Bones of the Buried (40 page)

‘Oh well,’ said Edward comfortably, ‘Connie’s a remarkable woman and much too good for you, Gerry. The least you can do, since for some extraordinary reason she agreed to
marry you, is what she tells you.’

‘Cheeky young pup,’ began the Duke when perhaps fortunately the butler entered the room.

‘Excuse me, your Grace, but cook says will you be requiring the asparagus as well as the gulls’ eggs?’

Connie had slipped away to speak to the cook, and the Duke, for once letting discretion overcome his natural urge to lecture his brother, had hidden himself behind
The Times
.

When the cottage door opened and Elizabeth appeared, Edward was quite taken aback. He had thought her lovely when he had seen her in starched white uniform at the hospital and, even more,
dressed up in borrowed finery at Claridge’s. Then, as she sat in her garden wearing an open-necked summer frock, her face and throat browned by the sun, he had thought her lovely but
troubled. Now, chameleon-like, she had turned into an elegant, self-assured, ‘Bond Street’ lady in a low-waisted yellow silk dress with a flared skirt and padded shoulders. Her shoes
were black and she carried lemon-yellow gloves. On her head, she wore a smart beige hat at an angle which suggested both jauntiness and untouchability.

Connie, sitting in the back, smiled at Elizabeth as Edward helped her into the car. ‘My dear, you look ravishing. Gerald, doesn’t she look lovely?’

‘Lovely, but do buck up, Edward, or we’ll be late.’

Connie was delighted to see that her husband was almost his old self again.

As Edward settled himself opposite her, Elizabeth said, as though apologising, ‘Oh, please, Connie, don’t embarrass me. Connie has been so good to me, Edward. When I explained I
hadn’t a thing to wear she insisted on taking me in hand.’

‘Well,’ said Edward gallantly, ‘I don’t know what “taking in hand” means. Whatever you chose to wear was good enough for me, but now you look good enough to
eat. No, not to eat – to dazzle.’

As he spoke, his eyes fell on Elizabeth’s left hand in which she held her gloves. Perhaps the word ‘dazzle’ had made him think of rings. He had never seen her wearing a ring
but she was wearing one today: a simple gold band. He suddenly wondered if it could possibly be the same one Verity had found in the cave and which had been taken from her finger when she had been
attacked in Madrid. He was just about to dismiss the idea as wildly unlikely when, raising his eyes to her face, he saw that she had coloured. He thought about what she had told him of her marriage
to Hoden. Was it possible she was wearing
his
ring? But why should she? She had hated him. Elizabeth must have seen the questions in his eyes. The mute appeal she now made to him for
understanding or at least patience until they could speak in private made Edward keep silent.

The Duke had been talking away, oblivious to the involuntary communication that had passed between them but Connie – with her quick understanding and feminine insight – had seen that
something had interrupted Edward’s frank appreciation of the beautiful woman seated opposite him.

As Fenton drove the Rolls-Royce out of the village, she said hurriedly, ‘Do you know, Ned, I think it’s frightfully unfair, Frank says he has Early School, just like on any other
day.’

‘What’s Early School?’ asked Elizabeth, grateful for the diversion.

‘It’s the work period before breakfast,’ Edward explained.

‘Before breakfast?’ Elizabeth was shocked. ‘How can boys be expected to concentrate before they’ve been fed?’

‘Oh, I do so agree,’ Connie chimed in.

‘It toughens you up for the real world,’ the Duke said.

Edward said: ‘This is the only day in the year when the boys can dress up as if they were in Pop – you know, the Eton Society.’ Elizabeth still looked blank. ‘Pop is the
school’s self-electing club. Prefects or monitors you would call them.’

‘Oh, don’t try and understand all the cant,’ Connie interjected. ‘It’s supposed to make us women feel out of it.’

‘Yes, but why is the Fourth of June the one day the boys can dress like Pop?’

‘Well, members of Pop dress in colourful, flowery waistcoats while everyone else is in black – black top hat, black tails. But on the Fourth, boys can wear grey waistcoats, stick-ups
– you know, a stick-up collar – and a button-hole.’

‘And they can roll their umbrellas,’ the Duke added impressively.

Edward grimaced. ‘It’s all very childish but, you see, all these little rituals and traditions bind us up, make us feel part of an elite.’

‘And that’s good?’ Connie inquired mildly.

‘Well, you sent Frank there, so you must think so,’ Edward said a little crossly.

‘So tell me what happens today,’ Elizabeth asked.

‘Oh, it’s terribly tiring,’ Connie said. ‘You walk for miles looking at unimaginably boring cricket matches and art exhibitions. Still, some of the boys are easy on the
eye.’

‘Connie, I’m shocked,’ Edward mocked, ‘and you haven’t even been at the champagne.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Ned. If you can enjoy looking at pretty girls, why mayn’t we look at the boys?’

‘Frank’s good-looking, no question, and he’s clever enough,’ said the Duke.

‘Bright as a button,’ Connie said quickly, ‘but he’s not an intellectual like his friend Charles Thayer. I told you, didn’t I, Elizabeth, about the poor boy losing
his father in that dreadful way? We’ve rather taken him under our wing. The only person he’s got to look after him is an aunt or cousin or something. He’s going to spend most of
the summer holidays here with us at Mersham.’

Edward saw Elizabeth bite her lip and go quite white. Rather meanly, he thought afterwards, he decided to rub it in that the boy was alone in the world. He was convinced that Elizabeth was the
red-headed girl Thayer’s butler, Barrington, had seen saying goodbye to him in a taxi and that she had some responsibility for his death. He had no real evidence but he had a theory – a
theory he was hoping to prove this very day. He said, ‘Charles is Frank’s particular friend. I haven’t met him since the funeral but Frank says he’s taken it very
bravely.’

‘He says Charles is coxing Monarch,’ the Duke informed him.

‘Gosh, Gerry, that’s an honour,’ Edward said in surprise.

‘Tell an ignorant woman what “Monarch” is,’ Connie commanded.

‘Oh, you know, it’s the “eight” which is in fact rowed by ten boys in the procession of boats,’ the Duke said.

‘Clear as mud. I know what the procession of boats is. It’s actually quite fun, Elizabeth. Just as it’s getting dark, all these eights row past and the boys stand up in the
boat with their oars upright in front of them.’

‘Do they fall in?’

‘Sometimes, but not often,’ said the Duke.

‘But Monarch’s different. In the last century, boats could be rowed by ten or even twelve, not just eight,’ Edward lectured Elizabeth, who had regained some of her poise.

‘And Monarch is one of them?’ she asked politely.

‘Yes, and not only is it very awkward to handle but it’s also rowed by drybobs as well as wetbobs – I mean boys who usually play cricket as well as those who row.’

‘So they are most likely to fall in?’

‘That’s right, but not when they first process down the river when it’s still light. About nine or ten o’clock, when it’s dark, they process again and in the dark
it really is difficult. Then, just short of the weir, they turn and float back downstream. That’s when they stand up.’

‘If there’s no light, how do we see them?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘There are flares on the bank. After that are the fireworks, which are the climax of the whole day, but the boys are often rather “lit up” themselves by then.’

‘Got at the scrumpy,’ Gerald said, knowingly.

‘On a wonderful hot day like today,’ Connie said, ‘the procession really is beautiful. The boys all wear such pretty costumes.’

‘Costumes?’ said Elizabeth, puzzled.

‘Yes,’ Edward said. ‘For some reason, they dress up in costumes resembling the uniforms which midshipmen wore in Nelson’s time. I don’t suppose they’re very
accurate. Prettified Victorian versions, I expect. Anyway, it looks good.’

‘But why did they choose Charles to cox Monarch?’

‘Can’t you guess, Connie?’ the Duke said. ‘They wanted to cheer him up – make him feel he has a family.’

Elizabeth was very nervous by the time they reached Eton and Fenton drew up outside Frank’s house. The tangle of cars made progress very slow, despite much waving and whistle-blowing by
white-gloved policemen. From that point, it made sense to walk everywhere and Fenton was told where to park and to meet them on the river bank at eight o’clock with the picnic. They were to
have luncheon with Chandler, Frank’s housemaster, but the evening picnic was a tradition, however wet the weather and uncomfortably crowded the situation.

Frank greeted them with enthusiasm which he tried unsuccessfully to disguise, no doubt considering it to be childish. For the first minute or two, he assumed an air of sophisticated
world-weariness and professed to be bored by the whole occasion but he could not conceal his excitement at his friend’s starring role in the procession of boats that evening.

He explained the significance of this to Elizabeth in considerable detail. ‘Of course, he’s the best fellow in the world but not everyone knew it. Now they will.’

Charles was much quieter than Frank. He talked to Edward and the Duke about the cricket and about his new passion for painting. Edward was relieved to see that the boy did not seem to have been
as badly affected by his father’s murder as he had feared. As they had time to spare before lunch, he said he would walk over to the art school with him to look at the exhibition which
included three of his pictures. The others went off to see Frank’s room.

Eton, like most English public schools, did not give the arts a high priority and the art rooms were cramped and badly in need of redecoration. Edward was therefore not expecting to find
anything very startling on the walls but, when Charles shyly pointed out his own paintings, they fairly took his breath away. Instead of the insipid watercolours of cricketing scenes or views of
College Chapel which he saw all around him, he found himself face to face with three dark and angry portraits all featuring the bloodied carcass of a male figure looking uncannily like
butcher’s meat. He looked at the boy beside him and his clear, grey eyes met his with chilling calmness. Edward said nothing but looked back at the pictures with a concentration which seemed
to please Charles.

‘Do you like them, sir?’

‘I think “like” is too bland a word, Charles. I think they are magnificent but . . .’

‘Yes?’ the boy prompted him with polite interest.

‘They are very fierce, very savage. Are they in any way portraits of . . . do they symbolise . . .?’

‘They don’t symbolise anything. They are based on a photograph of my father.’

‘I see,’ said Edward cautiously. ‘Forgive me if I am wrong, but they seem angry. You must tell me if I am being too obvious.’

‘Oh no, sir. My art master, Mr Boyd, suggested it might help relieve my feelings if I painted them. He said I shouldn’t bottle them up – my feelings, that is.’

‘He sounds a sensible man. But the anger . . . is that directed at his . . . his murderer?’

‘Yes, sir. Frank says you will find out who he is so he can be punished.’

Edward caught his breath. This calm confidence in his powers of detection might, he feared, be unfounded. ‘I hope so,’ he said.

‘I was so sorry to hear that your friend, Miss Browne, had been attacked. Did that have anything to do with my father’s death?’

‘I believe it has,’ Edward replied gravely, ‘but if you don’t mind, I won’t say anything more just at the moment. And Charles – I’m probably being
absurd but I think it’s just possible that you might be in some danger. I don’t want to alarm you but until all this is cleared up, and that should be no more than a few days I hope, I
want you to keep with the others as far as you can. Don’t wander off on your own and . . . and don’t go anywhere with strangers.’ He saw the look in the boy’s face and
thought he had gone too far. ‘Please, I’m sure it’s nothing but . . .’

‘Oh no, sir, I’m not afraid. I
want
to meet the man who killed my father. I want to ask him why he did it.’

‘Well, I hope it won’t come to that, my boy. Now, let’s go back to the others. They will be wondering where we’ve got to.’

Chandler was giving a private lunch for selected boys and their parents. Charles and his aunt had been invited at the Duke’s request. Chandler was, in most respects, a sensible man who ran
his house with judgement and enthusiasm. If he had a fault, it was that he was something of a snob and enjoyed having a duke’s son under his wing. It was all harmless enough and Gerald,
rather unexpectedly Connie thought, enjoyed a touch of sycophancy. The other parents included the Home Secretary, a man of considerable stupidity and infinite cunning with a wife who smiled and
smiled but said not a word, a bishop and his wife, and a doctor whose wife complained continually about the expense of having a boy at the school. Edward was seated beside Charles Thayer’s
aunt, Mrs Cooper, who was now his guardian – a woman of about fifty-five, he guessed, who did not seem to fit her clothes. She gave the impression that she found her new responsibilities an
almost intolerable burden. Elizabeth had Charles on one side and the bishop on the other.

Edward made a point of being friendly to Mrs Cooper but found her dull and predictable. He became even more determined that he would make Charles his charge as far as it was possible. He felt he
owed it to his dead friend to keep an eye on his son and guide him through the crucial years of adolescence. Mrs Cooper, when he hinted that he would like to take an interest in her nephew, seemed
gratified but he knew he had to be tactful so she would not resent his patronage.

‘I’m afraid I’m too old and stupid to bring up the boy as his father would wish,’ she said. Edward demurred politely. ‘I know nobody and go nowhere so if you, Lord
Edward, really mean to take him under your wing – well, that would be wonderful and a great weight off my shoulders.’