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“A Broken Man”
The Palace Hotel had given Lord Burnham’s forwarding address as an estate in the Oakland Hills known as Vista Bellissima. It was the West Coast retreat of the British Ambassador James Bryce, accessed by a series of electric streetcars bookending a ferry ride from the center of San Francisco.
Jonathan arrived at the residence in the early afternoon. Several minutes after he knocked, a staid-looking butler answered the oversized double doors. Before Jonathan could speak, the man said, “I’m afraid the ambassador is not in residence and will not be returning for several weeks.” He began to shut the door, but Jonathan smoothly stopped his attempt.
“I’m actually here to see Lord Burnham,” he said. “I understand he’s a guest of the ambassador.” He handed the butler his card. “I’m sure he will see me. We’re old friends.”
With pursed lips the butler glanced at the card and then (rather reluctantly, it seemed) opened the door wider to allow Jonathan to enter. Once inside, the servant gestured to where a bank of large windows offered a spectacular view of the Golden City across the bay. “Lord Burnham is rather under the weather today and is recuperating out on the terrace. If you’ll excuse me, I will check to see if he is receiving visitors.”
While he waited, Jonathan took in the trappings of Ambassador Bryce, the well-heeled British diplomat. Why stay in hot, muggy Washington D.C. when one could rusticate in luxury on America’s scenic west coast? No doubt Lord Burnham had helped pave the way for the man’s appointment, which granted him access to an opulent retreat when necessary. If you’re going to hide out after committing murder, you may as well do it in style.
In a few moments the butler returned and ushered Jonathan out to the back terrace, which spanned the length of the prairie-style home. The architect had cleverly cantilevered the upper floor over the outdoor space so that the view of the cityscape from within would not be marred by patio furniture. Yet outside, an equally enthralling atmosphere existed; protected by the overhang of the upper floor, the terrace was a veritable fern garden. One felt embraced by lush greenery, with the promise of hidden delights made by a path leading down the hill.
Unfortunately, the beauty of the surroundings seemed to be lost on Burnham, who looked as if he had come down with consumption. He sat with a blanket draped across his knees even though the slight breeze was neither too cool nor overly warm. When he looked up at Jonathan, his eyes were red-rimmed yet hostile. He did not look like a man who had exacted revenge or solved a problem.
“Come here to gloat, have you?” he snarled.
The man’s demeanor was unexpected. “What do you mean?” Jonathan asked.
“You know damn well what I mean. You think you’re no longer vulnerable. That the matter we discussed will now go away. But you are dead wrong. I will personally make sure your nightmare is just beginning.”
The baron was not making sense. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Jonathan began quietly, “but I can assure you, removing Sybil West from the picture was no way to solve anyone’s problems—not yours, nor those you perceive to be mine.”
“Then why—” Burnham’s tone was fierce, but he stopped himself as he looked up to see the butler standing at the terrace edge in watchful silence. “My friend and I have no need of your services at the moment, Corning. I will call out if I need you.”
“Very good, my lord,” the butler said, and disappeared into the house.
The anger inside of Jonathan once again started to churn. How dare this man sound affronted after setting Jonathan up! “I told you I would contact you after Sybil and I talked. Was the blackmail simply a ruse to set me up? Did you think I would take the fall while you solved whatever little embarrassment you thought Sybil represented for you? What—did she tell you she wasn’t interested in seeking revenge on my brother after all? Or worse yet, did she tell you she was no longer going to share your bed?”
Burnham surged out of his chair and lunged for Jonathan, his strength nearly overwhelming as he clasped his hands around Jonathan’s throat. “How dare you speak of her like that!” he raged. “You are not worthy of the ground she walked upon!”
Caught off guard, Jonathan reached up to pry Burnham’s hands away. He pushed the older man as hard as he could, causing Burnham to stagger back and almost fall. At the last minute the man righted himself and reached for the walking stick he’d propped next to his chair. He raised it high, ready to strike. Lunging forward, his aim was off, and Jonathan easily sidestepped him. Once again Burnham went tumbling, this time falling into a heap, sobbing with frustration.
“You think I killed her,” Jonathan said incredulously.
“Well, didn’t you? You found out she was deceiving you—and I, I was the one who told you! My God, if I had known…” Burnham was now lost in a filthy bog of self-recrimination and didn’t even respond when Jonathan reached down to help him up.
“Lord Burnham, I swear to you I did not kill Sybil West. In fact, I came here to confront you, assuming you killed her.”
At that, Burnham looked at Jonathan, equally befuddled. “Why on earth would I kill her?”
“I don’t know. I thought perhaps because she was about to thwart your plan to compromise me. Or perhaps in your own way, you loved her. She was your mistress, she spurned you, and—”
Burnham shook his head. “No, no. no. You have it all wrong. I loved her, yes, but not the way you think.”
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