Hollow Crown

by David Roberts

  ‘He’s back in his office, if you want to come up. He said no visitors but I’m sure he doesn’t mean you.’

  Verity wasn’t so sure but jutting out her chin, as she always did when she was preparing herself for a difficult meeting, she went down to the ground floor to take the lift up to the tenth. It was one of the peculiarities of Lord Weaver’s personal elevator that it didn’t stop at the intervening floors. Miss Barnstable motioned to her to knock on the great man’s door, which she did with some trepidation.

  ‘Who is it? I said no visitors.’

  ‘It’s just me, Joe. Can I come in for a few moments? I know you’re having a bad time and I wondered if I could help in any way.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, is it? Well, as you’re here, I suppose you can come in. What do you want to badger me about this time?’

  ‘I don’t want to badger you about anything, honestly. I just wondered if I or Edward could . . . ’

  ‘Don’t mention his name. He’s caused me enough trouble already.’

  ‘I don’t see how you can say that,’ she said loyally. ‘You asked him to get back those letters and he was on the point of doing so when Mrs Harkness was killed and the letters were stolen again.’

  ‘She wasn’t killed. She took an overdose.’

  ‘The police know that’s not true. They just can’t prove anything. And now there’s Mr Scannon. Inspector Lampfrey . . . ’

  ‘That man’s a liability . . . ’

  ‘Inspector Lampfrey?’

  ‘Corinth!’ the big man growled. ‘Anyway how do you know all this? I especially asked your friend not to tell you. Typical he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘Oh, you did, did you? And why didn’t you trust me?’

  ‘Damn it, Verity – you’re a Communist, dedicated to destroying the royal family, that’s why.’

  ‘Not destroying, exactly. More like reforming – modernizing.’

  ‘Destroying – don’t prevaricate. You used to be honest, at least.’

  Verity very nearly lost her temper but then, with a flash of intuition, it occurred to her that Lord Weaver was taking his bad temper out on her because he couldn’t be rude to the Prime Minister.

  ‘I’m sorry Joe,’ she said in a softer voice. ‘Don’t be cross. You know when you asked me to work for you and I accepted, you had my loyalty. I would never do anything to damage you or the paper.’

  He looked at her strangely. ‘I hope I can believe that. They say your first loyalty is to the Party and that, if they wanted you to . . . use your position here, you wouldn’t have any alternative.’

  ‘Who says?’ Verity asked defiantly, wondering what indeed she would do if the Party required her to do something which conflicted with her loyalty to her employer.

  ‘People,’ was all he would say.

  ‘Please Joe, tell me what is happening.’

  He looked at her again – a shade more his usual self. ‘On whatever you hold most dear, promise me you won’t tell anyone, not even Edward?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Well then,’ he said, mollified. ‘Mrs Simpson is about to get her divorce. She’s staying in a house near Felixstowe.’

  ‘Felixstowe?’ Verity exclaimed in bewilderment.

  ‘Yes, the lawyers think she can get her decree at Ipswich Assizes without too much attention from the press.’

  ‘Will we report it?’

  ‘Just the fact of it – on an inside page – but God knows what the others will do. It’s all going to get out soon.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The King says he’ll marry her. I was with him yesterday at Fort Belvedere. Couldn’t make him see sense. Mind you, he’ll have to wait six months for the decree nisi to be made absolute. A lot can happen in six months. He says he is going to marry her before the coronation and the PM is saying if he does marry her he will have to abdicate.’

  ‘Abdicate! Golly!’ She hesitated before then unwittingly repeating what Edward had said to Weaver on another occasion. ‘But would that be altogether a bad thing? I mean,’ she added hurriedly, ‘even if you wanted the monarchy to . . . ?’

  ‘His brother’s not up to the job. Not just his stammer but he’s not a fit man and his wife says the strain would kill him – particularly if there is a war.’

  ‘I see,’ Verity said slowly, ‘but Edward says the King is hand in glove with the Nazis. If there is a war . . . ’

  ‘Damn it . . . I just can’t believe the King . . . ’ Weaver got up from his chair and paced the room, seeming almost to forget to whom he was talking. He needed to spill out his thoughts to someone and Verity happened to be there.

  ‘Mrs Simpson’s an intelligent woman but she can’t see Ribbentrop is the very devil. She hates Jews and Communists and she thinks Hitler is a god. Damn and blast the woman. At first, I thought she could be trained to be a queen but I was mistaken. Maybe, in her past, things happened to her – bad things. Anyway, now the only English people she trusts are men like Dickie Mountbatten who egg her on.’

  ‘What about Mr Scannon? What’s behind his murder?’

  ‘I really don’t know but I do feel a responsibility. I feel responsible for both deaths, I suppose. By sending Edward to Haling to retrieve Wally’s letters, I stirred up someone to get there before him, and Leo was involved in the same business.’

  ‘You mean, he was trying to retrieve the same stuff?’

  ‘No, it was too late for that but he had been . . . I can’t tell you it all but he had been acting as an intermediary between . . . certain parties.’

  ‘The King and . . . ?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Verity,’ Weaver said turning to look at her. ‘I oughtn’t to have said as much as I have but, to tell you the truth, the whole business is getting under my skin. That damn fool of a man . . . ! Ah, what’s the use!’

  ‘Could Edward be in any danger?’

  ‘Maybe . . . I don’t know. Not if he drops the whole thing.’

  ‘But you know Edward, Joe, that’s just what he won’t do.’

  ‘Well, ask him, as a special favour to me. Tell him I made a mistake. It’s not worth getting killed for . . . that’s for sure.’

  ‘Joe, is Catherine Dannhorn involved?’ Verity expected to get her head snapped off but the old man grunted and began to light a cigar. As he did so, he peered at Verity through the smoke.

  ‘What did Edward tell you about Dannie?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, more or less truthfully – after all he had only confirmed what she had already guessed. ‘Nothing, but she looks to me to be a dangerous woman.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since she had dinner at my house when I introduced Edward to Wally.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question, Joe. Is Dannie involved in all this?’

  ‘I guess she must be but don’t ask me how because I don’t know. Now, Verity let’s talk about you. How’s the book going? We ought to serialize it on publication.’

  ‘Oh, nearly finished,’ she answered, trying to forget that she had done nothing whatever about it and the delivery date was fast approaching.

  ‘Finish it,’ Weaver ordered. ‘Spain’s still in the news but, if this blasted business of Wally’s comes to abdication, no one will want to read about anything else.’

  ‘I wondered if you would let me report on Scannon’s murder.’

  ‘Certainly not! We’ve got a perfectly good crime correspondent, as you very well know.’

  ‘But I have an “in” . . . I knew the man. I stayed at Haling on Monday.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Dannie wanted to meet me,’ she equivocated, not wanting to get Edward into trouble.

  ‘Hmm. Well, I don’t know about that. You get on with your book like I tell you. You have a habit of getting into hot water and there may be more to this than you imagine.’

  ‘But isn’t that why I’m such a good journalist, Joe, because I like getting into hot water?’

  ‘Or heat it yourself if you have to .
. . ’ He looked at her and then grinned. ‘I can’t give you authority to cover this case. Godber would resign. But if you turn up anything . . . ’

  ‘Thanks, Joe, you’re a great man.’ She darted round the desk and kissed him.

  ‘Run along then,’ Weaver said, knowing he had been bamboozled but enjoying the feeling, ‘and, whatever you do, say nothing to Godber or Strang.’ Strang was the crime correspondent.

  ‘Of course not!’ Verity said, almost running out of the door. In the adjoining room, she blew Miss Barnstable a kiss and took the stairs, two at a time, being quite unable to wait for the elevator.

  ‘It was in the whisky.’

  ‘The rat poison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought it was in the porridge.’

  ‘Apparently not.’ The Inspector lit his pipe and wreaths of smoke enveloped their heads in a stygian mist.

  ‘But wouldn’t it have tasted odd – the whisky?’

  ‘They say not but I wouldn’t like to experiment. The doc says a spoonful of Rodine was dissolved in the whisky decanter and one glass of the hellish brew would have been fatal.’

  ‘It was definitely Rodine?’ Edward asked.

  ‘There doesn’t seem much doubt about that. Williams, the gardener, bought a tin of it in the village on Mr Scannon’s orders.’

  ‘Rodine comes as a sort of paste, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, a paste of bran and molasses – black treacle to you and me. A one ounce tin contains ten grams of phosphorus. A tenth of a gram, I’m told, can kill an adult.’

  There was a silence in the little room which neither man seemed ready to break. At last, the Inspector got up from behind his desk and went over to the window. Edward hoped he was about to throw it open but instead he stared through the glass at the uninspiring view of shrubberies and sucked on his pipe until the tobacco glowed in the bowl. He was not a happy man. Inspector Lampfrey had admitted to Edward – though not in so many words – that the Chief Constable, Colonel Philips, had put extreme pressure on him to complete his investigation into Molly’s death and accept that murder could never be proved. He had made it clear to the Inspector that suicide was not an acceptable verdict as it would lead to press speculation as to Molly’s motives. ‘The last thing anyone wants is the press having an excuse for mentioning her relationship with His Majesty,’ the Chief Constable had added meaningfully. ‘There must be no mention of Mrs Harkness having been pregnant, you understand, Lampfrey? It’s irrelevant to the investigation into her death and we must avoid scandal at any cost.’

  ‘And Mr Scannon, sir, can I not investigate his death?’

  ‘Not possible, old man,’ Colonel Philips said, hardly bothering to conceal his indifference to Lampfrey’s feelings. ‘It’s too sensitive – too much politics – too many ramifications about which we know nothing and, what’s more, don’t want to know.’

  ‘Surely, sir, whatever the political ramifications, it doesn’t affect a murder investigation. Whatever the reasons for killing Mr Scannon, the murderer must be brought to justice.’

  Colonel Philips looked at his subordinate pityingly. ‘It’s not that simple, Lampfrey. For one thing, there are rumours that the dead man had . . . had odd sexual habits, know what I mean? If we start digging, God knows what muck we’ll find.’

  The Inspector opened his mouth to remonstrate but the Chief Constable raised his hand imperiously. ‘I’m sorry, Lampfrey, there’s nothing to discuss. I’ve made my decision. I have telephoned a friend of mine at the Yard – a good man – Chief Inspector Pride. He’ll be here in an hour or two. Leave it all to him. You’ll be grateful, I promise you. Oh, and Lampfrey . . . ’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Give him every possible assistance. I don’t want to hear that you have been in any way . . . obstructive. Understand?’

  ‘Sir!’

  Edward stared at Lampfrey’s back and was sorry for him. He understood without being told that the Inspector felt he had been judged and found wanting and resented it.

  ‘You did what you could,’ Edward said. ‘We may think Mrs Harkness was murdered but there was no evidence.’

  Still with his back to Edward, the Inspector said, ‘The Chief was under pressure to tidy up the whole case.’

  ‘Political pressure?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he turned to face Edward, ‘but I would never admit I had said that to you.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Edward said, shocked.

  Reassured, Lampfrey said, ‘We are short of manpower and we had – have – a good deal else on at the moment. Mr Scannon’s death changes the whole situation, of course. Now we must wait and see if this man from the Yard finds anything we have overlooked which might link Mrs Harkness’s death with Mr Scannon’s.’

  ‘There was no question of you investigating the murder?’ Edward probed gently.

  ‘No, the Chief called in the Yard immediately and I was glad he did,’ the Inspector said, stoutly. ‘I don’t have the skills for that sort of thing. The Yard has a new scientific laboratory at Hendon Police College – have you heard about it?’

  Edward nodded. ‘Dr Davidson’s operation – I know him quite well as it happens.’

  ‘Yes, well, the gentleman is coming down to examine the corpse. Poison’s always tricky. Chief Inspector Pride will have all that sort of support.’

  Edward started and changed colour.

  ‘You know Chief Inspector Pride?’ Lampfrey was surprised. ‘You seem to know everyone at the Yard,’ he added drily.

  ‘Not at all, Inspector, but I have met him. He investigated a murder at my brother’s place – Mersham Castle – and I’m afraid we didn’t hit it off.’

  ‘He has a good reputation.’

  ‘Well deserved, I’m sure,’ Edward said smoothly, ‘but he doesn’t like people like me poking their noses into his affairs so I would be grateful if you could refrain from mentioning my name unless you absolutely have to.’

  ‘Officially, Mr Scannon’s death is nothing to do with me now, my lord, so I doubt I will be seeing much of the Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the whisky,’ Edward said. ‘What happened? How did the rat poison get into the decanter? I may be wrong but I thought I saw Mr Scannon use one of those old-fashioned things called a tantalus, designed to stop the servants getting at the drink.’

  ‘That’s correct. Mr Scannon had a reputation for being – I think we should say “careful”.’

  ‘Mean,’ Edward corrected him. ‘He inherited pots of money from his father but he admitted to me he had never spent much on the house and he survived on a small staff.’

  ‘Or didn’t survive,’ Lampfrey corrected him.

  Edward smiled wryly. ‘So – let me get this straight – Williams, the gardener, bought the Rodine? We saw a rat on the billiard table the first time I stayed at Haling – and Pickering was told then to do something about it.’

  ‘You must tell Inspector Pride about the rat,’ Lampfrey said sententiously.

  ‘Pickering will tell him,’ Edward said airily. He had absolutely no wish to talk to Pride. ‘Let me see, Scannon certainly served his guests whisky on Monday. I wonder when he last had a drop – before it was tampered with, I mean.’

  ‘He went to town on Tuesday,’ Lampfrey said.

  ‘So sometime when Scannon was in London his tantalus was broken into and the whisky poisoned?’

  ‘Yes. He returned to Haling on Wednesday by train arriving at the house about six thirty. The first thing he did was pour himself a whisky. When Pickering came into the drawing-room an hour later to tell him dinner was served, he found his master dead. I’m afraid it must have been a very painful death.’

  ‘He was in his chair?’

  ‘Yes, with The Times still in one hand. The whisky glass had rolled on to the floor.’

  ‘I see. Presumably, there was no one in the house except the servants?’

  ‘When the tantalus was tampered with or when he died?’

  ‘Either .
. . both.’

  ‘There were no guests in the house. He was expecting some people on Saturday.’

  ‘And when the whisky decanter was tampered with?’

  ‘Well, we don’t yet know exactly when the whisky was poisoned but there was no one in the house after everyone left on Tuesday except the servants and his mother and her companion. Did you meet the lady, Lord Edward . . . Miss Conway?’

  ‘I did. She must be a suspect? She really can’t say who might have entered the house and opened the tantalus?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask the Chief Inspector that.’

  ‘I mustn’t make a nuisance of myself. I presume the tantalus wasn’t actually broken by whoever poisoned the whisky, otherwise Scannon would have guessed it had been tampered with?’

  ‘That’s correct, my lord. It was either opened by someone who had access to the key – though since Mr Scannon kept it on his key ring that seems unlikely – or someone managed to open it with a skeleton key or even a penknife. It’s an antiquated contraption – belonged to Mr Scannon’s father, I understand – and wouldn’t have been hard to open.’

  ‘Still, it seems to let the staff out of it, wouldn’t you say, Inspector?’

  ‘I would, my lord, and in any case it’s hard to imagine Mr Pickering as a murderer.’

  ‘Mmm, yes. I say, Inspector, would you mind awfully if I kept in touch?’

  The Inspector stroked his chin and looked doubtful.

  ‘Nothing underhand,’ Edward said hastily, ‘but, if I do come up with anything . . . interesting, I’d much rather tell you than the Chief Inspector.’

  ‘I suppose there is nothing wrong with that,’ Lampfrey said at last. He tried to resist the idea that he might enjoy passing on to the man from the Yard information he had overlooked.

  ‘To be honest, my lord, I felt I owed you something. Mrs Harkness was a friend of yours and I felt bad at having to give up my investigation into her death without having got to the bottom of it. Oh, by the way, Miss Conway said one thing which might interest you: Mr Scannon’s diary has disappeared.’