Hollow Crown

by David Roberts

  ‘Why, for goodness sake? I was coming to your rescue.’

  ‘I didn’t want to be rescued. As it happened I was enjoying myself.’

  ‘Tossing broken glass to maim those poor brutes you were commending a moment ago for knocking me flat?’

  ‘No, not that but I knocked off a policeman’s helmet.’

  ‘And you lost your hat,’ he said nastily. ‘Fancy going to a riot in a hat. Fffou!’

  ‘If you knew anything about protest marches, you’d know women always wear hats so the police can’t grab you by the hair. As it happens, it was the hat I always wear for marches and I was very attached to it.’

  ‘Obviously, not attached firmly enough.’

  ‘Ha, ha. Anyway, what do you mean, “fffou!”?’

  ‘I mean fffou,’ he said haughtily, grabbing a piece of toast and honey before she could devour it.

  They munched in companionable silence. ‘Have you seen the papers?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Yes, Fenton gave me The Times and the New Gazette.’

  ‘Did you like my report?’ she asked defensively.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said, gulping down the last of the coffee. ‘A little over the top perhaps but,’ he added hurriedly, seeing the look in her eye, ‘indubitably vivid. Why, you might have been there yourself.’

  ‘Chump,’ she said affectionately. ‘Apparently we missed another two hours of rioting so you probably ruined my dispatch from the front. There were two police baton charges after we left and the police used water hoses. Dash it! In Spain we learnt never to tend the wounded until after the battle was over.’

  ‘By which time it was too late, I suppose?’

  ‘Very often it was,’ she said soberly.

  ‘See here,’ she continued, opening The Times. ‘It says “The Chief Police Commissioner asked the Home Secretary if he should tell Sir Oswald Mosley his march was cancelled and he said he should.” The interesting thing is that apparently Mosley was rather relieved and dismissed his band of thugs without making a fuss. Here, he is quoted as saying “The Government surrenders to Red violence and Jewish corruption but we shall triumph because our faith is greater than their faith, and within us is a flame that shall light up this country and the world.” What nonsense!’

  ‘Yes, but it may just be nonsense which will light up the world,’ Edward said seriously. ‘Light it with the light of bombs and cannon fire. When I was with Joe in his office the other evening, he showed me the view – the Thames like black velvet, the streets streaked with orange and yellow, St Paul’s glowering at us like some holy mountain – and I felt a bit like Faust. Joe said he didn’t believe there would be war but that, if there was, he foresaw this peaceful scene transformed into a hellish bonfire. I tell you, Verity, I felt as if someone had walked over my grave. I imagined old Sam Pepys watching the great fire destroying the city he knew and I wondered if he had felt fear or excitement, or dread.’

  ‘I watched towns burn in Spain and that was awful – it was like being a tourist in hell but I would be lying if I didn’t say there was an excitement about it.’

  ‘That reminds me. I’ve been summoned to the New Gazette. I expect Joe wants to talk to me about Molly’s death and what happens now.’

  At that moment the telephone rang and they listened while Fenton answered it. Then there was a tap on the door and Fenton said, ‘My lord, Inspector Lampfrey is on the line and would like a word with you if it is convenient.’

  ‘Of course, tell him I’ll be right with him. Verity, pass me my dressing gown and then turn your head away or, better still, remove yourself to the drawing-room.’

  Verity tossed him his red and blue-striped silk gown and flounced out of the room. She hated to admit it but, deep down, she too felt that ‘nice’ girls did not make themselves at home in a man’s bedroom if they were not married to them and it annoyed her to find herself still so conventional. In any case, she had no wish to scandalize Fenton so she threw herself into an armchair and picked up the New Gazette and prepared to reread her account of what was being called the Cable Street Riot. Her report was on the front page which was pleasing. After all, she was the paper’s only female news reporter. The Times had no female correspondents except writers on fashion, food and other domestic matters, so perhaps she had a right to be a little pleased with herself. But that raised the whole matter of what she did next. It was part of her nature never to be satisfied with what she had achieved. There was the book, of course, and then back to Spain, she supposed.

  The fact of the matter was she did not particularly want to go back. She knew the Republicans were losing the civil war but it wasn’t just that. When she had first gone to Spain, the issues had seemed to her to be clear. Spain’s legitimate government was being challenged by the army and the Catholic Church in unholy alliance. The Republic had been corrupt, chaotic and ineffectual but its government had been freely elected and was trying to bring some hope to the vast, voiceless, impoverished peasant class. In her heart she doubted the new Republican leaders had the same priorities. Her commission to write a book on her experiences in Spain had been a godsend. It gave her an alibi for staying in England for a month or two. After Christmas, the whole situation in Spain would have changed and it might be easier to see her way forward.

  Edward stuck his head round the door. ‘It was as I thought. Poor Molly was murdered. She had taken ten grams of veronal – about twenty times what she might have been prescribed. It’s conceivable she committed suicide but I don’t think she did. She certainly didn’t give me any hint that she was thinking of doing away with herself. Quite the contrary. She wasn’t depressed. She was angry. Angry people don’t kill themselves. If anything, they kill the person they’re angry with. I say, Fenton, is my bath ready?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Very good. Will you bring the car round in about ten minutes? The Inspector wants us back at Haling as soon as possible.’

  ‘Very well, my lord. Might I be forgiven for reminding you of your appointment with Lord Weaver?’

  ‘Dash it. Yes, thank you, Fenton. I had better go to the New Gazette first. I say, V, if you’re not doing anything urgent, why not come down to Haling with me. When I’ve had my meeting with Joe, I can pick you up from the Hassels’ and tell you all about it on the way.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. What business have I got at Haling? Anyway, I’ve got to be here when the Jarrow marchers arrive.’

  ‘But that won’t be for another few days, will it?’

  ‘No, but . . . ’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I’ve got my book to do.’

  ‘Surely a couple of days won’t make a difference?’

  ‘Leo Scannon, he’s frightfully anti-us. He won’t want a CP member like me cluttering up his hallway.’

  Edward hesitated. ‘Yes, I see your point. Half a minute. I’ll telephone him and see what he says. Fenton, would you be good enough to get Mr Scannon on the line?’

  Left to herself again, Verity fell into what her father called ‘a brown study’. It was not usual for her to be uncertain where she was going and what she wanted out of life. Just a year ago it had all seemed so obvious. She was to be a famous foreign correspondent and help alert the world to the perils it faced from Fascism. Now . . . now it all seemed more ambiguous; the rights and wrongs less clear cut. Just at this particular moment she wanted to relax into the care and unqualified love which she knew – without any words having passed between them – the man in whose rooms she now sat was prepared to offer her. When he came back from telephoning she would hint at it.

  However, when he did return he had something to tell her which put all thoughts of offering herself to him out of her mind.

  ‘It’s all fixed,’ he said with a geniality she found unconvincing. ‘I spoke to Dannie who said you must come. Dannie’s a great admirer of yours and longing to meet you.’

  ‘Dannie? Who’s he? A friend of yours? I don’t remember you mentioning him before.’

>   ‘She, not he. Dannie’s Catherine Dannhorn. She’s a famous mannequin. A friend of Joe Weaver’s. I met her at Joe’s, you know – when he had me to dine with Mrs Simpson. To tell you the truth, I think she might be Joe’s mistress.’

  Edward was trying to sound breezy but failing. He saw Verity hesitate. ‘Please do say you’ll come. Molly was my friend and she’s been murdered. I can’t sleuth properly without you.’

  He wisely stopped himself saying, ‘After all, you’ve nothing better to do,’ and instead added, ‘There may be a scoop there – “Conservative MP involved in society girl’s death”.’

  Despite herself Verity’s ears pricked. It was perfectly true that, if Molly Harkness had been murdered, it was news. Her friendship with the Prince of Wales had been chronicled in all the illustrated papers and the association was enough to make her death of considerable interest to the ‘yellow press’.

  ‘But you’ll say I can’t report anything we discover.’

  ‘Perhaps not everything but I’m sure, if we can find out what happened to the poor girl, there’ll be enough for a good story. Come on, V, I’m serious. I need you. We’ll pop Fenton in the dickey and have a good old chin-wag in the car.’

  He wasn’t sure himself if he was just being kind – trying to cheer her up and distract her – or if he really did need her. If the latter, he really ought to do something about it.

  ‘Ass,’ Verity said automatically and gathered up her things. ‘I suppose I’ll have to brave your Fascist friends being boorish to help you but I warn you, if I get tried too much I do tend to bite.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Edward said with a theatrical shudder.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ Lord Weaver was not his usual self, in control of the world. He was edgy and irritable and paced up and down on the carpet flicking ash from his cigar all over the place. ‘I can’t believe it. I really don’t think you understand how serious the situation is. Mrs Simpson relied on you and you’ve let her down. God knows where her letters are now. We’ll probably be reading them in the Daily Mail tomorrow.’

  ‘Hey, I say,’ Edward interjected. ‘Don’t blame me. I had a perfectly reasonable conversation with her and, if I had been able to continue it, I think I might have persuaded her to give them up. Instead of which she was killed. I don’t know who by but I intend to find out and, if I do, I will probably find the wretched letters.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘Then whatever happens, happens.’

  “You realize it may mean the King having to abdicate?’

  ‘Would that be altogether a bad thing? I mean, he seems to be hand in glove with the Nazis.’

  ‘That’s an exaggeration. But who is there if he did have to go? His brother is a half-wit stammerer.’

  ‘Wait a bit, Joe. All I’ve heard of him makes me think he’s a sound man. Not a Hollywood film star like the present one but do we really want glamour? With a war coming we want steady leadership – nothing flashy. Anyway, it may not come to that. Have you told Baldwin what’s happened?’

  ‘I have and he accused me of – how did he put it? – “having fumbled the catch”. He wasn’t pleased. Not pleased at all. He always seems to think I have some scheme on to do him down. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Does the King know about the theft yet?’

  ‘Wally was going to tell him today but I told her to hold off for a few days. I said you were going to Haling and that Inspector Lampfrey was a good man – discreet, too. You’ve got a week,’ he said, stabbing his cigar in Edward’s direction. ‘A week and then it all blows up in our faces.’

  On the way down to Haling, Edward told Verity everything . . . or almost everything. He had already given her the bare outline but now he told her in detail while trying to make sense of it himself. She whistled.

  ‘Heavens, I can see why the poor woman was killed. She threatened the whole rotten structure. It confirms my opinion that the monarchy ought to be done away with.’

  ‘I say, V, steady on,’ Edward said in alarm, swerving to avoid a tree which seemed to jump out of the side of the road at him. ‘You really will get us thrown out of Haling if you say things like that!’

  ‘I’ll be good, don’t worry. I’ll save all my spleen until I can get you alone.’

  ‘You never know, I might like that,’ he said offensively and she poked him in the ribs, causing him to swerve again.

  ‘But I haven’t told you the final bit of news the Inspector gave me on the telephone – by the way, Lampfrey’s a good egg. We won’t have the sort of problems we had with what’s his name? Chief Inspector Pride.’

  The latter was the Scotland Yard man who had investigated General Craig’s murder and who had taken an instant dislike to both Edward and Verity.

  ‘Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, Lampfrey says Molly was pregnant.’ As he half turned to see how Verity took the news, she screamed. The scream was not, however, a reaction to this piece of news but to the dog which dashed straight under the Lagonda’s wheels. As they sped on, she turned to see the bewildered-looking canine brush itself down and continue its dangerous journey.

  ‘Edward,’ she said. ‘You will kill us both if you don’t concentrate on your driving.’

  ‘You sound like my late-lamented mother,’ he said crossly. He prided himself – like most men – on being a skilled driver and the reprimand annoyed him.

  ‘So?’ he said. ‘If anyone knew she was pregnant, it might have given any friend of you-know-who an added motive to get rid of her. I mean, can you imagine it! Coronation Day and the papers are full of the King’s love child by a discarded mistress. The mind boggles.’

  ‘No question. It oughtn’t to be too difficult to find out which of the King’s friends decided to do away with her – like Henry the whatever and Becket. I suppose you are the prime suspect,’ she said consideringly. ‘After all, you had been officially commissioned to deal with Molly.’

  ‘Hey, I’m getting fed up with people blaming me! Joe was most offensive. According to him, I will be responsible for the fall of the Empire if the letters get into the wrong hands. You know he calls her Wally?’

  ‘No, really? Wally?’ Verity giggled.

  ‘Yes, and Joe says she grew up as Bessiewallis Warfield. Not surprising she wanted to change things.’

  ‘No! Don’t forget, I’m dedicated to seeing the end of the British Empire, so Joe can’t threaten me with that eventuality. Did you tell him I was going with you to Haling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He groaned.’

  Edward had a sudden urge to tell Verity about Dannie. She was bound to find out sooner or later and it was better she heard it from his own lips.

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly and said, as casually as he could, ‘The Inspector knows I couldn’t have killed Molly. I’ve got an alibi – Dannie – Catherine Dannhorn, the girl who wants to meets you.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Verity said slowly. ‘How can she give you an alibi?’

  ‘Well, you see, she spent the night with me – or part of it. I don’t know when she left. In fact, that’s the problem,’ he went on, speaking quickly and hoping that Verity would make no comment. ‘I mean, she might have – I think she somehow probably did – unlock the door between my room and Molly’s and take Mrs Simpson’s letters and . . . ’

  ‘But I thought you said you’d only known the woman – Dannie or whatever you call her – just a few days.’

  ‘That’s right. That’s what makes me think she was using me. I found her in my bed when I came back from talking to Molly.’

  ‘And instead of turfing her out of your bed you . . . you . . . ’

  ‘She is very beautiful,’ he said, making a bad situation worse.

  ‘And it never struck you that the only reason a beautiful woman would throw herself at you was if she wanted something from you. I’m . . . I’m shocked and disgusted.’

  ‘Well, damn it,’ Edward sa
id, stung by the tone of her voice, ‘you have not been exactly celibate. What about that novelist fellow – Belasco – you had an . . . ?’

  ‘That was quite different,’ she said hurriedly. ‘We were in love.’

  ‘Hmm!’ Edward responded through tightened lips. Then, feeling he was behaving badly, he said with an effort, ‘I’m sorry, V, forgive me. You’re right – it was shabby and – well, sordid. I’ve been playing the fool. I don’t know why but I can’t seem to . . . All I know is everything is going to the devil and I along with it.’

  Verity was not mollified. She turned her head to stare out of the window as they sped past puzzled cows and apprehensive sheep.

  They both felt in the wrong and that made each of them angry. It surprised Verity how greatly she felt betrayed. She had no rights over him, she knew that. She had deliberately refused to commit herself to him or, for that matter, to any man. She liked sex but it was easier to have it with a man like Ben Belasco whom she did not love and who she knew did not love her. It made no sense to feel dirtied by Edward’s confession. Perhaps it was that she had – quite unconsciously – raised him above other men. She had turned him into a ‘parfait gentil knight’ and attributed to him virtues he did not possess and had never pretended to possess. She knew he had had affairs but this was different. Wasn’t it rather squalid – this one passionless night with a high-class whore?

  Edward too was unhappy. He blamed himself for not having had the moral courage to reject Dannie and, now he was sure she had used him, he felt even more disgusted with himself. He had let himself down in front of Verity and his own conscience and that made him angry with Verity, Dannie and, most of all, himself. He wondered now what had possessed him to get Verity invited to Haling. He had premonitions of disaster.

  They had arranged to call in on Inspector Lampfrey at Marlborough police station and, in the forty minutes it took to get there, they hardly exchanged a dozen words. Edward halted the Lagonda outside the disarmingly attractive building, redolent of a country-house hotel. Only the blue lamp and the noticeboard, with its stern warnings and appeals for information, made its true purpose apparent to the casual passer-by. He jumped out and went round to open the passenger door but Verity had already opened it and studiously ignored him.