‘I didn’t even know you smoked.’
‘I do now,’ she said shortly.
‘Tell me what has happened and how I can help,’ he said calmly, studiously avoiding any hint of ‘lean-on-my-shoulder-little-woman’, which he knew she would detest.
‘You’ve not seen anything in the papers then?’
‘The English papers? No, what have I missed? You see, I only returned from New York yesterday and . . .’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Verity drily. ‘And how is Amy? I gather she is quite a star now.’
There was something so sour about the way Verity said this that Edward gazed at her with surprise and hurt.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Verity, seeing the look on his face. She put out a hand and timidly laid it on his. ‘I mean, I am delighted . . . really pleased . . . for you both.’
‘Oh, as for that, there’s no “both” about it. We’re just chums, don’t you know.’ Edward got up and went over to the coffee tray on the table and refilled his cup, anxious that Verity should not see his face and guess at his real feelings. He felt something on his cheek and rubbed at it with his fingers. He was surprised to see it was a fleck of blood. He must have nicked himself shaving. He turned to Verity and showed her his hand. ‘Love lies bleeding.’ If it was a joke, neither of them laughed. ‘Tell me about David,’ he said more firmly. ‘Is he in danger or what?’
David Griffiths-Jones was the man Verity respected most in the world. He had been her lover – Edward knew that for a fact – and still was as far as he was aware, but he was a cold fish and Verity certainly did not have the look of a woman in the middle of a love affair. He and Griffiths-Jones were natural enemies; they had been at Cambridge together but while Griffiths-Jones had become a committed Communist Party worker, Edward had come to hate everything the Party stood for and not just because ‘social justice’ seemed to involve hanging people like him from lamp-posts or at least curtailing their personal liberty ‘in the interests of the proletariat’.
Edward believed passionately in personal liberty, although he accepted it did not mean much if one were a slave to poverty. He regarded with suspicion any political party – on the right or the left – which claimed to be acting in the interests of the working class. Everything he had seen of Fascism disgusted him but he was convinced that one did not have to espouse communism to be anti-Fascist. He had listened to David Griffiths-Jones and Verity go on about ‘the proletariat’ and ‘the working classes’ as though working people were little better than sheep needing a shepherd. If the shepherds were going to be of Griffiths-Jones’ persuasion, he foresaw they would ‘fold’ their charges into the abattoir.
He distinguished, however, between genuinely good-hearted idealists such as Verity, misguided though they might be, and cold, calculating ideologues, such as Griffiths-Jones, obsessed with ‘the masses’, a meaningless class definition in his view. But, if Edward were honest with himself, his political differences with David Griffiths-Jones were exacerbated by their locking of horns over Verity. No word of love had ever been spoken between Verity and himself, but there was some sort of understanding between them which probably neither of them would have been able or indeed willing to define. As far as Edward could see, Verity was completely in the other man’s thrall. He had commanded her to go to Spain with him and she had obeyed. She was to promote the communist cause by writing for Lord Weaver’s New Gazette, and for the Daily Worker, the official organ of the Communist Party, describing the political struggle in Spain in terms of communism – good – against Fascism – evil – when even Edward knew it was something much more complicated. To be fair to Verity, the three or four reports of hers he had read in the New Gazette had seemed honest attempts to report the truth of the situation, so maybe she had too much integrity to toe the Party line as closely as Griffiths-Jones would like.
‘He’s in gaol,’ she said bluntly.
Edward took a breath and said coolly, ‘What is he supposed to have done?’
‘He’s done nothing!’ She looked at him accusingly, as if he would automatically disbelieve her.
‘Yes, I expect not, but what do they say he’s done?’ he said, rubbing his forehead, which he always did when he was surprised.
Verity stuck out her chin. ‘Oh, it’s all nonsense. He hasn’t done anything, I tell you.’
‘Yes,’ said Edward patiently, ‘but what’s he accused of?’
‘They say he killed a man,’ she said reluctantly. ‘They say he’s a murderer.’
Verity blurted out the word ‘murderer’ as if she could still hardly credit it. Edward was not quite as shocked as perhaps he ought to have been. He had always considered David Griffiths-Jones to be one of the most dangerous men he knew and was reasonably certain that, if the Party required it of him, he could kill – might already have done so. Edward had the faintest suspicion that, deep down, Verity thought so too but this was clearly not a good moment to explore the idea.
‘So tell me about it,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Who is he supposed to have killed, and when did it happen?’
‘Over a month ago. He was arrested on January 10th.’
‘And when is his trial?’ He spoke with studied neutrality. He could sense that she wanted to hit out at someone and, if he gave any sign of pitying her, her carefully prepared defences might crumble. She would hate herself and him if she burst into tears. It must have taken some courage, or maybe sheer desperation, for her to come to him. She knew how he felt about David, the Party, and her rushing off to Spain, but she had trusted him enough to come to him at this moment of crisis. He tried not to feel pleased. At all costs he must not seem to be taking advantage of her.
‘Oh, he has been tried,’ she said airily. ‘He’s going to be shot next week unless you can think of something to make them change their mind.’
‘Shot?’
‘Or garrotted – no, shot. Spain has joined the twentieth century.’
Edward gulped. If what Verity said was true, there was absolutely nothing he or anyone else could do to save the man. If Griffiths-Jones had been tried by a Spanish court and convicted of murder, how could Verity possibly think he might be able to do anything about it? It was absurd.
‘Oh gosh, Verity, that’s awful but . . . but what can I do? I mean, I don’t suppose even the Prime Minister could do anything,’ he said weakly.
‘ “Oh gosh”!’ Verity mimicked him scathingly. ‘Is that all you can say? Has your brain been softened by champagne and canapés? Of course we can do something about it. We can find out who really did kill Tilney, for one thing.’
Edward’s ears pricked. ‘He was an Englishman – the man who . . . who got himself killed?’ he said, leaving Griffiths-Jones out of it.
‘Yes, didn’t I say so? That’s why I have come to you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘For God’s sake, Edward: wake up! Godfrey Tilney – he was at school with you, wasn’t he? That’s what he always said.’
‘Godfrey Tilney!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘Well, I’m damned. Tilney dead? What happened, Verity?’
‘No one really knows,’ she said more calmly. ‘He and David were out together – on some Party work I think, but that was never gone into at the trial and David’s not saying anything. They were out the whole day – in the mountains – and David came back alone. He said that Tilney had left him to go back on his own. Apparently, he said to David that he wanted to go and see a friend on the way home.’
‘Who was the friend?’
‘No one knows and naturally the police thought David had invented it. I told them that if he had wanted to make up a story about why he had parted from Tilney when he did, he would have come up with something much better, but they weren’t interested.’
‘And Tilney? When . . . when was his body . . .?’
‘Tilney’s body was discovered the next morning by a shepherd,’ Verity said. ‘He – Tilney – had a knife in his stomach.’
Edward, bewild
ered by what he was being told, could only come out with: ‘But surely, someone else could have stabbed him?’
‘That’s right, they could have, and what’s more they did,’ said Verity animatedly. ‘It is a wild area in the mountains. Lots of brigands and God knows what.’
‘So why were they so certain David had killed Tilney?’
‘Oh well, mainly because it was David’s knife.’
‘What! You mean whoever it was who found the body discovered David’s knife in him?’
‘Yes, in him or beside him, I’m not sure which, but there are many ways the knife could have . . .’ Before Edward could say, name three, Verity changed tack. ‘He would hardly have left his knife in Tilney if he really had done the killing.’
‘That’s true,’ said Edward grudgingly. ‘How does David say the knife got . . . there? Did he lose it?’
‘He says he either lost it or it was stolen.’
‘What sort of knife was it?’
‘It was a Swiss Army knife. He always carried it.’
‘Not such an easy thing to kill someone with,’ said Edward, thinking aloud. ‘How long before the killing had he missed the knife?’
‘He can’t remember. Look, Edward, you’ve just got to take it from me: he didn’t kill Tilney or anyone else. You’ve got to come over and find out who did do it.’
Edward heard the desperation in her voice. ‘But how much time do we have, Verity?’ he said, feeling panic rising inside him. ‘I thought you said he was being executed next week.’
‘That’s right, but I thought if you could get hold of Tilney’s parents and ask them to plead for a stay of execution . . .’
Edward’s eyes goggled. ‘You what?’
‘Well, you do know his parents, don’t you?’
‘I met them,’ he admitted, ‘but that was a long time ago. But look here, even if I did get to see them and, even more unlikely, if they were persuaded to plead for a stay of execution, I can’t imagine for one moment the authorities would take any notice . . .’
‘Oh really,’ said Verity in exasperation, ‘I don’t understand you, Edward. Last year you were a different man. Your will seems to have been sapped by good living or something. Didn’t your nanny ever tell you there’s no such word as “can’t”? I haven’t got time to argue with you; David needs me. Are you coming with me or not?’
There was such pain behind her appeal, there was no way in which he could refuse. ‘Of course I’ll come but I can’t work miracles. Don’t think I can.’
Verity’s face lit up. ‘There, I knew you had it in you. Weaver has put an aeroplane at our disposal,’ she added importantly. ‘I must say, Joe has come up absolute trumps over this. Although he has no sympathy with the Party, he has campaigned for David from the moment he was accused. He’s been a real duck, but . . .’ she added meditatively, ‘I’m not sure David likes it.’
‘Being beholden to the capitalist press?’
‘Yes, still, it can’t be helped. I will use anything or anyone to save him.’ She spoke with all the grim determination which had made him admire her the year before.
‘Even me?’ he said nastily.
She grinned. ‘Even you.’
‘What are you going to do now?’ said Edward feebly.
‘I’m going in to the New Gazette. As I say, Joe – Lord Weaver – is running a campaign in the paper – Free Griffiths-Jones – that sort of thing, but I have to say, it hasn’t worked yet.’
Edward paused. If Verity really had persuaded Weaver – who was not a communist and was opposed to everything David Griffiths-Jones represented – to campaign for his release, either there must be something she was not telling him or Weaver had some ulterior motive of which she was unaware. What that could be he had no idea but it crossed his mind that the press lord was a notorious womaniser.
‘I have seen some of your reports from Spain – jolly good. I mean, very powerful . . .’
‘Oh, shut up, Edward. You don’t know what you are talking about. There seems to be no one in this bloody country who knows or cares what is happening in Spain. They don’t seem to understand that it’s not just domestic politics – it’s the beginning of a war. Oh God, why do I bother . . .’
Edward was hurt. Verity seemed to have come to him with the idea he might help her and was now going away in the belief that he was a spineless fish. Also, he did not approve of her language. He was about to say something to the effect that there was really nothing he could do to help her or Griffiths-Jones, and if a Spanish court had found him guilty of murder, then he probably was, when he saw that tears were streaming down her face. He rescued the coffee cup which she was holding so limply the black liquid was running on to the carpet and then went down on his knees and put his arms around her.
‘I’m sorry, Verity. I’m not being much help, am I? Look, I’ll get going straight away. Do you know where the Tilneys live?’
‘Yes, the New Gazette interviewed them. They live in Bedford Square. I’ve got the address and telephone number here.’ She thrust a scrap of paper at him.
‘Excellent!’ he said, taking it. ‘When I’ve spoken to them I’ll talk to a few people I know at the Foreign Office and see if there is anything to be done from that angle. As it happens, I am having lunch with a man who might be able to do something.’
Verity looked at him, her strained white face thin enough to make her eyes, filled with tears, seem unnaturally large and luminous. ‘Oh, will you, Edward? I know I’m being a . . .’ She choked back a sob. ‘You see, I’m so tired and I don’t think I can manage any more on my own.’ She smiled blearily. ‘And don’t you ever dare quote that back at me!’
A few minutes later, calmer and much more the old Verity, she got ready to leave. She reappeared from a visit to the bathroom, her face washed and a touch of rouge on her cheeks. ‘You do yourself well,’ she said.
‘Oh, you mean the bath? Yes, it’s where I go when I need to think.’
‘Hmff,’ was all she could find to say to that. She was staying with a girlfriend in Holland Park and it was agreed that she would ring him about six to find out what he had achieved, if anything. ‘We have to be at Croydon more or less at dawn tomorrow,’ she warned him. ‘It’s a long flight and, if we don’t want to be benighted somewhere in France, we have to start at first light.’
‘I still can’t understand,’ said Edward, ‘how they could convict David of murdering Tilney solely because his knife was used to kill him.’
‘Oh, didn’t I say,’ said Verity blithely, going out of the door, ‘they also found a jersey covered in blood in David’s room. They sort of proved it was Tilney’s blood but I expect it was planted on David. That seems to be the most likely thing, don’t you agree?’ And before Edward had got his breath, she had kissed him lightly on the lips and disappeared down the hallway.
2
At Brooks’s, Eric, the porter, seemed pleased to see him and, as he took his coat and hat, inquired after the health of his brother. It always irritated Edward that Eric invariably asked after the Duke despite his not having visited the club for the last five years to his certain knowledge.
‘As well as can be expected,’ Edward responded airily, hoping to suggest to Eric that the Duke had barely survived a life-threatening illness. The porter would be mortified to feel that he had missed some vital gossip concerning one of the club’s most distinguished members. ‘Is Mr Thoroughgood in the club yet, Eric? I’m supposed to be lunching with him.’
‘Yes, my lord. He is in the morning-room.’
Edward glanced at the teleprinter chattering away in the corner but there was no news from Spain: the country was, as might be expected, absorbed by accounts of the King’s funeral. The only foreign news was of Italian ‘victories’ in Abyssinia. To Edward, Mussolini’s efforts to join the imperialists and have his own colonies seemed to be further evidence – if further evidence was needed – of how the world his eldest brother had, in 1914, died to preserve was being torn apart witho
ut, it seemed, anyone much caring. He was more than ever convinced that he ought to be doing something to help those who were trying to resist Fascism but what had he to offer? He was still young, rich, healthy and not a complete ass, but would Thoroughgood consider him to be employable? He glanced at the noticeboard. Among the pieces of paper pinned to it, charting the progress of the club backgammon tournament and recommending members purchase cases of the club’s own champagne, were cards ‘noting with regret’ the recent decease of members. Godfrey Tilney’s death seemed not yet to have come to the Secretary’s attention but one card caught his eye: another near contemporary of his at Eton, Makepeace Hoden, had given up the ghost. Damn it, he thought to himself, was the life expectancy of his generation going to be as short as that of the last? Hoden could not have been more than thirty-seven, surely.
‘I see Mr Hoden has died,’ he said to Eric. ‘Do you know how that happened?’
‘Yes, my lord. It was very sad. I understand the poor young gentleman was eaten by a lion.’
‘Good heavens, Eric!’ said Edward impressed. ‘I thought that only happened in music-hall songs.’
‘No, my lord!’ Eric said, suggesting some disapproval of Edward’s levity. ‘Mr Hoden was hunting big game in Africa, my lord, and . . .’
‘I see,’ said Edward hurriedly. He felt it was not quite the thing to gossip with the porter in the hall of the club about a member’s demise even though he had not liked Hoden and had seen little of him since he had left Eton, under some sort of a cloud he seemed to recall.
He pushed open the door of the morning-room and surveyed the dozen or so members asleep or reading newspapers in green leather chairs. A coal fire burnt in the hearth and he went over to it and warmed his hands. It had turned very cold and he rather hoped Spain – if he did actually decide to go – would be considerably warmer. Several members nodded to him. The Earl of Carlisle, who all but lived in the club, said, ‘Ah, Corinth – not seen much of you lately – been away?’ and a very ancient member called Truefitt opened one eye and said, ‘Rough weather, eh, Cornford?’ Truefitt had an encyclopedic memory for first-class cricket scores but seldom remembered accurately the names of his club acquaintances. It amounted to a rapturous welcome and Edward compared it favourably with the democratic informality of his American friends which had rather shocked him at first. Even a casual acquaintance in New York would think nothing of addressing him by his first name before any formal introduction had taken place. Edward would have been outraged if anyone had called him a snob but he liked the reserve with which the English gentleman protected his privacy. His closest friends would call him ‘Corinth’ and only a few intimates would address him as Edward. His brother and sister-in-law called him ‘Ned’ but the rituals of family life among the English aristocracy were worth a book in themselves.
Bones of the Buried Page 3