‘San Pedro is a beauty spot. Foreigners do occasionally go walking around there when they want to get out of the city. Of course, Madrid people would never dream of going walking for fun,’ Verity said. ‘They do enough walking and, in any case, they’d say walking in the hills is something peasants do.’
‘So David left Tilney at San Pedro and presumably Tilney did not have far to go to meet his friend.’
‘Unless he was murdered on his way somewhere,’ Verity said.
‘No one in the village saw them?’
‘No one admitted to it,’ Verity said. Her colour was better now. By putting the whole thing on a ‘professional’ level – as if they were investigating a stranger’s murder – Edward had made her use her brain instead of her heart. ‘Probably someone did see David or Godfrey or both but they don’t like getting involved with the police. It’s quite understandable.’
‘And it was definitely Tilney?’ Edward had turned to Belasco.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You identified the body?’
‘Yes, well, David did. He was his friend. I looked over his shoulder when Gonzales took the sheet off the body but it was only for a second. Of course it was Tilney. David said it was. Who else could it have been?’
Edward got the feeling that the ‘tough guy’, Ben Belasco, might have closed his eyes at a crucial moment but, on the other hand, he was a novelist. Wouldn’t he have wanted to absorb every little detail of the scene for future use?
‘And the knife?’ he asked Belasco.
‘What about it? Gonzales showed it to us and that was when David recognised it as his own.’
‘The ring too?’
‘Yep.’
‘What did the police do?’
‘Nothing then. They said David and I would have to be questioned again in Madrid.’
‘I’m surprised they didn’t detain him on the spot.’
‘Don’t forget, David’s known as someone with political influence here in Madrid and Captain Gonzales would not have risked detaining him without first discussing it with his superiors.’
‘But the evidence was so damning, they had no alternative but to arrest him,’ he said brutally.
‘I suppose so,’ Verity admitted grudgingly. ‘The next day – that was the 10th – they searched his flat and found the bloodstained clothing and then they arrested him.’
‘Well,’ Edward said after a moment, ‘I agree with you, David would never have left such an obvious trail if he really had killed Tilney. It looks to me as if someone wanted him out of the way – and Godfrey Tilney too – and this was a way of killing two birds with one stone. Elaborate but effective,’ Edward mused. ‘First thing tomorrow we go and see David. You’ve arranged that, Verity?’
‘Yes, and then, if you want to, we can go and see Captain Gonzales.’
‘Although I doubt whether he will be able to tell me anything useful. I would guess he has done what he considers a professional job, got his conviction, and won’t welcome someone like me trying to reopen the investigation.’
‘The crazy thing was,’ Hester said, ‘when it came to the trial, David would not defend himself. He seemed to have no interest in the proceedings. He wouldn’t say what they were doing in the mountains – except that they were out for a walk, which no one believed. He wasn’t interested in how his knife was used to kill Tilney and refused to speculate on whom Tilney was going to see. After all, if David didn’t kill him – and of course we believe he didn’t,’ she said hastily, seeing Verity scowl, ‘then the most likely suspect was this mysterious “friend”.’
‘I’ll want to go out to San Pedro,’ Edward said. ‘Is that difficult?’
‘You can get a little train part of the way to Montejo de la Sierra, then a bus the few miles to San Martino,’ Belasco said, ‘then you walk.’
‘David’s innocent,’ Verity burst out. ‘Someone’s framed him. I don’t know why but that’s what happened.’
Edward looked at her with affection. He wondered if she would be as vehement on his behalf if he was in trouble and thought she would. ‘Apart from David and Ben, did any of you see the body?’
‘No,’ said Hester, ‘but then why should we?’
‘I thought they had the custom of showing the body in an open coffin before the funeral?’
‘Yes, but Tilney was a foreigner and not a Catholic. His parents came over – poor things – and he was buried in the English cemetery.’
‘I see,’ said Edward, spooning up the last of his olla which was deliciously flavoured with herbs he could only guess at. ‘Did any of the high-ups here go to the funeral?’
‘The ambassador was in London – still is – but Tom represented the embassy. That was all,’ Tate said. ‘Of course, I was there on behalf of the British community. And Ben was there . . . he’s a high-up in his way.’
‘I went just from curiosity, I’m afraid. I didn’t much care about Tilney – not a character I warmed to. He didn’t drink for one thing. But all writers worth their salt write about death. What else is there worth writing about?’
‘No one from the government?’
‘No, why should they send anyone? Anyway, there wasn’t a government. The elections were on, remember, and the Spanish had other things to think about,’ said Hester.
‘But if he worked for them . . .?’
‘No one says that – not in public,’ said Verity. ‘Tilney was very secretive. He was officially a journalist but I don’t know if he ever filed any stories. He certainly wasn’t attached to any particular paper.’
‘What was Tilney like? You said you didn’t like him, Belasco.’
There was a long silence, then Tate said, ‘He wasn’t much liked by any of us, I’m afraid.’
‘Why?’
‘He kept to himself. Didn’t mix much with us – seldom came here, for instance. In fact, David was the only one of us who knew him well. That’s why . . .’
‘. . . why you thought he must work for the Party?’ said Edward. ‘Surely you would know, Verity?’
‘He was a Party member – that’s all I know. If you want to know what he did you’ll have to ask David,’ she said shortly.
It was after midnight before Edward got back to his hotel. He was very weary and aware that he had a long day ahead of him. As he flopped into bed and tried to get comfortable on the hard little mattress, his mind chewed uselessly on what he had learnt that night. One thing was clear: no one, with the exception of his parents, mourned Godfrey Tilney. Could that mean there might be other people – people he knew nothing about – who had a reason to kill him? The police, busy keeping order in the volatile political situation, might have hesitated to arrest David but, when the case against him was served up to them on a plate, they must have breathed a sigh of relief. They were spared lengthy investigations for which they probably did not have the resources. Their duty was simply to present the case against him in the court. Even Verity did not seem to think the police had conspired against David.
Everyone seemed to feel that David’s trial had been fair, except for the odd fact that David had not made much effort to defend himself. Perhaps if the election had not been on, one of his powerful friends might have pulled strings and got him out of gaol but from what he had been told the whole thing had happened too quickly for anyone to have intervened. The evidence had been gathered and the case heard all within three weeks. In England, it took months before a man accused of murder came to trial, but not here in Spain. Edward wondered why there had been no significant protests from the British government. He supposed they had no reason to love David Griffiths-Jones and no obvious justification for interfering in a murder trial carried out with transparent fairness.
The New Gazette had fulminated against the iniquities of ‘Johnnie Foreigner’ but, from what he had seen of Lord Weaver’s campaign to have David freed, it was based solely on the principle that an Englishman – however distasteful his political views – could never be guilty of a
ny crime, or, if guilty, should not be susceptible to the authority of a foreign judiciary. It would be interesting to see if David had been surprised by the speed and ease with which he had been condemned to death. On second thoughts, perhaps that might not be a tactful question to put to a man in the condemned cell.
Edward had little doubt that something strange was going on. The evidence against David was absurdly neat and tidy but he seemed to be conniving in his own destruction. Edward had less than a week to find out what was behind it all. If only Thoroughgood could get him two or three weeks more. Might David have something to tell him that he had not even told Verity? As he turned in his bed for the hundredth time trying to get comfortable, he fell asleep.
5
The prison was on the outskirts of the city on the Calle de la Princesa next door to the lunatic asylum. Edward’s stomach was churning with apprehension as Hester drove him and Verity past the grim-looking barracks, the army’s headquarters in Madrid, to the fortress-like building in which David Griffiths-Jones was incarcerated. Verity tugged at a huge bell-pull outside the prison gates and, as they waited for it to cease jangling, Edward was reminded irresistibly of a production of Fidelio he had seen at the Met while he had been in New York .
‘Should you go in first, Verity, and make sure David is prepared to see me?’
Verity ignored him and, after a wait of four or five minutes in the cold morning air, Edward was quite glad to be ushered into the great courtyard in which the prisoners exercised. They were then conducted up a stone staircase to the governor’s office. Verity and Hester had been there often before, of course, and greeted Capitán José Ramón as an old friend.
‘Hola! José, conoce usted a Lord Edward Corinth?’
‘Encantado,’ said the governor, coming out from behind his desk to kiss the ladies’ hands and shake Edward’s.
‘Perdone, no hablo español,’ Edward faltered. He felt a bit of a fraud because he had picked up a little Spanish when he had been in South America but he was shy about using it.
‘No importa,’ said the governor genially. ‘It does not matter. It is good I can practise my English. You are the friend of Señor Griffiths-Jones? That is such a hard name for me to say,’ he smiled.
‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘Is he well?’
The governor shrugged: ‘As well as can be expected.’
Edward cursed himself for having asked a foolish question.
‘I’ll stay here,’ Hester said, ‘if the Capitán permits. I think it’s better that we do not crowd the poor man. It is important you two go and talk to him. I can’t contribute much.’
Verity demurred but Hester was adamant. Just before they were escorted off to see the prisoner, the governor said, ‘You must know the day of the execution has been delayed dos semanas.’
Verity was delighted: ‘But that’s wonderful. It gives us the time we need, doesn’t it, Edward?’
Edward thought her faith in him was touching. ‘Why is that?’ he asked the governor.
‘I do not know,’ said Ramón. ‘Orders from above.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Does Mr Griffiths-Jones know?’ Edward asked.
‘Yes, I told him this morning, as soon as I received the order.’
Edward wondered if this was Basil Thoroughgood ‘pulling strings’ or just a coincidence.
David Griffiths-Jones’ cell was by no means luxurious but Edward guessed it was considerably more commodious than that in which an ordinary prisoner would find himself. It had a metal bed, a washbasin beside it, a simple wooden armchair with a lamp behind it and a threadbare carpet. On a little wooden shelf half a dozen books were stacked. Griffiths-Jones was reading when they entered and Edward saw that he now wore glasses. As he rose to greet them, he took them off and laid them on the washstand with the book – which Edward saw was Das Kapital. Griffiths-Jones was the only communist he had ever heard of who had actually read it. Despite having to wear glasses, David was still a young man and very good-looking. He was tall, blond, though Edward convinced himself, rather spitefully, that his hair was thinning. His eyes were striking – blue and piercing. He was a little thinner than when Edward had last seen him six months before and, unsurprisingly, he looked strained and tired.
Verity kissed him on the cheek and for a moment he held her in an embrace which showed real affection. Then he turned to Edward.
‘I’m afraid, Corinth, Verity has wasted your time. I tried to dissuade her from . . . from getting you here but you know how obstinate she is.’
‘But he’s already achieved something,’ Verity blurted out. ‘He saw a Foreign Office man in London and now we have got more time to get you out of here.’
Edward broke in hurriedly: ‘Verity, you’re jumping the gun . . .’Realising how unfortunate this sounded, he pressed on: ‘I mean, I have no idea if there’s any connection. Basil Thoroughgood – he’s an FO acquaintance of mine in London, David, – promised to do what he could but who knows what that means in practice.’
Griffiths-Jones was silent for a moment and then said, ‘Look, Verity, since you have brought Corinth to see me – and no doubt bullied him just like you bullied me – ’ he smiled to take the sting out of his words, ‘I think you had better leave us alone to talk. Why don’t you go back to José’s office.’
‘Can I come and see you before we leave?’ she inquired meekly.
‘Of course.’ He signalled to the guard who was standing outside the cell to escort Verity back to the governor’s office and, when she had gone, motioned Edward to sit in the chair.
‘I’ll sit on the bed. No, really,’ he said, seeing Edward about to refuse. ‘I’m quite comfortable on the bed. In any case, if you don’t mind, I might pace around a bit. I have exercise periods but it’s never enough. In fact it’s what I miss most about this place. But, of course, it won’t be for long.’
Edward thought it wisest not to offer conventional protestations. ‘Look, David – I hope I may call you David?’
‘Be my guest,’ the other said ironically. ‘There is an intimacy engendered in meeting in a condemned cell which it would be idiotic to deny.’
‘First of all, I apologise for coming here. I knew you would not want to see me and I told Verity so but, as you said, she won’t take no for an answer. She knows we don’t get on, for obvious reasons, and I told her you might think I had come to . . .’
‘To gloat? No, oddly enough, I didn’t think you would come for that reason but I’m almost certain there is nothing you can do . . . in the time available.’
‘You think there is something I could do.’
‘There might be,’ Griffiths-Jones said grudgingly.
‘Well, tell me, for God’s sake!’
‘You see, Corinth, the thing is, I didn’t kill Tilney.’
‘I didn’t think you . . .’
‘No, hold on a moment. I’m sure you do think I did it and maybe I could have. I certainly feel like doing it now!’ He hit his fist against the wall. ‘I didn’t kill Tilney because no one did.’
‘No one did? His death was an accident?’ Edward said, already disbelieving what he was being told.
‘Oh, no. What I mean is when I left him he was very much alive.’
‘But you identified the body . . .’
‘Yes, well, that was what we agreed.’
‘I’m sorry, David, but I’m not following this at all. Can you start from the beginning?’
Griffiths-Jones hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘To make you understand, I’ve got to explain a little about the political situation here. It’s anything but cut and dried. Anything might happen. We expect opposition from the army to what we are trying to do. The new government has sent away to the provinces – North Africa mostly – some of the generals they most distrust, like Mola and Francisco Franco, but that may not be far enough. Added to which the Popular Front is by no means united. We have to deal with weak-as-water socialists, Trotskyists, anarchists and Catalonian separatists so gettin
g anything done is a battle.’
‘You talk about “we” all the time like my friend Basil Thoroughgood. He means the Foreign Office but I suspect your “we” is the Communist Party as directed by Moscow. Is that right?’
‘Look, Corinth, you know I have no time for your sort of “English gentleman” politics. The fight against Fascism is too serious to be left to people like you and in any case – you mentioned Basil Thoroughgood – I happen to know he is a Fascist sympathiser and there are many more like him at the heart of government. Britain is riddled with snobbery, corruption and anti-Semitism. You can’t fight evil – by which I mean Fascism – with a broken sword.’
‘But you’re not Spanish. Is this really your fight? Aren’t you interfering in someone else’s quarrel and making it worse?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Corinth, this isn’t a Spanish quarrel – or not just a Spanish quarrel. It’s a fight against the evil of Fascism. This is the first battle in a long and bloody war. Each time we don’t stand up to it, it grows like some monster which feeds on blood and treachery. I don’t suppose you’ve ever read Lenin’s What is to be Done?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, you should. It might appeal to you. I read it first at Cambridge, at the Gramophone Society.’
‘The what?’
David smiled. ‘It’s what we called our communist gatherings. We caught “conspiracy” like we caught chickenpox when we were children.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Why should you? Communism could have no appeal for you.’ There was a sneer in his voice. ‘But you ought to understand what is going to be the fate of you and your class.’ He waved a hand at the copy of Das Kapital. ‘As long ago as 1844 – almost a century ago – Karl Marx described communism as “the riddle of history solved, and knowing itself to be the solution”. And to get back to Lenin – ’ David was pacing up and down the cell in his eagerness to preach the word – ‘he wrote What is to be Done? a full fifteen years before the revolution but it is so farsighted, so brilliantly focused. He stresses the absolute necessity of discipline and he talks about the need for terror – “truly terrifying terror”, he says, “is magnificent.” ’
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