The Changeling by Philippa Carr

servants from the London house had just arrived and wanted to see my mother. It turned out to be Alfred the footman.
    My mother rose in alarm. “Alfred!” she cried.
    “Pray do not be alarmed, Madam,” said Alfred.
    My mother interrupted: “Something is wrong. Mr. Lansdon …”
    Alfred found it difficult to discard his dignity even in a crisis. “Mr. Lansdon is well, Madam. It is on his orders that I am here. He thought it better for me to come than to communicate in the normal way. It is Mr. Peter Lansdon. He has been taken ill. The family is gathering at the house, Madam. Mr. Lansdon thought, that if you were well enough to travel, you might wish to be there.”
    “Uncle Peter …” said my mother. She looked at Alfred. “What is wrong? Do you know?”
    “Yes, Madam. Mr. Peter Lansdon suffered a stroke during the night. His condition is said to be … not good. It is for this reason …”
    She said: “We will leave as soon as possible. Alfred, have you had something to eat? Go to Mrs. Emery. She will see to you while we prepare ourselves to leave.”
    I took her arm and we went indoors. I could see that she was shaken.
    “Uncle Peter,” she murmured. “I do hope he won’t … I do hope he’ll be all right. I always thought of him as … indestructible.”
    We caught the three-thirty train to London and went straight to Uncle Peter’s house. Benedict was there. He embraced my mother tenderly and hardly seemed to notice me.
    “I was afraid after I’d sent Alfred that it might have been a shock, darling,” he said. “I guessed you’d want to be here … but… actually he was asking for you.”
    “How is he?”
    Benedict shook his head.
    Aunt Amaryllis came out, looking lost and bewildered. I had never seen her like that before. She seemed unaware that we were there.
    “Aunt Amaryllis,” said my mother. “Oh … my dear …”
    “He was all right just before,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “I didn’t have a notion … and then suddenly … he just collapsed.”
    We stood round his bed. He looked different … handsome, distinguished but different. He was very pale and seemed old … much older than when I had last seen him.
    I looked at those round the bed … his family … the people who had been closest to him. I was struck by the incredulity in those faces. He was dying and they all knew it, and death was something one had never thought of in connection with Uncle Peter. But it had overtaken him at last and there he lay … the buccaneer who had adventured on the high seas of life … winning most of the time and often not too scrupulously, I had heard it whispered in the family. Only once had he come near to disaster. That was in connection with the rather notorious and disreputable clubs which he ran at great profit and on which his fortune had been founded. Then he had become a philanthropist, and a great deal of that money which had come through questionable sources had gone back into good works like the Mission run by his son Peterkin and his wife Frances.
    I think we had all loved him. He was a rogue, yes, but a very wise one. I knew my mother had loved him as my grandmother had. He had always been kind and helpful. Amaryllis had adored him; she had refused to see any fault in him. The others realized his rogueries … and loved him none the less because of them.
    And now he was dying.
    There were pieces in the papers about him—the millionaire philanthropist, they called him. They were all saying flattering things about him and there was no hint of the manner in which his fortune had been acquired. To be dead is to be sanctified. I supposed it was because people ceased to be envious. Everybody wants to be a millionaire but nobody wants to be dead. So envy evaporates. Moreover, people often feel uneasy about defaming the dead … especially the newly dead. Perhaps there is a fear of haunting. “Never speak ill of the dead,” they say.
    So Uncle Peter was remembered for his good deeds rather