SAUL FELT UNEASY as he stopped before the imposing wrought-iron gates of The Holme. The 205-year-old mansion, located in London, had become the most expensive private residence in the world, valued at $300 million. The Holme had been built in Regent's Park in 1818 by the English architect James Burton and designed by his son, Decimus Burton.
The estate occupied the equivalent of four acres, with nearly 29,000 square feet of living space. It featured forty bedrooms, eight garages, a tennis court, a library, a sauna, and a grand dining hall. By every measure, it was an extraordinary property. Two surveillance cameras, their lenses protruding from the gateposts, suggested that the owners placed greater trust in technology than in stone guardians.
The gates swung open only seconds after his arrival, and a chill ran down his spine as the Tesla crossed the threshold separating the outside world from the estate. A short distance ahead, the mansion's entrance came into view.
The butler, Garvin, who had served his parents for twenty years, waited at the front door. Saul parked near the servants' entrance and, before leaving the safety of his mobile refuge, reached for his cane.
— Good morning, Mr. Saul, — greeted the tall, slender butler, wearing the faintest smile beneath his neatly trimmed narrow mustache.
— Good morning, Garvin, — the journalist replied, shaking his hand while noticing a rebellious strand in the otherwise immaculate mustache.
— Will my father be having breakfast with us?
— The table has been set for two, Mrs. Nolland and yourself.
— And my father?
— Mr. Nolland has already left for his morning ride.
Excellent. That means I can speak freely with my mother... Saul thought as he stepped into the drawing room.
SHE WAS SITTING ON THE SOFA beside the fireplace, and the moment she saw her son, Lizbeth Nolland's face lit up. She rose immediately and walked toward him.
Saul smiled, and as they embraced, she rested her cheek against his shoulder. He caught the delicate floral fragrance that accompanied her every morning.
— You're always elegant, Mother, — Saul broke the silence.
— Thank you for coming, my son, — Lizbeth replied, looking at him with unmistakable pride.
— I came only because you asked me to.
— Your father has gone riding. Let's have some tea and talk for a while, — she suggested, taking his left arm and leading him toward the tea room.
They crossed the spacious drawing room, passed through the armory, where swords, shields, and mounted hunting trophies adorned the walls, and entered the game room, which also served as the tea room.
The tapestries covering the walls alternated scenes from Shakespeare's plays. In the corners of the room stood four-seat tables for chess and bridge. At the center stood a large wooden table whose carved legs depicted the fairies from A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Covered with a white linen tablecloth, it had been prepared for two. Lizbeth took the seat at the head of the table, facing the cabinet of fine spirits and cigars on the opposite wall. Saul sat beside her, directly in front of two tapestries.
The one on the left depicted Romeo clutching an uncorked vial of poison, despairing over the body of his beloved.
The journalist shifted his attention from the table laden with pastries to the figures in the second tapestry, recognizing them immediately.
In the right corner, the creature pressed against a rocky outcrop, visibly cornered, was Caliban, the treacherous slave.
The Bastard X... he concluded.
Standing before him, an older man held a sword in his right hand while pointing to the left with the other.
Prospero... John Dee... Ipsissimus... Saul connected the dots.
Clinging to Prospero, seeking protection with an innocent expression, stood his daughter.
Miranda... the Scarlet Woman... Jessyca Volpi... he thought.
— It's your father's favorite, — Lizbeth commented, noticing how absorbed her son was in the tapestry.
— I prefer the others, — Saul replied, watching a woman of medium height with a round face approach the table carrying a silver tea tray.
— Just a splash of milk in both cups, — Lizbeth instructed the housekeeper.
Saul looked at his mother. Her straight blonde hair fell two inches below her ears. Her pale green eyes, slightly downturned, lent a quiet sadness to her delicate features.
It had been almost a year since they had last seen each other in person.
— I've missed you, my son.
— You should blame your husband for that, — Saul replied bitterly.
— I hope you'll try to understand him.
— There's no reasonable explanation for publicly disowning your own son. Would you ever do that, Mother? — the journalist asked as the housekeeper poured milk into his tea.
— It's easy to judge someone when we don't have to carry their burden ourselves, my son, — Lizbeth answered with pleading eyes. She wanted Saul to be compassionate. More than anything, she wanted the family reunited, healed from that wound.
— Anything you say can and will be used against you, Mother, — Saul said, quoting the words police officers recite during an arrest. — If your husband hadn't turned against me, I wouldn't have carried such a heavy burden these past two years. And that burden... no one carried it for me.
— I'm so sorry. I know I should have stood by your side.
— He was the one most responsible for my downfall, Mother. And because of him, those criminals walked free. I was right, and I'm going to prove it. His burden must be heavy because his conscience certainly is, — the journalist shot back, his eyes glistening.
— For my sake, at least listen to what he has to say, Saul. That's all I ask. I believe an experienced journalist knows how to listen.
— For you, Mother, — he conceded, lifting the teacup to his lips.
— Thank you, my son...
WHILE SIPPING HIS TEA, Saul looked once again at the tapestry inspired by The Tempest.
Only one link is still missing... Perhaps the model is the answer... he reasoned.
— I've been reading your articles in The Sunny, — Lizbeth said as she picked up a croissant.
— I bet you do it behind his back, — Saul remarked.
— Don't tell him I admitted it, but your father always says your articles are the only worthwhile ones in the newspaper.
— I suppose he also regrets that I didn't pursue a diplomatic career.
— He recognizes your talent, my son. He even believes you were right all along.
— Is that why he kept saying I'd thrown my future away?
— I was shocked by Baruch Hawkings' death, — Lizbeth said, steering the conversation elsewhere.
— He was murdered, Mother.
— I read your article.
— What did you think?
— Frightening.
— And what did he think?
— Before leaving for his morning ride, he simply said, "He got what he deserved."
— If that's what he wishes upon his friends...
— Baruch was never your father's friend, — Lizbeth interrupted.
— Your husband threw me into the fire because of people like him, and Baruch Hawkings was one of them. Nothing he says can ever change that.
— Your father did it to protect you, — she replied firmly.
She wouldn't lie while looking me in the eye... Saul thought before asking,
— Any news about Karin?
— Your sister is doing very well. She may spend a few days in London next month.
— I'm glad to hear that.
— And what about you? How are things at the newspaper?
— I'm about to be promoted, Mother.
— That's wonderful news, my son. It deserves a celebration.
— Then let me take you to dinner at Pierre Gagnaire.
— I wouldn't turn down that invitation for anything, — she replied, lifting her teacup.
For a brief moment, Saul felt light again, free from the burdens of the past week.
Years earlier, he had visited Paris with his parents when he was twelve, and ever since, he had frequently returned to the City of Light with his mother. Her intimacy with France came naturally—she had been born there before moving to London shortly before her third birthday.
For Saul, memories of Paris had always been comforting. Even now, he could almost smell the sweet aroma drifting from the boulangeries. It was there that he had learned to love fine cuisine and great wines.
Will Meggie and I ever... he wondered, smiling absentmindedly.
— Will anyone else be joining the celebration? — Lizbeth asked.
— I won't be inviting anyone else.
— Are you alone?
— I honestly don't know.
— Is she a journalist too?
— She's an American reporter.
— You and your attraction to American women.
— Just another happy coincidence among so many others.
— Does she work at The Sunny?
— She's my assistant, — Saul admitted before taking another sip of tea.
His mother smiled. She knew how deeply her son had suffered after Justine's death, and more than anyone, she wished he would find someone capable of healing his heart.
— Changing the subject, your uncle told me he ran into you at The Orangery.
— It was very brief. We barely had time to talk.
— He said...
— That I was with a priest... I know what you're thinking. I haven't gone back to practicing your faith.
— You know exactly what I'm thinking, my son.
Saul embraced his mother and kissed her on the cheek.
— Thank you for that...
— Excuse me, — Garvin announced from the doorway of the game room.
— What is it, Garvin? — Lizbeth asked.
— Sir Nolland is waiting for Mr. Saul in the drawing room, — the butler replied.
Those words instantly pulled the journalist out of his refuge.
— Excuse me, — he said to his mother as he rose from the table.
— Be understanding with him, my son, — Lizbeth urged once more.
— I can't promise anything, Mother.
— Just try, my dear.