A face, up to now hidden behind the Sporting Times, revealed itself. ‘Ah, there you are, my boy.’
‘Oh, Thoroughgood,’ said Edward without enthusiasm. He remembered now that he did not like the man and certainly objected to being ‘my-boy-ed’ by a fellow who had been his contemporary at school. Thoroughgood uncurled himself from his armchair. He was tall, skeletally thin with a beaky nose, receding hair and a dusting of dandruff over his shoulders. He wore a perfectly pressed dark blue pinstripe suit, an Old Etonian tie and – this Edward found unexpected – a rather showy gold tie-pin.
It was not done to talk too long or too loudly in the morning-room so they walked through to the bar. ‘Gin-and-it?’ Thoroughgood inquired.
‘Champagne, please,’ said Edward, glancing round to see who else was lunching in the club. Two or three acquaintances waved at him and one of these was on the point of coming over when Thoroughgood came back from the bar with the drinks. He was obviously not popular because the acquaintance made a face at Edward indicating that he would wait and talk to him later.
‘I see Hoden’s dead,’ Edward said, sipping his champagne.
‘Yes, bad business that. You know how he loved hunting big game. He’d been all over the world: Tanganyika, Kenya, India, the Malay States. You name it, he’d been there.’
‘So what happened? Eric said he had been eaten by a lion.’
Thoroughgood snuffled. ‘Oh really, did he say that? I’m afraid it was altogether more prosaic. He shot himself.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Who knows? Probably just an accident but Eric is right in one way: the body was so badly mauled by the time the bearers or whatnot got to him, he was pretty well unrecognisable.’
‘But it’s rather odd for an experienced hunter, like Hoden, to allow himself to be separated from the others? Maybe he did want to shoot himself but didn’t want to sully the family name by being called a suicide?’
‘Maybe,’ said Thoroughgood, already bored with the subject. ‘We’ll never know. I don’t like huntin’ of any sort – not animals anyway.’ He gave his snuffling laugh which Edward found rather disgusting. ‘I mean, these big game hunters, they like to pretend how brave they are but, as I understand it, they are never put in any danger. Some poor native fella is sent to chase some lion or whatnot into the great white hunter’s field of fire and, if he misses, there is a professional there to finish it off.’
‘But not in Hoden’s case.’
‘No, but he was an arrogant . . . Oh well, de mortuis nihil loquitur nisi bonum and all that. I remember that he was an awful bully at school, though. Perhaps that was where he learnt the fun of chasing animals.’ He snuffled again and Edward wondered, if Thoroughgood did offer him a job, whether he could bear to be associated with him.
Over lunch – ‘the potted shrimps and then the kidneys, please, George. Same for you, old boy?’ – they talked generalities: Abyssinia, the old King’s funeral, the new King’s raffish companions – ‘all cocks and cocktails’ as Thoroughgood put it vulgarly – and the inferiority of the club claret of which, nevertheless, Thoroughgood managed to dispose of two bottles. He seemed interested in what Edward had to say about New York’s smart set. ‘They are anglophile on the whole, are they? Or is it just that they “love a lord” like everyone else?’
Edward was rather put out. It was as if Thoroughgood enjoyed taunting him and he was half-tempted to get up there and then and leave him to it, but something stopped him. Thoroughgood, whatever else he was, was no fool and it occurred to him that he might be being tested in some way. He held his peace and explained that, though the English certainly had some snob-appeal in New York, the Americans he had met could not be considered Anglophile if that meant sharing the British view of world affairs.
Thoroughgood was on to this like a hawk on a rabbit. ‘You mean they envy us our empire?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Edward said. ‘I never discussed it with them, but if you mean would they fight alongside us if, God forbid, it ever came to war with Germany, I would say they wouldn’t.’ Thoroughgood seemed to be considering this because he said nothing but heaped Stilton on to a Bath Oliver biscuit. ‘Mind you,’ Edward went on, ‘I was only in New York and its environs, and even there I was meeting a highly unrepresentative slice of the population. I have no idea what they think about England in Washington, or anywhere else. I don’t suppose they consider us much at all. I was struck by how little news of Europe there was in the newspapers over there.’
‘Shall we have coffee in the library?’ said Thoroughgood. ‘We can be quiet there and there are one or two things I want to talk to you about in private.’
So I was right! Edward said to himself and he was curious to hear what his host thought wise to keep from long ears.
Thoroughgood seated himself by the fire in one of the huge, dilapidated brown armchairs and rang the bell. He ordered port for himself. Edward declined, wanting to keep a reasonably clear head. As it was, the hot room was making him sleepy.
‘You were in the States for six months and never went out of New York?’ said Thoroughgood, looking past Edward at the leather-bound volumes on the shelf behind him. ‘I thought you were a bit of a traveller. But then I forgot; you had your hands full, didn’t you? What’s the gel’s name? They say she’s Weaver’s illegitimate daughter, don’t they?’
Edward was taken aback by this sudden stab of malice even though he knew it was Thoroughgood’s way of trying to put him off balance.
‘You mean Miss Pageant?’ he inquired mildly. ‘She is a friend of mine, yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, we thought it was more than that,’ said Thoroughgood nastily.
‘Who is the “we” you talk about, who have been kind enough to interest themselves in my affairs?’ Edward was trying hard to keep his temper.
‘Oh, did I say “we”?’ said Thoroughgood vaguely. ‘It was just an expression.’
‘Look, Thoroughgood, if you’ve got something to say to me for God’s sake say it. I don’t think the women in my life have anything to do with you.’
‘But that’s just where you’re wrong, dear boy!’ said Thoroughgood delightedly. ‘Still it’s not Miss Pageant who interests us – delightful though she is. It’s your little commie friend; D.F. Browne’s daughter – Verity, isn’t that her name? I believe you met her last year when you were looking into that business of poor General Craig’s death. She visited you this morning . . . rather early?’
Edward coloured. ‘My God, Thoroughgood, don’t tell me I am being watched. Surely England is not yet a police state?’
‘No, Corinth, no suspicion is attached to you, I assure you.’ He avoided admitting or denying that he and Verity were being watched, Edward noticed.
‘Meaning that suspicion is attached to Miss Browne. Is that it?’ said Edward acidly.
‘Well, of course. We like to keep an eye on political extremists of whatever persuasion and your friend Miss Browne is a member of the Communist Party.’
‘ “We”? You keep mentioning “we”,’ Edward said coldly, wondering why he did not simply get up and leave.
‘Did I say “we” again? I am so sorry. I meant the FO, you understand,’ knowing Edward would take it to be the lie that it was. ‘The FO is interested in the activities of your friend Miss Browne and that chap of hers – most unpleasant fella – what’s his name? They are living in Madrid, are they not?’
‘I imagine you know perfectly well that that is where Verity – Miss Browne – is. There is no secret about it; she is a foreign correspondent for the New Gazette.’
‘Ah yes, back to Lord Weaver, eh Corinth? He has a finger in so many pies.’
‘And you doubtless also know,’ Edward went on, ‘that Mr Griffiths-Jones is in prison accused of the murder of a colleague. As it happens, we both knew him: Godfrey Tilney.’
‘Yes, as you say, I did know. Tilney! What an odd lot there were at Eton with us, don’t you think? And that was why Miss Browne
visited you this morning? She was soliciting your help in staying Griffiths-Jones’ execution? I hope you told her there was nothing you could do – because of course there is nothing you or anyone else can do. David Griffiths-Jones,’ he repeated the name as though he were holding it up for inspection. ‘Oh yes, we know a good deal about that young man. He’s a bad hat, take my word for it.’
‘As a matter of fact, Thoroughgood, that is more or less what I did tell her – that I couldn’t do anything, I mean. However, I did say I would try and get in touch with Tilney’s parents and see if they might appeal for clemency. Miss Browne is convinced of Griffiths-Jones’ innocence.’
‘Well, yes, of course she would be.’ There was a sneer in Thoroughgood’s tone of voice which finally achieved what he had presumably been aiming at for the past hour: Edward lost his temper.
‘By God, Thoroughgood,’ he said rising. ‘I thought you were a nasty piece of work when we were at school but now I see you have become a complete cad. If you think insulting Miss Browne is a way of persuading me to do something for you . . .’
‘Sit down, Corinth,’ said Thoroughgood, not moving from his chair, ‘and don’t be a fool. You’re drawing attention to yourself. I’m not insulting anyone. In fact, it is just possible we might be able to help her . . . her friend.’
Edward sat down slowly. ‘How and why?’ he said shortly.
‘Two good questions, dear boy.’ Thoroughgood, who was only Edward’s senior by two or three years, seemed to enjoy patronising him. ‘The fact is, we need someone inside the British Communist Party to be our eyes and ears.’
‘Let me be clear,’ said Edward after taking a deep breath, ‘you want me, as your representative, to save Griffiths-Jones’ life in return for him working for you – spying in other words – betraying everything he believes in?’
‘Oh, come on, Corinth. Don’t be so naive. Your schoolboy honour is not appropriate in the dirty, dishonest world we all inhabit nowadays.’
‘I have no illusions, I assure you, about the ruthlessness of extremists on whatever side of the political spectrum but I have to say I had hoped . . .’
‘What a pompous fellow you are, Corinth. Look . . .’ Thoroughgood leant forward so close to Edward’s face that he could smell the wine on his breath. ‘You don’t seem to understand. This isn’t cricket. This is not gentlemen against gentlemen, nor even gentlemen against players – this is a fight to the death. Griffiths-Jones and his friends will do everything they can to drag this country into a war. The political situation in Spain is so unstable. The elections, which as far as we can tell were reasonably fair, have brought this hotch-potch of trades unions and left-wing political groupings to power – the so-called Popular Front – but the odds are the army won’t stand for it.’
‘The new government isn’t communist.’
‘No and that’s the devil of it.’
‘Why? Surely we don’t want to see a communist government?’
‘Listen, the name “Popular Front” was coined in Moscow at the 7th World Congress of the Third International, or Comintern, last year. Stalin was getting panicky about the rise of Nazi Germany – wanted to get on better terms with the democracies – so he decreed that in elections communists should support any party or group of parties however “bourgeois” who are against Fascism.
‘The Communist Party comprises the smallest group in the alliance but the Party will do what it always does: destabilise the main parties – which in all conscience are weak enough as it is – and foment civil war. You see, Corinth, the communists are frightened of the ballot box. They know they can never win that way. They want revolution, on the back of which they can seize power. Even more dangerous for us is their intention to lure us into a general European war. They hope a civil war in Spain will be the hook with which they will tow us into the mire. But, by God, some of us will do everything we can to prevent such a catastrophe. The British government will never allow itself to be drawn into a conflict which would destroy us and our empire.’
Edward was silent. Then he said, ‘But even if I agreed to help you, can you guarantee to save Griffiths-Jones? I thought you said nothing could help him now.’
‘I did. No, we cannot guarantee anything but it’s his only chance. We can pull some strings if it’s in our interests but you would have to make him understand what is expected of him.’
‘And why do you think I might succeed?’
‘We can’t be sure,’ Thoroughgood admitted, ‘but you’re a persuasive fellow and – shall I be frank?’
‘By all means.’
‘You are just the chivalrous idiot who feels you owe it to the girl you love to rescue her lover. Griffiths-Jones thinks he knows all about you, so in a sort of way he trusts you. I mean, he probably hates your guts, but he doesn’t rate you as an enemy.’ Thoroughgood smiled sweetly.
‘You’re not very complimentary.’
‘I don’t mean to be. If you are going to do anything in Spain, you must face facts.’ He changed the subject. ‘I understand Weaver has arranged a plane tomorrow morning at Croydon?’
‘Yes, so Miss Browne says.’
‘Good! Thank heavens for the very rich. I expect Harry Bragg will be the pilot.’
‘The air ace?’
‘Oh yes, but he’s a modest man so don’t call him that to his face.’
‘That’s all right, I know him a little. In fact, he more or less taught me to fly a year or two back when I was in Kenya. But won’t I be rather noticeable when I turn up in Madrid in an aeroplane hired by a newspaper magnate and piloted by Harry Bragg?’
‘Certainly! But that’s what you’ve got to do – make a fuss. You’re a rich young English milord – a knight on a charger come to rescue . . . well, you know the rest.’
‘I seem to recall that lopped heads often end up on chargers,’ said Edward wryly.
‘Different sort of charger, dear boy. In any case, your head is much too high profile to end up on a plate decorated with limp lettuce. Well, you’d better go now.’
‘How do I get in touch with you?’
‘In Madrid, through the embassy. Not the ambassador – he’s a bit of an ass. In fact, we have brought him back to London for the moment . . . “consultations”, you know the sort of thing. You’ll liaise with Tom Sutton. He’s head of what we call the “political section” at the embassy. Do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘Well, never mind, you’ll like him. Not quite out of the top drawer but very clever.’
‘The Tilneys? It’s worth my going to see them if there’s time?’
‘Definitely. It’s what you would do in any case if you were thrashing around looking for ways of helping Griffiths-Jones. It’s a pity he doesn’t have any parents alive.’
Godfrey Tilney’s parents – once they understood who he was – were pathetically pleased to see Edward. Clearly, the only thing they lived for was perpetuating the memory of their son and here was an old school friend ready, even eager, to talk about him.
The maid had ushered Edward into a drawing-room which he imagined had remained largely unaltered since the reign of Queen Victoria. The room was dominated by a ‘baby grand’ piano covered by some sort of lace-edged tablecloth which, in turn, was covered with photographs in silver frames and knickknacks. It looked as though it had never been played. Antimacassars lay primly – like lace bonnets – on stuffed armchairs and a peculiarly offensive silver stag sat on the mantelpiece eternally fending off two hunting dogs.
Before Edward had time to examine the photographs on the piano, the door opened and he saw a large, unhealthy-looking woman with a pale face and eyes reddened from lack of sleep or excessive weeping.
‘Lord Edward Corinth?’ she said nervously, holding his card in vague puzzlement.
‘Yes, Mrs Tilney. I do apologise for calling unexpectedly but I am only in London for a day and I wanted to express my sympathies for your dreadful loss.’
‘I remember now. You were a fri
end of Godfrey’s,’ she said, brightening.
‘Yes, a school friend. I had not seen him for years, don’t y’know, but it was a terrible shock . . .’
Edward had thought it might be better to play the amiable ass which, as Verity would say, did not require much acting ability.
‘How very good of you to call. Please do sit down, Lord Edward. I . . . we miss him . . .’
‘Yes, of course you must,’ said Edward gently, seeing that tears had filled the woman’s eyes and raw emotion was preventing her from speaking. To give her time to recover he stuttered, ‘I’ve been in America so I missed . . . I’ve only just heard. Frightful business. How did it . . .? Or am I . . . do you not want to talk about it?’ He wanted desperately to comfort the distraught woman but, even more, he needed to know if she had any information which might help him understand what had happened to her son in the hills outside Madrid.
‘No! To be frank with you, Lord Edward, it’s still all we can think of. Until this man is executed . . .’
‘But why did it happen? Who would want to . . . to hurt Godfrey?’
‘Well, that’s exactly what we can’t understand. We – my husband and I – attended the trial in Madrid. A horrible place,’ she added, actually shuddering. ‘We don’t speak Spanish of course and the interpreter’s English was not very good so I dare say we missed much of what was said. The evidence seemed quite clear, you know: a knife which belonged to this man – ’ she could not bear to say Griffiths-Jones’ name – ‘and some bloodstained clothes were discovered in his rooms but I never did understand why he had done such a dreadful thing . . . to my poor innocent boy. They were supposed to be friends.’ To Edward’s discomfort tears poured down her cheeks – tears of which she seemed quite unaware, perhaps because they were as natural to her now as smiling had been before her son’s death.
Bones of the Buried Page 4