Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7) (24 page)

‘You shouldn’t smoke so much,’ Jude’s voice came from across the room.

Ben clanged the lighter shut and took another draw on the cigarette. ‘Why?’ he said.

Jude shrugged his shoulders against the bedspread, still lying flat on his back with his eyes shut. ‘You’ll die,’ he said simply.

‘I’m truly touched by your concern.’

‘Who said I was concerned? I just said that people who smoke will die.’

Ben looked at him. ‘So if I stop smoking, I won’t die?’

Jude gave another shrug. ‘No, obviously you’ll still die,’ he said after a beat.

‘So I can either die doing something that gives me pleasure,’ Ben said, ‘or I can die avoiding it out of fear. I think I know which way I’d rather live my life, thanks.’

Jude didn’t say any more. After a while, his breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Ben turned off all the lights except for the little lamp near his armchair. He finished his cigarette and sat thinking for a few minutes. ‘Fuck it,’ he murmured to himself, tempted by another cigarette. He put one to his lips. Reached for the Zippo. Thumbed the wheel. There was a spark from the flint, but no flame. He tried again. ‘Fuck it,’ he repeated. So much for classic design and utter dependability. The damn thing had run out of lighter fluid.

Remembering that he carried a spare can, he sprang up out of the armchair and went over to root in the depths of his bag.

The first thing he found was the Bible he’d taken from the vicarage. He gazed at it for a moment, then put it back in the bag and continued rummaging. His fingers closed on something small and solid. It wasn’t the lighter fluid, either, but he took it out and held it tightly in both hands.

Until now, he’d completely forgotten about the present Michaela had given him. He carried it over to the armchair, dropping any notion of another cigarette as he turned the Christmas-wrapped object over in his hands and felt a fresh wave of sadness wash over him.

Jude was fast asleep on the bed, snoring gently.

Ben heard Michaela’s words in his mind.
Promise me that you won’t open it until you’re back in France.
He was in France now. He quietly, carefully pulled away the prettily tied ribbon, then tore open the wrapping.

As he’d thought, the present was a book. Not another Bible, but a very handsome antique miniature leather-bound edition with
Works of John Milton
embossed in fine gilt letters on the cover.

There was a lump in Ben’s throat as he opened the book. To his surprise, a little envelope fell out from between the pages and dropped in his lap. He popped the seal, expecting a Christmas card. He didn’t know if he could bear to read the cheery inscription Michaela and Simeon would have written inside.

But there was no Christmas card inside the envelope. Instead he found two sheets of neatly folded letter paper. The paper was a delicate shade of sky blue, and smelled faintly of the same perfume Michaela had worn. When he unfolded it, he saw that both pages were filled with her elegant, curvaceous handwriting.

Dear Ben,

Simeon and I hope you had a safe journey back to France. I expect you’re tucked up all warm and cosy at home with a nice glass of wine reading this.

It was a joy to meet up with you again so unexpectedly, Ben. Simeon and I have been so delighted to see you after so long.

Ben couldn’t stand any more. He scrunched the letter up and tossed it on the ground. A few seconds later, with a stab of shame, he picked it up again and went on reading.

And his mouth dropped open.

Twenty years is a long time to wait to tell someone a secret. Simeon and I have often talked about how, when and indeed whether we should reveal to you what I’m about to say. When we met up with you again at the concert, we both agreed that the time had come. You were never one for beating about the bush, Ben, so here goes.

Jude isn’t Simeon’s child. He’s yours.

There. I’ve finally told you what nobody else in the world knows.

I’m not quite sure how you’ll react to the news. All I can tell you is, Ben, I know it for a fact. There’s absolutely no doubt about it, for reasons I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you.

You must have suspected all those years ago, as I did, that even when you and I were an item, Simeon secretly liked me more than just as a friend. When you and I split up – that is, when I dumped you in the awful way I did – and you disappeared from University soon afterwards, Simeon was there for me. He’s known since before Jude was born who the real father was, and been honoured to raise him as his own son. We always hoped that a brother or sister might come along for Jude one day, but sadly that wasn’t God’s will.

Please never think that either Simeon or I would dream of placing any responsibility, legal or otherwise, on you. We just thought it was right that you should be told the truth. I hope you’ll want to meet Jude one day, and that you’ll see what a wonderful and charming young man he’s turned out to be … when he puts his mind to it, that is. If you ever felt he should know who his biological father is, well, that’s a choice we freely leave to you.

Either way, we hope you’ll keep in touch with us all now that we’ve made contact again. If you prefer not to, and don’t want to meet and get to know Jude, we’ll understand. If we don’t see you again, may you have the peaceful and joyous life you’ve always wanted.

Thank you for having spent this Christmas with us. Your presence has made it feel special, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Simeon so happy.

Love, and God bless,

Michaela (and Simeon) Arundel

Ben read the letter three times, open-mouthed, then a fourth just to make sure he hadn’t dreamed it. There was no mistake. He stared at Michaela’s handwriting until the words swam before his eyes and lost all meaning.

He was still sitting there gaping at it in utter disbelief when Jude’s voice broke in on his thoughts and startled him. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ Jude asked, yawning. He kicked out his legs and bounced off the bed.

Ben quickly slipped the letter in between the pages of the book. ‘Poetry,’ he said in a dry, raspy voice. He cleared his throat.

‘Poetry. Give me a fucking break.’ Jude peered at the book cover and let out a snort. ‘Milton. I tried to read that once. Couldn’t be bothered with it. Load of old tat, if you ask me. Where did you get that book from, anyway?’

Ben looked at him for the longest time.

‘What?’ Jude said.

Ben didn’t reply. He didn’t have the words.

‘So I didn’t like Milton. What’s the big deal?’

‘Milton?’ Ben said. His mind wasn’t working. His thoughts were a spinning jumble.

‘Why – are – you – staring – at – me?’ Jude said, making bug eyes. ‘You’re freaking me out.’

‘I wasn’t staring at you,’ Ben said.

‘Yes, you bloody well were.’ Jude flapped his arms impatiently. ‘Anyway. It’s almost midnight. What are we doing? I’m tired of sitting around here waiting for nothing to happen.’

‘Get some sleep,’ Ben said, forcing himself to return to the present moment. ‘Tomorrow might be a long day.’

‘I just was sleeping. I’m not sleepy any more.’ Jude crossed over to the window and pressed his nose to the glass, watching the snow fall over the village street.

Ben suddenly realised that the Christmas wrapping from Michaela’s present was still lying on the rug. Jude only had to turn round to see it there. Feeling suddenly heavy and weary, he levered himself out of the armchair, bent down and scooped it up and stuffed it in his pocket before Jude could notice. He slipped the Milton into his other pocket and grabbed his jacket from the bed. It felt as if it was weighed down with lead. ‘Do what you want. I need some air. Going out for a walk.’

Still in a daze, Ben left the room and stumbled downstairs to the empty foyer. Outside, the cobbles were beginning to disappear under a blanket of white. Large snowflakes drifted down in the glow of the street lamps and flecked his hair and shoulders as he set off aimlessly through the winding village streets. Saint-Christophe was mostly asleep, just a smattering of lights on here and there.

Could the letter have been some kind of joke? he thought in bewilderment as he walked. No, Michaela and Simeon would never have done that. Nor would they have lied about such a thing.

Could Michaela have made a mistake? If the baby hadn’t been Simeon’s, perhaps it had been someone else’s entirely. Ben pondered the idea for a moment, then felt ashamed for thinking it. No. There had been nobody else during those days of his and Michaela’s brief relationship.

Ben pictured Jude’s face in his mind. His eyes, his mouth, his nose, the shape of his cheekbones and forehead, the colour of his hair. With a sudden certainty that made him draw a sharp breath, he realised he could see his own features reflected in the younger man’s. Once you knew, it was obvious.

Then it was real. It was true.
He’s my son
. Ben slowed his stride, turned and gazed back towards the Auberge Saint-Christophe. His eyes picked out the window of their room, a rectangle of dim light behind the latticework of scaffolding.

My son is in that room.

He shook his head in amazement. Thoughts tumbled through his mind as he walked on.
Could they not have told me sooner? Could they not have tried to find me?
For a few moments he felt indignation rising up inside him. Resentment, almost, that his oldest friends could have kept something like this from him for so many years.

But then he tried to imagine what the decision would have been like for them. It couldn’t have been easy. Michaela’s letter made it clear that it was something they’d discussed for a long time. And Ben hadn’t missed the implication in her words that some part of them hadn’t wanted to tell him at all.

But it was the truth. The truth.

I have a son.

Ben had reached the deserted village square. Snow was settling on the benches and iron railings that surrounded the 1945 Liberation Day monument, a marble plinth bearing a bronze statue of two French soldiers struggling under the burden of a wounded comrade. Their helmets and the folds of their clothing were rimmed with white. Ben stopped and gazed at the statue for a moment. Then a thought hit him like a punch in the stomach, making him sit down heavily on the nearest bench. He sank his head in his hands, suddenly filled with horror.

Bodmin Moor. The man in the bog. The way Ben had drowned him. Callously, deliberately. Inflicting a cruel, slow death on a defenceless enemy. Jude’s face afterwards.

What kind of man are you?
Ben asked himself. What kind of man could kill like that, in cold blood, with his own son watching? Ben knew what kind. A trained assassin. Someone who’d devoted much of his life to war and bloodshed, who’d learned to suppress every shred of his own humanity in order to inflict injury and death on other men, simply because he’d been told to.

That was who he was. Perhaps that was all he ever would be. Perhaps it was why he didn’t deserve happiness, or love. Or Brooke.

Jude had grown up and spent his whole life believing that he was the son of a good man. They’d had their quarrels and disagreements like any other father and son, but Jude would look back on Simeon’s life and forever regard him as a decent human being, kind and gentle and just, who’d done his best to instil higher values in his only child. Could he ever say that about Ben Hope? How could he respect a man who’d done the things his real father had done?

Michaela’s words returned to Ben as he sat there on the snowy bench, trembling in the cold.
‘If you ever felt that he should know … that’s a choice we freely leave to you.’

‘Never,’ Ben said out loud. ‘I will never tell him whose son he really is.’

Ben was heading slowly back through the empty streets, still dazed, still in shock, when he felt the pulsing vibration of his phone in his trouser pocket. Answering it with a muttered ‘Hello?’ he heard an unfamiliar voice. Male, French, thirties or forties, speaking quietly and furtively as if he didn’t want to be overheard.

‘Is this Monsieur Hope?’ the voice said.

‘Yes,’ Ben said. He blinked snow out of his eyes and struggled to focus mentally.

‘The Monsieur Hope who was asking about Father Lalique?’ the voice said.

Very quickly, the fog in Ben’s mind began to clear. ‘Who is this?’

‘I have information for you,’ the voice said after a pause. ‘Father Lalique’s suicide was set up. He was involved in something.’ Another pause. ‘This is not something to discuss on the phone. We must meet in person. Can you manage it tonight?’

‘Give me your address,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll meet you there right away.’

‘Not here,’ the voice said. ‘This is a small village and I have no desire to be openly associated with the scandal of the paedophile priest. Do you know the ruined church? It is easy to find, about two kilometres west of the village, heading towards St Affrique. I will meet you there in thirty minutes.’

Ben had noticed the broken-down steeple on the drive in. It had reminded him of Simeon and his efforts to fund the repair of ailing ecclesiastical buildings. ‘I’ll be there,’ he told his anonymous caller.

Completely focused and alert now, Ben raced back to the Auberge. ‘What’s going on?’ Jude asked as he marched into the room.

Ben didn’t want to look at Jude in case he started staring at him again. ‘You stay put a while,’ he said, snatching the Renault keys from the stand inside the door. ‘I’m going back out.’

‘At this time of night, in the snow?’

Ben discreetly slipped the book out of his pocket and bundled it into his bag under his spare clothes, well out of sight. The last thing he wanted was for Jude to develop a sudden interest in the literary works of John Milton. He was going to have to ditch the letter soon, although he’d be reluctant to lose it.

‘Where are you going?’ Jude demanded. ‘You’ve had a call from someone, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. Someone in the village has information and we’ve set up a rendezvous. But I don’t want you there.’