‘Sit down, you two! Lord Edward – how good to meet you at last. Verity’s been singing your praises.’ Edward shot a glance at Verity who refused to catch his eye. ‘Do you know about the British Council? It was founded a couple of years back to promote the English language and English culture throughout the world. Would you really be prepared to give a lecture? It can be difficult finding interesting lecturers. What would you speak about?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about anything,’ said Edward, shaking Maurice’s warm, damp hand and trying to smile.
‘That doesn’t matter, does it, Maurice? I don’t suppose half the people you get on to the platform actually know what they’re talking about. Who was that man we had to listen to the other day? Ugh!’
‘Lord Benyon is a famous economist. You mustn’t be wicked, Verity. You’ve heard of Benyon, haven’t you, Lord Edward?’
‘I’m afraid not, but then, as I say, I don’t know anything.’
Maurice Tate looked the typical English intellectual: from the New Statesman on the table in front of him down to his grey-flannel trousers, tweed jacket patched with leather at the elbow, and scuffed suede shoes. His hair was thin and brushed over the top of his head in a vain attempt to disguise his bald patch. He was smoking Gitanes through a long, chewed cigarette holder and his white hands, like the flippers of some light-starved fish, flapped foolishly as he talked. Edward imagined he must model himself on Noël Coward – he affected what he obviously believed to be Coward’s thin, clipped way of speaking – but he more closely resembled a preparatory schoolmaster.
Edward had occasion to congratulate himself on his perspicacity when Verity added, ‘Maurice is directing Love’s Labour’s Lost at the Institute. He wants Hester to play the Princess of France. I think she would be marvellous, don’t you?’
‘And you, Lord Edward, you would be perfect for Berowne.’
‘I fear I won’t be here long enough, Mr Tate.’
‘Ah no, of course, “lawful espials”,’ he said in a stage whisper.
‘Lawful what, Maurice?’ said Hester.
‘Hamlet,’ Edward said. ‘But I assure you, I’ve not come to spy on anyone just to try and get David out of gaol.’
Edward turned to speak to Hester but she had her back to him, talking to a very good-looking young man who was smoking, drinking and giving tongue all at the same time. Verity, catching his glance, said, ‘Let me introduce you to the others. Tom, stop talking for a moment and say hello to Edward – Lord Edward Corinth, Tom Sutton and . . . you know, vice versa.’
The young man rose gracefully and took Edward’s hand. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Basil Thoroughgood told me to look out for you. I’m at the embassy. Terrible business about David. Anything you want, you only have to ask.’
Tom Sutton was giving every sign of being as ineffectual as Maurice Tate but Edward, looking into his shrewd grey eyes, recognised that he was not to be underestimated. ‘Very glad to meet you,’ Edward said. ‘Perhaps you might allow me to come to your office tomorrow for a chat?’
‘Of course,’ Sutton responded. ‘Eleven o’clock – would that suit you?’
Verity broke in, ‘And this is the star of our little party. Edward, you haven’t met Ben Belasco before, have you?’
‘No,’ said Edward putting out his hand, ‘but I know and admire your work.’
‘Very kind,’ Belasco said, not attempting to rise but transferring his cigar to an ashtray in order to put his ham of a hand in Edward’s. His voice was a deep growl and it crossed Edward’s mind that it might have been practised. The accent was American Midwest.
Belasco would have stood out in any crowd, partly because of his size. He was a head taller than Edward – maybe six-three – barrel-chested and running to fat but, even slumped on the leather banquette, he exuded a charm which almost visibly dimmed the appeal of any other man in his vicinity. His eyes were small, black and very bright; his fleshy mouth was crowned with a silky black moustache which, as he spoke, took on a life all of its own. There was something both ludicrous and impressive about Ben Belasco. ‘Half-charlatan, half-genius,’ Tom Sutton said to Edward when they were discussing the famous writer the following day. ‘I find myself imagining him to be a skin changer. You know what I mean? At night, he shambles across the deserted city in the guise of a brown bear looking for . . . I don’t quite know what his natural prey might be, except that he would have prey. Forgive me for being whimsical but he really is a hunter.’
‘Yes, I read his book – what was what it called? – Hunter’s Moon, set in Tanganyika, as far as I remember.’
‘It was. A first book and a brilliant debut,’ Sutton said. ‘And what’s more, it was based on his own adventures. They say he’s a crack shot.’
‘I read his second one too – Bloodstone – about his experiences in France during the war,’ Edward said. ‘I have to admit, I expected it to be bogus but I ended up admiring it.’
‘I agree. There is something bogus about the man – for example he will let you think he was a front-line soldier in the war but actually he was a medical orderly. Nothing wrong with that but he’s a bit of a . . . well, the phrase I’ve heard Hester use is “bullshitter” – not for repetition but accurate just the same. But if Belasco is bogus, his books aren’t. It’s odd that, isn’t it? A writer may be a fraud in his own life but when he puts pen to paper he can be “the billy”, as the Scots say.’
Rather to his surprise, Edward saw Belasco slide along the banquette and signal Verity to sit beside him, which she did after a moment’s hesitation, shooting Edward a look as if requiring his permission. Belasco began, absent-mindedly, stroking the back of her neck as though she were a kitten. Edward was not one to gush but he found himself telling Belasco how much his work meant to him and the big American accepted his praise with evident pleasure, notwithstanding the mocking twinkle in his eye. He said little but occasionally nodded his head as if in agreement and sucked on his cigar till the ash glowed. Verity was watching them both with amazement. ‘I don’t know what’s come over you, Edward,’ she said at last, after they had ordered more wine. ‘I have never heard you so enthusiastic before. In fact, I said to Ben I was sure you two wouldn’t get on.’
‘Maybe we won’t, V,’ Belasco said, ‘but I would be what Hetty calls a “schlepper” not to enjoy Lord Edward praising my writing. It’s the one thing a writer needs: praise and plenty of it and when it comes from an English lord – and not a monocled fool at that – well, I guess we had to “get on” as you put it – but it won’t last. When people get to know me they usually find me unbearable.’
‘Oh, that’s nonsense, Ben,’ Tate said. ‘Ben always draws a crowd when I can prevail on him to read or lecture.’
‘Pshaw!’ said Belasco. ‘You make me puke, Maurice. You and your British Council! A few old ladies who still think Britain has an empire. You know I hate the whole thing with you Brits. So morally superior! Can’t you hear what the world’s saying? Brits go home, your time is up.’
‘What’s “shepper”?’ asked a pallid girl with an English accent to whom Edward had not been introduced; indeed he had hardly registered her until this moment. She had a thin, high voice and her whole appearance was tubercular – pallid, almost shiny skin, long limp hair, like Alice in Wonderland, and a peevish mouth.
‘ “Shepper”?’ said Belasco, puzzled, the question having been directed at him. ‘Oh, “schlepper”. Hetty will have to tell you. It’s one of her words.’
Hester said, ‘Oh, you know, Maggie; it means “idiot”. It’s a Yiddish word, I guess.’
Edward thought it would be polite if he introduced himself to the girl Hester had called Maggie. ‘Hello,’ he said, fatuously, ‘I’m Edward Corinth.’
‘I know,’ was all she said in return, so Edward gave up.
‘Who’s the girl?’ he whispered to Maurice.
‘She’s my daughter,’ Tate said surprisingly.
Edward started to apologise.
Edward turned once more to Maggie. ‘Have you a part in Love’s Labour’s Lost, Miss Tate?’
‘No, Dad says I can’t miss any more school.’
‘Sweetie-pie, it costs me the earth having you boarding at St George’s. I might as well get my money’s worth.’
Maggie went into a sulk. A thoroughly spoiled child was Edward’s judgement.
The waiter was hovering, so they ordered. Edward was feeling very tired but also very hungry. It was ten o’clock and he and Verity had travelled a long way but he thought he would sleep better with something hot inside him. He ordered the cocido madrileño which Hester told him was a beef stew. Belasco said it was more likely to be goat. Verity ordered cabrito al ajillo. He had no idea what that might be but didn’t like to reveal his ignorance by asking.
‘You’ve come to see the prisoner in the tower?’ said Belasco when the waiter had departed. Verity looked suddenly stricken and Edward inwardly cursed him.
‘Well, he’s an old friend . . .’ Edward began haltingly.
‘V here seems to think she’s gotten a miracle man in you. “Open sesame”, that sort of thing.’
‘I wish I were,’ he said, trying to hide his embarrassment by drinking deeply of the strong, garnet-coloured Rioja he had been given. The wine coursed through him making him feel less cold but even more sleepy. ‘I have said I can’t see what I can do but . . .’ The waiter returned with commendable expedition and placed in front of him a plate of steaming meat and cabbage. As he picked up his fork, revived by the wine and the heady aroma of Spanish herbs and root vegetables, he said, ‘I must say I feel guilty eating like this when I think of David in his cell . . .’
‘Not to worry on that score,’ said Belasco. ‘Capitán José Ramón is looking after him.’
‘He’s the prison governor and a friend of ours,’ Hester explained. ‘You see, David’s quite a celebrity here. I mean, he was well known for his political activities before . . . before all this. You were in America and I guess it wasn’t reported there.’
‘There’s never anything about Europe in the New York newspapers as you know.’
‘I’m surprised Verity didn’t write you about it.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ said Edward, ‘I don’t suppose she had time . . . Griffiths-Jones and I were at Cambridge together but we weren’t close friends. In fact, it was Verity who reintroduced us.’
Verity buried her face in her wine glass and made no comment.
‘Well anyway, you’re here now. You’re going to visit him tomorrow?’
‘Yes, at nine o’clock. I also want to talk to the investigating officer, if that’s possible.’
Belasco said, ‘Sure. Just ask Ramón to arrange it. The police have a lot to worry about with the new government and the likelihood of political demonstrations of one kind or another but they are surprisingly effective and honest. At least, Capitán Gonzales is.’
‘He was the chap who brought the case against David?’
‘Yeah, that was “the chap”,’ Belasco agreed.
Sutton said, ‘The last thing the new government wants to do is alienate Britain by executing one of its nationals, but what can they do? The evidence was overwhelming and the verdict was given after a fair trial. There’s another problem for the police: David is well in with several senior members of the new government. There was talk of his being the government’s unofficial channel of communication with the Soviet Union. I don’t know if there’s any truth in it and there’s no point asking at their embassy because they won’t tell you anything. If you could find some way of exonerating David, you would gain the gratitude, not only of the man himself, but the Spanish government as well. It’s all an embarrassment to them.’
Edward had the feeling Sutton did not much care for David Griffiths-Jones despite his talk of ‘gratitude’. ‘You say the evidence against him is overwhelming,’ he said, ‘but from what Verity has told me it’s all circumstantial.’
Verity had managed to keep quiet until now but could not resist saying, as though she needed to convince herself as much as Edward, ‘He was framed. I know he was but I can’t understand who had anything to gain by it.’
Edward ignored her and said to the table at large, ‘By the way, I really would be grateful if you could go over exactly what happened. Verity has only given me the bare facts . . .’
Hester said, ‘You don’t know? We’ve heard it all so often it’s hard to believe there’s someone who doesn’t know. Let me see . . .’ She began to count on her fingers: ‘There was the knife, the bloodstained clothes and the ring.’
‘The ring?’
‘Yep, didn’t she tell you? Hey, you’ve got to be straight with your man, honey,’ she reproved Verity.
Verity scowled, not liking the ‘your man’ tag. ‘No, I forgot,’ she said shortly.
‘It was the ring clinched it,’ Hester went on. ‘David left his ring by the body.’
Edward grimaced. ‘You would have to be very stupid or very careless to do that and David is neither.’
‘They said it must have come off in the struggle,’ Hester went on remorselessly. Edward was getting the feeling Hester didn’t much like David either. He began to be quite sorry for the man and this cheered him up.
‘What kind was it?’
‘The ring?’ Verity said. ‘It was a simple gold one with his initials engraved on it.’
‘David’s not married.’
‘No, silly,’ Verity said crossly, ‘it wasn’t a wedding ring – or rather it was – it was his father’s. They shared the same initials: D G-J.’
‘I see,’ Edward said. ‘And we don’t know why the two of them went up to the mountains? They were friends – so was it just a companionable trek?’
‘David says it was just a trek – you know, hiking . . . for the exercise, but we’re all sure it was something to do with politics . . .’ Hester responded.
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Verity sharply. ‘What could politics have to do with a walk in the mountains?’ She had some idea that, whatever she had said to Edward in private, she ought to be discreet about David’s political activities in public.
‘Well, I guess you should know, darling,’ said Hester. Edward wondered if she meant because Verity was David’s lover or because they were both Communist Party activists . . . or both.
‘In any case,’ said Belasco, ‘David got back here . . .’
‘You mean, Madrid?’ said Edward.
‘No, I mean here . . . to Chicote’s. We almost always meet here about eight for a drink.’
‘In your case, several,’ said Hester. ‘Carlo, behind the bar, he keeps a bottle of bourbon specially for Ben.’
‘Good writers are drinking writers, drinking writers are good writers,’ Belasco intoned.
‘Sure,’ Hester continued. ‘So he gets back here about eight and is surprised none of us have seen Godfrey. David explains he had gone off on his own to meet some mysterious stranger, but that he should have got back by now . . .’
‘Sorry, you mean Tilney was meeting someone in the mountains?’ Edward asked.
‘Yeah, according to David; it sounds odd but Godfrey was always doing odd things.’
‘He was definitely one of your lot?’ Edward said to Verity. ‘A Communist Party member?’
‘Oh sure.’ It was Hester who answered for Verity, in her long drawl. ‘He was definitely “one of them” but he wasn’t exactly one of us.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Oh, I guess he thought we were all wastrels, capitalists rotten at the core, not worth wasting time on.’
Verity said, ‘Hester thinks those of us in the Party are . . . what is it, Hetty? – “deluded and depraved”.’
‘Not depraved, darling, but certainly deluded.’
‘That was why he was always “doing odd things”?’ Edward said.
‘Yes,’ said Hester. ‘He was always going off on mysterious journeys sometimes for weeks on end, so we weren’t too surprised that he had gone off on his own instead of coming back with David.’
‘But then,’ said Tate, ‘David seemed to get anxious and we began to wonder if he had got lost or something and whether we should send out a search party.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes. Well, there was nothing we could do in the dark, but in the morning David and Ben set out to look for him.’
‘Where did you find him?’ Edward said as no one seemed to want to carry on.
‘We didn’t find him,’ Belasco said, ‘the police found him or rather a shepherd did, at daybreak when he had gone out to see to his goats. We were just about to set off when we had a message from the police chief here: Gonzales.’
‘So then what happened?’
‘David and I went out to San Martino to identify the body.’
‘San Martino?’
‘It’s a little town in the hills in the Sierra Norte.’
‘That’s to the north of Madrid?’
‘Yes,’ said Verity, ‘it’s directly north on the road to Burgos. I suppose it’s part of the Sierra de Guadarrama. It’s a very beautiful area; some of it’s quite wooded.’
‘And that’s where the body was discovered?’
‘Near there, outside a small village called San Pedro,’ Hester said. ‘No telephones of course. The goatherd, seeing it was an extranjero – a foreigner – rushed to the priest who got on his burro and trotted off to town.’
‘The goatherd – he knew it was a foreigner?’
‘Well, I suppose he would have reported any dead body but he wouldn’t have had any difficulty identifying Tilney’s body as that of a foreigner unless . . . unless it had been very badly knocked about,’ Hester concluded.
Edward saw Verity looking very pale so he did not pursue the matter but clearly the body hadn’t been on the mountainside long enough to have decomposed or been eaten by animals.
Bones of the Buried Page 7