‘Tell me all, oh great one,’ Verity ordered, bowing her head and putting out both her hands in supplication.
Edward ignored her play-acting. ‘I want to go to Eton to see if I can dig up any evidence of a connection between the three dead men – beyond the obvious one. If you came with me, you could research a horrible article about the place for the Daily Worker. You can explain how it perpetuates class divisions.’
‘Well, it does,’ Verity said stoutly. ‘Look at the number of Etonians there are in positions of power in the government, the Foreign Office, the Civil Service. I expect even the Archbishop of Canterbury went to the “old school” – not all appointments are made on merit, I fancy. Anyway, look at the fees: what are they – two hundred pounds a year?’
‘Eton’s the best, I grant you, but it’s not exclusive. When I was there, we had boys from . . .’
‘Of course Eton’s exclusive. If it didn’t exclude, it would lose half its appeal.’
‘Oh, stow it, Verity. You don’t have to preach to me.’ He added shyly, ‘I’d also like you to meet Franklyn, my nephew, don’t y’know. I have a sort of feeling you might get on. I may be wrong. He’ll be back for the Easter holidays next week but I don’t want to wait till then to talk to him. As I say, I want to chat to a few people there who might remember why Stephen left under a cloud. Then there’s Charles Thayer. I want to talk to Frank and to his housemaster about him as soon as I can. I want to do something for him if I’m allowed. I don’t think he has many living relatives.’
‘Is Thayer’s son called Charles?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know: he just would be, that’s all.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – Charles – it’s so snobby.’
‘There’s nothing particularly snobby about Charles,’ Edward said irritably. ‘What about Chaplin?’
‘That’s Charlie, idiot. Charlie’s a good name, but Charles . . . I ask you. You either have to be a duke or a hairdresser.’
‘Well,’ said Edward, shortly, ‘Charles Thayer is neither; he’s just a boy who has no mother and has just lost his father in the most awful way imaginable.’
‘Oh gosh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a hard-faced bitch . . .’
Edward tried not to look shocked at Verity’s language. ‘I know, but wait until you meet him. You’ll like him.’
‘And what’s the other visit you think is too dangerous for me?’
‘I’ve got to go to Frankfurt to meet this man Heinrich Hoffmann, Thayer’s banking partner. He may have something to tell us, but with your politics it would be madness for you to go.’
‘I could go in disguise.’
‘What about your passport?’
‘I could get it changed. Joe will help.’
Joe, Lord Weaver, the proprietor of the New Gazette, was a friend of both of them, but Edward didn’t trust him as far as women were concerned. He’d never dare suggest to Verity that Weaver’s motives for employing her as a foreign correspondent were not solely on her merits as a reporter, but she did seem to be very intimate with the man. Of course, he was old enough to be her father. After all, he actually was the father of the girl Edward had thought himself to be in love with in New York, but still . . .
‘No, I don’t want you,’ he said roughly. ‘I’ve got to prise information out of a Nazi banker. It won’t be easy but your presence would make it impossible. You’re more use in Madrid.’
‘Oh stuff; bankers go for . . . well, you know . . . girls like me.’
‘Well, you’re not going. What you can do is go through the files at the New Gazette and find out if there’s anything interesting on Hoden or Tilney or, for that matter, Stephen Thayer. Oh, and find out which reporter the New Gazette puts on the case. You never know, a good chap might find out something useful.’
‘OK,’ said Verity. ‘When do we go to the “old school”?’
Edward was encouraged by how meekly Verity had taken his refusal to let her go with him to Germany. Perhaps she was at last beginning to see him as the dominant male and treat him as such. Unwisely, he felt confident enough to rebuke her for her use of slang.
‘I wish you wouldn’t say “OK”. It’s so sloppy.’
Verity turned on him a look which the Spanish call the mirada fuerte, a gaze fierce enough to cool porridge.
‘Don’t you dare criticise me. I’ll say exactly what I want to say, when I want, in the way I want. I made a resolution not to tell you what I thought of you leaving me to sort out Tilney’s murder but blast you . . . You never once telephoned to find out . . .’
‘I tried but I couldn’t get through . . .’
‘Pathetic. You just hadn’t got the guts. I saw the way you got the wind up when it came to dealing with the Spanish police. And who do you think had to telephone Tilney’s parents and tell them their son had been murdered again?’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Verity. I know I left you in the soup but there was no alternative. I did at least get your David out of gaol.’
‘Rubbish! The police absolutely refused to let him go.’
‘But they couldn’t have thought he had killed Tilney. He was in gaol.’
‘I don’t know what they thought or rather they just thought there was something very fishy going on . . . which, of course, there was. They said if he hadn’t killed Tilney . . . and they weren’t convinced he hadn’t magicked himself out of gaol to do it . . . he had probably murdered the man they had buried. At best, David had perverted the course of justice by mis-identifying the first corpse as Tilney’s. It was a nightmare. I had to get my father to come out from England, which he was very reluctant to do, to sort it out. I made Tom Sutton ring everyone in the Spanish government with any influence . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Verity. I’m really sorry. What more can I say?’
‘You can keep bloody quiet, that’s what you can do . . . Comrade.’
In a typically British way, people at neighbouring tables were pretending they could not hear the argument between the pretty girl in the big hat and the impeccably suited young man, while breaking off their own conversations to listen intently.
‘I’m sorry,’ Edward repeated in a low voice. ‘Please, Verity, keep your voice down. Everyone can hear us.’
‘I don’t care . . .’
‘I know, but we don’t want the whole world to know what we’re planning.’
Edward had skilfully implied they were still a team with a plan to pursue and Verity was partly mollified. It was probably no bad thing that she had broken her resolution and aired her resentment rather than let it fester. She felt better now and was tempted to apologise for her outburst but decided it might weaken her position if she did. So instead she said, ‘When do we go?’
‘To Eton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tomorrow? I could pick you up at ten and we could motor down. I could see if we can take Frank out to lunch. It’s a Thursday, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘As far as I remember, it’s a half-holiday – no work in the afternoon – just games.’
Edward had telephoned Connie who had reported that she had spoken to Frank who was understandably upset and worried about his friend. He was anxious to talk over the murder with his uncle: he said he had something to show him – he wouldn’t say what. Charles was staying with an aunt in London at least until after the funeral, which was to be the following Saturday, as soon as the police released the body. It was to be private, for family only, but Charles had particularly asked that Edward and Connie should be there. There would be a memorial service at some later date.
‘I wonder why he wants us there,’ Edward said to Connie.
‘I don’t know, but he wants you to bring Frank if the housemaster will give his permission.’
‘Frank! That will be an ordeal for the boy.’
‘Yes, but I’ve discussed it with him and he wants to go. He knows his friend
needs all the support he can get from the people who love him.’
13
The next day proved sunny and warm for early April. He picked up Verity about midday from the flat where she was staying in Bayswater. It was oddly pleasurable, Edward discovered, to be spinning down the Great West Road in the Lagonda to visit his old school with Verity at his side. Fenton had packed a lunch basket for them and, since it turned out they could not see Frank until half-past two, they found a place by the river, spread a rug on the grass, which was only slightly damp, and tucked into smoked salmon, cold chicken, and early strawberries which Connie had sent from the Mersham greenhouses. They washed it all down with champagne and discussed David Griffiths-Jones, the situation in Spain and Verity’s plans for the future.
‘It’s terrible, really, but I just can’t wait till war breaks out. Promise you won’t ever tell anyone I said so, but you can see what I mean. I know it’s wrong to put my career above the happiness of hundreds and thousands of ordinary Spaniards, but I do.’
Edward was always amazed by Verity’s honesty. She was able to look at herself quite dispassionately, examine her motives and judge herself against her principles in a way he could never do. It occurred to him that, if he ever asked her if she could love him, she would give him a totally honest answer and that terrified him. Better perhaps not to know than to be certain of rejection.
‘But you have already made a reputation for yourself,’ he said. ‘Anyway, if war broke out, you couldn’t report it. Only men can be war correspondents.’
Verity, lying on her back, her head on a cushion from the car, raised herself slightly to see if he was joking. He did not appear to be. She almost loved him for being so predictably male in his expectations of what was and was not possible for a woman.
‘Of course I can be a war correspondent,’ she said levelly. ‘Don’t you see, this war would be my great chance. There are not so many of us in Spain. Most newspapers think Spain is boring and they concentrate on what’s happening in Italy and Germany. I’ve done my homework. I know how Spanish politics work. I know which of the dozens of political groups are important. I know most of their leaders and they’re beginning to know me.’
‘On the left.’
‘Oh yes, on the left. I’m a communist so I could never pretend to be neutral in that way. I could never get close to General Franco, say, nor would I want to.’
‘But how can you keep your reports fair if you are only hearing one side of the argument?’
‘Because I have my intelligence. I can tell when I’m being lied to and I only report what I know to be true. Or if I report what I’m told, I give my source and put a value on it for veracity so my readers can judge for themselves. In any case, I make it absolutely clear what I believe in: the legitimate government of Spain, the Republic, religious tolerance and so on. I can’t pretend every side in the Spanish political world is as good as any other. I have to make judgements otherwise what I say would be literally valueless.’
Edward pursed his lips. ‘It sounds a thin line between news and propaganda.’
‘I would never report anything unless I believed it to be true,’ repeated Verity stubbornly.
‘Yes, but would you ignore something unpleasant – like corruption – if, by reporting it, you would damage the Republic?’
‘Damn you,’ said Verity smiling. ‘I suppose the answer is “I don’t know.” ’
‘I was thinking,’ he said, bravely, ‘of David buying arms and equipment from the Nazis.’ He had not meant to break his promise to David not to tell anyone what he had been up to but Verity had questioned him so relentlessly when they had got back from the prison that in the end he had told her everything, swearing her to the secrecy which he had been unable to command. He supposed he had half-hoped Verity would see her lover for the unscrupulous manipulator he was but in that he had been disappointed. She had made no comment then or afterwards on the morality of David’s activities. ‘It’s a great story – a scoop – but you also know the enemies of the Republic would make hay with it. The Express, the Telegraph . . . they’d make a few headlines with the story.’
‘Oh God, Edward. You’ve got me there. I have thought about it a lot but in the end I did decide to keep silent. I told myself it’s because I couldn’t prove anything but, of course, that’s not the reason. It would be just too damaging to our cause. I know David feels the ends justify the means but, I admit, it seems wrong to me, as it would to a lot of other people . . . I have to keep silent.’ She sat up and looked at him like a serious child. ‘Does that make me a liar and a cheat?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ he said gently. ‘For what it’s worth, I think I would do what you have done – keep quiet about it – but I don’t have much faith in politicians of whatever persuasion. I believe, on balance, the Popular Front is the best government for Spain and we should support anybody who fights Fascism but I think all these “isms” are poison . . . I’m sorry, but I do.’
Edward felt a heel for having made her acknowledge her hypocrisy, if that was what it was. He had had some vague idea that sitting beside the Thames drinking champagne, he might have the opportunity to take Verity in his arms and . . . but the conversation had gone another way and the sun now went behind a cloud in recognition of a lost opportunity.
Verity shivered and looked at her watch. ‘Let’s get on, shall we. Look, I’m doing what you think I should be doing: entering the enemy’s camp with an open mind.’
‘Eton? It’s a camp you belong to by birth and education,’ he said sententiously, ‘but still – let’s go on. I have this feeling that it’s there we may find out who murdered Stephen Thayer.’
As Verity folded up the blankets and put the dirty plates and glasses back in the basket, she risked saying – getting her own back for some of the things Edward had said to her – ‘Does it really matter so much if three Old Etonians bite the dust when there are hundreds of deaths in German concentration camps every day?’
‘You don’t know that. It may be just Communist Party propaganda. I don’t doubt there is brutality in the German prison camps because these are brutal times and the Nazis are brutal people but they are like us, from the same civilisation – the civilisation that gave us Goethe, Mozart and Beethoven. They’re not mass murderers.’
Verity looked at him oddly. ‘You really believe that?’
‘I do,’ Edward replied defensively.
‘Then you are more naive than I believed,’ she said, snapping shut the wicker picnic-basket. ‘I thought you understood what we are up against but you don’t. You’re cynical about politicians but these people, the Nazis, are not politicians. They’re thugs and until people like you understand it . . . we’ll . . . we’ll slide further and further and faster and faster into hell.’
Edward could see she was deadly serious but he thought she was exaggerating because of her political loyalties and told himself, smugly, that he was better placed to judge the truth of the matter than she.
As the Lagonda came to a halt outside Frank’s house, Edward took a deep breath. Eton was looking ancient and tranquil. He was pleased to have the opportunity of showing Verity his old school but apprehensive that she would say something derogatory in a loud voice in Frank’s hearing. When a man shows a girl over his old school, he is inviting her to investigate his childhood. Consciously or not, he is laying bare a cherished part of himself and only invites such intimacy when he anticipates being offered something even more intimate in return.
Fortunately, he was sensible enough to say nothing to Verity about not criticising Eton in front of his nephew and, as it turned out, he had no need to worry. She charmed Franklyn, she charmed his housemaster, and she charmed Edward most of all. They agreed to defer all discussion of Charles until later in the day. It was first of all necessary to show Verity Eton’s glories. Sightseeing can be a wearisome business and certainly tolerable only in small doses but, to his surprise, Edward found himself enjoying strolling around in the su
nshine. As they walked into School Yard, Verity slipped on the cobbles and would have fallen if Frank had not grasped her arm. Edward noted with amusement that his nephew was still holding on to her as they climbed the steep stone steps into College Chapel. Inside, he had to relinquish her arm to indicate where he normally sat. Unlike most churches half the congregation faced the other half rather than all facing the altar. ‘It’s because what we have here is only the choir. The nave was to have stretched right down Keate’s Lane,’ Frank explained.
He showed her the fifteenth-century wall paintings which had been almost obliterated in the previous century, only to be rescued by Provost James fifteen years ago. He talked about the organ – he was passionately musical – and introduced them to the Precentor who was teaching him how to play it. They examined the Founder’s statue in the ante-chapel and sat in silence not exactly praying but drinking in the peace of the place.
Verity was unusually silent and Edward wondered if she was impressed by the beauty of the building or waiting for an appropriate moment to voice her disapproval.
‘How often do you use the chapel?’ she inquired.
‘Once a day and twice on Sundays,’ he replied, ‘except, of course, the little boys who go to Lower Chapel down Keate’s Lane, and the Jews and Catholics.’
‘Where do they go?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Frank. ‘I’m afraid I’m not religious. I mean, I believe in goodness, courage, truth, honesty – the Christian virtues – but I can’t see how there could be a god. If there is, he must be blind or vicious, otherwise he wouldn’t have let the world get into the state it’s in.’
Verity nodded and Edward guessed the boy had expressed her own views on the subject. It was touching to hear Frank express his beliefs so unaffectedly. Had Edward said something similar, he knew he would have sounded priggish or hypocritical but the boy’s innocent statement of what he considered incontrovertible made him rather ashamed of the cynicism, the compromises and the half-truths which had infected his own faith. At thirty-five, he felt his own youth to be brown at the edges, sere as a leaf in winter.
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