‘You’re sure it’s not just his fear of the blood? I’ve heard a horse can go wild if it is taken near a corpse,’ Verity asked.
‘I wouldn’t say so, Miss. Button’s been got at – no doubt about it. I’ll be damned if he hasn’t been given something. It ain’t natural. I’ll ring the vet and get him to come and have a look.’
‘Yes, do that,’ Edward agreed, ‘but first the police. By the way, Johnson, you didn’t hear anything when you came to get the stretcher? I mean, presumably, if you had heard the pony kicking his stall or the dog howling you would have investigated?’
‘Of course and we didn’t. Mind you, the stretcher is the other end of the block near the telephone and it was raining hard.’
‘You heard nothing, then?’ Edward repeated.
‘The rain on the corrugated iron roofs makes a hell of a racket.’
Edward grimaced. ‘Well, no time to lose. I’ll go and phone the police while you look after the pony. And, V, take that dratted dog away. We don’t want to start anything else.’
Verity had the feeling he was calling her ‘dratted’ rather than Basil and it made her feel even more guilty, as though she had been responsible for the horror in the stable.
‘Have you any idea who it is . . . in the stable, I mean?’ she asked him.
‘It’s a man. That’s all one can say for sure.’
‘You don’t recognize the clothes?’
‘A dark suit – I’m not sure. It could be Mandl.’
‘Mandl?’
‘It could be – that’s all I’m saying. It’s probably someone we don’t know.’
He strode off to find the telephone while the grooms continued to walk the pony round the courtyard.
Verity took Basil off to the other side of the courtyard into a barn half-full of hay bales. She attached his lead to a convenient peg and he sank down disconsolately and looked appealingly at her.
‘Stay there,’ she said sternly. ‘You are a very wicked dog. You’ll probably end up in a police cell and it’s no good you looking at me like that.’
As she went out into the cobbled courtyard, she saw that a tyre from a car or motorbike had left a distinct mark in the mud at the entrance to the barn. She decided to bring Edward to look at it. However, when she walked back to Button’s stable, he had still not returned. Curiosity overcoming her disgust, she pushed open the top half of the stable door and peered into the darkness. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the bloody bundle and momentarily retreated. She had seen many horrible things in Spain but it was different seeing death here in the stables of an English private house where everything was so ordered and nothing more warlike than a polo match threatened the peace.
She peered into the stable again. Could it be Mandl? She could not mourn the death of such a man – an arms dealer and a friend of Hitler’s whose wife feared and loathed him – but even so, to die in this way was too beastly. She stared intently at the bloody bundle of clothing and then let her eye pass to the straw in which the pony had been standing. She saw something shiny – a cigarette lighter, she thought, but she could not be sure. She was tempted to dash in and retrieve it but, with commendable self-restraint, decided to wait until the police arrived. She was irresistibly drawn back to the bloodied corpse. There was something about it . . . and this time she noticed the shoes. She was almost certain she had seen them before. They were . . . but surely she was imagining it? No, she was certain . . . terribly certain that they belonged to Georg Dreiser.
With a cry of despair she turned and ran towards Edward who was crossing the courtyard having telephoned the police. She flung herself into his arms, weeping.
‘For God’s sake, what is it? V, tell me, please. What’s happened?’
‘It’s Georg,’ she sobbed.
‘What is . . .? You don’t mean . . .?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said, with passion. ‘We brought Georg from Austria to save him . . .’ She could not speak for a moment or two for the sobs that racked her. ‘We thought we were rescuing him from death but we weren’t . . . we were bringing him towards it. He hated horses – he told me so. What was he doing in the stables? Georg! He trusted me and now he is dead. Oh God, Edward, tell me I am wrong. Tell me Georg’s not dead. That it’s someone else.’
But that he could not do.
8
‘Someone’s got to tell his parents.’ Connie looked round the table until her eyes came to rest on Verity. It was Sunday morning and the gloom was almost palpable.
‘I’ll go to Vienna if they’ll let me. I just hope I can get a visa.’
Verity was feeling guilty. No one had said anything but she could feel that everyone – particularly the Duke and Duchess – blamed her for the accident on the polo ground. If she had held on to Basil, Sunita would not now be lying in hospital in considerable pain. Much less reasonably, she felt responsible for Georg’s death. She even felt guilty – and this really was absurd – that it was her dog which had discovered the body. It was, as she had said to Edward, as though everything she touched ended badly.
He had told her she was taking too much upon herself. ‘There’s a sort of arrogance in thinking that any one of us can be responsible for accidents beyond our control. The only person responsible for Georg’s death is whoever it was who shut him in the stable with a demented pony and that wasn’t you.’
‘They’ll never let you back into Vienna,’ he now said harshly. ‘You’ve got to face that, V. If by some miracle they did, you would be followed the whole time and prevented from seeing or talking to anyone other than Nazi officials. You might actually put Dreiser’s parents in danger if you drew attention to them. I will go. I haven’t got a choice in the matter. I owe it to him to see if I can help his father get out of Austria. He wanted to bring his parents to England. He can’t do that now. It’s the least I can do to try for him.’
‘Oh, but is it safe?’ Connie was suddenly conscious of what she had done. It hadn’t occurred to her that her brother-in-law would take on what she had assumed was Verity’s obligation.
‘Of course it’s safe,’ Edward said roughly. ‘I’m not a Jew or a Communist and since, at the moment, we are not at war with Germany I can travel as a tourist and no one can object. I shall be in a much better position than Verity to help the Dreisers. I have some pull with the Embassy people, and, with Gerald’s letter in my pocket offering him a job here, I should have no difficulty in getting them visas. ’
Edward was less confident than he made out. If Herr Dreiser had been sent to some sort of camp, it might not be as easy as he pretended. However, he had another reason for wanting to go to Vienna. Georg had told him about his scientist friends at the university and the secret project on which they were working. He might be able to find out something or, better still, persuade at least one of them to come to England. He recognized that this was probably unrealistic but it was worth a try.
‘Well, Ned, you must do what you think best,’ the Duke said. ‘I knew it was a mistake getting involved with Mountbatten. None of this would have happened if Frank had stayed at home.’ Edward reddened as this remark was clearly aimed at him. ‘To be killed by a polo pony! It would be absurd if it weren’t so bloody awful.’
Edward had hardly ever heard his brother swear and realized Gerald was taking it as hard as anyone.
‘I still don’t understand why Georg had gone to the stables,’ Verity broke in. ‘I remember him telling me that he didn’t like horses and they didn’t like him. We were talking about the Spanish Riding School in Vienna and – what are they called – the horses that dance?’
‘The Lipizzaners . . .’ Edward prompted her.
‘Yes. He said he was frightened of everything equine.’
‘Ned, didn’t you say the stable door wasn’t locked?’ Connie asked.
‘When we got there, it wasn’t. In fact, the top half was open.’
‘So why didn’t Georg just get out when the pony started acting up?’
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t know but I can think of several reasons why he might not have been able to. Button might have lashed out and knocked him unconscious before he knew anything about it.’
‘We must hope that was what happened,’ the Duke growled.
‘Or he might have got disorientated and not been able to find the bolt to let himself out if, for some reason, he had pulled it across when he entered the stable.’
‘But why was he in there in the first place, Ned?’ Connie insisted.
‘He might have been avoiding someone or, of course, he might have been lured into what he thought was an empty stable.’
‘To meet someone?’ Verity asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Or someone might have lured him into the stable and then bolted the door after him.’
‘Oh, Verity, that’s too horrible,’ Connie expostulated. ‘But, anyway, the door wasn’t bolted.’
‘That same person might have undone the bolt to check Georg was done for,’ Edward pointed out.
‘I don’t believe it!’ the Duke said. ‘You’re imagining things. It was just an accident.’
‘I don’t think it was an accident,’ Verity said pugnaciously. ‘I know who killed him.’
‘You do?’ Connie asked eagerly.
Verity turned to Edward. ‘It was your friend Putzi. I heard him threaten to kill Georg over . . .’ She glanced at the Duke, unsure how much to say in front of him. ‘Over a woman.’
‘Over a woman?’ the Duke exclaimed.
‘They had both been lovers of Joan Miller, Gerald,’ Edward explained calmly.
‘But – damn it! – she’s got a husband.’ The Duke was outraged.
‘Yes,’ Connie said. ‘And what about Herr Mandl? Might he not have been jealous?’
‘Indeed he might,’ Edward agreed. ‘Joan never stops telling me how possessive he is.’
‘Well, I don’t want you getting involved in this, Ned. It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘I’m sorry, Connie, but it’s everything to do with us,’ Verity burst out. ‘I don’t care what you do, Edward, but I am certainly going to try and find out who killed Georg. I brought him here so his death is my responsibility, whatever you say.’
The butler came into the drawing-room to say that Edward was wanted on the telephone. It was with some relief that he followed him out into the hall and picked up the receiver. It was Liddell and he sounded displeased.
‘I understand you allowed Dreiser to be murdered before I had a chance to talk to him,’ he began, not waiting for Edward to speak. ‘That wasn’t very clever of you. I hope Putzi is safe.’
‘I need to talk to you,’ Edward replied, refusing to rise. ‘I’m going to Vienna to see if I can bring out Dreiser’s parents but there is something else which I can’t discuss on the telephone.’
There was a pause before Liddell said, ‘All right. I’ll come to Brooks’s tomorrow at eleven.’ He rang off without asking Edward if that was convenient.
Later, as she and Edward were walking by the river, Verity asked, ‘Do you think there is any connection between Peter Gray’s death and Georg’s?’
‘Could be – who knows? What will you do while I’m in Vienna? I mean, when are you expecting to go to Prague?’
‘Not for a week or two. They’re still trying to get my papers sorted out. Shall I do some sniffing about while you’re away?’ She sounded almost timid as if expecting him to say that she had done enough damage as it was and should let things be until he was back, but he did not.
‘Why don’t you follow up on Vera Gray? I won’t have time to see her now I have to go to Vienna. See what you can find out. Keep an open mind but try to discover if there is any reason to think Gray was murdered and, if he was, if there is any connection with Georg’s death. On the face of it, it seems unlikely but two sudden deaths in the grounds of Mountbatten’s country house in such a short time is at least one death too many. I told you what Vera said about the notes Gray had scribbled on the canvas. Why not take Adrian with you? She trusts him.’
‘And she won’t trust me?’ Verity retorted with some of her old spirit.
‘Not at all. I was going to say that she might talk more freely to a woman. I think there is something else she has to tell us but exactly what I don’t know. Her uncle was coming to meet someone at Broadlands and he died full of a drug there was no reason for him to have taken.’
‘And Button was drugged?’
‘Maybe. He was certainly spooked. Hey! Do you think we have a mad doctor around here somewhere?’ Edward laughed.
‘Or a mad vet. I say, Edward, do you think it’s all right for me to stay on here, even for a night? I mean, I know your brother blames me . . . and Connie . . . I think she’ll now blame me for putting you in danger by going to Vienna.’
‘I told you – I won’t be in any danger and of course they don’t blame you for anything. You are always welcome here.’
Verity looked doubtful but bit her lip and said nothing.
‘I tell you what,’ he said after a moment’s thought, ‘you’re going to visit Sunita this afternoon, aren’t you? I’ll drive you into Romsey and, while you are dispensing grapes and sympathy to the invalid, I’ll drop in on Inspector Beeston and then we’ll drive on to London. How’s that?’
Inspector Beeston was a large, florid-faced man in his late forties with mutton-chop whiskers and alcohol on his breath.
‘You think, Lord Edward, that this Mr Dreiser was killed for his valuable drawing?’
‘It’s possible. I thought you might like to look at this book. It has a reproduction of the picture by Albrecht Dürer – in black-and-white, of course.’
‘You have seen it?’
‘Miss Browne has and she recognized it in this book of Dürer’s paintings which we found in my brother’s library.’
Beeston took off his spectacles, blew on them and rubbed them with a none-too-clean handkerchief. When they were back on his nose, he took the book Edward proffered him and looked at the picture.
‘I thought you said, Lord Edward, that the piece of art we are looking for was a drawing? This is a painting.’
Edward gritted his teeth. ‘The drawing is a study Dürer made before painting the picture. It was probably part of a sketch-book.’
‘No picture of that, then?’
‘No,’ Edward said shortly.
Beeston removed his spectacles again and chewed one end reflectively. ‘And it’s only three inches square, you say?’
‘But worth many thousands of pounds to collectors or galleries.’
‘And you want us to advertise to the galleries and auction rooms that such a picture has gone missing?’ the policeman repeated deliberately.
‘You could not sell such a work of art without someone recognizing it and inquiring how it came on the market,’ Edward said patiently.
Beeston scratched his head. ‘To be honest with you, my lord, I would not know how to go about doing that.’
‘Perhaps I might be able to help.’ Edward did his best not to sound patronizing. ‘I have friends in the art world who could circulate the description . . .’
‘You have friends in that world? I am sure you do, Lord Edward.’
This man does not like me, Edward said to himself. There was something a touch derisory in the deliberate manner in which he reiterated ‘Lord Edward’. He’s not going to let me help and the sooner I get out of here the better, he decided. However, he thought he might as well make an effort to find out if the police had discovered anything about either of the deaths.
‘As you know, I was there, Inspector, when Mr Gray’s body was found. Might I ask if you have decided whether his death was an accident or murder?’
‘Murder? Ah! But you are something of an amateur detective, are you not, Lord Edward?’ Beeston opened wide his small piggy eyes and, with mock geniality, reprimanded him as he might a naughty schoolboy. ‘I am afraid I would not be able to discuss a murder investigation with you, Lord Edward, but
, since we are satisfied that it was an accident, I see no harm in putting your mind at ease. The poor gentleman was in the habit of taking some medicine . . .’
The Inspector coughed. Clearly, he could not recall its name so Edward prompted him. ‘Ergot.’
‘That’s the stuff! To help him cope with headaches and all . . . from shell shock during the war.’ Beeston tried to look sympathetic. ‘To be honest with you, Lord Edward, he was not a well man. He may have committed suicide but there’s no direct evidence . . . no note, you understand . . . so for his niece’s sake at least, we’ll call it an accident.’
‘And Mr Dreiser? Was his death in the stables an accident too?’
‘We are still investigating,’ Beeston said a trifle haughtily and Edward realized his question must have sounded sarcastic. ‘I don’t mind telling you, my lord, that all these refugees . . . we can’t tell what is making them flee their countries . . .’
‘The Nazis are killing Jews,’ Edward said angrily.
‘Maybe so, sir. I know nowt of politics but some, they say, are criminals on the run, if you get me.’
Beeston gave him a knowing look and, for a moment, Edward thought he might actually tap his nose in the approved gesture but he seemed satisfied with a smirk of self-satisfaction.
‘But that’s quite absurd,’ Edward exploded. ‘Miss Browne has told you about his background and his parents are most respectable people.’
‘I dare say so, my lord. If you can vouch for him . . .’
‘And Miss Browne . . .’
‘Ah! Miss Browne. Sources have revealed to me,’ Beeston said laboriously, ‘that she is a Communist.’
‘Is that relevant?’ Edward asked stiffly.
‘Jews and Communists . . . I don’t know but that Sir Oswald Mosley doesn’t have the right of it. Too many of both in my opinion.’
Edward left Romsey police station more depressed than ever. As he drove to the hospital, he thought about his interview with the Inspector. Was Beeston typical of the police? No, he could not believe that. He knew many intelligent, unprejudiced policemen. Well then, was he typical of the population as a whole? Did most people hold that Communists and Jews were . . . not to be trusted, to put it no more strongly? He very much feared that was exactly the view of ‘most people’.
The Quality of Mercy Page 15