anyone by the name of Bradley before."

"Phillip," Timothy's father interrupted suddenly. "I know that quitting is not in your nature, but there is no way out of this. When we were advertising for a cook shortly before Timothy was born, you recommended Mrs. Bradley to us."

Mr. Astor turned on his sister's husband like a bear. "And how many Bradleys do you suppose there are in the world? A coincidence, nothing more."

His uncle had recommended Mrs. Bradley to them? Timothy sat in stunned silence. He wanted to put forth all of the evidence that he and Sam had gathered, but there wasn't a fragment of anything solid in it. He could mention the notes, but they hadn't any from four years ago to compare with more recent ones. He could mention St. Vincent, but who would believe the word of a parrot? He could tell Mr. Webb's story, but a dead man's testimony wouldn't hold water.

The inspector shook his head. "As we speak, I have men searching your business records for transactions of large sums with Mr. Bradley. If they are found to correspond with the dates of the murders, you will hang."

Mr. Astor's self-command had begun to crack when Mr. Wright spoke, but now it fell apart completely and the two attendants behind him had to stop Mr. Astor from flinging himself at the inspector. "A man's business is his own!" he shouted. Timothy shrank into the corner of his chair.

Mr. Montgomery made a notation on the pad of paper. "A murder is never only one man's business."

Mr. Astor was dragged out growling incoherent arguments, and Timothy slumped in his chair. He was tired, his head hurt, and his heart was cluttered with conflicting feelings of anger and pity and sadness that left him emotionally exhausted.

He didn't hear the rest of the conversation, but Mr. Montgomery let them go before much longer. They met the Paines in the station lobby, and though Mr. and Mrs. Wright left to go back to their business after ascertaining that Timothy was all right—he said he was, but he wasn't—Timothy limped up to Mrs. Paine and extended his hand. As tired as he was, he couldn't leave Sam like this. "Good afternoon Mrs. Paine. I want you to know that your son is remarkable, and that I am privileged to know him."

Sam looked bewildered and almost seemed to suspect Timothy would follow this statement up with something cruel, but Mrs. Paine sniffed and ignored his hand. "How so?" she asked, surveying Timothy like something undesirable she'd found on her shoe.

"He had the genius to learn who was behind the Dare Murders before anyone else in Thameton." Timothy withdrew his hand.

"Really," Mrs. Paine said, though it was less of a question than it was a bland response to Timothy's statement. "I wonder, what business had he doing that?"

"Mother!" Sam hissed.

Mrs. Paine rounded on him. "How are you ever going to be a productive member of society if you can't face facts? Stop busying yourself with things that don't concern you and work on building a useful career."

Sam was silenced. Timothy had never seen him like this before, and his ire rose before he could stop it. What right did anyone have to judge whether another person was a useful member of society? He felt sick. "Madam," he said, stiffly. "I can think of no more productive way to be a member of society than to save lives."

Mrs. Paine stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, and then stormed out of the station in a flutter of passion. Sam's shoulders sagged with relief the moment she was gone. "I don't think I had better go home tonight," he said, then grimaced. "But there I go again, doing the thing I shouldn't: thinking."

Timothy could not express the disgust he felt towards Sam's mother. "Everyone has a right to think, and you do it better than most," he said, noticing for the first time that the clock behind the counter said it was nearly five. He turned back to Sam, who was studying his feet. "But if you think you'd rather spend the night somewhere else, come to the Wrights'. Mother won't turn you away, and father is more softhearted than he looks."

Sam twitched, as if Timothy had stabbed him with a needle. "I couldn't possibly, after everything I've done—"

"What you've done," Timothy interrupted deliberately, "is get me out of my self-consumed downward spiral, and it would be ungrateful of me not to offer you refuge now."

Sam didn't reply for a long moment, but when he did there was that unmistakable rasp in his voice that Timothy had first noticed in Mr. Webb's house. "Thank you."

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One of the unexpected aspects of Sam's character that I discovered through the process of writing is that he's quickly wounded by someone insulting his intelligence. I found that odd, since he's easily one of the smartest characters in the book (if not the smartest), so I'm in the process of writing something to explore the history that shaped this side of his character.

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