Hollow Crown

by David Roberts

  It was fortunate that the Duke was away in London – or rather Edward had gone to some trouble to ascertain that his brother would be away – when he and Verity drove down to Mersham Castle on Friday, with a view to borrowing bikes and dropping in on Haling. In the Lagonda Verity had said, ‘You’re sure he won’t be there? I promise you, the Duke frightens me more than Franco.’

  ‘But not Connie?’

  ‘Oh no, she’s a dear but she can make me feel a little guilty, even when I don’t know what I might have done wrong.’

  Edward chuckled. ‘She’s a good woman – too good for the likes of us. By the way, talking of Franco, try and make her understand that Frank is just a normal boy kicking against the sticks. She’s got it into her head that he’s really serious about this Communism thing.’

  Verity looked at him doubtfully but, for once, he had his eyes on the road and did not notice. She was going to offer a word of warning but he was already talking about something else.

  ‘Going back to what you were telling me about Daphne Hepple-Keen, V, I really can’t believe it. I mean, Molly told me quite without my prompting that she was “fancy-free”. And even if she were lying for some reason, I would never have put money on Hepple-Keen being the one. Carstairs, possibly, but H-K! I doubt it.’

  ‘Well, I heard he was a bit of a womanizer. On the other hand, Daphne did sound a bit hysterical. It’s possible she’s one of those women who imagine their husbands have lovers.’

  As they came to a halt in a shower of gravel in front of Mersham Castle, Verity felt a slight sinking in her stomach. She hoped it was all going to be all right but, just at that moment, she had a premonition that some unimagined disaster was about to strike them. She made an effort to throw off her fears which she knew were completely illogical and the warmth of Connie’s welcome quickly put her at her ease. She remembered how well she always slept at Mersham.

  The next morning, Edward took a reluctant Verity on a tour of the Mersham stables. She thought he was going to present her with an aged bicycle, awkward to ride and unsuited to a girl with not very long legs. She was therefore thrilled when Edward produced not a bicycle but a motor bicycle.

  ‘Gerald’s a friend of Jack Sangster. Know who I mean? He gave him two of these little beauties but my dear brother couldn’t ride a motor bike to save his life. Look! This one’s pristine, not a speck on it.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Verity said, stroking the shiny leather seat and running her hand down the handlebars and on to the gleaming metal headlight. ‘So, who is this Mr Sangster, anyway? Father Christmas?’

  ‘He’s the owner of Triumph and this is his latest masterpiece – the 500cc Speed Twin. Like her? Air-cooled 4-valve OHV pushrod parallel twin. 600rpm and a top speed of . . . Sangster says ninety, if you can believe it.’

  ‘Golly, yes I can. It puts the heap of scrap I had to ride in Spain in its place.’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d take you to Haling on it.’ He patted the machine proprietorially. ‘Connie says it’s all right to borrow it.’

  Verity raised her head from her examination of the glittering beauty. ‘You thought what?’

  ‘I said I thought I’d take you to Haling on this. What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I love it but, if you think I’m riding pillion with you, you’re mistaken. I think you said there are two machines. I’ll ride this one and you can ride the other. That is unless you want to sit behind me.’

  ‘Oh, I say, V! Gerald wouldn’t like it, don’t y’know. He’d say it ain’t done, dash it.’

  Five minutes later, Edward was filling the tanks of both machines, grumbling to himself as he did so.

  ‘Oh, do stop moaning,’ Verity said crossly. ‘I can’t think what you’re on about. You know, I’m planning to have flying lessons. Now that will be interesting.’

  Edward looked up aghast. The idea of Verity piloting an aeroplane filled him with what he had heard described as a ‘nameless dread’.

  As they were ready to depart, Verity suddenly took off her goggles and said, ‘I know! I’m going to take your photograph. You said I should bring my Kodak.’

  ‘That was to take photos of the evidence,’ Edward said weakly.

  ‘Bah! What evidence? No, I’m going to take your photograph, so look happy about it.’ She went to the back of her motor cycle and took the camera out of the saddlebag.

  At that moment Fenton appeared carrying a parcel of sandwiches and a flask of ginger beer. Seeing what Verity was doing, he stepped forward. ‘Excuse me, miss. Might I . . . ?’

  ‘Thank you, Fenton.’

  ‘Oh no, please Verity! I was just thinking how boring I look.’

  ‘What do you mean, “boring”? You look rather dashing in your leathers. Those boots are very Cecil B. de Mille. You remind me of Mussolini. Doesn’t he you, Fenton?’

  ‘Possibly Colonel Lindbergh, miss?’

  She examined Edward judiciously. ‘Mmm, I’d say Musso. I mean, look at that jawline . . . ’

  ‘Verity, stop taking the mickey.’

  ‘And both of you together?’ Fenton said, having snapped Edward and then Verity leaning nonchalantly against her machine.

  ‘Why not?’ she agreed and, before Edward could demur, went round and stood with her arms about him as he sat astride his bicycle. Edward started to say something but she stopped him. ‘Do shut up and don’t smile. I always think photographs of people smiling make them look idiotic . . . There, that’ll make your grandchildren laugh.’

  ‘If I have any! That reminds me: you said you’d show me that photograph of you in Spain, that one your friend took. You were on your motor bike, weren’t you?’

  ‘That? Oh, I’ll look it out for you. I’ve probably lost it. When you haven’t got a home you tend to lose things.’

  He looked at her meditatively. ‘Well, why don’t we . . . ?’

  ‘Thanks for the sandwiches, Fenton,’ she broke in. ‘Sleuthing can be hungry work. Why did you tell me to bring the Kodak, anyway?’ she said, turning back to Edward.

  ‘Well, I wanted us to look like tourists and, you never know, we might find something worth photographing at Haling.’

  ‘Footprints, murder weapons – that sort of thing?’

  ‘Hardly. Scannon’s been dead a few days now and the police will have found anything of interest. Pride is thorough – one must give him that.’

  ‘He just doesn’t know how to use the evidence he finds.’

  ‘Apart from wanting to question Miss Conway, I want to have another look at Molly’s room inside and out.’

  ‘The Virginia creeper?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps I’ve been wrong in assuming Molly was killed by one of the house guests. And I want to ask Pickering to recall in detail what happened that night and see if he will talk about his master’s death. It must have been a great shock for him.’

  ‘You are sure he’s still there? I mean, they haven’t closed up the house?’

  ‘Not yet. You don’t think I would have planned this little expedition without having checked, do you? I got Connie to telephone on the excuse of asking about the funeral. She and Gerald saw quite a lot of Scannon at one time. Anyway, for the moment at least, the house is still occupied by Ruth Conway and, I suppose, Mrs Scannon. Miss Conway told Connie that none of the servants have been turned off.’

  ‘There weren’t very many in the first place.’

  ‘That’s right. Scannon was tight with his money, no question. The house needs a lot doing to it but, much as he loved the place, he wouldn’t spend the money. Even Connie remembers hearing that he was letting the house fall into disrepair and we noticed it ourselves.’

  ‘So who’s the lucky person who gets their hands on the house?’

  ‘That’s one of the things I want to find out – cui bono?’

  ‘Um, Cui . . . ?’

  ‘Who benefits. Scannon was rich and I have no idea who his heirs might be.’

  For the first time since she had come bac
k from Spain, Verity was totally, mindlessly happy. Between her legs the powerful motor bicycle seemed alive, begging her to open the throttle and take it beyond the limits of earthbound machines. She accelerated past Edward, ignoring his shouts of protest and alarm, her long scarf streaming out behind her like a pennant. Crouching low over the handlebars, she watched out of the corner of her eye as the needle on the speedometer flickered around the forty mark and then, in a burst of reckless energy, spun past fifty towards sixty. The lanes were narrow and the surface uneven but she felt as though the machine was part of her, as much in her contol as her arms and legs. The wind pulled her face into a grin and suddenly she found herself laughing and then screaming in joy and defiance. She was young, she was alive, she was capable of anything. But then the thought came unbidden into her mind – why not die like this? Why not hurl herself into that ancient oak beside the road as one of her heroes, Lawrence of Arabia, had died a couple of years before? And then she caught herself. It was madness. All her doubts and frustrations were making her mad. She must stop, she must think, she must decide – it was not her way to abdicate her responsibilities, her duty. With a wrench, she slowed her motor bike and then halted altogether. In a moment of disgust with herself, she thrust it from her into the ditch, removed her goggles and stood akimbo waiting for Edward.

  At that moment a large car – a Wolseley, she thought – passed her going fast in the opposite direction and taking up most of the road. In a moment of frightening calm she recognized that had something – some premonition – not made her stop her wild career she would almost certainly have smashed into the car and been killed. What had made her pull back? What power had checked her? She could not answer. She did not believe in the supernatural but instinctively she knew that she had been spared because she still had work to do. She hugged her secret to herself in fierce embrace. Then she suddenly thought of Edward again. Where was he? What was taking him so long? Had he met the car at speed, perhaps while trying to catch up with her? An icy hand seemed to grip her heart. She would never forgive herself if she had been responsible for the death of the one man she . . . . Just as she was putting her thoughts into words, Edward came steaming into view. He stopped beside her, took off his goggles and opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Don’t say anything!’ she commanded him. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him with a passion she could not begin to understand. Then, when she took her mouth from his, still clasping him in her arms, she stared at him, searching his face for some answer to the questions she had been asking herself, unaware of the tears which made channels in the dust that caked her cheeks.

  ‘Hey, Verity, what’s all this about?’ Edward said gently. ‘Let me put the bike down. It’s not very comfortable kissing you at this angle.’

  ‘Damn you, I thought you were dead,’ she said, releasing him.

  ‘Dead? Oh, you mean that car. It was rather hogging the road but there was plenty of room. I was worried about you though. You were going like the clappers. I say, V, I forgot to ask, do you have a licence?’

  ‘A licence?’

  ‘A driving licence – you oughtn’t to be driving if you haven’t got one, you know.’

  ‘I drove all round Spain on a bike.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said sententiously. ‘It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you. Anyway, girls go on the pillion.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Edward, do shut up. You’re making me sorry I kissed you. You deserve to be squashed like a hedgehog . . . ’ She saw his face fall. ‘Well, I suppose I don’t mean that but you can be so annoying! Where are we anyway?’

  ‘Haling’s just round the corner. I wouldn’t be surprised if that car came from there. Anyway, it’s time you had your puncture.’

  ‘Why should it be me? I suppose you think it’s not masculine to have a puncture or something.’

  ‘Do shut up, Verity. We’ve gone through all that. It’s what we agreed, remember?’

  While he was talking he took a screwdriver, which he had had the foresight to bring with him, and went over to Verity’s bike lying in the ditch and pierced the front tyre with it. He watched with satisfaction the rubber tube exhale and then returned to his machine and started it. ‘Hop on my bike, won’t you, while I push yours.’

  Submissively, she did as he asked and rode slowly round the corner with Edward in pursuit, huffing and puffing, as he pushed the heavy machine, its front tyre flapping ridiculously.

  ‘I’m most awfully sorry, Pickering, but we’ve had a bit of an accident.’ Edward indicated the machine he had been pushing which he had leant against a wall. ‘Miss Browne’s machine had a flat – lucky she didn’t fall off and hurt herself. I suddenly saw where we were – I mean, just here at Haling – so I wondered . . . we wondered whether it would be asking too much if you could supply us with a bucket of water. Look, see, I’ve got a repair kit in my saddlebag but . . . ’

  There was just a moment when he thought Pickering was going to be difficult but the moment passed and the butler said, smoothly enough, ‘Of course, my lord. Perhaps you would care to follow me. I will let Miss Conway know you are here.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to bother her . . . ’

  A figure appeared in the hall carrying flowers.

  ‘Lord Edward! Is that really you?’

  ‘Yes it is, Miss Conway. Sorry to come barging in like this. What lovely roses!’

  ‘Yes, the very last. Williams grows them under glass. Mr Scannon so loved having them in the house. But did I hear you saying you had an accident?’

  ‘Not an accident, just a puncture. I was telling Pickering, we were passing the end of the drive when Verity . . . . by the way, you remember Miss Browne, don’t you? . . . her bike . . . her motor bike, don’t y’know,’ he burbled on, ‘it developed a flat tyre . . . ’

  ‘Miss Browne,’ she said, shaking Verity’s hand, ‘I don’t think we did meet when you were here, did we? Mrs Scannon was very ill that night and I wasn’t able to leave her. But don’t tell me you have been on a motor bicycle? How could you let her, Lord Edward?’

  Edward considered asking how he could have stopped her.

  ‘Williams!’ she called to the gardener who was passing with a spade in one hand and a bucket in the other which he now courteously put down on hearing the summons. ‘Would you be kind enough to mend this puncture for Lord Edward?’

  ‘Oh no, please. I’m sure he has a great deal to do . . . ’ Edward protested.

  ‘It won’t take very long, will it, Williams?’ Miss Conway said, ignoring Edward.

  Verity smiled at the gardener and that decided the matter. Williams blushed deeply and made a gesture which might have been half-way to touching his forelock. ‘No time at all, miss!’ he mumbled in a broad Wiltshire accent.

  ‘Come and have some tea. Take off your things . . . ’ Miss Conway gestured at their dirty boots and jackets. ‘Pickering, can you bring us some tea?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Edward was struck by the alteration in her manner. The shy, monosyllabic woman tied to Scannon’s bedridden mother was now very much the lady of the manor – confident, at ease ordering the servants around and obviously happy to play hostess to the unexpected visitors.The mystery was soon explained. As they sipped their tea, Edward and Verity expressed their condolences over Scannon’s death and Edward asked after the old woman.

  ‘Oh,’ said Miss Conway breezily, ‘Mrs Scannon’s in hospital. I just wasn’t able to cope with her any more – now I’ve got so much more to do, you understand.’

  Edward did not understand. ‘So much more to do? You mean the funeral?’

  ‘That and running the estate. I’m afraid Mr Scannon let the house deteriorate. The first thing I did was get on to the builders. The roof needs to be replaced, for one thing.’

  ‘That will be very expensive.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Edward, but money’s not a problem.’ She smiled smugly.

  ‘How do you mean?’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, Mr Scannon was always pretending he was on the breadline but actually he had pots of money.’

  ‘And, if I might ask,’ Edward ventured, ‘who inherits it?’

  ‘I do, of course! He had no other relatives apart from his mother and he left everything to me. That was so good of him, wasn’t it?’

  Verity and Edward could hardly hide their amazement. Edward managed to say, ‘That’s splendid, Miss Conway. But I had no idea you were a relative.’

  ‘No one knew. It was the old story . . . well, I don’t mind telling you. The fact of the matter is my mother worked in the accounts department at old Mr Scannon’s match factory. You know he made his money from Starburst matches?’ Edward nodded. ‘He fell in love with her and I was the result.’

  So baldly did she tell her story that it left Edward at a loss for words. It was Verity who ventured, ‘Mr Scannon was married when he fell in love with your mother?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And you were accepted into the family?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Not at first. Mr Scannon bought my mother a house in Cheam. He paid for my education and gave my mother an allowance. He was generous in the way such men are generous. As long as my mother . . . played the game, as it were, she was well cared for.’

  ‘But your mother’s not still alive?’

  ‘No. By some unlucky accident, she contracted a disease called phossy jaw.’

  ‘How terrible,’ Edward said, not wishing to tell her he knew already. ‘But I thought only those poor girls who were actually working with the phosphorus were in danger of being contaminated.’

  ‘That is so but, before my mother was promoted to the accounts department, she had worked on the factory floor. To tell the truth, though I never discussed it with her, I think she had an affair with the chief accountant and he must have . . . you know, fixed things.’

  Edward had a vision of a pretty girl handed from man to man as casually as a packet of cigarettes. He could imagine how powerless such girls were to withstand the attentions of men who literally had the power of life and death over them. Even a minor functionary, such as the head of the accounts department, was in a position to remove a girl from the hard and dangerous work on the factory floor and, if she resisted his advances, she would be thrown on the scrap heap with every possibility of having to prostitute herself to put food in her belly. Mr Scannon, as the factory owner, had all the power over his employees of some Eastern potentate.