The More Deceived (12 page)

‘It makes you guilty wanting to sleep with me when you love Verity?’

‘You can say that, yes,’ Edward said, shocked but grateful for her bluntness.

‘I hate that word “guilt”,’ she said vehemently. ‘It’s such a cold, ugly word. Don’t you think so?’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

‘Why do you think Verity would mind if you and I had some pleasure together? It’s not as if I want to steal you away or anything like that. It’s only sex.’

‘That’s the way you see it? I’m afraid my conscience is rather fragile. Sort of delicate. Won’t bear much betrayal.‘

‘That’s middle-class privilege. I don’t have time for conscience – not about sex, I don’t. I must take my pleasure now, when I can.’

‘If you don’t mind, Gerda, much as I’m tempted, I think . . .’

‘Well, if you change your mind,’ she said, seeming unruffled by the rejection. ‘Life’s so short. I can’t see either André or I making old bones. “The grave’s a fine and private place but none I think do there embrace . . .”’

‘I know it but somehow . . .’

‘Say no more. Have I spoilt everything?’

‘Not at all! Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you.’

‘Fire ahead.’

‘In one of your photographs, there was a picture of a young man standing between two friends, their arms entwined. One was Guy Baron. I don’t know who the second man was but the third – the one in the middle – was a boy called James Lyall. Do you remember him? David Griffiths-Jones was also in the photograph.’

‘I do remember him. Why do you ask?’

‘I met his father yesterday. He’s not heard from him for some time. I wonder if you know where he is?’

‘I took that photograph when we were all resting behind the front line. I can’t remember the name of the place but it was three months ago. I have no idea where he is now. Madrid, I expect. They are trying to raise the siege so everyone’s concentrated there.’

‘Do you know, the government has made it illegal to join the International Brigade?’

‘That won’t stop the boys. They’ll be even more eager to go . . . the great adventure. You should see them out there . . . raring to go. A few know what they are in for but most think it’s some sort of game.’

‘And then they get shot . . . not only by the other side, so I hear.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘The Stalinists . . . I met a school friend, Eric Blair, he’d been out there. He said the Comrades were taking the opportunity of rubbing out anyone who resisted their control. I gather Verity is going to prove it’s nonsense.’

‘I hope she does. I never saw anything like that,’ Gerda said. She seemed put out, almost angry. ‘I must go now. Thank you, Lord Edward, for the cup of tea and the cucumber sandwiches. It was just what I needed.’ She grinned wickedly and Edward wished his principles had permitted him to accept her invitation to partake of something more. She must have seen the look in his eyes because she said, ‘But you still look hungry. Next time you must have tea with
me
. But I forgot. That won’t be for a few months. André and I are off to Spain on Friday and who knows when we’ll get back.’

She kissed him, first on the cheek and then quickly on the mouth. ‘Lucky Verity,’ she said.

‘Should I dust the vase on the side table, my lord, or would you prefer to do so yourself?’

Edward was dismembering a kipper the following morning when Fenton posed this question.

‘Oh . . . ah! I see what you mean. If it were to fall to the ground . . .’

‘Precisely, my lord. I understand the
objet d’art
to be worth a considerable sum of money.’

‘Quite and it has managed to survive the Roman Empire and several major conflagrations, not least the Great War. It would be grossly irresponsible if it were to meet its end as a result of domestic carelessness. I intend to have a cabinet made in which to display it. It needs subtle lighting and should, perhaps, sit on a revolving stand. I am going to take expert advice but, until that time, I think we should leave it undusted.’

‘My lord . . .’

‘Yes, what is it?’ Edward spoke irritably. He liked, if possible, to eat breakfast without conversation and, since he knew Fenton was aware he preferred silence until he had downed his last slice of toast and his final cup of coffee, he was surprised and not a little annoyed that the man was persisting.

‘My lord, I thought I ought to mention that earlier this morning, while you were still sleeping, Sir Robert Vansittart telephoned.’

‘Did he, by Jove? He’s an early bird.’

‘I informed him that you were not available to speak to him and he asked me to convey his respects and inquire if you had made any headway with your investigation. He said the Prime Minister had been “pressing him”.’

‘Yes, I can see that might be uncomfortable. Did you . . . ?’

‘It would not have been my place to make any comment. I merely said I would pass on his message to you.’

Edward put down
The Times
and stared thoughtfully at the amphora. ‘Perhaps you ought to have woken me. The trouble is, Fenton – I speak in complete confidence, naturally – I have been thinking.’

‘Indeed, my lord?’

‘Sir Robert has asked me to find out where Mr Churchill is getting his information concerning armaments – our armaments and German armaments. It seemed a relatively simple matter of talking to the twenty or thirty people with access to secret information and coming to a conclusion as to who was doing the dirty.’

‘But since you returned from Chartwell . . . ?’

‘That’s the nub of it. Mr Churchill may be everything they say – unreliable, given to impetuous and sometimes disastrous schemes of which the Gallipoli landings are the prime example – but the fact remains he is a patriot. He told me he did not solicit information from anyone in an official position and I believe him. However, many officials who are worried that we are unprepared for war come to him with their concerns.’

‘Why Mr Churchill, my lord?’

‘Quite simply, he is seen as the only prominent politician willing to stand up to the government and speak out about our drift to disaster. Mr Churchill told me he receives information not only from officials in the Foreign Office but from senior people in other government departments and from the armed forces themselves. If a tyre develops a puncture, one can repair it with a sticking plaster. But, if it develops several holes, there is nothing to be done but throw it away. Besides, I find myself in the invidious position of sympathizing with those people who are sharing secrets with Mr Churchill. I fancy even Sir Robert believes we are not doing enough to prepare ourselves for the coming war.’

‘You believe war to be inevitable, my lord?’

‘I do, Fenton. Everything I have seen in the last two years makes me as certain of it as that the sun will rise in the morning. The only question is when. Will it come this year . . . next year or in three or four years?’

‘Presumably, my lord, the longer it can be postponed the longer we have to prepare?’

‘Yes, Fenton, but equally it gives the Germans longer to build up their air force and army. I am convinced that, unlike last time, the war in the air is going to be vital. If we lose control of the sky, the Royal Navy will not be able to defend our shores. You have seen what has been happening in Manchuria and what the Italians did in Abyssinia?’

‘Yes, my lord, the bombing of women and children . . .’

‘Bombs cannot be rained down upon us with any accuracy, thank goodness, but low level bombing by determined pilots could destroy battleships. It’s a terrible thought but the Royal Navy might be disabled in just a few days if the skies above the English Channel belong to the enemy.’

Not feeling like finishing his kipper, Edward threw down his knife and fork. The telephone rang and Fenton went to answer it.

‘It is Major Ferguson on the line for you, my lord,’ he said when he returned.

Edward got up, feeling rather sick. He had a feeling that Ferguson would not be telephoning at half-past eight in the morning without it being bad news. He was right.

‘Ferguson? What’s the news?’

‘Not good, I’m afraid. They have found Westmacott.’

‘Dead?’

‘A bobby found him at first light. He was hanging from a rope below Chelsea Bridge.’

‘How do you mean – below the bridge?’

‘He was hanging from one of the bridge’s girders.’

‘Good God! How frightful. That poor woman . . . and little Alice. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Was it suicide?’

‘It is conceivable but unlikely. His briefcase is missing – well he might have chucked that in the river before he did what he did but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘His hat was on his head and his umbrella was hanging from his coat pocket. Someone – the murderer, I suppose – was making a fool of him even as he died. His neck wasn’t broken.’

‘His neck wasn’t broken? Oh, I see. How horrible! He was throttled?’

‘Yes,’ Ferguson said grimly. ‘It must have taken him some time to die.’

Edward thought of the man twisting and turning in the wind, desperate for air, choking to death. Each moment must have seemed an age of torment. He shuddered and tried to put the image out of his mind.

‘It’s a terrible way to die, Ferguson. You’re right. It can’t be suicide.’ Now the shock was passing he was beginning to think clearly. ‘Assuming Westmacott was murdered, the odds are it was the work of political gangsters – Nazis would be my guess. It would be just their idea of a joke. A little dog belonging to Miss Browne was killed in a particularly nasty way and left in her bed – to scare her, you understand. This killing seems to have the same nasty taste to it. If Westmacott hadn’t been who he was, one might have thought it was some sort of underworld gang killing, though, thank God, they are rare enough, at least in England. Or is London becoming Chicago?’

Ferguson agreed. ‘But if it was a political killing, they would probably have employed gangsters to do their dirty work. The Germans – if say, the killers are Nazis – would not want there to be any visible connection with the German Embassy. The political situation is too tense at the moment. The police have put out the word. Most “decent” villains would have nothing to do with such a killing and will be as shocked as we are. We may get a tip-off.’

‘Has his wife been told?’

‘Not yet. In fact, I was going to ask you if you would tell her? You are the official she knows,’ Ferguson heard Edward’s groan, ‘but, of course, you don’t have to. Chief Inspector Pride will if you won’t. It has to be done immediately though, before it gets in the papers.’

Edward groaned again. ‘Pride? Is he in charge of the investigation?’

‘Yes. Of course, you know him, don’t you? Crossed swords with him, too, I recall. Well, he’s a good man and you’re going to have to get on with him.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re going to be our representative on the investigation. The political element. It’s not just a straightforward murder case.’

‘You’re taking it for granted that I’ll agree? I’m not a proper policeman, you know,’ Edward said sarcastically. ‘I’m a rank amateur.’ Ferguson made no comment. ‘Have you told Pride you want me to work with him?’

‘Yes. He seemed quite . . . quite taken aback.’

‘I bet he was!’ Edward said with feeling. Pride was not one of Edward’s admirers and, though their paths had crossed on more than one occasion in the last year or two, there was no love lost between them. Edward’s immediate impulse was to refuse to have anything to do with the investigation but then he thought of Alice’s face. The Westmacott mother and daughter could not be left to the tender mercies of Chief Inspector Pride. It also gave him an excuse for bowing out of Sir Robert Vansittart’s inquiry.

‘I’ll go to Scotland Yard straight away,’ he said.

‘Good man!’

‘Will you be kind enough to tell Vansittart that I am otherwise engaged? I won’t now be able to pursue my inquiry into how Mr Churchill gets his information.’

‘Yes. Does this change of mind have anything to do with your trip to Chartwell?’

‘Are you having me followed?’

‘No, but people tell me things,’ Ferguson said enigmatically. ‘Anyway, I mustn’t hold you up. You have a lot to do. You wanted a proper job, didn’t you? Well, look on this as a test. Goodbye.’

It demanded courage to present himself at Scotland Yard and ask for Chief Inspector Pride but, as it turned out, the meeting was not as uncomfortable as Edward had feared. He was shown straight into Pride’s large but unprepossessing office. Pride might enjoy his authority but he did not deign to display it an obvious way. His desk was bare but for two telephones and two wooden trays labelled respectively ‘in’ and ‘out’. The other furnishings were similarly utilitarian – some chairs, a coat stand and, on the wall, a map of London divided into postal districts and another of England, alongside two framed certificates. On an otherwise empty mantelpiece a heavy clock with a loud minatory tick presided over a blocked-in fireplace. There were no pictures and the window, which was filthy, had no view.

Pride shook his hand and bade him sit down. The Chief Inspector favoured him with one of those smiles that curdled cream but his greeting was pleasant enough and, to Edward’s relief, he made no comment on his inflamed eye. They chatted for a moment or two and Pride even brought himself to ask after the Duke, Edward’s brother, whom he had met at Mersham Castle.

There was a hiatus which Edward broke.

‘I don’t wish to interfere in your case, Chief Inspector, but Major Ferguson believes this murder has a political dimension and he has asked me to . . . to help in this area.’

Edward had rehearsed this little speech and was pleased with it but he hoped Pride was not going to come back with questions concerning his official position which, despite his letter of authority, he still considered to be dubious. Edward would also have been stumped if Pride had inquired why Ferguson, or anyone else, thought he was qualified to advise on the politics of the case, or was a Communist girlfriend qualification enough? Pride knew that Edward had no training in police work, that his relationship with Special Branch was tenuous but, for whatever reason, the Chief Inspector chose not to humiliate him with any awkward questions. Instead, he calmly went over the circumstances in which the body was discovered.