She considered for a moment. ‘No, it was the middle of the day. The front door is not locked until nightfall and there were windows open. I had told him when I opened the front door that it was Pickering’s day off and I was by myself. I went to lie down on my bed after I had said goodbye to him. I had rather a headache. In fact, I think I told him so.’
Lampfrey grimaced. ‘This is all speculation. Sir Geoffrey’s visit to you, Miss Conway, may have been completely innocent. Still, when we go back to the station, I will have to persuade Chief Inspector Pride to tackle him. It may not be so easy. I wish you had told us before about his visit to Haling . . . I know, I know, the Chief Inspector can be difficult to interrupt. The trouble is, once he’s made up his mind – and I should tell you, he has made up his mind – he doesn’t like changing it.’
‘But you believe me?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I can see now I’ve been a fool. I don’t know why I should think anyone would be interested in me.’
‘We believe you,’ Edward said, taking her hand. ‘And you mustn’t think no one will be interested in you, but you are right to . . . to think carefully where men are concerned. You’re a rich woman now and you will find some men are interested in that, even if they pretend not to be. Promise me . . . promise me you will be careful.’
‘I promise,’ she said, but Edward was by no means easy in his mind.
When they left Devizes prison, Lampfrey said to Edward, ‘Don’t expect any thanks for setting the cat among the pigeons like this. I’m going to get hell.’
‘Better it comes out now than in a court of law with the wrong person in the dock, eh, Inspector?’ he retorted, unhelpfully.
That evening, as he had promised, Edward gave Verity, Charlotte, Adrian, Tommie Fox and Ellen Wilkinson dinner at the Café Royal to celebrate the end of the Jarrow March. But it was a gloomy party which foregathered in the Grill Room to quaff champagne cocktails and toy with Omelette Arnold Bennett, Crêpe de Volaille Royale and Escalope de Veau Maison.
Verity had tried to duck out of it altogether, but Edward had pressed her. ‘I want to tell you how I got on with Ruth Conway. I think I’ve cracked it and, anyway, we promised to celebrate the success of the march.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Edward, I’ve got so much to do . . . ’
‘On the bloody book?’
‘Yes, on the bloody book,’ she said irritably. ‘Also, I’m not sure Ellen feels the march was such a success.’
‘I don’t understand. Surely it’s been a triumph? The petition has been handed in to Parliament.’
‘Yes, but now it’s such an anticlimax. Don’t you see, London just absorbs events, even ones as big as the Jarrow March. It’s like a sponge. London, by which I mean society, just ignores it and nothing changes. Weaver won’t even put it on the front page.’
‘Oh well, I still say we should celebrate. We owe it to Ellen. We can’t let her feel no one cares. And I chose the Café Royal with care for this occasion. It’s full of journalists and other riff-raff.’
‘Thank you very much. All right then, I’ll be there. Now, clear off. I’ve got to work even if you don’t.’
Edward was hurt by Verity’s lack of interest in what he had found out from Ruth Conway and now, seeing the gloomy faces of his guests reflected in the ornate gilt-framed mirrors, he felt cheated of something – he didn’t quite know what.
‘So there it is – I’m certain Hepple-Keen is our murderer,’ he concluded, having told them of his visit to Devizes.
His words were greeted with silence. He hadn’t expected to be mobbed, but a word of praise might have been welcome. At last, Verity said grudgingly, ‘It sounds very speculative to me.’
‘Pride will get the truth out of Hepple-Keen once he sees it’s all up.’
‘But is it?’ she persisted. ‘I think a practised politician could make mincemeat of it all.’ Edward started to speak but she stopped him with a wave of her glass. ‘No. I’m sorry, Edward, but it doesn’t sound right to me. And, in any case, what am I going to say to Daphne tomorrow? Daphne’s his wife,’ she explained to Ellen, ‘and she’s doing wonders for the abandoned children of the civil war. We’ve got a committee meeting tomorrow. What do I tell her? Lord Edward Corinth thinks your husband’s a murderer, but don’t let it prevent you carrying on the good work?’
‘Lampfrey was convinced,’ Edward said defensively.
‘Well, I’m not,’ she said, and lapsed into a sullen silence.
Ellen, seeing that the dinner was turning into a disaster and liking the young man with the aquiline nose and firm jaw too much to let it become one, decided she had better change the subject. She started talking about Jarrow. Among friends she could allow herself to be bitter, however. ‘It’s odd how traditions linger . . . how social strata run true to type. I was really hurt when the Bishop of Durham called us a revolutionary mob, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. In 1810 his predecessor lent his stables as a concentration camp and had striking miners chained to the mangers. When the class struggle comes to the surface, “progress” is seen to be a very thin veneer.’
Verity said hesitantly, ‘I agree with that. What I saw at Toledo convinced me that civilization is nothing but an illusion we find it useful to believe in. Let me tell you what it was like in the end when the Moors and the Legion raised the siege. I have just been trying to write about it for my book, so it’s in my mind.’
‘It pains you to talk about it?’ Tommie said gently.
‘It pains me here,’ she touched her heart, ‘but it would pain me more to pretend to forget.’
‘What is the Legion?’ Charlotte ventured.
‘It’s almost the same as the French Foreign Legion but worse – much worse. It was founded in the 1920s by a general called José Millán Astray. He would greet each new recruit with the words “You were dead when you arrived here. You have arisen from the dead and you must pay for your new life with your death. Viva Muertre!” Gibberish, maybe, but it makes me shiver. Along with the Moors, they are the most ferocious fighters in the war. They don’t know the meaning of the word “mercy”.’
She stopped and her face went quite white. Edward risked saying, ‘Can you tell us what happened, V?’
His honest, familiar voice steadied her a little and she managed a wan smile. ‘It was in those last few days of September – not so long ago, but it seems an age. We did not know that the Moors had broken the Republican lines at Maqueda, twenty-four miles to the north-west of Toledo. Our leaders thought they had all the time in the world to destroy the Alcázar and the few army officers who still held in it. Our people placed a huge mine under the gate in the north-east corner of the fortress. When it exploded, we would overwhelm the defenders. It was inevitable and the world’s press would be there to witness it. Then, at dawn on the twenty-fifth, three Nationalist bombers came over the city and bombed our positions. The next day, about two o’clock, one of our guns brought down one of their planes. The pilot bailed out and came down alive. It was the most awful thing I have ever witnessed. I tried to do something to stop it but I was pulled away or I, too, might have been murdered. The women of the town attacked him with razors and cut off his genitals and then trampled him to death. I heard him shout “Oh! Mamá!” before he died.
‘I don’t understand why but our generals still did not explode the mine. They waited and waited until it was too late. I think now they may have been in the enemy’s pay but I don’t know. All I do know is, that when at last it did explode – sending up a huge plume of smoke and dust – as they advanced our men came face to face with the enemy. The Moors in their white turbans and the Legion had come on us quite unexpectedly. I remember the sound of them – they did not shriek or scream but barked like dogs. Then we were all running. At the Alcántara Bridge, we were gunned down and the Tagus turned red with the blood of men falling from the bridge. By nightfall – and it was a perfect night, with a beautiful moon and crystalline sky – all resistance had come to an end and the Moors set abou
t killing. I don’t know how many they killed – civilians as well as militia, they said there was no difference – but some say a thousand. Fires were burning everywhere and the smell of burning flesh nauseated me. I was beyond fear, beyond exhaustion. I just wanted to die.’
‘But you didn’t. You escaped,’ Ellen said. ‘How did you manage it?’
‘Chivalry, I suppose,’ said Verity, with a rattling laugh. ‘Chivalry from the people I have just told you did not know the meaning of the word. I had crawled round the side of the Alcázar and suddenly found myself with a group of soldiers from the Legion. They asked who I was and I said I was a woman – I can tell you, by then it wasn’t too obvious – and an English newspaper correspondent. I showed them the baby and that seemed to confuse them, but they knew enough to take me to their officer – a boy in his teens.’
‘A baby? What baby was this?’ Ellen asked in amazement.
‘Oh yes, didn’t I say? Crawling through the rubble, I found this baby underneath a dead woman – the child’s mother, I suppose. As soon as I touched it, it began to cry so I knew it was alive. I didn’t know what to do. You’ll understand the state of mind I was in when I tell you I seriously considered leaving it where it was.’
‘But you didn’t,’ Ellen said gently.
‘No, I took it with me – like an inconvenient parcel. I dropped it once when I tripped, but it seemed determined not to die.’
‘This officer you stumbled upon – what did he do when he saw you and the baby?’ Tommie asked, his eyes intent on Verity.
‘He was supervising a group of our men . . . prisoners. To my horror, as I watched, he had them lined up against a wall and calmly ordered his men to shoot them, one by one. He smiled as he did so and watched me, as if to see how I would react. I don’t know – I tried to shield my eyes behind my hands but they wouldn’t let me. When the last man was dead, he pointed his pistol at me and I was certain it was my last moment on earth. Then, he lowered it and bowed to me, in mockery perhaps, because you can imagine the state I was in. I was filthy dirty, my clothes were torn and I was weeping. And I was still holding the baby – well, as I say, you can imagine. Anyway, this boy passed me over to a priest – there were many priests attached to the Legion – and he took me to General Franco who arrived at Toledo the next day.’
‘And he released you?’ Edward said.
‘Yes, without even having me interrogated,’ she said bitterly. ‘I was handed over to some American journalists. I suppose he had no wish to be seen to be “uncivilized”.’
‘Gosh!’ Adrian exclaimed, inadequately. ‘It must have been terrible.’
‘It changed me,’ she said simply. ‘You’ll say I’m melodramatic but, once you’ve looked death in the face, it does change you.’
There was a moment’s silence as they each thought about this. Then Charlotte said, hesitatingly, in case she was treading on dangerous ground, ‘And the baby? What happened to the baby?’
‘I took it to Madrid – to an orphanage,’ she said, shortly.
It was as though she was waiting for someone to say she ought to have brought it back to England with her and adopted it, but if anyone was thinking it, no one dared say it.
‘I think the worst thing was that, before we left, the American journalists took me on a tour of the ruins. I had been fed and bathed and thought I was more or less all right – but then we came to the swimming pool. Yes, the Alcázar actually had a swimming pool but it was empty of course. Or rather it wasn’t empty; it was full of dead bodies. The stench was unbearable because the sun was very hot. One of the Americans asked the soldier in charge why he did not cremate the bodies. The officer was shocked: “Señor,” he said, “we are Catholics!”’
Verity was now shaking with dry sobs and it was obvious to all of them that she was in a bad way. Edward still dared to think it had been good that she should have told her tale. It might help her come to terms with what she had experienced. Ellen Wilkinson said her goodbyes and kissed Verity. Tommie also made his farewells so it was left to Edward and the Hassels to take her home. When they arrived in the King’s Road, they found a police car outside the front door.
‘Oh my God! What now?’ Charlotte exclaimed.
Adrian and Edward got out of the cab and went over to talk to the policeman standing outside the door. Adrian returned to inform them they had been burgled. ‘Someone actually saw the burglars drive off in a black car.’
‘But what have we got worth stealing?’ Charlotte said, puzzled. ‘I would like to believe there are some discerning art thieves in London, but I rather doubt it.’
Then Verity spoke in a small, low voice from the back of the cab: ‘I know what they were looking for.’
16
Major Stille’s men had caused havoc. It was perfectly evident that this was no ordinary burglary but rather an act of deliberate vandalism. Many of Adrian’s paintings had been ripped or defaced but, what was much worse, Charlotte’s photographs of her parents, and one of her aged six with a favourite dog, had been torn from their frames, crumpled and ripped.
‘It’s vicious!’ she said angrily. ‘Vicious and hateful. How could people behave this way?’
‘Only too easily, I’m afraid, Charley,’ Edward said, taking her in his arms to comfort her. ‘This is the modern age, God help us.’
‘And it’s all my fault!’ Verity exclaimed. ‘You see, Dannie came to see me – when was it? yesterday – and she gave me the bloody letters.’
‘Mrs Simpson’s letters!’
‘Are there any others?’ she inquired, ironically.
‘So she had stolen them! Damn it, I was sure she had! But I don’t see: why did she give them to you?’
‘She’s broken with Weaver so she wouldn’t give them to him. She’s broken with Stille who seems to want them badly enough to have paid her to get them for him. So she thought she’d give them to me. She wants me to cause trouble by giving them to the Party.’
Edward was icy. ‘And have you?’
‘No. If you must know, I forgot all about them. I chucked them in a corner somewhere.’
‘You forgot all about them! For God’s sake, woman, which corner?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, Edward. I’ve had just about enough tonight with your ridiculous, horrible party and now this. I’m so sorry Adrian, Charlotte, I’m just so sorry . . . I’m not fit for decent people to live with.’
Verity collapsed into a chair and burst into tears. Adrian sat beside her on the floor and held her hand. Charlotte stroked her head and said, ‘You’re exhausted, that’s all. We love you, Verity. This isn’t your fault. It’s what we have to fight.’
‘But where are they – the letters?’ Edward said desperately.
‘Damn the letters,’ Adrian said, ‘What we care about is Verity.’
‘They’re in a corner in my bedroom, I think,’ she said, sniffing. ‘I threw them under some copies of the Gazette.’
Without another word, Edward strode out of the room and up the stairs. Verity’s room was a complete shambles with furniture and bedding everywhere. A wardrobe had been overturned and a table cut across with what might have been an axe. In one corner, under a chair, he saw a pile of newspapers. He moved the chair with some difficulty and knelt to go through them. He was breathing fast and he noticed, quite coldly, that his hands were shaking. At first, he thought there was nothing there except back issues of the New Gazette, but then he saw them – a small bundle wedged under a three-month-old paper. There were seven altogether. He could hardly believe he had them in his hands at last. They had caused him such trouble and here they were. He walked downstairs to find Verity where he had left her.
‘I’ve found them. I’ll take them back to Mrs Simpson as soon as possible.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ Adrian said angrily. ‘What does Verity say? They were given to her.’
‘Dannie had no right to give them to her,’ Edward said. ‘Oh, let him have them,’ Verity said wearily. ‘I’m s
ick to death of the whole thing.’
‘Thank you!’
‘And that goes for you too, Edward.’
The next morning Verity insisted on getting up and going into the New Gazette despite Charlotte’s instant diagnosis that she looked like death not even warmed up. There were black circles under her eyes and her skin had that grey, waxy look which made her avert her eyes when she glanced in the mirror. Perversely, she chose to wear no make-up except for a scarlet slash on her lips.
When she got to the office, there was a message that she was to go straight up to the top floor. Miss Barnstable just had time to tut-tut and say she looked as though she needed a bath before showing her into the great man’s presence.
Even Weaver noticed that she wasn’t looking her usual self.
‘You look a bit rough, Verity,’ he said peering at her. ‘Been burning the candle at both ends?’
Since he never commented on a woman’s appearance except, perfunctorily, immediately prior to suggesting bed, Verity knew – if she hadn’t known already – that she really must look bad. Characteristically, it made her stick out her chin and tough it out. She thought she might as well go for the shock attack.
‘Dannie came round the other day to give me those letters of Mrs Simpson.’
‘Oh? And what did you do with them?’ he asked with studied indifference.
‘She wanted me to give them to the Daily Worker. I can’t think why, but she seemed not to want to give them to you.’
‘And did you . . . give them to your Commie friends?’
‘No. I gave them to Edward. Dannie said she was your mistress but had now transferred her affections to a German air ace.’
‘I shouldn’t believe everything that lady tells you,’ Weaver said coldly.
Verity knew he was close to lashing her with the full force of his rage. These rages were rare, and she had never experienced one, but those who had spoke of them with awe. She could not, however, prevent herself making one more stab at her employer in an effort to pierce his armour of arrogance.
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