“I didn’t expect light comedy,” I said gently. “Go ahead. I promise not to swoon.”
“Okay . . .” He held up a warning finger. “But if I see the faintest flush of fever, I reserve the right to continue the story at a later date.”
“Agreed,” I said promptly, and rested my head against my pillows, to demonstrate my willingness to remain calm.
“Our part in the story began nine months ago,” said Bill. “Sir Rodney Spofford asked me to draw up his will. I’d never worked with Sir Rodney before, but he was referred to me by an old client, so I took him on. The will turned out to be absolutely straightforward. Sir Rodney was a widower. Upon his death, therefore, the vast bulk of his estate would go to his only child, Harold Spofford. It took me less than a week to complete the paperwork.”
I wrinkled my nose in puzzlement. “Why did he come to you? You specialize in messy, complicated wills. Why would he pay you big bucks to do something any run-of-the-mill solicitor could do?”
“I asked Sir Rodney the same question,” Bill answered. “He told me that my firm had acquired a certain cachet among his circle of friends, but he was lying through his teeth. I know now that he came to me because I was unacquainted with the Spofford family. I had no reason to disbelieve him when he told me that Harold was his only child. I didn’t find out until two days ago that Sir Rodney had another son, an older son: Alfred.”
“How strange,” I said. “Why did Sir Rodney lie to you about Alfred?”
“Because twenty years ago,” Bill replied, “at the tender age of fourteen, Alfred Spofford was incarcerated in a private asylum for the criminally insane.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Why? What had he done?”
“He had a history of psychotic behavior,” Bill answered evasively. “The family’s nanny had a religious mania which she passed on to little Alfred, but he wasn’t very stable to begin with. He had violent outbursts of temper. Whatever he wanted, he took. From an early age, he saw it as his duty to . . . punish . . . small animals as well as other children, for their sins.”
I felt a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach but kept my expression neutral. I didn’t want Bill to start worrying about my temperature.
“Needless to say,” Bill went on, “the Spoffords couldn’t send Alfred to school. They kept him at their country estate, under close supervision, until, finally, he set fire to the summerhouse in which his mother was napping. She burned to death.”
“He murdered his mother?” I said weakly.
“Nothing could be proved conclusively,” said Bill, “but Sir Rodney found a telling scrap of biblical verse half burnt among the ashes. He concealed the evidence from the police and clapped Alfred into Brook House—a high-security, private institution. He then proceeded to eliminate Alfred’s name from the family records. Harold, the younger son, became his only son, as well as his heir.”
“How old was Harold when Alfred disappeared?” I asked.
“Twelve,” said Bill. “An impressionable age. He never forgot his older brother. When Harold was in his twenties, he began visiting Alfred, on the sly. He encouraged Alfred to take occupational therapy classes. Alfred studied electronics and computer technology and became a model inmate. Years passed without a single psychotic episode. Harold came to believe that his brother had been rehabilitated.”
“Did he mention Alfred’s progress to his father?” I asked.
“Sir Rodney refused to acknowledge Alfred’s existence.” Bill shook his head. “As far as he was concerned, Alfred had died in the same fire that had killed Lady Spofford.”
“So Alfred became Harold’s little secret,” I said.
“Alfred became Harold’s obsession,” Bill corrected. “He believed that Alfred had been treated disgracefully and strongly disapproved of the will I’d drawn up.”
“I’ll bet Alfred wasn’t too happy about the will either,” I commented.
“He was outraged. He was the eldest son. He was the rightful heir. No one had the right to disinherit him.” Bill put a hand to his breast. “In his twisted vision, I was the instrument that had robbed him of his patrimony. He saw it as his duty to punish me. Alfred became Abaddon.”
“The king of the bottomless pit,” I murmured. “Did Alfred send the creepy e-mail to you from Brook House?”
“He didn’t have to,” said Bill. “He escaped from Brook House three months ago, aided and abetted by his younger brother. Sir Rodney hired private detectives to find Alfred, but Harold helped Alfred to outmaneuver them. Harold gave Alfred money, hid him, rented a car for him, bought the laptops Alfred used to send the e-mail threats. He also provided Alfred with a gun taken from Sir Rodney’s collection of firearms.”