Bones of the Buried

by David Roberts

  ‘Look,’ said Tate, ‘we could try telephoning from here. This is about the best time for getting through – after the end of the business day.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ Edward began but Tate had said something to Carlos who brought out from behind the bar an ancient-looking instrument which did not hold up much hope of communicating with the next room, let alone England.

  Tate spoke into the telephone for some time and then said, ‘There’s about an hour’s wait. Give me the telephone number in England and the operator will call us back when he gets through.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Edward said. He suddenly remembered that he did not have the number of the New Gazette and that, even if he did get through, Lord Weaver would not still be in the office. He hesitated and then gave the Mersham Castle number. He supposed he ought also to ring the Tilneys but, to his relief, he realised he could not as he did not have their number on him.

  Agustín had slipped away during this and was strumming at the piano. ‘Who do I pay?’ Edward said.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll settle up later. Let’s go to our table. Carlos will call us if the operator gets through.’

  ‘Did you say you were putting on a performance of Love’s Labour’s Lost?’ Edward said to make conversation when they were seated.

  ‘Yes, the English theatre is quite popular here. In fact everything English here has a certain snob appeal.’

  ‘Aren’t they all too busy with their politics to go to Shakespeare?’ Edward said. There was a touch of scorn in his voice of which he was unaware – scorn for Tate and for the Spanish. Tate looked at him curiously. He was disappointed. This English lord with a ridiculous name was not stupid and yet he seemed to share all the prejudices of his class and nationality. How often had he heard the English insult foreigners – it had made him quite embarrassed on occasion – and how few of them bothered to learn the language. If only the English could hear themselves! Ignorance and superiority; it was an unpleasant combination.

  ‘Funnily enough,’ he said, ‘despite the difficult political situation, all kinds of Spanish, who would never normally be seen in the same room together, come to watch our plays. I sometimes think we supply a vital channel of communication between the different “faiths” as one might call them. Somehow, in Spain, it all comes down in the end to religion – or lack of it. The odd thing is, the atheists are more fanatical than the Catholics.’

  Edward relaxed a little. He was beginning to feel that this man was not quite as odious as he had first thought. ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost . . . it’s one of the plays I know least well. Remind me what the plot is?’

  ‘There’s not much plot and what there is is rather absurd, though I believe Shakespeare based the play on real events. It’s sort of love’s revenge. Four young men – the King of Navarre and his friends – take a vow to forswear love for three years. Then along comes the Princess of France with some ladies but they are not allowed into the palace because of the King’s vow. They are naturally insulted at being made to camp outside so they decide to seduce the men from their vows.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now,’ Edward said. ‘Doesn’t it end rather oddly?’

  ‘Yes, just as all the women are paired off with the men and they are celebrating there comes news of the King of France’s death.’

  ‘Death triumphs over love?’

  ‘That may be the moral,’ Tate agreed.

  ‘And the jokes are dire, aren’t they?’ Edward said.

  ‘They are very literary and were very topical so some don’t make much sense now but oddly enough the wit is very Spanish. There’s even a word for it: “gracia” – repartee, as in fencing. Actually, it’s not quite as esoteric as you might think and it does have some very good lines. For example, Rosaline tells Berowne that he must earn her love by working in a hospital among “the speechless sick”, and he sneers at her: what is the point of struggling against pain and decay – “To move wild laughter in the throat of death”? Perhaps it isn’t a sneer but one of Shakespeare’s profound poetic truths. I don’t know but it’s a line which always gives me pause. You must also remember that Shakespeare was writing more of a masque than a play. We have to add the music.’

  ‘Hmm!’ Edward said. ‘Interesting – I must reread the play. Sounds as if you’ve given yourself quite a challenge. When’s the first performance?’

  ‘Not till the beginning of July. We would like to do it outside so we’ll wait till the weather warms up! Perhaps we can entice you back to Madrid then.’

  Edward was excused having to answer by the arrival of Hester, Ben Belasco and Verity. As Edward and Tate rose to greet them, Hester said, ‘Ah, there you are. We’ve been looking all over for you. We went to your hotel but they said you had gone out.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, Hester, I was looking for Tom Sutton. I wanted to telephone home and it seems I can’t do it from the hotel, so I thought I would try the embassy.’

  ‘Did you find Tom?’ Belasco said, seating himself.

  ‘Not yet but Tate – Maurice – has very kindly booked a call for me from the telephone at the bar.’

  ‘Terrible business,’ Belasco grunted.

  ‘Yes, horses . . . they’re so dangerous,’ Tate said.

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ said Belasco scornfully, ‘I mean Tilney.’

  Tate looked bemused. Hester said, ‘For God’s sake! Don’t say he hasn’t told you. They found Godfrey Tilney half-way up a mountain – murdered.’

  ‘Murdered!’ said Tate. ‘But . . . but we knew that.’

  Verity then had to tell him what she and Edward had discovered. Tate seemed stunned by the news. It was interesting, Verity decided, how differently everyone took the news of Tilney’s ‘second’ death. Hester had been upset but more intrigued than anything else. Belasco had frankly enjoyed it. He had hardly known the dead Englishman and had certainly not liked him. Verity thought she could see him storing away all the details for use in some future book. He made her tell him about the exact circumstances of the discovery – how Rosalía had behaved and what the priest had said – everything. Tate seemed to be taking it most to heart, although she couldn’t think why. Of course it was horrifying, but Tate’s reaction seemed extreme. It was common knowledge the two men hadn’t liked one another.

  ‘So what were you talking about all this time?’ Verity demanded of Edward.

  ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost,’ he told her.

  Verity said nothing but looked at him with disbelief. Then, collecting herself, she said, ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your brother’s accident.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edward distractedly. His headache, which had abated somewhat, was now worse than ever.

  ‘I have reported everything to the police,’ she told him eagerly. ‘We are all going up to San Martino at first light.’

  Edward, who could hardly concentrate, said, ‘Not me. I’ve got to go back to England.’

  ‘But you can’t,’ Verity burst out.

  ‘I can,’ Edward said brutally. ‘What more is there for me to do here?’

  ‘You’ve got to find out who killed Tilney.’

  ‘No I haven’t. I came here to get your David out of gaol and I have.’

  ‘My David,’ said Verity angrily. ‘He’s your friend.’

  ‘No he’s not. He’s your lover, or was. He’s no friend of mine.’

  Verity blushed and everyone looked embarrassed, particularly Belasco.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Edward. ‘Please forgive me. I . . . I don’t know. But you see, I must get back.’

  ‘You’re a stuck-up, selfish bastard,’ Verity said, rising white-lipped from the table. ‘What have you done when it comes down to it? You go and see David who tells you how to find Tilney and, when you get there, you find he has been killed, probably because someone heard you gassing about where you were going. And . . .’ She held up her hand to stop Edward interrupting her. ‘. . . and I don’t know what makes you think they’re going to let David o
ut of gaol. They can probably be persuaded he didn’t kill Tilney because, as you so rightly pointed out,’ she said sarcastically, ‘he was in the clink, in a dungeon, at the time but they will still want to know who killed the man they buried, and they will want to know why David did not tell them Tilney was alive and save them the trouble of trying him for murder. I suppose you didn’t think of that.’

  Once again, Edward tried to break into this stream of accusations: ‘But my dear child . . .’

  Edward could not have chosen words more likely to enrage Verity. The tears, which she had been struggling to control, now rolled down her cheeks but she did not notice them. ‘How dare you “dear child” me, you . . . you effete relic of decayed capitalism. And what makes you think the Spanish police will let you out of the country? You haven’t even met Captain Gonzales yet and I don’t for one minute think he will like you when you do. Think about it. A foreigner, after only a day in this country, finds the body of a man allegedly murdered weeks ago. Highly suspicious, I’d say. Do you think they will like being made to look like fools? No, of course not! They will, quite rightly, assume you had information you ought to have passed on to them and they’ll think you didn’t because you wanted to get to him first and kill him . . .’

  ‘But that’s absurd, I . . .’

  ‘Perdone, señor, su llamada telefónica . . .’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, thank you.’ Edward followed the waiter to the bar where Carlos proudly passed him the telephone. ‘Very good, very queek, eh?’

  Still bewildered by Verity’s outburst, he nodded uncomprehendingly at the barman and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, hello? Who is there? Connie, is that you? Look, I am speaking to you from a bar and it’s very noisy . . . sorry, I can hardly hear you. Listen to me. I am coming back straight away . . . as soon as I can. The quickest will be by aeroplane. Telephone Joe Weaver and ask him to send Harry Bragg to pick me up tomorrow if possible . . . Wire me through the embassy – a man called Tom Sutton . . . yes, that’s right, Sutton . . . S-U-double T . . . How is . . . Oh Connie, I am so sorry. I’ll be back as soon . . . oh damn it, it’s gone dead.’

  When Edward got back to the table, there was no sign of Verity but he pretended not to notice. Belasco said, ‘I hope . . . I mean, I didn’t know you had a thing going with Verity, Lord Edward. If I . . .’

  ‘We had nothing “going” as you put it,’ Edward said coldly. ‘I suppose she’s just upset about David, but really you know, there’s nothing else I can do.’

  His appeal for sympathy fell flat. Hester said, ‘We understand. That’s really bad news about your brother. When are you leaving for England?’

  ‘Tomorrow I hope. If not, then the next day.’

  ‘Well, let me know and I’ll run you to the airport.’

  ‘Thanks, I’m . . .’

  Tate broke in: ‘Here’s Tom. You had better tell him everything. He’s always good in a crisis. Mind you, I suppose that’s his job.’

  10

  ‘Connie, I’m so, so sorry. How is he?’

  ‘Still unconscious. I spend most days at the hospital but . . .’

  ‘What do the doctors say? Do they think he’ll . . . he’ll pull through?’

  ‘They don’t know, Ned.’ Connie, holding Edward’s hands in hers, looked him full in the face. ‘As far as they can see, he hasn’t had a haemorrhage. They just think he has bruised his brain and only time will tell how . . . how badly. It’s funny, I suppose I always knew I loved the old boy even when he was at his most annoying but . . . I . . . never knew how much, until now when I may lose him. Oh God, Edward, it’s so good to see you. Everyone’s been frightfully kind but it’s only family who matter at a time like this. Do you mind if we walk round the garden before going in – that is, if you’re not too tired?’

  ‘I’d like some air,’ Edward said, taking her arm. Words didn’t seem adequate somehow.

  It was almost dusk and he was mortally tired and very depressed. Fenton had met him at Croydon and driven him straight to Mersham. In the evening light the castle looked at its most serene but for once Edward had no eyes for it.

  ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘Whenever you want. Not today, you’re tired after the journey and anyway it’s late. Go tomorrow morning.’

  ‘How’s Frank?’ Edward was prompted to ask.

  ‘He’s been wonderful . . . such a help, but I wouldn’t let him stay more than a couple of days. He’s working for exams, you know and . . . and there’s nothing he could do.’

  ‘He’s a good boy. How old is he now? Fifteen?’

  ‘Sixteen. Oh Edward, he’s so grown-up in some ways and in others such a child! He said . . . he said to me so solemnly, “Is father going to be all right? I do so hope so. I love him so much.” And then he said, “I don’t ever want to be a duke.” ’

  Edward smiled. ‘I thought I might go and see him at the weekend.’

  ‘Oh yes, do. He loves and admires you so much, and you can speak to him man to man.’

  ‘Admires me!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘There’s nothing much to admire. All I seem to be able to do is let people down.’

  Connie looked at him shrewdly. ‘You mean in Spain? You didn’t have time to finish what you were doing out there . . . with Verity?’

  The Duchess had met Verity the year before when she had come to the castle posing as a respectable journalist preparing an article on Mersham for Country Life. It transpired she actually wrote for the official organ of the Communist Party, the Daily Worker, and proceeded to anger the Duke by describing the death by poison of one of his dinner-party guests, General Sir Alistair Craig. The Duke had found it difficult to forgive her and the Duchess, though she admired the girl and thought her energetic, determined and basically honest, had been concerned she might hurt her brother-in-law who, she saw, was smitten by her. Verity’s priorities, the Duchess thought, were always going to be her career as a journalist and her politics. Love would come a poor third.

  ‘How is Verity?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘She’s rather upset because her friend – do you remember me telling you about him? An odious man by the name of Griffiths-Jones.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. You knew him at Cambridge, didn’t you? Another communist, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, of the most doctrinaire kind. I can’t abide him. Anyway, the Spanish police put him in jug and were going to execute him for murdering another communist, a man called Godfrey Tilney, who as a matter of fact was at school with me.’

  ‘What strange friends you had, Ned. Did your father send you to the right school? I trust Frank isn’t getting into bad company.’

  Edward was glad to see Connie was capable of making a joke and he smiled too. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the school, at least I think so. Verity wouldn’t agree.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons you like Verity.’

  ‘Because she doesn’t think the way I do? She doesn’t hold conventional views on anything? Yes, you’re right. The thing is, Connie, the women I met at dances and tennis parties and so on, when I was a young man, were so boring. They’d been conditioned to please men. They thought if they were assertive – if they had minds of their own – men would find them tiresome or ridiculous and then – horror of horrors – they wouldn’t get anyone to marry them. It was bad for us men too. We became bullying, smug and insensitive. You could humiliate a girl and she would think it was her fault. Verity was never a debutante, thank God, and would tick off the Prince of Wales – I mean the King – if she thought he was talking nonsense.’

  Connie was fascinated. She had never before heard her brother-in-law talk candidly about why he was so attracted to Verity Browne. It seemed in the end to come down to boredom; these other girls bored him – Verity was unpredictable and exciting. Connie could understand but still wondered if she could ever make him happy.

  ‘You know, Connie dearest, I’ve been reflecting on what it takes to make someone – I mean someone of our kind – become a communist. Most pe
ople are quite happy not to think of politics at all – any regime is acceptable if it provides us with our basic needs. So long as we can feed our families and have a few bob over to go to the pub for a pint or two we won’t care about social injustice provided we don’t have our noses rubbed in it. I mean, if we’re told the Nazis have camps in which they beat up Jews or communists or any other group, we probably say it’s none of our business and likely as not they deserve it anyway. All most people want is to be left alone in peace and quiet to get on with their lives. But there will always be a minority, however small, who will care. They will want to change their society for the better and interfere in others where they see what they consider to be injustices. But who are these people – this minority who are so much more politically aware than the majority . . . the people who want to put the world to rights? In many ways they are better than us – altruistic with a noisy conscience. They’ll be educated, with enough free time to devote to “the cause” . . .’

  ‘Like Verity you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Most Communist Party members are not starving peasants. They are, as I say, educated, middle-class and comparatively well-off. I respect their commitment; after all, they could be spending their spare time at the dogs or at deb dances, but they are mistaken if they think they can take ordinary people with them. And this is the danger: as they find that working people don’t flock to join their banner they get frustrated and angry. They know they’re right and that ordinary people are lazy and stupid and, like Lenin, they will have to resort to terror . . . to violence. They may do so with regret. They may say it’s only a temporary terror. They may call it by politer names but it will be tyranny. Stalin talks about “the dictatorship of the proletariat”. It is a recognition that only force, or discipline as he calls it, can make ordinary people loyal Communist Party members . . .’

  Connie was unable to stifle a yawn.