Free Death in Leamington by David Smith

symmetry; but the restrictions of being Sir William Flyte’s houseguest soon became an increasingly tiresome burden to him. Of course, he was grateful for the immediate sanctuary he had been offered as he needed to recover physically from his courtroom ordeals. He was also plagued now by a raft of minor ills and sleep loss. He had soon begun to resent the interference and loss of privacy that being part of his this man’s household imposed on him. Therefore, although he had arrived with no specific plan, he became increasingly anxious to move on, to see what came his way, preferring serendipity to grand plans or any notion of destiny.
    During the past few weeks, he had largely kept himself to himself, taking long walks in the town parks with his newly-acquired dogs, avoiding the tedium of social intercourse with Sir William’s endless list of houseguests. Like his French predecessor, his ancestry was an adopted one, uncertain, born of the necessity of family dynasties and maternal infertility. Like Louis he was the jewel in the family crown, the last pretender. He felt that burden keenly, and had always tried to succeed through merit, but the powers of family cronyism were intense. The brutal and often cruel behavior of his business lieutenants was now a source of regret to him and in some cases guilt, so he had banished himself into self-exile, his chosen retirement to this foreign wooded Arden, amidst a countryside of rolling hills and fields, rather than further pollute the luxurious thick jungle of his Ceylonese youth.
    He had been thinking a lot during this time. His mind had always been a battleground; he was smart, talented at design, visionary sometimes but fundamentally his gift had turned out to be making money. He believed that good could come from such creative tension, but his own weaknesses and temptations had equally become continuous sources of regret. Unable to quell the cynical manipulation of his cronies, who were thoroughly corrupted by his reflected power; order and truth, falsehood and disorder had all become jumbled. His was a mind that had become increasingly filled with a sense of shame. And as he neared the end of his days, he was evermore mindful of his approaching appointment with the old woman who would lead him down the bridge that narrows until the departed fall off into the abyss of hell.
    All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.
    *
    He was haunted most in these thoughts by the little people who lived in the shadow of his wealth, exploited, poorly educated and often hungry; exposed to poor safety conditions in his factories. Their downtrodden lives starkly contrasting with the fabulous wealth and privilege of his family and business associates. He felt dishonoured by the extreme poverty and despair that was still on view night and day on the streets of his native city of Colombo.
    The ten richest men in his home country owned more wealth than the 20 million poorest and he was certainly one of, if not, the richest. But he was also too weak to resist the self-serving flattery of his counsellors and advisors, the ugly sycophants, the venomous toads that surrounded him. Sometimes he dreamt of flying his little tin airplane over those slums, showering money over them, flying through the despairing prayers of the little people, the poor villagers trying to find gold in the downtrodden streets. But in the reality of those streets, he would still seek to avoid them, fearful of bumping into anything that was too nasty, that might stain his smart tailored suits. The auguries were clear: in the dreams that filled the darkest hours, on the nights before his predetermined death, in this godless foreign forest.
    Of course he had not acknowledged the portents, or else he might have taken a different course of action that day. Compared to Colombo, where he was under the constant watch of bodyguards and security cameras, Leamington was safe, a fabulous peace, just him and his