Knightley and Son (9781619631540) (20 page)

“Under what wood?” Darkus speculated.

“No,” said Knightley, taking a pencil from his top pocket and pointing up at the bloody scrawl. “There’s a flourish joining the
R
and the
W
. It’s one word.”

Darkus realized he was correct. “Underwood . . .”

Knightley suddenly looked spooked. “Yes . . . Underwood.”

“I still don’t see how that helps us.”

“It doesn’t,” Knightley murmured. “It doesn’t help us at all.” He got that faraway look in his eyes; his nostrils flared, and his ears pricked up. But this time there was a pallor beneath his skin; a look of exhaustion, and death. Whatever it was, Darkus didn’t like it.

“What does it mean, Dad?”

“I don’t know—yet. But I did once know a Dr. Morton Underwood. A long time ago.” Knightley went quiet.

“Who is he?”

“We became friends at Oxford.”

“So Bill knows him too?”

“Different colleges, but yes, they knew each other.” Knightley seemed to pull himself back from the honey trap of memory, debating whether to go on. It seemed there was no other option. “He was your godfather, Doc.”

Darkus took a moment to process this. Perhaps he had heard the name Morton before, but nothing stood out in his memory. For the past four years he had been more preoccupied with the absence of his father than the possible existence of a godfather.

“You said ‘was’?” asked Darkus.

Knightley turned a shade paler. “Mort was a child psychologist, a famous one.” He seemed to lose himself in a maze of his own thoughts, then found the thread again. “He took on a patient—a boy from a powerful family. The boy was withdrawn; he wouldn’t go to school, wouldn’t interact with other people. Much of the time he wouldn’t even speak at all. Except to Morton.”

“What was his diagnosis?”

“It never reached that stage.” Knightley paused. “Mort worked with the boy for several weeks, employing radical therapy, hypnosis, that sort of thing. He believed he was making progress. Then something happened . . . ” Knightley trailed off, reluctant to remember any more.

“What happened?” asked Darkus.

“The boy died. He fell from Morton’s fifth-floor office window.”

“How?”

“Nobody knows for sure. There were signs of a struggle. The office had been turned upside down. When the police arrived, Morton was unconscious. He claimed the boy tried to kill him, then jumped to his death. But the family didn’t believe him, and Morton was named as a person of interest.” Knightley paused again. “He hired me to prove his innocence. But all the evidence pointed to one person: him. There was nothing I could do.”

“You never wrote about this in the Knowledge.”

“I was too ashamed.”

“If he was guilty, you have nothing to be ashamed of,” said Darkus.

“No one ever found out whether he was guilty or not . . . Morton disappeared from surveillance cameras near the Millennium Bridge, by the Thames. They found his coat and wallet. The police believed he’d drowned. But his body was never recovered.”

“What do you believe happened to him?” said Darkus.

“I don’t know. I searched long and hard . . . and turned up nothing.” Knightley examined the name written in blood. “But in light of current evidence,” he added reluctantly, piecing together his thoughts, “I have to conclude that Morton might have joined the Combination.”

Darkus frowned, digesting this latest piece of information and adding it to the catastrophizer.

“What did Morton Underwood look like?” he asked.

Knightley paused, searching for the best description. “Medium height, medium build . . . He’d be forty-eight by now. Due to his failing eyesight he wore these glasses . . .”

“And he has a stutter,” Darkus interjected.

“Yes,” Knightley replied, incredulous. “But how could you possibly know that?”

“I have a confession to make . . . ,” Darkus admitted.

“What have you been hiding from me?” Knightley demanded, eyes shining.

Reluctantly, Darkus gave him a detailed description of his encounter with the stranger at the auction house—who was, without a shadow of a doubt, Morton Underwood. Any anger on Knightley’s part was quickly defused by concern for his son’s welfare and the dawning realization of the danger they were now in.

Darkus explained his reasoning: “I knew that if I told you, you’d never let me crack the case.”

“And you decided it was worth risking your life over?” his father protested. “Possibly both our lives, by the sound of it.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” Darkus frowned. “It seemed like the right course of action at the time. If it’s cost us the case, I have only myself to blame.”

Knightley shook his head sadly. “For the record, our relationship is more important than any case. And I’m perfectly capable of spending time with my son in a nonprofessional capacity. It’ll just take a bit of practice, that’s all. But I fear, for the purposes of
this
case, and for your own personal safety, we’ll need to keep our detectives’ hats on.”

“If Underwood is behind all this, where do you suggest we find him?” said Darkus.

“Unfortunately, I think we’ll have to wait for
him
to find
us
,” replied Knightley. “He made his first approach at the auction. I fear the second will be more forceful. We must return to Cherwell Place and prepare ourselves.”

“So you’ll still be requiring my assistance?” asked Darkus.

“I’ve come to depend upon it,” said his father.

Chapter 17

The Center Line

Every successful investigation has a center line: a logical train of cause and effect that accounts for the vital components of a case and results in its conclusion. The center line is the strongest part of the case, and also the weakest. It is the key to solving the crime, but it is also the most vulnerable to attack by those seeking to pervert the course of justice.

In much the same way, the human body also has a center line: quite literally, a line that divides the body and accounts for its most vital components. The eyes, the nose, the throat, the solar plexus, the groin—all fall along the center line. They are the key to successful functioning, and by the same token are the most vulnerable to attack.

Later that morning, as Darkus and his father finished one of Bogna’s legendary cooked breakfasts—fried egg, fried bread, fried potatoes, fried kielbasa sausage—Knightley explained the principles of center-line theory according to his preferred martial art: Wing Chun. Their investigation was leading them closer to both the truth and to those who would protect it with aggression if necessary, so it was only prudent to give Darkus some tools of his own.

To Knightley’s surprise, he discovered that Darkus had already studied this particular martial art from the sketches and notes laid out in the Knowledge. Wing Chun was developed over three hundred years ago in feudal China by a female Shaolin monk named Ng Mui. It was designed to rely not on strength but on balance and fluid movement, absorbing the attacker’s power and using it against them. Yim Wing Chun was a fifteen-year-old girl who was being forced into marriage to a local bandit against her will. The bandit agreed to withdraw his marriage proposal on one condition: that she could beat him in a martial arts contest. Yim Wing Chun approached Ng Mui, one of the last survivors of the famed Shaolin temple, and requested her help. Ng Mui taught her about the center line and the effectiveness of the straight punch, and assured Yim Wing Chun that although she was smaller in build, if her balance was correct and her center line protected, the bandit would be unable to beat her. Sure enough, Yim Wing Chun defeated the bandit and married her true love, Leung Bok Chau, who also learned and then taught the technique, and subsequently named it after her.

Darkus already had a basic understanding of center-line theory: using the strong blades of his forearms to protect the vital organs; stepping to one side to deflect an attack, and thereby opening up the opponent’s center line to a straight punch.

But by his own admission, he had never had anyone to practice on.

Once Bogna’s breakfast had been digested—which threatened to take a good portion of the day—Knightley led Darkus upstairs and moved all the office furniture to one side. Then Knightley stood opposite Darkus and checked his stance. Darkus’s feet were shoulder-width apart, his knees slightly bent; his guard was up, the left hand leading with the palm raised, the right hand held back as a second line of defense.

“Now, punch,” said Knightley.

Darkus released his left hand and followed with a straight punch from his right, hitting Knightley’s outstretched palm.

“Good,” said Knightley, smarting a little. “Now, relax and use your feet a bit. Turn into the punch.”

Darkus swiveled his feet and repeated the attack, making a loud smacking sound against his father’s hand.

“Good,” said Knightley, wincing. “Now show me your block.”

Knightley rushed forward as if to grab him, but Darkus knocked his arm to one side, throwing him off balance, then kicked him in the shin.

“Ow!” shouted Knightley.

“Sorry, Dad—reflex.”

“No, no,” said Knightley, shifting his weight onto his good leg. “My fault. You only deflected as much power as I gave you—which in this case was possibly a tad too much. Well, that’s enough sparring for now,” he said, looking a bit dispirited. “Let’s have a look at your form.”

The “form” was a slow, ceremonial display that demonstrated the full range of punches, blocks, and kicks. They performed it in unison, and Darkus found his father to be reasonably well informed about the moves, but painfully lacking in their application. At one point, while demonstrating a front push-kick, Knightley misfired and put his foot straight through the side of his desk, which resulted in Bogna bursting through the door to make sure no one had been hurt.

“We’re fine,” said Knightley, yanking his foot out of the woodwork and waving her away. He slumped into the armchair. “My instincts aren’t what they used to be.”

“It’s just like riding a bike, right?” said Darkus diplomatically.

“I’m not sure I even remember that,” he replied, looking disheartened.

Not wishing to dwell on his father’s shortcomings, Darkus hoped to trigger his memory by drawing him onto familiar ground. “Tell me more about Underwood.”

But Knightley’s expression grew heavy again as he gave Darkus a brief outline of his onetime pal. Knightley took Morton Underwood under his wing during their first year at Oxford, and in return Morton had been the best friend anyone could ask for. He was generous, supportive, steady, a good listener. And yet Knightley admitted that, for all of those unparalleled qualities, there was an empty space beneath them, like the dusty, locked-up cellar beneath a happy family home. A profound unknowability. Perhaps that was the reason Knightley was drawn to him in the first place. His friend was, at his core, a mystery. For that very reason, Jackie had never liked him; not that there was anything specific not to like—it was just an instinct. She pointed to the fact that he had never married, had barely even been in a relationship, and that he had no other friends beyond Knightley and one or two university peers. Of course, Knightley told her she was being irrational, that Morton was just hard to get to know; and she had no evidence against him. His subterranean emptiness was masked so gracefully by their routine of lunches, drinks, and chess matches—which always possessed just the right mixture of companionship, humor, and bonhomie—that a monument of great friendship had perhaps been built on unstable, precipitous land.

And so it was that when the boy was found dead five floors down, Knightley could not say, hand on heart, that Morton hadn’t done it. However unlikely, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Somewhere, deep down, Knightley suspected Underwood could not have been entirely innocent. Who knew what radical therapies he had employed, and to what end? Who could see behind closed doors? Who could presume to judge what causes “evil” or gives rise to “evil deeds”?

Darkus digested this history with a neutral, balanced mind. All he knew was, every living thing, however enigmatic, left a trail of clues in its wake, even Morton Underwood—and Darkus would be waiting to collect them.

Knightley showed no signs of rousing from his melancholy. “You see, Doc, why I never wanted this life for you. There are no certainties. Only degrees of truth.”

“That’s exactly what you gave me and Mom,” Darkus pointed out. “Degrees of truth. You left us in the dark. The logical chain of events was that she’d leave you.”

Knightley’s face was a mask of contrition. “Even if I could be the man she wanted me to be—which is a big ‘if?’—life has moved on . . . and she’s found someone she’s more compatible with.”

“Hmm,” said Darkus doubtfully.

“We don’t have to like him, Darkus. Only she does. Clive’s not such a bad person, really.” Knightley shrugged sadly. “He’s more reliable than I was. More attentive than I was. He has a nicer car than I have.”

Darkus knew this wasn’t the time for marriage counseling, but he had stumbled onto a line of investigation that was very close to his heart. “Do you think you . . . and Mom . . . might ever . . . ?”