No More Dying

by David Roberts

  Verity felt sick having to dine with people she despised, Tom so recently dead, murdered perhaps by the IRA but just possibly by someone round the table, all of whom were his natural enemies. She saw Edward looking at her anxiously and tried to be brave. To her relief, Channing took his girls away after dinner, inviting them all to visit his ‘humble cottage’ for drinks before Sunday lunch. It seemed to be an accepted ritual that Dr Channing and his guests had Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch with the Astors in the main house.

  Nancy had tactfully put Edward and Verity in adjoining rooms. When he tapped on her bedroom door just after midnight, he heard a muffled ‘Come in.’ Unsure of his welcome and finding the room in darkness, he was about to retire when the unmistakable sound of sobbing made him change his mind.

  ‘Darling V, are you all right?’ he asked, meaning ‘Would you like me to comfort you?’

  She sat up in bed and he put his arms round her and stroked her hair. ‘Oh Edward, it’s been so horrible. I’ve tried not to let it get to me but – I don’t know – I’m just so tired and I’m so disgusted with myself.’

  ‘You mean about poor Wintringham?’

  ‘Yes, and those awful people tonight – that horrible doctor and Mr Kennedy leering over that little tart. The worst of it is I know her.’

  ‘You know her?’ Edward stopped stroking her head in surprise.

  She told him how David Griffiths-Jones had introduced her to Lulu before the Ransom Street meeting. ‘I knew then that she was little better than a prostitute.’

  ‘You think David’s using her to get at Kennedy?’

  ‘That’s what it looked like to me.’

  ‘Maybe he’s planning to blackmail the old man.’ Edward chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘Kennedy’s pretty tough though. He’d just get one of his people to pay her off. By the way, did you notice that both Kennedy and Eamon Farrell knew O’Rourke, or at least recognized his name?’

  ‘I didn’t and I don’t care! I can’t think what I’m doing here with all these horrible people. They all hate me and I hate them. Not Nancy, I mean, but Channing and Kennedy. I ought to have known better. Can we go away from here in the morning? I want to find Megan and her mother and see if they are all right.’ Seeing his face, she added, ‘You stay here. Put me on a train.’

  ‘Hey, darling, don’t take on so. I’ve never seen you like this. Of course you can leave tomorrow. The Astors will understand. I’d better stay until after lunch. Now, get some rest. Would you like me to leave you to sleep?’

  ‘No! Don’t go. Hold me, just hold me. I feel so cold. Maybe it’s that beastly TB. I thought I was over it but I still feel so weak sometimes. I mustn’t give it to you though.’

  ‘You won’t give it to me. Remember, the doctor said you were better but it would take time to recover your strength.’

  He slipped off his dressing-gown and climbed into the bed beside her. Her feet were cold and, when he took her in his arms, he felt her silently weeping. About ten minutes later she was asleep.

  The following morning, Verity tapped on Nancy’s door – she had her breakfast in bed – and asked if she might have a word. She explained that she was still not herself after her illness and the shock of seeing Tom Wintringham’s body in the pavilion had made her decide she would like to go home and rest. Nancy was genuinely concerned, saying she quite understood and, if Edward wished to stay, she would have her chauffeur drive Verity back to town. She was grateful but said she did not want to be more of a nuisance than necessary and would take the train.

  She and Edward breakfasted alone in the dining-room. Lee, the butler, informed them that the Kennedys and their party had gone to early mass. Verity was glad not to have to say a lot of embarrassing goodbyes.

  Walking in the gardens smoking a cigarette after he returned from the station, Edward got talking to one of the gardeners. Despite its being Sunday there were always staff at work. Nancy had told him they employed fifty outdoor staff. Of course, the gardener had heard of the murder – everyone had. Edward had noted a small gaggle of journalists held in check by a solid-looking police constable as he sped through the gates in the Lagonda. Fortunately the news had filtered through too late for the Sunday papers, but he dreaded that his and Verity’s photographs might appear the following day. He even caught himself hoping that some new international crisis would sweep this grubby little story off the front pages.

  ‘I was trying to clear up round the pavilion,’ the gardener was saying as he leant on his spade. ‘The police had made such a mess of the grass.’ He shook his head mournfully. ‘I counted the marks of at least four cars.’

  Edward’s brow furrowed as he considered the gardener’s words. ‘You mean three cars. There were two police cars and the ambulance.’

  ‘No, there was another car – a heavy one, I believe, because the tyres had dug deep into the grass.’

  ‘Can you show me?’

  The gardener looked dubious. ‘I cleaned most of it up best as I could but maybe you can still see what I mean.’

  They strolled down the drive towards the shell fountain and then over rough grass to Giacomo Leoni’s elegant little folly. It had been built in 1727 for Lord Orkney, one of the Duke of Marlborough’s generals, who had then owned Cliveden. Edward told himself that he was being an idiot. He had not the slightest desire to investigate Wintringham’s death so why was he on his knees looking at deep tyre tracks in the wet grass? The marks were difficult to decipher but it was obvious they had been made by a large vehicle.

  ‘I suppose the police will have seen this?’ he asked, getting up with some difficulty and wondering what Fenton would say when he saw the mud on his trousers. ‘You are sure these aren’t the tyre marks of the ambulance?’

  ‘No, sir, I know the ambulance. It’s brand new and has special tyres. Look, do you see?’ He pointed to another set of tyre prints.

  ‘You are very observant. By the way, my name’s Corinth – could I ask you yours?’

  ‘Fred Rooth, my lord.’

  ‘You know who I am then?’ Edward said, rather startled.

  ‘Yes indeed, my lord. The missus reads me your cases from the newspapers.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . this isn’t “my case”, you know. It’s nothing to do with me but . . .’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘But, here’s my card. If you or any of the staff do stumble across . . .’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the gardener said with evident satisfaction.

  ‘I was going to say,’ Edward corrected him virtuously, ‘you must tell the police but certainly telephone me if you wish to. If I am not there, leave a message with Mr Fenton, my valet.’

  The gardener touched his hat and grinned. As he watched him walk back to the parterre, Edward kicked himself for being unable to control his apparently insatiable interest in why dead bodies turned up where they ought not to. He reminded himself that he had a more important job in hand – to find out if the Americans had any idea who might want to kill Winston Churchill. He wondered if he could discover Kennedy and Farrell’s connection with O’Rourke. That had to be worth investigating. He sighed. Perhaps he should just ask Kennedy and to hell with subtlety.

  He walked back via the garages in what had once been a stable block. It so happened that Kennedy’s chauffeur was polishing a huge Cadillac. He was a mountain of a man and Edward imagined he must double as the Ambassador’s bodyguard.

  ‘What a magnificent machine!’ Edward remarked in genuine astonishment. ‘May I ask what it is exactly?’

  ‘This beaut’s the 16 cylinder 452 D, if you happen to know about cars, sir,’ the chauffeur said, straightening up and joining Edward in admiring the vehicle. It was black with whitewall tyres, a spare wheel tucked above the running board.

  ‘You’re American?’ Edward inquired.

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr Kennedy shipped me over with the automobile six months ago.’

  ‘And do you like it here in England . . .? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’<
br />
  ‘Washington, my lord,’ he grinned.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure. I guess my pa worshipped that man.’

  ‘And England? Do you like what you’ve seen of it?’

  ‘It’s OK but the roads are mighty narrow and twisted. Hard to get above sixty.’

  Edward was looking intently at the tyres. Could it have been this car which carried Tom Wintringham’s body from wherever he was murdered to the little pavilion?

  ‘What sort of grip does it have? I mean, does it hold the road well? I imagine it’s too heavy to travel across grass, for example.’ Edward airily gestured across the grounds.

  ‘No, sir. Mr Joseph – that’s Mr Kennedy’s eldest – was showing it to Lord Astor yesterday and he drove it on the grass by mistake and had no trouble getting it back on the drive.’

  ‘It’s certainly a lovely machine. I drive a Lagonda and you’ll forgive me for saying that, in my view, it is the best car in the world – better even than Lord Astor’s Rolls.’

  ‘Maybe, sir.’ The chauffeur was polite but sceptical.

  ‘May I see what I believe you call the trunk? If the Lagonda has a fault, there’s not much room for luggage.’

  ‘There you are,’ the chauffeur said, opening the boot. ‘It can take several valises and Mr Kennedy’s golf clubs, no problem.’

  ‘Very impressive,’ Edward murmured. He looked more closely. ‘What’s that?’ he asked mildly, pointing to something that looked like glass on the rubber matting. Washington reached in and took out a broken pair of wire-framed spectacles.

  ‘Mr Kennedy was looking for these,’ he said, putting them in his pocket before Edward could examine them properly.

  ‘They’re Mr Kennedy’s? I haven’t seen him wear spectacles.’

  ‘He uses reading glasses. They must have fallen out of his coat. I guess he has another pair.’

  Edward hesitated but the moment was gone. He had no authority to take what might be evidence and he knew that no one at Cliveden – not even the Inspector – would thank him for dragging Mr Kennedy into the investigation.

  Returning to the house, he came across Lord Lothian who asked him to walk with him on the parterre. Edward accepted a cigarette and the two men admired the dramatic view over the lawns and the woodland beyond. The light was bad but they could just make out the Thames snaking away into the distance.

  ‘Your friend von Trott was here last weekend – did you know?’ Lothian remarked.

  ‘Adam? No, I didn’t. What’s he doing in England?’

  ‘He’s playing peacemaker – a last ditch effort to avoid the inevitable.’ Lothian sighed heavily. ‘We have tried everything but I very much fear . . .’

  Edward was hardly listening. He was wondering if Adam would make contact with Verity. He was not in the least concerned that she would be tempted to renew her affair with the good-looking German diplomat. That was over and done with. Adam had let her down, whether from a failure of will or pressure from his superiors. He was not a Nazi – he had consistently refused to join the Party whatever the cost – but, as a patriot, he could not go into exile. He wanted to keep his job in the Foreign Office and that meant making uncomfortable compromises. Verity’s love for the young aristocrat might be history but, if he suddenly turned up on her doorstep, her shock and distress would be real. Edward considered telephoning her but in the end decided to let it alone. She would not thank him for nursemaiding her.

  6

  Verity had gone straight from the station to the offices of the Daily Worker in King Street. She knew that, even though it was a Sunday, there would be people in the office. Her special friend – a blond Irish-Catholic Glaswegian named Jimmy Friel – was the political cartoonist. He always came in on a Sunday afternoon to deliver his biting caricatures of the government and the leaders of the Labour Party, saving undiluted vitriol for the Fascists. He signed his cartoons ‘Gabriel’ and was, for many readers, the main reason for buying the paper.

  He was a fervent Party member and he could not forgive Ernest Bevin and Clem Atlee for trying and more or less succeeding in cutting out the Communist Party from the Trade Union movement. He remembered only too well the desperate deprivation of Glasgow in the early thirties when only he and his sister Cissie were employed out of a family of nine. He always claimed that he had become a cartoonist for one reason and one reason only – money – but Verity knew that he was a man of great integrity and, whenever she was feeling particularly fed up with the Party, she turned to him as her moral conscience to explain why she should stick with it. More to the point, Jimmy had been a close friend of Tom Wintringham.

  She found him, as she had hoped, at his desk penning a critique of an art exhibition. Apart from his cartoons, he contributed editorials and other articles on subjects which interested him.

  ‘Jimmy!’ Verity said. ‘I was hoping to find you here. I’m not interrupting, am I?’

  ‘You are, but that’ll no stop you, I’m thinking.’ It was odd that Verity, who put up the backs of so many of her journalistic colleagues, had found such an ally in Jimmy. At twenty-six, he was younger than she, from a different class and a different country, but he seemed to recognize in her the same courage and fragility he knew he possessed. Although he had strong views on the class system, he had no personal animus against individuals, judging them as human beings rather than representatives of their social and political background.

  ‘You’ve heard about Tom Wintringham?’

  ‘I have. In fact, Sheila and Megan are staying with me tonight, just for company.’ He was a touch embarrassed.

  ‘How did she hear . . .?’

  ‘A reporter from the Express telephoned to tell her the rumour. Then the polis came and confirmed it. By the sound of it, they were none too gentle. It was a terrible shock for the lassie.’

  ‘Oh my God! The thing is, I have an awful feeling that Tom was on his way to see me when he was killed.’

  She explained how she had seen Tom with Megan at the Kardomah and how he had visited her at Cranmer Court to warn her about an IRA plot.

  ‘He had a bee in his bonnet about the IRA,’ Jimmy said when she had finished. ‘But there’s no saying O’Rourke isn’t behind the London bombings. I ken the kind of shite that bampot is.’

  ‘I wondered if I could do something for Mrs Wintringham and Megan. Are they short of money? Would they accept help from me, do you think? I feel so guilty.’

  ‘I was just about to go and collect them. Why not come with me and talk to them yourself? They’ll no eat you. Between ourselves, Tom was not a good husband, though he loved Megan. He was often away for long periods in Spain . . . well, you know about that. And there was talk of other women . . . Sheila had been expecting something bad to happen while he was in Spain but he seemed to bear a charmed life, so this has come just when she hoped he might settle down and take an ordinary job.’

  They lived in Camden in a small but pleasant house just off Parkway. Mrs Wintringham opened the door and greeted Jimmy with a kiss. She was puffy about the eyes but, if she had been crying, she was dry-eyed now. A half-eaten pie of some kind sat on the kitchen table. She had been reading to Megan from a book of fairy tales which she still had in her hand.

  ‘Jimmy! I’m not quite ready . . . Oh, you are . . .?’

  ‘Sheila, this is Verity Browne. She was a friend of Tom’s, in Spain.’

  ‘Mrs Wintringham – how are you? I can’t tell you how sad I am about Tom,’ Verity broke in. ‘You see, I was there at Cliveden when . . .’ She saw Megan listening and wondered how much she could hear and how much she had been told. ‘I think he may have been coming to see me when it happened.’

  Mrs Wintringham looked at her in puzzlement and then, collecting herself, said, ‘Come in, both of you. It’s cold out there. Megan, my dear, will you go upstairs and read your book. I’ll be up in a minute or two to finish packing.’

  Megan stood up and looked accusingly at Verity. ‘I know who you are. You’re the la
dy my pa saw outside the . . .’ She hesitated, as though seeking the word.

  ‘Yes, I saw you too. You were wearing a pretty blue coat but I was worried you might be cold. Do you remember how foggy it was that night?’

  Megan ignored the question. She had one of her own. ‘What did you do to my pa? He’s dead, isn’t he? Did you do it? He said you wouldn’t listen,’ she added doubtfully, perhaps not knowing what her father had meant.

  ‘Hush now, Megan,’ Jimmy said hurriedly. ‘Miss Browne did not hurt your father. She was a friend of his.’

  ‘Were you one of his girls?’ Megan said, a note of interest creeping into her voice. ‘Mummy says he has girls but, when I asked him, he said I was his only girl. Do you think he was telling the truth?’

  Verity knelt down so she was on the same level as the little girl. ‘He was telling the truth, I promise you. He told me himself that you were his only girl.’ Although not strictly true, she knew it was what Tom would have said. ‘I did listen and now I’m listening to you. Your father was a brave man and I’m going to do what I can to find out who . . .’

  ‘Who hurt him?’ Megan suggested. ‘Where’s my Rupert Annual?’ she asked sharply, turning to her mother.

  ‘Upstairs on your bed. Now, off you go, child. I want to talk to Jimmy and the lady.’

  When Megan had left the room, Mrs Wintringham asked them to sit down. ‘What do you mean about finding out who killed Tom? What can you do that the police can’t?’

  ‘Maybe you have heard of my friend, Edward Corinth – he’s a sort of detective.’ Why hadn’t she said that she was his fiancée? Damn it, she must stop being embarrassed about it.

  ‘Lord Edward Corinth?’ Mrs Wintringham asked suspiciously. ‘I have heard of him but why would he want to help us?’

  ‘Because . . . because he was there – as I was – when Tom’s body was found and because I’m engaged to him so he’s got to help, hasn’t he?’

  At last, Mrs Wintringham smiled. ‘I suppose he has.’