No More Dying

by David Roberts

  ‘You think of murder as mess?’ Edward inquired with sarcasm. ‘It’s a bit more than that, surely?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, only if the “mess” gets blown up into a diplomatic row. That we can’t afford, so see it doesn’t happen, there’s a good chap. Now, leave me, will you? I’ve got a hundred and one things to worry about.’

  Dismissed and feeling rather foolish for having taken up the precious time, as Liddell put it, of ‘an overworked civil servant’, Edward went to Cranmer Court to restore his self-esteem. He found Verity about to go out.

  ‘I want to show my face at the New Gazette and remind them that I’m still in the land of the living,’ she explained. Edward had some difficulty in persuading her to postpone her outing but she had been persuaded. After they had made love for the third time, he said he was hungry after so much exercise and, reluctantly, Verity had risen and put on the kettle. She had looked nervously in the kitchen cupboard and found, rather to her surprise and relief, some stale bread and six eggs she had forgotten buying. A few minutes later, Edward, in a dressing-gown he kept in the flat for just such an occasion, was scrambling the eggs while Verity, with only a towel to cover her ‘shame’ – as Edward said sententiously – toasted the bread.

  ‘Danny O’Rourke is being held by the police and Der Adler’s dead. There’s been confirmation from Berlin that a German killed by British agents in Buda was definitely Der Adler,’ Edward told her, as he stirred the eggs in a saucepan.

  ‘So there’s nothing to fear? I’m confused. Damn! I’ve burnt the toast.’

  ‘You’re not the only one!’ Edward, too, was perplexed.

  ‘But Adam said he was Italian and you say Der Adler was German.’

  ‘I don’t know why but I can’t quite believe in an Italian assassin,’ he responded with a laugh.

  ‘So who killed Eamon Farrell?’

  ‘That I can’t answer – not yet.’

  ‘Well, Adam certainly seemed to think Churchill is still in danger.’

  ‘Adam, yes. How was he?’ Edward’s expression changed and his voice was guarded.

  ‘He was well. Look, I know what you want to ask me so let me tell you – I wasn’t even tempted,’ Verity lied.

  He had been surprised – once he had got her into bed – at the enthusiasm she displayed. It crossed his mind that she might be making up to him for some tiny betrayal with Adam although he preferred to think it was love for her future husband. ‘I never doubted it,’ Edward responded, also lying.

  ‘You were lucky to find me in,’ she said after an awkward silence.

  ‘And unengaged . . .’ he teased.

  ‘As you keep on reminding me, I am engaged. In fact, I was about to try to get myself re-engaged.’ Edward looked at her interrogatively. ‘I told you, I was on my way to the New Gazette when you . . . when you laid hands on me. Blame yourself if, by forcing me to satisfy your animal lust, my career has gone down the drain.’

  ‘What career?’ he risked.

  ‘If I had had a mother, I am sure you are just the sort of man she would have warned me against,’ she continued, ignoring his question.

  ‘What career?’ he repeated.

  ‘I’m ready to go back to work,’ she said firmly. ‘You said I was quite recovered.’

  ‘You are but . . . go back to your job? Are you really ready for that? At least wait until after we’re married,’ Edward pleaded.

  ‘I warn you, I’m perfectly horrid if I’m bored, so don’t try to dissuade me. And then I’m lunching with Casey,’ she added airily.

  Edward sighed. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Didn’t I?’ she said innocently. ‘He’s been pestering me so in the end I said I would.’ She hurried on, ‘So what brought you up to town? You haven’t told me yet. Perhaps it’s a secret,’ she added, her mouth full of egg.

  ‘I saw the chap who is responsible for Churchill’s safety,’ he said, sticking a finger of toast in his scrambled egg. ‘Nanny always called them soldiers,’ he mused.

  ‘Soldiers? What soldiers?’

  ‘Fingers of bread or toast. You dip them in the yoke of your egg.’

  ‘I never had a nanny,’ Verity replied sharply, although this wasn’t strictly true. After her mother’s death, her father had employed a succession of young women, all of whom Verity had treated appallingly, so that in the end there had been nothing for it but to send her to boarding school. ‘So tell me who you went to see and stop pre varicating. I can see you’ll drive me mad if we spend too much time together. Remember that when you try to stop me working as a journalist again.’

  ‘I can’t tell you his name – I’m sorry – but I expect you’ll meet him some day. I passed on your information and he was very grateful,’ he lied. He had to be vague. Although she knew of his connection with Special Branch, he had sworn not to tell anyone about MI5 let alone mention Liddell’s name.

  ‘Grateful but dubious . . .’

  ‘No, but he was as puzzled as we are about who killed Farrell. It wasn’t our people.’

  They considered the possibilities. Then Edward put a hand out and grasped Verity’s.

  ‘Hey! Watch out for my coffee.’

  ‘Sorry. I say, V, let’s talk about our wedding. I still think we should do the deed on a weekday to avoid unwelcome attention from the press – that is unless you’ve changed your mind and would like a big show.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She was shocked, not at the idea of getting married – she had become accustomed to that – but at having to discuss the arrangements. Until now, marry ing Edward had been something that was going to happen one day and there were always legitimate reasons to put it off.

  ‘Well, I’ve done some research and – subject to you, of course – I’ve booked Caxton Hall for . . .’ he hesitated, ‘March the first. It’s a Wednesday.’

  The shock hit Verity as though someone had punched her in the stomach. ‘But that’s only a fortnight away and I haven’t got anything to wear.’ She knew she sounded absurdly like one of the bourgeois women she so despised. What did it matter what she wore?

  ‘I’ve spoken to Charlotte and Adrian. They could be our witnesses. Connie and Gerald can make it. You’d have to talk to your father . . .’

  ‘Heavens!’ She tried to laugh but it came out as a splutter. ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘Well, is there any reason to delay?’ Edward sounded belligerent, as though challenging her, as indeed he was. ‘You are well now, as you say, and who knows how much time we have before the balloon goes up. I think Hitler will march into Czechoslovakia before the end of March and, as you know, Sunita and Frank are getting married on Saturday the eleventh. We always said we’d get married quietly just before them so no one would notice.’ He saw her face. ‘Not that I’m remotely worried if there is a fuss. I’m so proud to be marrying you that I want to shout it out from the rooftops but I know you aren’t so keen.’

  ‘Edward, I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ he said, expecting her to put forward some reason for postponing.

  ‘You’ve been so patient. I agree, we should seize the moment.’

  ‘Darling, that’s wonderful! You really mean it?’

  ‘I do,’ she answered and it was as if a weight had been lifted off her mind. ‘Gosh! There’s so much to talk about but now I’d better get my skates on. I’ve got to be at the Hyde Park Hotel in half an hour. What about you?’

  ‘Yes, I’d better be going too. I’ve got a meeting with Churchill. He telephoned me at Cliveden and asked for a full report.’

  Morpeth Mansions was Churchill’s London base but it was little more than an anonymous apartment – a place in which to sleep and meet when the House was sitting. For Churchill, home meant Chartwell. They were discussing Chartwell when Churchill disconcerted him by saying, ‘There are moments when I’m rather anxious having you in the house, my boy.’

  The old man had a twinkle in his eye but Edward was suspicious. ‘Why is that, sir?’


  ‘You do seem to attract dead bodies.’

  Edward was put out. ‘I don’t think that is very fair. You and Liddell put me in the way of corpses. My main concern is that you shouldn’t be one of them.’

  He wondered if he had gone too far but, after a second’s hesitation, Churchill burst into laughter. Oddly, this was the first time Edward had seen him laugh but that was probably because for most of the time there wasn’t anything very much to laugh about.

  ‘I gather you have fixed a date for your wedding.’

  ‘How on earth did you know that, sir?’ Edward was quite put out. ‘Apart from Verity and my brother and sister-in-law and our friends the Hassels . . .’ he was counting them off on his fingers, ‘no one knows. Has Liddell said anything to you? I really think we are becoming a police state.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Churchill said genuinely penitent. ‘I should have resisted the temptation to show off. The truth is I happened to be talking to someone who knew someone at Caxton Hall – just a coincidence. I promise you, it wasn’t Liddell. As far as I know, you are not under surveillance. From what I hear from Liddell, MI5 doesn’t have the manpower for one thing.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Edward responded sulkily.

  Churchill, sensing his mood, said, ‘I’m delighted and I congratulate you. I think Miss Browne is a remarkable woman,’ and spoilt it by adding, ‘not that I would care to be married to her myself. She’s too like Nancy. I prefer women who let me do what I want.’ There was another, rather embarrassed, silence and then he announced grandly, ‘I would like to give you a wedding present.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but really . . .’

  Churchill carried on regardless. ‘It was Brab’s idea. You know Brab, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, indeed. He was kind enough to show me his cars when I was at Brooklands.’

  ‘A remarkable sportsman and a good man to have by you in a tight situation. He was my PPS for a time, you know.’

  Lt.-Col. J.T.C. Moore-Brabazon MC MP was, as Churchill said, an extraordinary sportsman. He was fascinated by engines of all kinds and motor racing was the love of his life. He had been a close friend of Charles Rolls and, as early as 1903, had driven his Mors car at 130 mph and had raced at Brooklands from the day it opened. Like many motor-racing enthusiasts he was also a keen flyer and had the very first Royal Aero Club’s pilot’s certificate. He had been up in a balloon before the first aeroplane had flown and had won the Daily Mail’s £1,000 prize for flying the first circular mile. He was a friend of Wilbur Wright and the Short brothers and had exhibited his ‘Bird of Passage’ at the first Aero Show at Olympia in 1908. During the war he joined the RFC, despite being in his thirties, and helped develop aerial photography. On the golf course he was something of a legend but, as Edward could testify, he was above all a thoroughly nice man.

  ‘I happened to see Brab yesterday,’ Churchill continued, ‘and when he heard you were getting married . . .’

  ‘You told him? It’s supposed to be a secret but it seems it’s common knowledge.’

  ‘. . . he suggested you might like to take a short holiday afterwards.’ Churchill was unperturbed by Edward’s outburst. ‘I hesitate to call it a honeymoon – too sickly sweet for those of us no longer in our first flush of youth, I fancy – but a few days at St Moritz. As you know, Brab is rather a swell there so it might be fun. What do you say?’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of him,’ Edward mumbled, still annoyed but trying not to sound ungrateful. ‘I’ll have to talk to Verity about it but it sounds . . . well, it sounds wonderful,’ he said, giving himself a mental shake. ‘We’ll want to get away for a few days before coming back for my nephew’s wedding . . .’

  ‘Good! That’s settled then.’

  ‘On the condition that I pay for . . .’

  ‘Now, don’t argue, my boy. Three nights at the Kulm Hotel. It’s my gift so don’t make a fuss. You know how I like to get my own way.’

  Edward knew it would offend him if he continued to protest so, though it went against the grain, he surrendered gracefully. ‘Well, that is very kind of you, sir. I am very touched and I know Verity will be too.’ In fact, he wasn’t at all sure she would be but he would jump that hurdle when he came to it.

  ‘Do you ski?’ Churchill asked.

  ‘A little, but Verity doesn’t – although I think she might take to it. She likes dangerous sports where she can go very fast.’

  ‘So what does it all mean?’ Churchill asked, getting back to business. ‘Can I assume that the threat of being assassinated by some madman has disappeared?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Edward said firmly. ‘Liddell says we must remain vigilant. For one thing, we still have no idea why Farrell was killed. Maybe there’s no connection with the attempt on your life, but it’s certainly too early for you to lower your guard. There’s this warning we had about the Italian . . .’

  ‘So there’s no doubt that Wintringham and Farrell were both killed by the same person?’

  ‘They were both killed with the same sort of knife – long and thin and as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. I’ve heard it described as a poniard,’ Edward told him. ‘According to Inspector Voss, they were of Italian make. Both men were killed from behind with the knife protruding from the side of their necks.’

  ‘A knife! At Omdurman I would have used a pistol or a sword but a knife! That’s as intimate a piece of killing as using a bayonet. You have to hate to use a knife.’ Churchill was thinking of the time he had spent in the trenches in 1916.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, sir,’ Edward replied grimly. ‘A knife is a peculiarly unpleasant way to kill someone – if there is a pleasant way. A knife is savage, elemental and, as you say, intimate. The trouble is, there were no obvious clues where the bodies were found. Wintringham wasn’t killed in the Blenheim Pavilion and Farrell wasn’t killed on the golf course. Wintringham’s jacket and coat were found in the swimming-pool. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to burn them but had been disturbed or given up. It’s surprisingly difficult to burn clothes.’

  ‘I take it most unkindly that the poor man was found in the Blenheim Pavilion. As you know, Blenheim is sacred to me and this tarnishes a name in that splendid roll call of British military victories.’

  Edward looked at him quizzically and Churchill appeared momentarily uncomfortable. He had allowed rhetoric to replace sincere revulsion and he knew it.

  ‘And why leave the knife for us to find?’ Edward asked, not expecting an answer. ‘Verity also noticed that Wintringham’s glasses were missing. By chance, I came across Mr Kennedy’s car being cleaned by his chauffeur the following morning. I looked in the boot and saw a pair of smashed, wire-rimmed glasses which might have belonged to the dead man. The chauffeur said they were Mr Kennedy’s. Perhaps wrongly, I thought it wasn’t my place to demand that he hand them over so I could show them to the police. Inspector Voss had made it quite clear that he did not want me involved in the investigation and I had no authority to examine anything. I was also aware that, if I made a fuss about it, I could spark off an embar rassing diplomatic incident. I knew that we couldn’t afford to imply that the American Ambassador might be involved in murder.’

  Edward spoke with the care he might have used had he been a witness in a court of law. He was rehearsing for himself as much as for Churchill exactly what evidence there was for Kennedy being involved in the two murders. As he listened to himself, he thought it amounted to a prima facie case.

  Churchill was silent for a moment and then said, ‘I can’t see old Joe manhandling dead bodies, let alone murdering anyone himself, although I gather from Liddell that he has close contacts with organized crime in New York and Boston. Being Ambassador means a huge amount to him and he’ll do whatever he can to keep his hands clean – at least while he is in England.’ Churchill lit a cigar and, after puffing on it and throwing away the match, continued, ‘He’ll do whatever is needed to keep his reputation, such as it is, intact. Might
that not include getting one of his people to dispose of anyone who was trying to blackmail him?’

  ‘It might,’ Edward agreed, ‘and his most trusted aide is his son, Joe Jr. The chauffeur himself told me that the boy had driven the Cadillac – heavy as it is – on the grass without getting it stuck. I think it more than likely that it was he who dumped the body in the pavilion and then “found” it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Churchill put in, ‘even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean he killed Wintringham.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘So what’s the next step?’ Churchill demanded impatiently.

  ‘Chief Inspector Pride is now on the case. He’s a good man – very thorough. I think he’ll get results. The local chap, Inspector Voss, was frankly not up to the job.’

  ‘What about Kennedy?’

  ‘I think he’s been badly shocked by Farrell’s killing,’ Edward answered thoughtfully. ‘Even if he knew about Wintringham – which, to judge from his reaction when his daughter announced the discovery of the body, I rather doubt – I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to find Farrell on the golf course. Why on earth – if for some obscure reason he had wanted Farrell dead – would he have “found” him? He would have made sure he was miles away when the body was discovered.’

  ‘Who was caddying for you?’

  ‘Kennedy’s chauffeur and my man, Fenton, were there when Lord Astor’s dog found the body, and Fenton is convinced that Washington was as shocked as we all were.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Churchill said, ‘is how the murderer knew you would slice your ball into the rough at that particular hole. If you hadn’t, the body might have lain undiscovered for days, if not weeks.’

  ‘It was Kennedy’s slice,’ Edward corrected him. ‘I agree. On the face of it, it suggests the murderer had no intention of us finding the body. Maybe he was counting on the dog nosing it out.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s a mystery.’

  ‘You managed to get close to Kennedy. He even invited you to play golf. What’s your relationship with him now?’