City of Darkness and Light(101)
She looked utterly hopeless and a tear trickled down her cheek. “How did you find out?”
“That Reynold Bryce was your father? I didn’t, until now. But I started putting two and two together and making four. The fact that he left America suddenly eighteen years ago, and that must be around your age. And his wife refused to come with him—broke off all contact with him actually. And I learned that he had a predilection for young girls and he was actually painting another one when he died. Is that why you came to Paris early—to see him and to kill him?”
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I swear I didn’t know. The first visit really was a courtesy call. I’d heard about Reynold Bryce, of course, and that he had helped our family financially, and was extremely wealthy so I thought at least he’d treat me to a good meal—maybe ask me to stay with him until Peter arrived. But he didn’t want to see me. He was most unwelcoming—rather rude actually. He told me to go away; he was busy. You were right. He was painting a young girl—younger than me, I think. And the way he spoke to her and looked at her made me feel strange. And the way he looked at me too. There was something I couldn’t quite explain … he seemed angry but at the same time almost triumphant, amused, pleased with himself.”
She was looking directly at me now, willing me to understand. I suspected she was desperate to share her secret with someone. She waited until a party of four Americans had walked past us, heading for the restaurant, then she continued.
“So I came away feeling annoyed and upset. I couldn’t understand his attitude to me. Wouldn’t he have been glad to see someone from home, a member of a family he used to know well? And then it hit me. Certain things I’d overheard at home and not understood. Conversations that were broken off when I came into the room. Something my stepfather had said: ‘How long are you going to let this charade continue?’ and ‘Thank God she’ll soon be married off and no longer be your responsibility.’” She paused, staring out blankly past me into the hallway. “I thought he was just being his usual horrible self. But there was that painting in Mr. Bryce’s hallway and I couldn’t get it out of my mind. You know, one of the Angela paintings. It must have been one of the last ones because my aunt Adelaide looks quite grown up. But the problem was it looked so exactly like me that it was frightening. And then I realized the truth about what had happened and why he’d fled to Paris. Aunt Adelaide was really my mother. He must have seduced her and when she found out she was going to have a baby it was too much for her delicate nature. She’d always been naïve and led a very sheltered life. She must have been so overwhelmed that she had a nervous breakdown. And my adoptive mother was the only sister who was married at the time and wanted to have a baby of her own, so I was handed over to her. And everybody who knew kept quiet. But silly Mama must have spilled the beans to my stepfather.”
“I see,” I said. “Yes, that is how it must have been. How very tragic. So you decided to kill your father. To make him pay for what he had done.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I decided to do. If he had welcomed me, told me the truth, wanted me in his life, I might have forgiven him. But that complete and utter rejection—it was too much. There he was, enjoying a good life—rich, famous—when my poor little mother’s life had been ruined forever. I decided that such a man does not deserve to live. I slipped into the hotel kitchen and took a sharp knife and carried it in my purse to my father’s house.”
“And the housekeeper admitted you? Weren’t you scared that she’d be a witness to his murder?”
“I didn’t think about that. I didn’t care about anything anymore. I did worry about the young girl being there. I thought I’d somehow have to lure him away or find an excuse to get rid of her. But when I went into his studio he was alone. And the housekeeper left us alone too. I told him I’d figured out the truth and he looked amused and said, ‘Good for you. Obviously smarter than your mother, then.’
“Then he asked me why I had come. What I wanted from him. Was it money? I said I’d come to kill him. I got out the knife. I told him how he’d ruined my mother’s life and my life and he didn’t care about us at all. As I came toward him he didn’t look afraid—amused rather. He got up, grabbed my wrist, and twisted it until I had to drop the knife.
“‘Now stop being a fool. Go home and forget all about me,’ he said. ‘And we’ll say no more about this absurd incident. If you come back, I’ll have you locked up as insane—do you understand?’ I turned and ran out of the house.”