Believing the Lie

LAKE WINDERMERE CUMBRIA

After the detective left, Manette drove directly to Ireleth Hall. She parked on the drive and strode to the folly. She’d left with Freddie telling her that he’d had no choice but to speak, that if indeed Ian’s death was no accident, they had to get to the bottom of the matter. Anyway, he’d said, it was becoming clear that there were other matters they needed to get to the bottom of, also. Well and good, had been Manette’s reply. Getting to the bottom of things was exactly what she intended to do.

Mignon was at home. When was Mignon not at home? But she was not alone as she usually was, so Manette was forced to sit through the last part of her sister’s thrice-weekly head-and-foot massage. This was administered by a grave Chinese man who drove out from Windermere for this purpose, which was an hour on the head and an hour on the feet. Which, of course, their father would pay for.

Mignon was in a reclining chair, eyes closed, as her feet were seen to: pressure, massage, whatever the hell else it all was. Manette didn’t know and she hardly cared. But she understood her twin well enough to throw herself into a seat and wait because this was the only way she was going to be able to garner her sister’s cooperation. Interrupt her pleasure and there would be hell to pay.

It all took a tedious half hour. Occasionally, Mignon murmured, “So lovely,” or “Yes,” or “A bit more pressure to the left, darling.” The solemn Chinese man obliged as instructed. Manette wondered what he’d do if her sister asked him to suck on her toes.

At the end, the masseur gently wrapped Mignon’s feet in a warm towel. She moaned and said, “So soon? It seemed like five minutes.” Slowly, she opened her eyes and cast a radiant smile upon the man. “You are a miracle incarnate, Mr. Zhao,” she murmured. “You know where to send the bill, of course.”

Of course, Manette thought.

Mr. Zhao nodded and packed up his things. Oils and unguents and whatevers. Then he was gone, as silent as an embarrassing thought.

Mignon stretched in her chair. Arms raised high over her head, toes pointed, all of it like a luxuriating cat. Then she unwrapped her feet, got up, and strolled to the window, where she stretched a bit more. She bent to touch her toes, and she worked her body to loosen her waist and her hips. Manette half expected her to start doing jumping jacks. Anything to rub in the obvious joke that Mignon was continuing to play on their parents.

“I don’t know how the hell you live with yourself,” Manette said.

“It’s one eternal circle of excruciating pain,” Mignon told her, casting a sly look in her direction. If one could project gleeful misery, Manette decided, that would come close to describing her sister’s expression. “You cannot possibly know what I suffer.” She strolled from the sitting room into the area set up to house her computer, careful to take her zimmer along should either of their parents make an unexpected call upon her. She tapped a few keys and spent a few moments reading something that was likely an e-mail message. She said, “Oh dear. This one’s becoming something of a bore. We’ve got to the great-impossibility-of-our-love-darling stage, and when they get there, all the anguish and teeth gnashing put such a bloody damper on things.” She sighed. “I did have such hopes for him. He seemed good for a year’s go, at least, especially once he started with the genitalia photos. But what can I say? When they fall, they do fall so hard.” She punched a few keys and murmured, “Bye-bye, darling. Alas, alack, and all the rest. Love springs eternal. Whatever.”

“I want to talk to you,” Manette said to her twin.

“I did conclude that, Manette, mere casual calls upon your siblings not being exactly your style. At least casual calls upon this sibling. That troubles me, you know. We used to be so close, you and I.”

“Odd,” Manette said, “I don’t recall that part of our history.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Once Freddie came into the picture, it was all about him and how you intended to snare the poor man. He was second-best, of course, but he didn’t know that. Unless, of course, you moaned the wrong name at an inopportune moment. Did you, by the way? Is that how it ended between you and Freddie?”

Manette refused to bite. She said, “Dad’s haemorrhaging money. I know about the increased payments to you. We must talk about that.”

“Ah, the economy,” Mignon said piously. “Always such a fragile thing, isn’t it?”

“Let’s not play games. What’s happening to the business and to Dad has nothing to do with a sudden and surprising decline in the need for lavatories, basins, and tubs since the beauty of that business is simple enough: There’s always a need. But you might want to know that Freddie’s been dealing with the books since Ian’s death. These payouts to you must stop.”

“Must they? Why? Worried I’ll run through all the money? Till there’s nothing left for you?”

“I think I’ve made myself clear: I know Dad’s increased his payments to you, Mignon. It’s right there in the books. It’s ridiculous. You don’t need the money. You’re entirely taken care of. You’ve got to cut him loose.”

“And are you having this same conversation with Nick, beloved apple of our father’s eye for his entire wasteland of a life?”

“Oh, stop it. You weren’t the son Dad wanted and neither was I. Is that always going to be at the centre of your thoughts? Your entire existence on earth defined straight into eternity by Daddy-didn’t-love-me-enough? You’ve been jealous of Nick since the day he was born.”

“While you haven’t a jealous bone in your body?” Mignon returned to the sitting room, making her way past the boxes and the crates and the endless array of items she’d seen and fancied and bought online. “At least I know what to do with my ‘jealousy,’ as you call it.”

“Referring to what?” Manette saw the trap too late.

Mignon smiled, the successful black widow awaiting her mate. “To Ian, of course. You always wanted Ian. Everyone knew it. Everyone tut-tutted behind your back for years. You took Freddie as second-best, and everyone knew that as well, poor Freddie included. That man’s a saint. Or something.”

“Rubbish.”

“Which part? The saint? The something? The wanting Ian or the Freddie knowing? It can’t be the wanting- Ian part of things, Manette. Lord, it must have slain you in your trainers when Niamh came along. I expect you think even now that Niamh, being the piece of work she is, drove Ian to try it on with men instead.”

“If you think back carefully,” Manette said calmly, although she was burning, “you’ll come up with a small problem in your scenario.”

“Which is?”

“That I was married to Freddie when Ian chose Niamh. Now, that doesn’t quite make things fit, does it?”

“Details,” Mignon said. “Utterly insignificant. You didn’t want to marry Ian, anyway. You just wanted to… well, you know. Some poking and thrusting on the sly.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Whatever you say.” She yawned. “Are we finished here? I’d like to have a lie-down. Massages take it out of one, don’t they? So if there’s nothing else…”

“Stop this nonsense with Dad. I swear to you, Mignon, if you don’t — ”

“Please. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m taking what I’m owed. Everyone’s doing that. I can’t think why you aren’t.”

“Everyone? Like Vivienne Tully, for example?”

Mignon’s face became shuttered, but only for the instant it took her to come up with a nonchalant reply. “You’ll have to ask Dad about Vivver.”

“What do you know about her?”

“What I know isn’t important. It’s what Ian knew, darling. And it’s like I said: People take what they’re owed at the end of the day. Ian knew this better than anyone. He probably took some of the dosh himself. I wouldn’t be surprised. It would have been child’s play. He held the purse strings, after all. How difficult would it have been for him to do some skimming, only to have Dad find out about it? Get into that kind of chicanery and you’re not going to be able to do it forever. Someone’s going to get wise. Someone’s going to stop you.”

“That sounds like a cautionary tale you ought to heed yourself,” Manette told her sister.