No More Dying

by David Roberts

  Returning to the bedroom, he noticed two framed photographs on the bedside table. One was of an elderly couple who, he guessed, must be Casey’s parents and the other of Casey in his graduation robes. It seemed rather odd to Edward to have a photograph of yourself in your bedroom when you could look in a mirror if you wanted to be reminded what you looked like. It must, he supposed, have some special significance for him – perhaps a moment of success or optimism. The bedside table had drawers. He opened the top drawer and was momentarily startled to find it contained a gun – a Mauser pocket pistol – and some ammunition but, given that Casey was head of security at the embassy, he supposed they were official.

  Edward decided that he had pushed his luck about as far as it would go and he had better make himself scarce before the owner returned. He had suspected Casey was not quite the clean-living defender of democracy he pretended. Tonight, when they met for dinner, he would do what he could to make him reveal his true self. How far was he prepared to go to protect his boss? Edward was inclined to think he would commit murder.

  As he slipped out of the flat into the mews he thought he had escaped unobserved. He was wrong. The chauffeur who had told him where Casey lived had thought it strange to be asked so many questions and had hung around to see if the Englishman with the absurd accent was up to no good. He had seen him go into the flat and now he watched him leave.

  Verity was in a fever of indecision. Fernando! How could she suspect this friend of hers from such dangerous days, her companion in arms, this principled fighter against tyranny? And yet he was Italian and the word was that Churchill’s would-be assassin was Italian. He was going to Westerham. No doubt hundreds of innocent men and women went to Westerham every day. But why should he be going there? What possible motive had he for going to this sleepy Kent town if not to see Churchill? Perhaps he just wanted to talk to him . . . perhaps he had even been invited to visit Chartwell to report on the situation in Italy. . .

  But what had he meant when he said to Alice Paling that he had an important job to do? And what . . . yes, most of all, what had he meant by the words ‘Kill Claudio’? Verity had not read much Shakespeare but one could not be around Edward for any length of time without picking up famous quotations and she happened to know that this was Beatrice’s shocking command to Benedick. It was that bizarre moment when Much Ado About Nothing lurches from light comedy to chilling revenge tragedy. As though you were in an aeroplane which suddenly plunges several thousand feet in a few seconds, those two words, ‘Kill Claudio’, signal a descent into hell and leave the audience with their collective stomach in their mouth.

  She telephoned Edward’s rooms in Albany but Fenton said he was out and he had no idea when he would return. She left an urgent message for him to call her. She looked in on Alice who was now asleep on her bed. By confessing all to Verity, she had unburdened herself and could now sleep the deep, innocent sleep of the shriven. What to do about Alice? Because something needed to be done – of that she was certain. She could not be left to the untender mercy of some back-street abortionist. On the other hand, to have the child might ruin her life. She might be confined in some home for girls who had let down their sex and her baby taken and given to an orphanage. Verity had read about such things and was determined that silly, ingenuous Alice would not be one of those girls.

  She would have telephoned Edward’s friend at Special Branch about Fernando – what was his name? Colonel something – but he had never told her how to get in touch with him. It had never occurred to her that one day she might actually want to speak to him. Up to now, in her mind, he had simply been the man who persecuted the Communist Party instead of the real danger to society, the British Union of Fascists. What sort of traitor was she to turn over a comrade to the police? She could never do that. There was Pride, of course. She had at last managed to trust him, at least to some degree. But . . . it was stupid even to think of it. She knew she could never bring herself to telephone Scotland Yard and inform on a friend. And yet if something were to happen to Churchill . . . something bad . . . something she could have prevented, Edward would never forgive her. She would never forgive herself.

  In the end, she dialled the operator and asked for the number for Chartwell. She thought she might try light-heartedly . . . apologetically, to warn the man himself. The butler answered and to her relief knew who she was. Mr Churchill was in the garden building a wall – could he give him a message? She wondered what message to leave – ‘I think one of my friends in the Party is on his way to kill you’? She just couldn’t say it. The butler seemed to understand her hesitation and asked if she would prefer to speak to Mr Thompson. For a second she did not know to whom he was referring but then she remembered Edward saying something about Special Branch insisting that Churchill had a personal detective with him at all times, much against his wishes.

  ‘Yes, I’ll speak to him. Thank you.’

  There was a wait of some minutes during which Verity was tempted to replace the receiver. Just as she was about to do so, Thompson came on the line and apologized for the delay.

  ‘I was in the garden, miss. I try always to have Mr Churchill in sight but not to crowd him, if you see what I mean.’

  His level voice soothed and reassured her. ‘You know who I am, Mr Thompson?’

  ‘Indeed, miss. You are Lord Edward Corinth’s fiancée. Mr Churchill introduced me to the gentleman when he was last here.’

  ‘Very well then . . .’

  ‘Yes, miss? Was there something you wished me to pass on to Mr Churchill . . . a message?’

  ‘Well, I’m not quite sure . . . it may be nothing but . . .’

  ‘But what, miss?’

  ‘There’s a man called Fernando Ruffino – a friend of mine,’ she added stoutly, ‘an Italian Communist. I heard he is coming to Westerham and I am worried . . . I have no evidence, you understand . . . that he might be . . . he might try to kill Mr Churchill.’

  She had said it. Her horrible, unjustified suspicion was out. Had she betrayed an innocent man? He would be caught and deported or put in prison and it was all her fault.

  Thompson was speaking and his voice was suddenly urgent. ‘Miss Browne, why do you think he might be coming here?’

  ‘He told his girlfriend that he had an important job to do and that he should be coming to Westerham and he said . . .’

  ‘He said what, miss?’ There was an insistence in his voice that she could not resist.

  ‘He quoted Shakespeare – “Kill Claudio”. It may be nothing. I can’t think what possible motive he might have for wanting to kill Mr Churchill but I thought . . . I haven’t been able to speak to Lord Edward . . . I thought I should tell someone.’

  ‘You did right, Miss Browne,’ Thompson said soothingly. ‘Better safe than sorry. Don’t worry about it. We’ll deal with it but I’m afraid someone from Special Branch may want to speak to you. Will you be at your flat for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I . . . probably . . . I’m not sure.’

  ‘Thank you, miss. I must go now and see to it that, if the gentleman you mentioned comes here, we are ready for him.’

  When Verity put down the receiver she still felt uneasy and anxious but thought she had, on balance, done the right thing.

  13

  ‘So how did your night of dissipation with Casey go? What sort of nightclub was it? Was it very seedy? Do tell.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, V, but Casey cancelled at the last moment.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. He said something about a crisis blowing up and he couldn’t get away. To be fair he had warned me he was expecting to have a bad day.’

  ‘But. . .?’

  ‘But he was so abrupt I wondered if by any chance he had heard I had been mooching around. Anyway, enough about that. V, I heard what you did.’ He took her hand. ‘I know it can’t have been easy but you did what you had to do. I don’t agree with Morgan Forster. There are times when you have to choose
country over friendship.’

  ‘You think I was right?’ she asked, her eyes lighting up.

  ‘Dearest V, of course it was. It was brave and it was difficult – like most right things are. I’m so proud of you.’

  Verity tried to hide the tears that came into her eyes. ‘So you don’t want to postpone the wedding?’ she said, her voice unsteady.

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘Don’t joke, Edward. I have a horrible feeling that we’re not at the end of all this yet. What was that thing you quoted at me? “So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men . . .”’

  ‘“And death once dead, there’s no more dying then,”’ he finished.

  She shuddered. ‘No more dying! If only . . .’

  Several days had passed and still Chief Inspector Pride had nothing to report.

  ‘You are convinced Casey Bishop is the murderer?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I think Casey, or maybe Washington on his orders, killed Tom Wintringham and Lulu but I’m pretty sure Washington didn’t kill Eamon Farrell. Fenton was there when Wooster found the body on the course. Washington seemed as shocked as the rest of us. What do you say, Fenton? Did you think Washington’s shock was genuine?’

  ‘I did, my lord. I am convinced his surprise at finding the body was unfeigned. However, might I suggest that perhaps he had killed Mr Farrell elsewhere and had not expected to stumble across his corpse at the eleventh?’

  ‘Good point,’ Pride said. ‘The question then is who moved the body?’

  Edward sighed. He suddenly felt very tired. ‘Washington would not kill anyone without orders,’ he repeated. ‘Casey or Mr Kennedy must be behind all this.’

  ‘You really think Kennedy would involve himself in murder? This isn’t Boston, don’t forget.’

  ‘I’m not forgetting. I don’t think Kennedy would want to be involved in murder but he might have been forced into it. Or – if not Joe Kennedy himself – then Casey may have taken it upon himself to protect the Kennedy family. Damn and blast! It’s going round and round in my brain but I always come back to that.’

  ‘A funny way to do it – protect the Kennedys by letting the old man trip over dead bodies all over the place.’

  ‘I know. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. I thought at the time that Kennedy’s surprise at finding Farrell’s body was as real as mine but now I’m not so sure. He was so keen for us to play that round of golf and, when we came to the eleventh, he said it was to be our last hole.’

  Pride shook his head. ‘But you can’t explain why Kennedy would want to be anywhere nearby when the body of one of his closest associates was found. Furthermore, as you said yourself, Farrell was almost like a son to him. Would he have had him killed? I doubt it.’

  ‘True’, Edward conceded.

  ‘And my hands are tied,’ Pride said. ‘I can’t carry out a proper investigation. I was called in by my chief this morning and told that I must on no account harass Mr Kennedy. The political situation with regard to the United States is so sensitive that any hint that we were treating the Ambassador as a murder suspect would put American popular opinion against us just when we need President Roosevelt’s support. To put it bluntly, if Joe Kennedy is behind these killings, I haven’t a hope in hell of bringing him to justice.’

  ‘What about Casey? Surely you can interrogate him?’

  ‘I could if I were able to find him,’ Pride agreed gloomily. ‘I spoke to the embassy yesterday and they said – cool as anything – that he has taken leave of absence – a holiday on the Continent. They don’t know exactly where. Can you beat it?’

  ‘Damn! I’ve just remembered. I haven’t told you. I found a bottle of Salvarsan in Casey’s bathroom cupboard.’

  ‘What the hell is Salvarsan?’

  ‘It’s an arsenic-based drug used in the treatment of syphilis. I noticed that it had been prescribed in Switzerland. Perhaps he has gone to consult his doctor.’

  ‘Syphilis! You think Casey has syphilis?’

  ‘I do. In his bedside cupboard I found a Mauser and a book by William Hinton on the treatment of the disease.’

  ‘Syphilis sends you mad, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Eventually, Chief Inspector, if it isn’t treated early enough.’

  Edward ceased his pacing and stood staring out of the window. He had a vision of Casey’s bedroom and it sent a shiver down his spine. How many women had he infected between those silk sheets? He took another step and then stood still again. Verity had had lunch with Casey. He was absolutely certain that it had just been lunch. He trusted her but what if . . .? Without explaining himself, he went into the hall and telephoned Cranmer Court. He drummed his fingers on the wall as the phone continued to ring and Verity did not answer.

  They both stood stock-still staring at each other as the persistent ringing of the telephone echoed round the flat. It went on for so long that Verity was certain it was Edward and longed to answer it but Fernando’s black semi-automatic Beretta was pointing at her breast.

  When the ringing at last ceased, she said, ‘I had to do it. Mr Churchill is the one politician who has the guts to stand up to Hitler. If you had killed him, we might lose the war. You have spent a lifetime fighting Fascism, surely you understand?’

  She spoke as calmly as she could but she could see that Fernando was possessed by a powerful cocktail of rage, fear and frustration. He had been on the run for two days and nights, sleeping rough, not daring to trust anyone. Finally, he had made his way to Alice’s flat and accused her of betraying him. She had been badly scared but stood up for herself, pointing out that he had not confided in her what was the ‘important job’ he had to do.

  ‘But I told you where I was going – idiota!’ he had yelled and slapped Alice’s face.

  ‘I wasn’t to know it was a secret!’ she had wailed. ‘Anyway, I didn’t tell anyone . . . wait a minute, I did tell Verity Browne but she wouldn’t . . . would she?’

  Now he was determined on revenge. He needed to vent his feelings on someone whom he could blame for his failure but, underneath the rage, Verity thought she could detect relief. She was convinced that, whatever else he was, Fernando wasn’t a murderer. She hoped she wasn’t fooling herself.

  ‘You meddling bitch! Mio bambino, mia moglie! They are in prison . . . my baby in prison! I cannot think about it without weeping. I have been tried by the Tribunale Speciale and sentenced to death. I have one chance – if I carry out this assassinio I will be pardoned and my family restored to me. They say that in the Casellario Politico Centrale my file is the longest.’ He sounded almost proud. ‘Now you understand why I have to do it. Why you betray me?’

  ‘Oh my God! I knew there must be some reason . . . I’m so sorry but, truly, I did not betray you, Fernando. You never entrusted me with your secret. If you had, I would have told you straight away that I would have to go to the police. You are a patriot. I, too, am a patriot.’

  It was not the language she would normally have used but she needed to make him understand and to do so she had to use high-flown words like patriotism – a word she normally distrusted.

  ‘Shoot me if you like but you’re not a murderer. I know you could never have killed Churchill. We must find some other way to get your family out of Italy. Tell me what happened. You went to Westerham but you were not arrested . . .?’

  ‘No, I saw all the police – they were checking every passenger – and I knew I had been betrayed. I thought it was Alice but she said she had told you I was going to Westerham. I knew then it was you.’

  ‘You didn’t hurt Alice? You know she is pregnant with your child?’

  ‘I do not believe it! I was very careful . . .’

  ‘Well, she thinks she is. She is seeing a doctor this afternoon unless you prevent her.’

  Fernando suddenly threw down his gun, sank into an armchair and put his head in his hands. It was theatrical but she did not doubt that he was sincere.

  ‘You are
right. I could not have done it. I am not an assassino.’

  Greatly relieved, Verity knelt down beside him and took his hands in hers. ‘How did you plan to do it? Mr Churchill is well guarded.’

  ‘I was going to knock on the door, explain who I was and ask to see him. Then I suppose I would have shot him.’

  ‘But, even if you had done such a thing, how did you expect to get away with it?’

  ‘They said there would be a submarine waiting for me off the coast but I have been thinking about it and I believe they would have let me be captured. I am a well-known Communist. The Party would be blamed for what I had done, whatever I said.’

  Verity thought it was all too likely. ‘Tell me, Fernando, did you have a code name?’

  He almost giggled, as one can do when the situation is so serious that it is beyond normal reactions. ‘Would you believe it – they called me Der Adler, L’Aquila, The Eagle. But I always knew I was more like Il Passero – the sparrow.’

  She smiled weakly and stroked his hand as she would a child’s. What should she do now? Telephone the police? No, she had done enough. There was no longer a threat to Churchill. Why should she persecute a poor, tortured man who had been forced to choose between his family and killing a politician? She knew Churchill well enough to be certain that it was the last thing he would want. Fernando had done nothing wrong. No, she would get in touch with David. It was his job to preserve the reputation of the Party. He must get Fernando out of the country. And Fernando’s wife and child – what about them? She told him what she intended to do but he was apathetic. He had surrendered to fate. His resolve had vanished at the sight of those policemen at Westerham. It was a blessed excuse for calling it off. As he said, he wasn’t a killer and the Abwehr was foolish to think he might be, but how would he be able to live knowing that he had sentenced his wife and child to death?