Double Jeopardy

Six

SixSenator Hector de Vile had been home from the photographic sitting for several hours, but he could not settle to anything. The memory of Alex’s excitement when gazing into the alchemy of the developing tray clawed at his guts. Was nearly twenty years of father-and-son harmony to be destroyed by one chance meeting? Damn his idea of having their portraits taken, even if he did need more cartes for the Senate election scheduled for next month. He was very secure in the seat he’d been appointed to last year when the elected man died in office, and he confidently expected to be returned with a bigger majority than the previous incumbent. But he didn’t need anything happening to draw negative comment.

For the first time in his life he wished his first wife was still alive — and what a turn-up that was, for she’d truly been a piece of baggage. No one had mourned her violent death last year. But at least if Bertha was here he could go over the story again — her story of how she came to have a toddler in her care when they’d first met.

She didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, and she’d told him so many different versions of who he was — she called him Alejandro — and how she’d come by him. It changed depending on what day it was, on her mood and whim, but he hadn’t been particular on knowing the details anyway. It served his own purposes to present a wife and son to his dictatorial father back East, so he didn’t ask. He’d taken woman and child to meet his father — his “evidence” to satisfy his father’s demands before he would hand over his inheritance — and when she’d flitted off a year later with a high-rolling gambler who offered a lot more money and excitement he hadn’t been too bothered.

He sipped his mid-afternoon brandy and sighed. From his perch high on Nabob Hill he looked down the valley to Nevada City’s Broad Street, where townsfolk would be bustling about their daily business. He’d made his fortune several times over in the last fifteen years, and he was intent on ensuring it was protected and passed on to Alex. To be able to pass on a substantial fortune … Well, it made him feel it had all been worth it. He paid the price a dozen times over in the tough calls he’d been forced to make, and he wanted to leave it all to someone he’d raised up when he was dead and gone.

He pulled out his gold fob watch from his waistcoat pocket to check on the time, just as his housekeeper tapped on the drawing-room door. “A Mr Hiram Williams here to see you, sir. Shall I show him in?”

He was right on time. Hector de Vile felt the acid reflux subside, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He nodded towards the stocky, white-haired woman who stood at the door. Mrs Galveston was a Cornish widow who’d been with him for fifteen years, her upright resilience providing backbone to his family life when he was taken away on business. Alex had called her Oma from his first days in the household.

“Yes, do please show him in.”

Hector rose and faced the door as Hiram Williams limped hesitantly towards him and proffered his hand with diffidence. He was an old man, well into his fifties, with thinning blond-gray hair and tired eyes looking out of a heavily lined face. His mouth turned down at the corners as if to confirm there was little left in life to be pleased about, but when he spoke his voice was as soothing as liquid honey. “Afternoon, Senator. Day going well, I trust?”

“Not as well as it might, but I’m sure you’ll be able to fix that.”

Hiram Williams looked at him keenly through wrinkled caverns. “I’ll do my best. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is Alexander. He’s got this mad idea he wants to be a photographer. I know you’ve been keeping a close eye on him for me, but this calls for a bit of extra action. You know a Frenchman. Charles Durant, with a studio in Pine Street?”

Hiram nodded and de Vile gestured to a seat beside him. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable. We need to persuade Mr Durant that taking any interest in Alexander would be a very bad idea for business. Do you understand?”

“Mr de Vile, you know I’m not in a fit enough state to get into that kind of thing. Normal surveillance is no problem, but I’m not strong enough these days to do any muscle work. Can barely stand upright on my two pins.”

De Vile nodded slightly impatiently. “I appreciate that, Hiram. You’ve been a boon reporting on things while I was away in Washington. But it’s very important that Alex focuses his attention on de Vile investments at this time. He can’t do that if his head is turned with nonsense about cameras and chemicals. Find someone else to handle it, like you did a couple of nights ago.”

Hiram Williams shifted uneasily in his chair. “Charles Durant is just a man going about his normal business. Isn’t this all a bit heavy-handed?”

“There’s a lot at stake here, Hiram. More than you know. You just keep your head down and don’t ask questions and it’ll be fine. I’ve got a lot riding on it.”

Hiram gazed at him for a few more moments and then raised himself with difficulty from the chair. “Then I’ll be off to my work, Senator. I’ll send a boy with a message when the job’s done. Like last time.”

He turned and limped to the door, his mouth more turned down at the corners than when he’d entered the room ten minutes before.

De Vile sat quietly, reflecting on the conversation. He knew that Williams didn’t like to be drawn into rough trade, but this situation called for drastic measures.

His greatest fear was that Alexander would discover the circumstances of his birth from some other source, and turn on him. Accuse him of living a lie. He’d done plenty of things he wouldn’t want shown in the light, but Alexander was the best thing in his life, and he hadn’t even fought to get him, like he had for the rest of his estate. He had just got lucky.

He’d never wanted to know who Alejandro’s parents were. Better if he didn’t know. He could honestly play dumb if it ever became an issue. But under the biggest stone at the bottom of his deep hole of unwelcome memories was one lingering Bertha taunt — that the boy’s father was a Spanish photographer.

How ironic it would be if, after all his careful protection, Alexander could chance upon the facts of his birth through the artist grapevine — because love or hate each other, those arty types stuck together, didn’t they? He was very glad he had a doughty man like Hiram Williams on the case.