Hollow Crown

by David Roberts

  Edward read as easily as if the words were in ink rather than mere impressions from the pressure of a pen on the previous page: ‘Daphne told me she had no idea how her glove had found its way into Molly’s bedroom but, when I pressed her, she said her husband had borrowed them because he had been searching the room. I didn’t quite believe what she told me and said I would talk to Geoffrey. She begged me not to and said he would kill her but . . . ’

  ‘And there’s nothing else?’

  ‘You mean, did Scannon turn over the page? He may have done but it’s impossible to “read” anything. My own feeling is he broke off there and never completed the sentence. By the way, have you read the rest of the diary? It’s explosive stuff.’

  ‘Indeed! But, as far as I can see, not relevant to Molly’s death – or his own.’

  ‘He’s poisonous about the Prime Minister and he has some spiteful things to say about your friend Lord Weaver.’

  ‘I know,’ Edward said, grimly. ‘I’m rather glad he never got to write about me. I fear he would have had some fairly choice words of abuse about my part in all this.’

  ‘You’ll take this straight to the police, Corinth?’ Davidson said anxiously.

  ‘I will, I promise, and I won’t say a word about you having looked at it for me. Really, I am most awfully grateful.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, have you noticed the smell on the diary? There’s the soot, of course, which is explained by where you say it was found, but I’m rather puzzled; there’s another scent – to put it crudely, one would think it had been dropped in a cowpat!’

  ‘But why did Scannon stop when he did?’ Verity said, when Edward came round to report on what he had learned from the diary.

  ‘He was obviously interrupted and never went back to it. Diarists don’t always write everything up at the end of each day. Some wait until the end of a week or even longer.’

  ‘So you want me to come with you to see Inspector Lampfrey?’

  ‘You don’t have to but . . . ’

  ‘You go. I really must write this book. There was something Lady Benyon said which has helped. She said not to try and rejig my articles for the paper but to write from scratch. Start with Toledo and . . . well, anyway, I think I know how to do it.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Edward, slightly put out, ‘you must get on with the book, I see that. Shall I ring you when I’ve seen Lampfrey?’

  ‘Of course! Edward, you do understand don’t you? This is really important to me.’

  Edward melted. ‘I understand. You get on with it and I’ll telephone you tomorrow.’

  Verity got up and kissed him on the lips. ‘Dearest Edward, I’m such a bitch and you’re so patient with me. I do care about all this, you know. I just need to do this damn book.’

  Edward, feeling the warmth of her lips on his, wanted to pursue his advantage but something warned him it might spoil things. She gave him what she could and, if he asked for more now, like Oliver Twist, it might end in tears. He contented himself with what he hoped was a manly nod of his head and made a dignified exit. But his heart was racing. He promised himself that, when it was all over, he would damn well ask her to marry him.

  Inspector Lampfrey was not in the police station when he bowled up in the Lagonda and, to his acute discomfort, he was ushered into the presence of Chief Inspector Pride who greeted him with a smile Robespierre might have envied.

  ‘Lord Edward, you again! Have you come to give yourself up?’ Only the teeth snapping shut, as sharp as a guillotine, indicated that the Chief Inspector was being humorous.

  ‘No, indeed, but I do have some information for you.’

  ‘If it’s concerning Mr Scannon’s murder, you are too late. I am happy to tell you that we have completed our investigations and made an arrest.’

  ‘Good lord! I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘No, the arrest was only made this morning.’

  ‘Many congratulations, Chief Inspector,’ Edward said insincerely. ‘Am I permitted to know whom you have arrested?’

  The policeman stroked his chin and then, unable to resist celebrating his triumph, said, ‘I don’t see why I should not tell you. The press will be told later this afternoon and it will be in tomorrow’s papers. We have arrested Miss Ruth Conway for the murders of both Mrs Harkness and Mr Scannon.’

  Edward drew a breath. ‘I hope that was wise, Chief Inspector.’

  Pride looked at him with loathing and restrained himself with an effort. ‘In what way might it have been unwise, Lord Edward? You may be unaware that Miss Conway stood to inherit the bulk of Mr Scannon’s estate and that she had reason to resent his treatment of her over many years. She was his half-sister – the daughter of old Mr Scannon’s mistress.’

  ‘I know, but what possible motive had she for killing Mrs Harkness?’

  ‘I am not yet certain, but I believe she feared Mrs Harkness might marry Mr Scannon and do her out of her inheritance.’

  ‘You must be aware Scannon wasn’t the kind of man who was interested in a woman . . . sexually?’

  ‘Maybe, but perhaps Miss Conway did not know that.’

  ‘But that’s quite absurd, Chief Inspector. The reason why I came here . . . ’

  ‘Is to sneer at the efforts of the police,’ Pride hissed, unable to hide his fury any longer.

  ‘Not at all,’ Edward said calmly. ‘I have the greatest respect for the police and I apologize for saying the arrest of Miss Conway was absurd. She certainly had a motive for killing Mr Scannon and the opportunity. She was best placed to put rat poison in the whisky but I am convinced she did not do it.’

  ‘And what reason have you, Lord Edward, for saying so? Or is it just “a hunch”?’

  ‘Not at all. When we dropped in on Haling the other day, Miss Conway was kind enough to let us look round the house and talk to Mr Pickering and the gardener – both of whom had access to the poison.’

  ‘You said “we”?’

  ‘My friend, Miss Browne, was with me and it was she who . . . ’

  The Chief Inspector went red in the face and then white. For a moment Edward wondered if he was going to have a seizure. He had wanted to keep Verity’s name out of the conversation because he was aware that, if Pride disliked anyone more than him, it was her. They had crossed swords the previous year when Pride had all but accused her of being an enemy of the state.

  ‘Miss Browne? I thought she was in Spain. What was she doing at Haling, might I ask? Though now I think of it, she invited herself to Haling with you previously. There was some story of her taking a rat to bed?’

  ‘The rat was put in her bed by some joker and she did not invite herself to Haling. She was invited by Mr Scannon. His friend, Miss Dannhorn, wished to meet her.’

  Edward immediately regretted bringing up Dannie’s name when he saw a leer cross the policeman’s face.

  ‘Now, there is something you can put me right about, Lord Edward. I see from your statement – your second statement – ’ he said, meaningfully, ‘that Miss Dannhorn is your mistress. Inspector Lampfrey informs me that Mrs Harkness was also your mistress and Miss Browne . . . ’

  Edward stood up, rattling his chair so that it almost fell backwards. ‘Chief Inspector, if you are determined to insult me, I shall leave and you will hear from my solicitor. You know perfectly well that Miss Browne is a friend and Mrs Harkness was never my mistress. As for Miss Dannhorn, as I admitted to Inspector Lampfrey, I did return from my talk with Mrs Harkness to find her in my bed – not, I would emphasize, at my invitation. To my great regret, instead of turning her out of my room, I allowed her to stay. I ought to have guessed she was just using me to obtain access to Mrs Harkness’s room – but this is all in my statements.’

  Pride realized he had gone too far but he had at least achieved what he had set out to do – namely to disturb that infuriatingly smug look on the man’s face.

  ‘I apologize, Lord Edward,’ he said stiffly, ‘I had no wish to insult you. I was merely trying to make sense of
your relationship with . . . the ladies in this case.’

  ‘But Miss Browne is not, as you put it, a lady in the case.’

  ‘But you have just told me that you and she went to Haling recently and looked round the house.’

  ‘We were riding past the house . . . ’

  ‘Riding? On horseback?’

  ‘On motor bicycles. Miss Browne had a puncture and so we called in.’ Edward was aware how thin it sounded and he wished now he had taken more trouble with his excuse.

  ‘I see. You were riding a motor bicycle past the house,’ the policeman said with studied irony, ‘and you had a puncture. What a coincidence. So what did you discover that the police search had missed?’

  ‘This,’ Edward said, passing Leo Scannon’s diary across the desk. ‘Two pages have been torn out, no doubt because the murderer was mentioned, but it would be possible, I believe, to read something from the impressions left on the blank sheet following the torn pages.’

  He saw no reason why he should divulge that he had already been to Hendon and had the blank page ‘read’.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ Pride said roughly, opening the book.

  ‘Miss Browne found it on a ledge inside the fireplace in Mr Scannon’s bedroom.’

  ‘Why did she look there?’

  ‘There is a similar ledge in the fireplace of the room I was in. If you read my statement, it was there that I foolishly hid the bag I took from Mrs Harkness’s room before handing it over to Inspector Lampfrey.’

  ‘I see. So you have had this . . . what, three days? Why did you not pass it to the police immediately?’

  ‘I am giving it to you now,’ Edward said shortly.

  ‘I could have you arrested for impeding my investigation.’

  ‘I think that would be rather ungrateful, don’t you, Chief Inspector? I would hate Miss Browne to tell the New Gazette how she found what you had overlooked. It might bring down criticism on the police and that’s the last thing we want, isn’t it?’

  ‘My men made a very thorough search. Perhaps the diary wasn’t there then? Perhaps you put it there?’

  ‘Please, Chief Inspector,’ said Edward wearily. ‘My aim is the same as yours: to put the murderer, or murderers, behind bars. I find it quite extraordinary that you won’t recognize that simple fact. Good day, Chief Inspector. You know where to find me if you want me.’

  Edward was not pleased to find, when he left the police station, a constable marking the Lagonda’s tyres with chalk. ‘I say, officer, hang on a moment! I’ve just been with Chief Inspector Pride. Surely I can park here on official business?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ the constable said, showing he knew perfectly well to whom the car belonged, ‘there’s no parkin’ under any circumstances in front of the station.’

  At that moment, Lampfrey drew up in a police car and wound down his window. ‘What’s the problem, constable? Oh, Lord Edward, I didn’t see it was you. Not been breaking the speed limit, have we?’ he said, grinning.

  ‘No, damn it, I’ve just been handing over an important piece of evidence to Inspector Pride and I come out to find I’m being booked for parking in the wrong place. I sometimes wonder if England’s turning into a police state.’

  ‘That’s all right, constable,’ the Inspector said, indicating with his thumb that the latter’s presence was no longer required. ‘The constable was quite in order,’ he said, to mollify the red-faced officer who appeared ready to argue the toss with his superior, ‘but on this occasion we’ll let you off with a warning.’

  When the zealous officer had made himself scarce, Lampfrey said, ‘What’s this important new evidence?’

  ‘I came to give it to you but you were off sleuthing so I was shown straight in to see Pride. I gave him a diary Miss Browne and I discovered when we dropped in on Haling the other day. Seems the police search wasn’t as thorough as it ought to have been.’

  ‘A diary? Mr Scannon’s missing diary!’ Lampfrey exclaimed. ‘What did it have to say about . . . ?’

  ‘The vital pages had been torn out but, between ourselves – and I didn’t tell Pride this – I showed it to Davidson at Hendon and he made out quite a lot from the impression on the blank page after the ones that had been ripped out. Here, take this. It’s a copy of what Davidson read. Oh, don’t say where you got it. Davidson examined the diary as a favour to me – strictly off the record, don’t y’know. Don’t want to get the old lad into any sort of trouble. Telephone me when you’ve digested it and let me know what you think. By the way, Pride says he’s arrested Miss Conway.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lampfrey said, pocketing the paper, ‘she had the opportunity to kill Scannon and the motive. You know she’s inherited everything?’

  ‘I do, but that doesn’t make her a murderer. A little bit too obvious, I’d say. She’s not a fool and, if she had wanted to kill her half-brother, she’d do it much more subtly. Well, I’ve got to get going. Mustn’t park in a restricted area.’ As Edward got into the Lagonda, he had a thought. ‘I say, Lampfrey. Miss Conway’s in “durance vile” at Devizes, I suppose?’ Devizes was the assize town.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad about that. At least she’s out of harm’s way. You see, Miss Conway knows who murdered Leo Scannon and I think the murderer knows she knows – and that’s dangerous. But she should be safe enough in prison. Cheerio, Inspector.’

  Edward put the Lagonda into gear and sped off, covering the police Wolseley with dust.

  ‘I haven’t got time!’ Verity wailed. ‘I’ve just got to finish this . . . ’ She gestured at a pile of foolscap and then banged the typewriter, which rang its bell in protest.

  She was talking to herself – reluctant to respond to the demands of whoever-it-was banging on the front door. Tactfully, Charlotte and Adrian had gone about their business and left the house to her. And it was working. She had thrown her articles for the New Gazette into a pile in the corner of the room. She would take Lady Benyon’s advice and start from scratch. The first paragraph had been a problem – she had recast it several times. The first page had taken almost an hour, and the first chapter all morning, but suddenly it was beginning to flow. Her subconscious had deigned to release her memories of what she had seen in Spain – memories shackled by a growing cynicsm, almost despair. She wanted to write both a call to arms and a serious evaluation of the situation in all its horrible reality, and there were moments when she thought ‘never the twain would meet’.

  But she had cracked it. It was flowing and now there was this knocking on the door. She ignored it for several minutes. Surely, whoever-it-was would take the hint and leave her alone. But no – this was someone who knew she was there and was determined to talk to her. Wearily, she got up from her chair, her back aching and her wrists stiff, and went downstairs.

  ‘Verity, Miss Browne, it’s me – Dannie. I must talk to you. It’s important.’

  Verity looked at Dannie uncomprehendingly. It had not crossed her mind to wonder who was at the door. Her one aim was to get rid of him, or her, as rapidly as possible. That it might be Dannie . . . wasn’t she supposed to be in Germany with her lover, the sinister Major Stille?

  ‘I thought you were in Germany . . . ’ she managed, before Dannie swept past her and up the stairs. She made straight for the window and looked out over the street.

  ‘Sorry I don’t want to be melodramatic but I think I was being followed.’

  ‘Followed? I don’t understand. Followed by whom? Anyway, why are you here?’

  ‘Is this where you work?’ Dannie said, ignoring the question.

  There was something almost wistful in the way she spoke, fingering the page in the typewriter. ‘To save time is to lengthen life.’ She read the aphorism affixed to the machine. It seemed to amuse her.

  ‘Leave it alone,’ Verity said, suddenly angry. This was the woman who had seduced her . . . her friend and used him as one would a chisel to break open a lock. She hated her; she hated her politics; she
hated her friends and, most of all, she hated her beauty. Because she was very beautiful.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Dannie said humbly. ‘I came to give you these.’ She pulled out a small package from inside her coat and tossed it on the table.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look for yourself. They’re the letters Molly Harkness stole from Mrs Simpson and I took from her room at Haling.’

  ‘I don’t want them! Give them to Edward or to your “employer”.’

  ‘My employer? You mean . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know who I mean, but presumably you do. Lord Weaver or Major Stille? You tell me.’

  ‘I thought it might do you some good if you gave them to Joe. He’s not my employer though I was his whore. That was fun. He may look like a stewed prune but he’s by far the best lover I’ve ever had – better than . . . . He talked himself into my bed. You’ve no idea how dull most men are . . . or perhaps you have. Joe was never dull. Wicked, yes, but never dull.’

  ‘But he threw you out in the end. You were two-timing him.’

  ‘That’s not quite true. I found out . . . from Blanche, as it happens, that he wasn’t faithful to me. That sounds rather absurd, doesn’t it? Expecting a man to be faithful to his mistress, but he was – so Blanche told me – sleeping with Molly Harkness. Maybe it wasn’t true. Perhaps Blanche was trying to rile me, but I believed her at the time.’

  ‘When did she tell you this?’

  ‘Blanche? Oh, the night Mrs Simpson came to dinner to meet Edward. I decided I was going to get the letters off Molly and take them somewhere where they would cause as much trouble as possible. I wanted to get back at Joe . . . at the whole pack of them.’

  ‘You decided to give them to Stille?’

  ‘Yes, but he told me to return them to Mrs Simpson.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Germany wants the King to stay king. He loves Germany and does whatever the Führer wants him to do.’

  ‘So Stille told you to hand them back?’

  ‘Yes, but I was damned if I was going to. I had gone to a lot of trouble – sorry about that, but you know what I mean – to get those letters and it had all been wasted.’