Read Aiding and Abetting for Free Online Page B

collect?” “Oh, he sometimes collects himself. But I look more like Lucan.”
    She studied his face. “Yes, in a way you do. In a way you don’t. It could be you were once a priest, though. You have a touch of that theological look that can never be thrown off. Only a touch. Now look, Lucky, you are going to deal with one question that I think only you can answer: Did you ever know Heinrich Esk, a theological student at a Protestant college in Munich, let us say about ten, eleven years ago?”
    “Twelve years ago,” he said.
    “I worked miracles,” said Hildegard. “And that is the truth.”
    “Undoubtedly. But you were a fraud. A fake stigmatic.
    Heinrich told me. He died of leukemia, you know.”
    “What do you want from me?” Hildegard said. “Advice. I sold my soul to the Devil, as I’ve already told you.”
    “And you want it back?”
    “I want it back.”
    “You must break with Walker for a start,” she said.
    “That would be difficult.”
    “I know. Well, I can’t take you both on as patients.” “I think you have no choice.” Suddenly, Lucky produced a small package. “I brought you this from Scotland,” he said, passing the little box to Hildegard. “You thought of me in Scotland,” she said, opening the little parcel with many exclamations of quite genuine appreciation of the crystal pendant.
    “I thought of you all the time,” he said.
    “That is a normal reaction towards an analyst. And what were you doing in Scotland, exactly?” “I’m afraid that’s a secret. Your other Lucan is furious because I came to you. In fact, I’ve been round the world in the past twenty-five years. I’ve been short of money at times and had to be a salesman of textbooks on Presbyterianism and physiotherapy; I’ve been a gentleman’s gentleman-
    I did well. I’ve been a genealogist helping the Mormons to trace their ancestry-that was too dangerous, though-I had to make trips to London. What a pity: it was lucrative.”
    “And how did you become a priest?”
    “Well, I hid in a monastery for a time.”
    “That didn’t make you a priest.”
    “Well, not quite. I just went around with a dog collar.” “Most of the money wasted on psychoanalysis,” Hildegard said, “goes on time spent unraveling the lies of the patient. Your time is up.”
    “Am I Lucan?” he said. “I want you to know that I believe in myself.”
    Maria Twickenham, separated from her husband, attracted many men, but did not greatly encourage them. Maria’s reputation was not the subject of scandal or gossip. But the police inspectors who called at her house the day after the murder of Lord Lucan’s nanny in November 1974 were not to know that. They were unable to exclude from their minds a possibility that the two were lovers, beautiful as she was, handsome as he was.
    It was on the morning of the day after Lord Lucan’s disappearance that the police were at Maria’s door. One in uniform, two in civilian clothes. There was no answer. They returned in the evening. A man of about forty answered the door.
    The uniformed man said, “Good afternoon. Is Mrs.Twickenham at home?”
    “She is my wife. She’s in South Africa. I am Alfred Twickenham.”
    “May we have a word with you, sir?”
    “What about?”
    “I believe you and your wife are close friends of Lord Lucan. We’re wondering about his whereabouts in view of the tragedy that occurred at his home last night.” “What tragedy?” said Alfred.
    “I’d have thought you would have heard,” said the policeman. “The children’s nurse was murdered and the wife severely wounded. The news has been on TV and it’s all over the papers. Surely you have heard?” “Oh, vaguely,” said the man.
    “He was a friend of yours. May we come in a minute? We’re the Metropolitan Police. We’d like to ask a few questions.”
    “Oh, I can’t help you. He isn’t so very close a friend.” They tramped in while he continued, “I don’t know Lucan all that