You will discover that when Crispin realizes he is no longer dependent on you, he will show his true colours as you did to me.
When you read this, I will be dead, but Crispin will be very much alive. Tread carefully, Amelia. He will be a hard taskmaster, and this thought gratifies me. You have been so selfishly obsessed with your power over our son that you have failed to realize that Crispin is not as other men. You will discover the truth of this when he comes into my money.
When Amelia read this letter, she burst out laughing. What drivel this old fool had written!
Independent? Crispin? Again she laughed. Crispin was totally dependent on her, and always would be. She had controlled him for more than twenty years with rigid discipline. She hadn’t allowed him to go to a school or to a university. He had been educated at home by expensive tutors. The idea of Crispin mixing with immoral, vicious, drug-taking youthful troublemakers was not to be considered.
At an early age, Crispin had shown a remarkable talent for painting in oils. This she encouraged as, working in a specially constructed studio on the top floor of the enormous house, she was able to be constantly in touch with him.
She was unable to understand nor to appreciate his strange, wild paintings. His skies were black, his moons were scarlet and his seas were orange. An art expert who she had consulted had spent some time examining dozens of Crispin’s landscapes. Because of the big fee that Amelia paid him, he had guardedly said that Crispin had an unusual talent, but he refrained from saying that, in his opinion, these landscapes, in spite of considerable talent, revealed a diseased mind.
What was this drivel that Crispin was not as other men? Again she laughed. Not as other men! She knew that! He was a great artist, and he was her son! Of course, he wasn’t like other men!
But what her husband had said about her son becoming independent once he had money nagged her. It was a stupid suggestion, but all the same, it nagged her.
She decided to settle this insinuous suggestion once and for all.
She had gone to Crispin’s studio to find him not there. Facing her was a big canvas on an easel. The half-finished painting was of a woman, lying on orange coloured sand, her legs spread, her arms out stretched, a ribbon of blood coming from her vagina.
Amelia stood transfixed, staring at the painting in horror. Modern art was modern art, but this...! Her face hardened. Crispin must stop this kind of thing! But where was he?
She found Reynolds standing in the vast hall.
Reynolds had been in her service for some twenty-five years. Her husband had disliked him and had wanted to get rid of him, but Amelia would have none of it. Reynolds had served her faithfully, and he had been good with Crispin. Over the years, she had begun to confide in Reynolds, consulting him how best she could handle her husband, and, as Crispin grew up, how best to handle him.
Reynolds offered advice that suited her. He never made suggestions unless consulted. Later, she was to discover that he was a hopeless alcoholic and, being shrewd, she knew his one hope of survival was to remain her servant, and this pleased her. She never questioned the disappearing Scotch. She had long ago realized she needed him as he needed her.
‘Where is Mr. Crispin?’ she demanded. ‘He is not in his studio.’
Reynolds regarded her, his eyes, as always, like wet stones.
‘He is in Mr. Gregg’s study, madam.’
Amelia stiffened.
‘In the study? What is he doing there?’
Reynolds lifted his shaggy eyebrows. He was a man of few words.
Her face hardening, Amelia walked down the long corridor to her husband’s study, pushed open the door and paused in the doorway.
This big, comfortably furnished room had been Cyrus Gregg’s retreat. In this room, at a vast desk, he had manipulated his business deals, arranged his real estate transactions and juggled successfully in stocks.
Amelia seldom entered the room, and it came as a shock to see her son seated in his father’s executive chair, the big desk covered with documents, stock quotations and various other papers.
‘What are you doing in your father’s study?’ Amelia had demanded, her voice domineering and harsh.
Pencil between his artistic, long fingers, Crispin made a note, then, with a little frown, looked up.
His eyes were the colour of opals: eyes that would give warning to anyone less confident of her power over him than Amelia.
‘My father is dead. This is now my study,’ he said. His voice was low pitched: a metallic voice of a robot.
Amelia felt a little chill run through her. Her son had never spoken to her before in such a voice.
‘What do you imagine you are doing?’ she blustered. ‘Now, Crispin, you must leave all this to me. You don’t understand your father’s affairs. I do. Although your father has foolishly left you his estate, without my help, you won’t be able to manage it. Money needs, managing. If it interests you, we will work together, but I think it is better for you to continue with your art, and leave the estate to me.’
‘I leave nothing to you,’ Crispin said quietly. ‘You have had your reign. Now it is my turn, and I have waited long enough!’
Shocked, fury sending blood in a purple flush to her heavy face, Amelia shouted, ‘How dare you speak to me like this! Crispin! Go immediately to your studio, and remember, I am your mother!’
Crispin put down his pencil, folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. His opal coloured eyes lit up.
There was such a demoniac expression in them that Amelia recoiled.
Her son looked exactly like her uncle, Martin, dead these forty odd years. Staring at him, she felt stricken.
At the age of ten, Martin, uncle on her mother’s side, had attempted to sexually assault her. Staring at her son and seeing the frightening resemblance, she vividly recalled the happening. Her parents had gone off for the day to some social affair. Uncle Martin, they told her, would take her out to lunch. This had delighted her as Uncle Martin, although eccentric, was fun. He was tall, slim with corn coloured hair, so much like Crispin. He used to dabble in art and dressed even in those days eccentrically. His preference was white frilly shirts and bottle green velvet suits. He was often suspected by his friends to be gay, that was far from the truth. He had a sexual compulsion for young girls, but at the age of ten, Amelia thought he was dashingly romantic.
On his arrival, and after the coloured butler had left them together, Uncle Martin had asked her where she would like to be taken for lunch. Even at that age, Amelia had developed the taste for luxury. She named the most expensive restaurant in the city. There was a strange expression on her uncle’s face as he agreed.
‘Pretty little girls who ask for expensive outings must give as well as take,’ he said, and with a fixed smile that turned him into a terrifying stranger, he caught hold of her. The next few moments still remained a nightmare to Amelia. At the age of ten, she was sturdy. As his hand thrust up her dress and between her thighs, she had lashed out at his face. Her wild screams had brought the butler and the footman into the room. They had great difficulty in dragging Uncle Martin away from her. While the struggle went on, Amelia fled to her bedroom and locked herself in. Sometime later, the footman who was on friendly terms with her had told her that Uncle Martin had been certified, and had been put in an asylum where later, he killed himself. Her parents had said nothing to her, nor did she to them.