Hollow Crown

by David Roberts

  ‘It doesn’t sound as though it was too difficult.’ The sarcasm in Verity’s voice was cutting.

  ‘Not that part, I agree. He’s very good-looking, isn’t he? But rather a prig, don’t you think?’

  Verity gritted her teeth. ‘So you thought you’d give the letters to me?’

  ‘That’s right. I thought the Communist Party might like to use them.’

  ‘Very kind, but what if I don’t want them . . . if I just burn them?’

  Dannie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Do what you like. I don’t care.’

  ‘And what will you do now?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Go to Germany. There are people there who’ll look after me. I have a friend in the Luftwaffe. He’s even better looking than Edward.’

  Again Verity managed to rein in her anger. ‘And did you kill Mrs Harkness?’ she asked as casually as she could manage.

  ‘No, she was dead when I went into her room. I saw that at once. That was odd: I thought I was too late. I thought the murderer would have taken the letters but they were there, under her pillow, so she must have been killed for some other reason.’

  Verity was shocked. Dannie had coldly searched under the dead woman’s pillow for the loot she wanted, her only thought that someone else might have been there before her.

  ‘The only reason you slept with Edward was to get into Mrs Harkness’s room without being seen?’

  ‘No, that wasn’t it. I didn’t need to make that detour. I thought it would be fun – that’s all.’

  ‘And was it?’ Verity inquired acidly.

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Oh, well, as you can imagine, I had other things on my mind. I had to get into the next room without waking Edward or Molly, of course, though Edward had told me she had taken a sleeping draught. It was a bit distracting.’

  Verity found Dannie’s egotism horrifying. ‘You said you found her dead when you went in?’

  ‘I don’t know how it happened. I didn’t do it and I didn’t hear anyone but, of course, I might not have done. I . . . I had my hands full. However, I have an idea I know who did do it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You work it out.’

  ‘Did you have the key to the connecting door?’

  ‘Yes, I borrowed it from the pantry. I knew where Pickering kept the keys. I returned it before I went back to my room.’

  ‘And you left through the door into the corridor?’

  ‘Yes. It would have been too much of a risk coming back through Edward’s room. He might have woken. Anyway, there was no need. I wanted to get back to my room as quickly as I could.’

  ‘With the letters.’

  ‘Yes, with the letters.’

  ‘Why did you lock the door to Molly’s room?’ it occurred to Verity to ask.

  ‘I thought it would confuse things. I thought the police would think the murderer climbed up the creeper from the terrace, killed Molly, took the letters and left the same way. I don’t know what I thought, really. Just that it would confuse things – which it did.’

  ‘Surely you must have known the police would think you killed Mrs Harkness? After all, they were pretty certain you had taken the letters.’

  ‘I didn’t care. Life’s so boring. I’d had enough of it here. England’s finished. You know that, don’t you? Germany’s the future. I have to admit I hadn’t wanted to leave so . . . immediately. It was the fault of that awful policeman – Chief Inspector Pride. I thought he was going to arrest me and I lost my nerve. My friend gave me a lift in his aeroplane . . . to Germany.’

  ‘But you came back.’

  ‘Yes, when I heard they had arrested that housekeeper woman . . . what’s her name?’

  ‘Ruth Conway.’

  ‘Yes. Such a dull, plain thing. I had to laugh because, of course, I knew she hadn’t done it. She hadn’t murdered anyone, though in her place I would have killed Leo years ago.’

  ‘So who did kill Mrs Harkness, if you didn’t?’

  ‘I told you, work it out for yourself. It might have been Leo. He wanted those letters badly. Perhaps his nerve failed and he couldn’t bring himelf to look for them properly after he had drugged her. Or maybe it was that horrible man Hepple-Keen. The one who bullies his wife. I think Molly was his mistress too, but . . . I don’t know why he would have killed her.’

  ‘What about Boy Carstairs?’

  ‘He’s a darling. I let him make love to me because he wanted to so badly. He said he’d take me back to Kenya and we would take the place over . . . but, in the end, I thought no. He’s always going to lose, isn’t he? But he does look rather wonderful and he rides like a dream.’ She looked wistful again and, for a moment, Verity almost felt sorry for her. ‘I must go now. I’ve got a plane to catch. Have fun with the letters. Oh, and tell Edward I found him . . . no, on second thoughts, just give him my love. And tell him: sorry.’

  When Dannie had gone, Verity sat at her desk with her face in her hands. A shadow had passed over her and left her numbed. She could not think what to do with Mrs Simpson’s letters. She did not want to read them. She didn’t even want to see them, so she pushed them under a pile of New Gazettes on the floor. She tried to get back to her work but the inspiration had deserted her. She could not write anything.

  She sat there, unmoving, for ten minutes, gazing at the blank sheet of paper in her typewriter, unable to think straight. Her trance was broken by the shrill call of the telephone in the hall. As if in obedience to a higher power, she trotted meekly down the stairs and lifted the receiver.

  14

  ‘He’s a sort of policeman,’ his Foreign Office friend, Basil Thoroughgood had said. ‘Hush-hush and all that . . . he’ll brief you on Hepple-Keen. Actually seemed quite keen to meet you. Goes by the name of . . . ’ There was a crackle on the line and Edward was unable to catch the man’s name. ‘He’ll be at Albany tomorrow about four. Oh, and don’t be fooled. He may not look anything much, but he’s top of his particular tree in his particularly dangerous part of the jungle.’

  It wasn’t about four but on the dot of four when the little man knocked on the door of Edward’s set of rooms. And he was a little man. Hardly five feet, very straight of back, with a small moustache and spectacles. When he took off his hat, Edward saw he was almost bald. There was a deep scar just above his right eye. To the casual observer, he looked inoffensive enough – unmemorable to the point of invisibility – but, when you looked into his brown eyes, formidable.

  After Fenton had relieved his visitor of his hat and coat, he brought in tea and muffins. Edward offered his guest a cigarette but he refused, taking out his own packet. He tapped it apologetically. ‘Egyptian – a low taste, but there you are.’ He smiled. It was a tight though not unattractive smile but it never reached his eyes.

  ‘I’m so sorry but, when Thoroughgood telephoned, the line was bad and I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Major Ferguson.’ His voice was hoarse, as though he didn’t have much use for it. ‘Our friend said you wanted to know about Geoffrey Hepple-Keen.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t know whether you can answer this but does Hepple-Keen work for you, or someone like you?’

  ‘He’s an MP, isn’t he? Why should he be working for me?’

  ‘He was in Ireland during the worst of the troubles and he was a policeman then.’

  Ferguson looked at him, the scar above his eye twitching but probably, Edward thought, not from nerves. He didn’t look the nervous type.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Knowing it must come, Edward had considered how he would answer that question. Since he had no wish to involve Verity in any of this – as a Communist Party member, she would never be a secret policeman’s favourite person – he had decided to say he had been delving in the archives of the New Gazette. But, before he could say anything, Ferguson asked, ‘Did your friend, Miss Browne, find some references to him being in Ireland when she was looking thr
ough the files?’

  ‘What?’ Edward said, nonplussed. Was Verity so dangerous a character that her every move was being watched?

  ‘Not magic,’ Ferguson said, with a grin which made him suddenly likeable. ‘Mr Purser, the Gazette’s archivist, keeps an eye on things at the paper for us – but that’s confidential. I must have your word you won’t pass it on to Miss Browne or anyone else.’

  ‘But that’s outrageous! We do live in a police state. I thought it was a Communist Party exaggeration, but it’s true.’

  ‘There is a very thin line between the personal liberties we all value and the security of the state, Lord Edward. Certain European countries have an advantage over us because their police can act with total freedom in suppressing dissent and enforcing adherence to the party line. That is not the British way, and never shall be, but we do have to make some compromises if we are to defend the very freedoms we both value against less scrupulous regimes.’

  ‘Yes but . . . ’

  ‘I wouldn’t have come to see you, Lord Edward if I had not been perfectly certain of your patriotism and your discretion. I am not unaware of how you conducted yourself in Spain a few months back. In short, I am prepared to help you but first I must hear from your own lips why you need this information. You suspect Sir Geoffrey Hepple-Keen of murder? Is that it?’

  ‘I do, but if you tell me he was working for you and if, as I take it, you represent the . . . ’

  ‘What I represent is not important,’ Ferguson interjected.

  ‘But if Hepple-Keen was working for the government, then that would explain some of his actions which, on the face of it, are suspicious.’

  Ferguson did not answer immediately. Then he said, ‘I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid. He was working for the government in Ulster a few years back but he went a little too far . . . off the rails, so to speak . . . so we parted company but . . . ’

  ‘But . . . ?’

  ‘But it is possible he was acting on behalf of some important people when he was at Haling. He is – or rather was – a close friend of Leo Scannon, as you know, and the latter was a close friend of the King. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘But he wasn’t working for you?’

  ‘It’s a difficult one to answer honestly, Lord Edward. As you can imagine, we rely on information from a variety of sources – many of them suspect or unreliable. We have to touch pitch, so to speak. Sir Geoffrey is an influential Member of Parliament and, now and again, he hears things and some of those things he feels able to pass on to us.’

  ‘But some he does not?’

  ‘That’s correct. For example he is, as you know, a close associate of Sir Oswald Mosley. For some time he passed us information about that gentleman’s activities which was . . . useful in keeping tabs on him.’

  ‘But no longer?’

  ‘No longer.’

  ‘Have you asked him why he has given up talking to you?’

  ‘We have considered doing so but, in the end, we thought it better to watch and wait. We attribute his silence to his being involved with a particular lady.’

  Edward’s head, which had begun to ache, cleared. ‘His affair with Mrs Harkness?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Have you any objection to my going on digging, then?’

  ‘None, so long as you are aware that you are walking on shifting sands. I came to warn you that both you and Miss Browne may be in danger and that, even if you do discover who killed Mrs Harkness, you may never see the killer brought to justice.’

  ‘You mean Hepple-Keen has powerful friends?’

  ‘I can say no more, Lord Edward. I have probably said more than I should have already.’

  ‘I am grateful, Major Ferguson. Is there any way I can get in touch with you if I have any information I think would be of interest?’

  ‘Leave a message for me with the porter at your club. I will get it within the hour.’

  Edward was impressed and rather alarmed. ‘I had hoped that at least one’s club was safe from surveillance, but I see I’m wrong.’

  ‘Our safety, at this perilous moment in our history, Lord Edward,’ the little man said gravely, ‘rests on the thinnest of ice and we can only negotiate it with the sort of faith which enabled Our Lord to walk on the waters of Galilee.’

  Verity had always dreaded that the moment might come when her loyalty to the Party was at odds with her loyalty to her country or, worse still, to her friends. That moment had arrived. The Party ought to receive these letters belonging to Mrs Simpson – there could be no doubt about it. In the Daily Worker, Verity would write a hard-hitting article on the King as a lackey of the Nazis, of his tawdry affair with Mrs Simpson and the rottenness of British society. She could write such an article in an hour and it would burn with moral fervour and righteous indignation. By selective quotation from the letters, she could probably bring down Baldwin’s government and she might shatter the confidence felt by most ordinary citizens in their leaders and in their king. It was heady stuff and would make her the most celebrated journalist of the day.

  On the other hand, what did she owe to her employer at the New Gazette, Joe Weaver, and to her country? Most of all, what did she owe Edward Corinth? He had once asked her what she would do if her loyalty to the Party conflicted with the interests of the country and she had not been able to answer. On another occasion, he had asked if she would suppress stories about the Communist Party which might injure its reputation. She had to confess that she probably would and they had gone on to discuss if means were ever justified by the ends to which they were directed. Now she was faced with just the moral quandary she most dreaded.

  Her torment was relieved momentarily by the telephone ringing in the hall. Wearily she clambered down the stairs and lifted the receiver. It was Tommie Fox, in a high state of excitement.

  ‘Verity, is that you? Have you forgotten?’ His voice sounded more like a parrot’s squawk than a human’s and in the background she could hear people singing and whistles being blown and the occasional shout of command. ‘The Jarrow Marchers – they’re only a few miles away. It’s a most wonderful thing! I joined the march yesterday. So many people are coming to walk with us. The crowds are bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. You must come . . . come now. I have to go. I’m in a pub and there’s a queue of people wanting to use the phone.’ He told her where to find him.

  Tommie’s call galvanized her. She had, shamefully, almost forgotten about the march and yet this was a cause close to her heart. It was a visible reminder to the soft, complacent southerners of what the north was suffering – and she had to be there for the final march on London.

  She took a tram and then a bus, sitting on the top deck so she could smoke. Tommie had told her that the pub from which he was speaking, and around which they were resting, was only three or four hours’ march from Marble Arch. He said they had left St Albans the day before and would stay just outside London so that they could march into the city without displaying the signs of exhaustion they normally felt at the end of a day’s walking.

  She got off the bus well short of her target, partly because the crowds had reduced its progress to a walking pace and partly because she was embarrassed to hop off a bus near men with blistered feet and boots destroyed by walking.

  There was a palpable air of excitement around her as she weaved her way towards the centre of the crowd. A field kitchen had been set up and women were serving stew, tinned fruit and hot tea. It was cold but the rain had eased and many people were stretched out on mackintoshes on whatever patches of grass they could find, trying to sleep or at least rest their aching legs.

  At last she spotted Tommie’s substantial figure behind a tea urn. ‘May I help?’ she said shyly.

  ‘Verity! I knew you’d come. Of course, take over from me. There’s some fellows over there with the most terrible blisters which need bathing. Yesterday I literally had to cut off one chap’s socks. They had embedded themselves in his feet. Do you k
now what a boot-repairer said to me? He said, “It seems sort of queer doing your own job just because you want to do it and for something you want to help, instead of doing it because you’d starve if you didn’t. I wonder if that’s how the chaps in Russia feel about it, now they’re running their own show?” If you don’t mind cramped conditions you can stay with us tonight,’ Tommie continued. ‘The daughter of a parishioner of mine lives close by and is going to let us doss down on her floor.’

  Verity reminded him, testily enough, that she was a war correspondent, not a debutante, but in truth she felt ashamed. She ought to have walked the whole way with these men rather than joining them at the end for cakes and ale.

  That evening, tired but much happier, she joined Tommie with a clear conscience at a meeting addressed by Ellen Wilkinson, the indomitable MP for Jarrow, who was very much the spirit of the march. It was her fiery speeches which had kept up the men’s spirits in the terrible twenty-mile stretch between Bedford and Luton when the wind had driven the rain into the marchers’ teeth all day and chilled them to the bone. Tonight, however, there was a feeling not of triumph but achievement. Lugging their huge oak box containing the petition they were to present to Parliament, many people had said they would never get so far.

  Before Ellen Wilkinson went off to spend the night at the home of the secretary of the local Labour Party, Tommie introduced her to Verity. The MP said how much it meant to the marchers to have sympathetic journalists along with them reporting the march fairly. ‘Whatever their proprietors think,’ she added meaningfully, and Verity again felt ashamed. ‘You’ve only just joined us, Tommie tells me?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But you’re here now. That’s what counts,’ Ellen said, smiling at her confusion, and Verity wanted to kiss her.

  ‘Where’s everyone sleeping tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘We sleep in schools and drill halls, casual wards – wherever they let us. Then we get up at six thirty and parade at eight forty-five, all packed up and ready to go. You’ve got somewhere to sleep?’