musical. We have coordinated our voices. Besides, people might assume that voices change.”
Years ago, there had been an arrest. Lucan is found in Australia! Indeed the suspect turned out to be a very much wanted missing man; but he wasn’t Lucan. And as far as Hildegard was concerned, neither, as yet, were quite proved to be either Walker or Lucky. She had a naturally objective set of wits. The men were each, to her, “a mere anatomy, a mountebank . . . a living-dead man,” as Shakespeare had put it long ago.
In manners, in speech, Hildegard had written, both Lucky and Walker could have based themselves on the Lucan of the historical case. Their methods of copying would have been fairly easy for the reason that Lucan himself had been a perfect bore, a cut-to-measure gentleman with a pack of memories very, very like that of many another man of his class and education. He does not appear to have had one original idea, ever, beyond that of attempting and planning to murder his wife. He was extremely average of mind. He could have been anybody.
With a smattering of information about the past life and schooling of a man like Lucan, given the height and shape, it would not have been difficult to assume a personality that would convince his acquaintances of his identity. Oh, Lucan, Lucan, you hot potato. The rain had stopped. Hildegard put away her notes. She felt a great longing for Jean-Pierre and regretted not being connected even by e-mail. Surely he would be looking for her, might even find her. But she didn’t trust his tact in evading the Lucans. Jean-Pierre lacked duplicity whereas they were altogether a double proposition. Sooner or later she would phone him.
Walker had a very fixed idea of what a gentleman should be. He had studied Lucky Lucan diligently for ten of the years since Lucan had been a wanted man on the loose. He had got most of his ideas about a hundred years out of date, as were the convictions and attitudes of Lucan himself, for Lucan’s conceptions of a gentleman were greatly distorted. This had been noted by his fellow guardsmen in the Coldstream regiment, where Lucan played the Earl from start to finish, outdoing the other earls in the practice of earldom.
Walker’s notion of a gentleman was further distorted by the reality of Lucan’s character. Lucan was, in fact, bent, a natural felon, a failed person. He was self-centered as a man, self-occupied as a nobleman; the mask of the upstart, strangely, was Lord Lucan’s favorite mode of self-expression. “Virtue and honor”: his family specifically claimed that these were guiding features of their fugitive kinsman. However, they were obviously not remotely attributes of his; they were the facade which Walker in his role of freelance gentleman had assiduously copied and assumed. Yes, he was now ideally Lucan’s doppelganger, his other self.
Walker’s physical resemblance to Lucan had grown over those years since they had met in Mexico. Its initial advantage was the two men’s precisely identical height of six-foot-plus and the curious melon like shape of their heads. Lucan’s head was described by an acquaintance as “bony,” and so was Walker’s. Their dark coloring had been more or less the same. Only their separate features had differed. This had been attended to gradually in the more recent years by plastic surgery, so that it was now difficult to tell the two men apart.
Lucan, however, had a certain charm, not a great deal of it, but enough to be all the more charming. Walker had none and was always at a loss how to achieve it; was transparent, which at times was in itself quite appealing. Where they resembled each other most in character was in their aptitude for cold indifference; on that level they never failed to be in harmony.
Walker had come to Lucan’s notice on a ranch in Mexico, one of Lucan’s many places of refuge in the years following his disappearance. His host had been a small spare man, nut-brown, a
Years ago, there had been an arrest. Lucan is found in Australia! Indeed the suspect turned out to be a very much wanted missing man; but he wasn’t Lucan. And as far as Hildegard was concerned, neither, as yet, were quite proved to be either Walker or Lucky. She had a naturally objective set of wits. The men were each, to her, “a mere anatomy, a mountebank . . . a living-dead man,” as Shakespeare had put it long ago.
In manners, in speech, Hildegard had written, both Lucky and Walker could have based themselves on the Lucan of the historical case. Their methods of copying would have been fairly easy for the reason that Lucan himself had been a perfect bore, a cut-to-measure gentleman with a pack of memories very, very like that of many another man of his class and education. He does not appear to have had one original idea, ever, beyond that of attempting and planning to murder his wife. He was extremely average of mind. He could have been anybody.
With a smattering of information about the past life and schooling of a man like Lucan, given the height and shape, it would not have been difficult to assume a personality that would convince his acquaintances of his identity. Oh, Lucan, Lucan, you hot potato. The rain had stopped. Hildegard put away her notes. She felt a great longing for Jean-Pierre and regretted not being connected even by e-mail. Surely he would be looking for her, might even find her. But she didn’t trust his tact in evading the Lucans. Jean-Pierre lacked duplicity whereas they were altogether a double proposition. Sooner or later she would phone him.
Walker had a very fixed idea of what a gentleman should be. He had studied Lucky Lucan diligently for ten of the years since Lucan had been a wanted man on the loose. He had got most of his ideas about a hundred years out of date, as were the convictions and attitudes of Lucan himself, for Lucan’s conceptions of a gentleman were greatly distorted. This had been noted by his fellow guardsmen in the Coldstream regiment, where Lucan played the Earl from start to finish, outdoing the other earls in the practice of earldom.
Walker’s notion of a gentleman was further distorted by the reality of Lucan’s character. Lucan was, in fact, bent, a natural felon, a failed person. He was self-centered as a man, self-occupied as a nobleman; the mask of the upstart, strangely, was Lord Lucan’s favorite mode of self-expression. “Virtue and honor”: his family specifically claimed that these were guiding features of their fugitive kinsman. However, they were obviously not remotely attributes of his; they were the facade which Walker in his role of freelance gentleman had assiduously copied and assumed. Yes, he was now ideally Lucan’s doppelganger, his other self.
Walker’s physical resemblance to Lucan had grown over those years since they had met in Mexico. Its initial advantage was the two men’s precisely identical height of six-foot-plus and the curious melon like shape of their heads. Lucan’s head was described by an acquaintance as “bony,” and so was Walker’s. Their dark coloring had been more or less the same. Only their separate features had differed. This had been attended to gradually in the more recent years by plastic surgery, so that it was now difficult to tell the two men apart.
Lucan, however, had a certain charm, not a great deal of it, but enough to be all the more charming. Walker had none and was always at a loss how to achieve it; was transparent, which at times was in itself quite appealing. Where they resembled each other most in character was in their aptitude for cold indifference; on that level they never failed to be in harmony.
Walker had come to Lucan’s notice on a ranch in Mexico, one of Lucan’s many places of refuge in the years following his disappearance. His host had been a small spare man, nut-brown, a
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