Something Wicked (17 page)

‘Did you know Mrs Herold back in the old days, Harry? I suppose you must have done.’

‘You mean his first wife?’

‘He was married before? I didn’t know that.’

‘Oh yes, to the lovely Gwynnie,’ he replied, pouring them both brandy. Edward refused a cigar but Harry took one out of the humidor and went through the whole ritual of cutting off the end, removing the band and lighting it before continuing. ‘Sure you won’t have one? The very best Havana, I assure you. No? Well – where to begin? It’s quite a story. Gwynnie was a mountaineer, better than any of us, better even than Jimmy Herold and he’d climbed all over the world. In fact, they met for the first time at base camp on Everest. Then, as I expect you know, Gwynnie died in a climbing accident. They had only been married for five years. I told you I knew Herold in Africa but I didn’t tell you the whole of it. We had a bit of a tussle for the favours of the delightful Gwyneth Jones when he brought her out to Kenya.’

‘You mean before she married him?’

‘You know me, old boy. When did I ever let a thing like marriage get in my way if I wanted a woman?’ He spoke lightly but Edward felt there was a lot of pain and anguish just beneath the surface. That was the thing with Harry, he thought. You could never tell if he was really capable of loving a woman or if the pleasure was all in the chase. Were the ones he regretted the ones who had got away?

‘After she died on the Eiger, I never spoke to Herold again.’ Harry expelled a cloud of smoke which scented the room and made Edward wish he had taken a cigar after all.

‘You blamed him for his wife’s death?’

‘I did. In my view, he was criminally careless fitting out that expedition. The equipment – even the tents – was not up to standard. I held him responsible for Gwynnie’s death and I wrote and told him so.’

‘Did he answer your letter?’

‘Not a word. I expect he was too busy writing that sentimental load of tosh that made him so much money and netted him a new wife.’ He shuddered. ‘It still makes me sick to think of it.’

Harry explained that Cathy Bartlett, as she then was, had been working for the publisher who had brought out Herold’s account of climbing the highest peaks, including the attempt on Everest which, though unsuccessful, had been judged a brave battle against atrocious weather. But what had really turned the book into a bestseller was the moving account of his – in the end unsuccessful – efforts to save his wife on the north face of the Eiger. His story of being caught on the mountain in a blizzard and having to spend the night in Gwynnie’s arms, cuddling together for warmth on the narrowest shelf of rock, had captured the public’s imagination.
The Fall: A Love Story
had been a notable Book Society Choice and had made Herold rich.

Cathy had been in charge of taking him around bookshops and arranging lectures and lunches. He had been the main speaker at a Foyle’s Literary Lunch attended by the Prime Minister who had praised Herold as a credit to British manhood. In the two weeks they had spent together going round the country, they had fallen in love. It was almost a cliché – the handsome explorer, widowed and, whether he was aware of it or not, in search of a new mate and a pretty, clever girl who saw how famous he was and believed she alone recognized his loneliness and vulnerability. Her uncritical hero-worship appealed to his lust and vanity. They had married shortly afterwards and enjoyed three years of bliss before she discovered that climbing mountains frightened and bored her.

When he had finished speaking, Harry was silent for a minute or two and then, refilling Edward’s glass, rather surprisingly suggested that they might go and see Cathy Herold together.

‘What say we go tomorrow? It’s only ten minutes in the car. Better sooner rather than later, eh? You never know, old man, I might see or hear something which won’t mean anything to you but which will ring bells with me.’

‘So you never met Cathy?’

‘No fear! I took care to keep out of their way when they came to Kenya on honeymoon. I didn’t want to get into a public row with Jimmy. By that time, my name in the colony was mud – just a few too many adventures, if you take my meaning. Lord D told me he would have me run out of the colony if he heard one more complaint about me. I couldn’t risk that.’

It crossed Edward’s mind that Harry might be lying. Perhaps he did know Cathy. Perhaps he was having an affair with her. Perhaps he had killed Herold to get her for himself. It would be consistent with his behaviour to other women . . . other wives.

As it turned out, his suspicions were unfounded. Cathy Herold had truly loved her husband and had not conspired to murder him in order to marry her lover. Edward was convinced of this when they met the following day. He introduced himself and then Harry. No one but a consummate actress could have counterfeited the surprise she showed when he mentioned that Harry had known her husband years before when he was married to Gwynnie.

‘You knew Jimmy in the old days?’ she exclaimed, looking at Harry with interest. ‘I wonder why he never mentioned you.’

The almost visible flicker of physical attraction which passed between them was obvious to Edward. Clearly, Harry’s magnetism for the opposite sex had not dimmed with the passing years. They both looked younger as they talked about Herold and Kenya. It wasn’t just flirting, Edward thought. It was pure animal attraction. For several years before his death, Herold had been husband only in name and, whether she recognized it or not, his widow was now ready for a new man in her life. And why not, Edward thought to himself. From everything he had heard, she had been a good wife and was still young and physically in her prime. As for Harry – well, the female of the species was his meat and drink.

Edward guessed that Cathy Herold, when she had gone out to Kenya in her early twenties, must have been stunning. Her hair was dark and rather wild. Her eyes were bold and bright, her nose rather thin but her figure was still boyish. She must keep herself in trim, he thought.

After five minutes, during which he could not get a word in, Edward decided that he must explain why they were there. Mrs Herold had so far not asked that obvious question.

‘I was so sorry to hear about your husband . . .’ he began but Harry cut him short.

‘Take no notice, Mrs Herold,’ Harry joked. ‘He’s not sad at all. The fact is he’s a sort of policeman and he thinks Jimmy might have been murdered.’

Edward looked at his friend and began to expostulate. ‘I say, I didn’t exactly . . .’

‘You see,’ Harry continued remorselessly, ‘he doesn’t think Jimmy – in his state – could have pulled over those hives and they certainly didn’t do it on their own. Then there’s the business of that scrap of paper you found with the quotation from Shakespeare.’

Clearly taken aback, Mrs Herold grasped at this last point. ‘I never knew it came from Shakespeare – “buzz, buzz”.’

‘Nor did I but Corinth is much better educated than either of us and he tells me it’s from
Hamlet
.’

‘You’re a policeman . . .? Mr Treacher seemed quite satisfied . . .’

‘I’m not exactly a policeman but Inspector Treacher has given me permission to go over the facts . . . I don’t want to upset you. Please don’t feel you have to answer my questions. It’s just that . . .’

‘I’ve got nothing to hide, Lord Edward. Ask me anything you like. I agree about the hives. It puzzled me too.’ She spoke defiantly but Edward thought he saw a glimmer of fear in her eyes. ‘Come and sit down – both of you – and I’ll make some tea. Then you can ask me anything you like.’

Cathy Herold was not quite what Edward had expected. For one thing, she was unashamedly not grieving for her husband – or not in any obvious way that required her to wear black and weep. She did love her husband but, after they had stopped climbing together, his long absences were difficult to bear. She was often bored and lonely. Then, when he was at home, he developed a sudden and, she thought, unhealthy interest in the politics of the far right.

She told them that she became increasingly uneasy about his unquestioning admiration of Hitler and was horrified when he announced in public that he shared Hitler’s view that the Jews were to blame for England’s moral and economic bankruptcy. She could see that her own hero was becoming increasingly deluded. He told her that he believed England had become decadent and needed someone like Hitler to bring back the nation’s self-respect. He said the young needed discipline and hard work. He wanted to start training camps where boys could test themselves in demanding sports such as mountaineering. He wasn’t alone in believing that the youth of England needed hardening if the country was to hold on to its Empire and Oswald Mosley for one, welcomed him as an ally.

If she ever took issue with him over his attitude to race or the infinite superiority of the German people, he refused to listen or dismissed her with a patronizing or pompous remark along the lines that she was a woman and could not know anything about politics. Despite this, she loved him more than she was angry with him for not quite being the man she thought she had married.

When he had his first heart attack, it was almost a relief. It made him more dependent on her and meant he could no longer disappear for months on end to climb far-off mountains. However, after his second, more severe attack, he could do no more than sit in a chair and look out of the window. He became a burden and she admitted that she sometimes longed for him to die. But when he did die, she had surprised herself by being angry. She genuinely grieved for the man she had married – not for the chair-bound cripple – and hated the thought that he had died alone and in agony. Or had he been alone?

Although she could not explain it, she was quite sure that the scrap of paper she had found on his body meant that someone else was involved in his death. It was hard to believe that he had got himself out into the garden when he could hardly stumble into his bed on the ground floor. Something or someone had propelled him outside and set his bees on him. The police would not take her seriously and she took the hint that Inspector Treacher was doing his best to protect her from incriminating herself. She realized he believed that she had helped her husband commit suicide and, if she made any trouble, she would be accused of murder.

She explained that she had no option but to go along with the view taken by the police. It was made clear to her that she should be grateful that her husband’s death would be treated as an accident and at first she had been. It was a relief to have her life back and to be able to do what she wanted. However, a growing sense of unease – of unfinished business – had undermined her pleasure at being rich and single. She was delighted to receive Edward’s telephone call. It was clear she had a penchant for attractive men in the public eye and, if Lord Edward was trying to discover who had killed her husband, she was more than happy to help him.

Although Mrs Herold didn’t say all of this over tea, she spoke frankly enough and Edward was able to guess the rest. He put his slice of Dundee cake back on his plate and looked at her. He saw she was feeling guilty that she had not been there when her husband had died and not been able to protect him. However, that certainly did not mean she was not determined to enjoy her youth while she still had it. She was, he thought, in the mood to do something stupid – perhaps to celebrate her new-found freedom with a rash new relationship – but, paradoxically, she was not stupid.

‘Did anyone come and see your husband in the weeks before he died? Or did he get a letter that disturbed him?’

She did not answer him immediately but sat thinking. After a minute she said, ‘No, I don’t think so. As you know, the police thought he committed suicide – that he got stung to death on purpose.’

‘You don’t think he did?’

‘It was hell for him living in a useless body when he had always been the fittest of the fit. He certainly made it hell for those who had to live with him.’ She could not resist adding, ‘But I’ve told you – he couldn’t have overturned his hives.’

‘Did you have any help looking after him – friends, relatives?’

‘A few friends and there was a nurse – Mrs Paria – who came in to bath him. I couldn’t manage it on my own.’

‘Where was the nurse when your husband died?’

‘It was her day off.’

Edward made a mental note to speak to the nurse. ‘What about relatives?’

‘We haven’t a relative between us – well, not so as you’d notice.’ She sounded almost defiant. ‘We are . . . were both only children. Jimmy’s parents died . . . God knows when. Before I knew him, anyway. My mother is in a nursing home in Sussex. I go and see her when I can but she doesn’t recognize me any longer.’

‘That must cost a pretty penny?’ Edward ventured.

‘If you are implying that I might have murdered my husband for his money . . .’

She had immediately seen what he was driving at and, once again, Edward warned himself not to underrate her. ‘No, of course I didn’t mean that,’ he backtracked.

‘We had plenty of money,’ she said vaguely. ‘I don’t have to worry about that. Jimmy made a lot from his books and lecturing and his parents were well off.’

‘What about you?’

‘I wasn’t rich when we married but I wasn’t poor either. My father had left me and my mother reasonably well off. Still, I’m not denying it made life easier being married to a rich man.’

‘So nothing upset him in the weeks before he died? You said he had no unexpected visitors.’

‘I was thinking about that. As it happens, he did have a letter which seemed to disturb him.’

‘Did you see who it was from?’ Edward asked, excitedly.

‘I’m sorry but I didn’t.’

‘You haven’t still got it?’

‘He burnt it, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, that suggests it was something he didn’t want you to see.’

‘It must have been very tough for you looking after Jimmy when he was ill for so long,’ Harry said as they sipped their tea.

‘It was tough for him,’ Mrs Herold corrected him. ‘I loved him – I really did. As I told you, it was no hardship looking after him. Not at first anyway. We thought he might improve. The doctor said it was possible but in fact he went downhill quite rapidly. I don’t pretend it wasn’t a blessed relief when he died but not because I resented looking after him. I didn’t but it was horrible to see him suffer the way he did – hardly able to walk a yard or two without stopping to get his breath. I came to realize what a gift life is. We breathe without a thought. We walk without considering how to take our next step. When that is taken from us, it’s not possible to think of anything else.’ She saw Harry smile. ‘I mean it. Your whole life is narrowed down to the pain and the effort of living one moment more.’