‘Sex and dope?’
‘Supposedly. Then came the tragedy of the boy’s death, followed quickly by the mother’s and then, a few years later, by Federstein’s.’
‘Oh, so Federstein is dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was much older than Dora?’
‘About twenty years.’
‘There were no other children?’
‘Not as far as we know.’
‘Do we know how Federstein met Dora Pale?’
‘Not for certain. Joe thinks Federstein met her in Hollywood when he was in California looking at oil prospects.’
‘I see,’ Edward mused. ‘Lonely old man falls for femme fatale.’
‘Something like that,’ Verity agreed.
‘Is that it?’
‘Not quite. I went back to the files and found a cutting from the News Chronicle which someone had marked with a red exclamation mark.’
‘Yes?’
‘It was about the boy’s death. It said – wait, I’ll read it to you. I copied it out. Ah, here we are; it’s dated February 8th 1918. It’s only one column but it’s on the front page. The headline is: “Eton boy’s tragic death.”
‘ “Oliver Federstein, aged fifteen, was found dead at Eton College yesterday. It is believed he drowned while bathing in the river. His father, the millionaire businessman Mr Maxwell Federstein, was not available for comment but the boy’s housemaster, Mr Harold Banville, said he was very distressed by the accident. He said Federstein was a popular boy and a member of Upper Sixpenny” – whatever that is,’ Verity said, breaking off.
‘It’s the under sixteen eleven,’ Edward said shortly.
‘Oh, cricket,’ Verity sighed theatrically.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Not really. The housemaster is quoted as saying that “swimming in the river was against school rules except in the pool designated for this activity”. Reading between the lines, he seems more irritated than upset at Federstein’s death, but maybe that’s unfair.’
Edward was silent, straining to bring to mind some faint memory which was nagging him.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Oh yes, sorry, V. I was just trying to recall something. Do you know, as you read me that cutting, I think I do remember hearing that a boy in another house had died in an accident. It’s dreadful that I don’t remember the details. I certainly can’t put a face to Oliver Federstein. I wish I could.’
‘From what I hear about the way things were done at Eton, probably the whole thing was hushed up. One of the papers has a photograph of Oliver. Shall I bring it to the funeral?’
‘Oh yes, do. What does he look like?’
‘Just ordinary – quite cheerful. It’s not very clear . . .’
The funeral was over and the congregation had spilled out into Chester Square. Verity had insisted on going on her own as she knew that, if she went with Edward, Frank and Connie, she would be seated in the front pew alongside Charles and his aunt. She dreaded anyone jumping to the conclusion that she had been a girlfriend of Thayer’s or, even worse, of Edward’s. In any case, as an atheist, she didn’t approve of the Christian burial service. It was all the more annoying therefore that, when she slipped into the back of the church, an usher grabbed her by the arm and insisted on escorting her up to sit beside Edward. Worse still, entirely against her will, she spent most of the service in tears. She wept for Charles and for the mother she had never known and for herself but she knew people would think she was crying for Stephen Thayer, a man she had never met and whom she believed she would have disliked. Edward kept glancing at her, passed her his handkerchief which she accepted, and unwisely tried to squeeze her hand which she angrily shook off.
St Michael’s was a gloomy church at the best of times but the day was dreary, threatening rain and the lights had had to be turned on in the nave. Only Charles’s courage and noble bearing illuminated the occasion and it was a great relief to Verity when at last the coffin had been carried out of the church and normal life could be resumed.
‘Here it is,’ Verity said, taking an envelope out of her handbag. They were standing on the kerb, Edward in his top hat and tails looking, she had to admit, rather distinguished. He felt curiously reluctant to take it from her. He feared the boy would look at him accusingly like the murdered children parading before Richard III at Bosworth. But it was more upsetting than that. The photograph, grainy and blurred, showed the smiling, open face of an ordinary boy. He was dressed in a jacket and tie and behind him Edward could just make out the front door of a big house. Just ordinary, as Verity had said. That was the real tragedy! A normal child with every right to expect a normal upbringing and a normal life had had it taken away from him.
‘Don’t look like that,’ Verity said, putting her arm in his. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I know it isn’t, but it makes me feel guilty all the same. Do we know who took this?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Edward stared at the photograph as if he were willing it to speak.
At that moment they were joined by Charles, Connie and Frank. He hurriedly pushed the photograph into his breast pocket. Most of the congregation had dispersed though some still milled about chatting to friends. He noticed Thoroughgood getting into a taxi with Chief Inspector Pride.
Frank said, ‘Charles, you haven’t properly met Verity Browne.’
‘It was so kind of you to come,’ the boy said with deliberate courtesy, shaking her by the hand. He looked round. ‘I had no idea my father knew so many people. He seemed so solitary but the church was quite full.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Edward said, ‘but you were very brave, Charles, and you read the lesson beautifully.’
‘Did I? I am glad. I didn’t feel like crying then. I just wanted . . . I just wanted to do . . . him proud. You see . . . I never had time to say I loved him . . . to say goodbye.’
Charles, who had shed not a tear during the service, was now unable to restrain his grief and, to Connie’s slight embarrassment, wrapped himself around her as if he needed a woman’s comfort. After all, Edward thought, he was just a child . . . a child like Oliver Federstein.
The undertaker signalled to Edward that they must get into the car which was to take them to Putney for the cremation. Verity said her goodbyes, kissed Charles, which he didn’t seem to mind, and jumped into a taxi. The others piled into the limousine. There were six of them: the two boys, Mrs Cooper, Edward and Connie, and Stephen’s solicitor and executor – an elderly man called Jameson. The latter was obviously deeply relieved that Edward was taking an interest in Charles and was noisily effusive which made Edward want to kick him.
Charles recovered his self-possession during the journey and talked of his father with respect and affection which made Edward look at his nephew longingly. He hoped he might have someone to say such good things about him when he departed this life but he rather doubted it. It made him even more determined to act as Charles’s unofficial guardian, if it were permitted. The boy had no father, no uncles or male cousins to watch over him – just the solicitor, Jameson, of whom Edward expected little.
The cremation took only fifteen minutes and, as they walked out of the so-called chapel which resembled a railway station waiting-room, Jameson asked Edward if he had time to go back with him to his office. Edward explained that he had an engagement that evening and could not.
‘Ah well, another time, perhaps,’ Jameson said. ‘The thing is, I don’t know what to do with a letter I found which had slipped down behind a drawer in Stephen’s bureau. I suppose I ought to give it to the police but I don’t want to stir up any scandal. Poor Thayer should be allowed to rest in peace – and Charles too of course. I mean, he ought not to be worried more than . . .’
‘What are you driving at?’ Edward inquired irritably. The two men were walking down a narrow gravel path edged with flowers left by mourners at other ceremonies. It had occurred to Edward during the funeral that, wha
t with one thing and another, he had quite forgotten to order a wreath but, as he left the church, Mrs Cooper had surprised him by thanking him for his ‘beautiful offering’. It appeared that Fenton had taken it upon himself to send a spray of lilies, for which Edward was grateful although somewhat taken aback by his enterprise.
‘What do you mean? Give the police what?’ He had a sudden fear that the solicitor had found some evidence of fraud – or worse.
‘It’s a blackmail note . . . rather vague but threatening, which refers to a woman called Dora Pale. Do you know who she was? My secretary says she was an actress . . . a film actress,’ he said with contempt.
‘Who was the letter from?’ Edward demanded, his heart in his mouth.
‘A man called Nadall . . . Mike Nadall. Have you heard of him?’
‘Indeed I have, Jameson. A nasty little journalist. Retired now, but I went to see him just a day or two ago. When was the letter dated?’
‘December last year.’
‘Can you remember what it said?’
‘I think it must have been the last of a series – though it was the only one I found. It said: “I am waiting to hear from you. I need the money now or they’ll have the whole story of Dora Pale at the paper.” I may have got it slightly wrong but that’s as near as I can recall.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you will have to give it to the police. Chief Inspector Pride might find it useful in his investigations. Stephen was involved as a schoolboy with this woman, Dora Pale. She seduced him – it was a sordid business.’ Jameson looked shocked. ‘There was a scandal which even got into the newspapers. Nadall was one of the journalists involved. As a result, Stephen had to leave Eton a few weeks early. I doubt, so many years later, Nadall would have got anything out of him by threatening to drag it ail up again but I blame myself. When I last saw Stephen at Eton a few weeks ago when I was visiting Frank, he said there was something he wanted to discuss with me and I think it must have been this grubby little attempt at blackmail. Unfortunately, we never got round to talking. I don’t expect Pride will do anything with it except give this man Nadall a roasting, which he richly deserves.’
‘You don’t think this Nadall might have . . . might have murdered him?’
‘I doubt it, but Pride will follow it up.’
Back in town, Edward parted from Charles and Frank promising to come and see them when he returned from Germany. Connie was taking the boys and Mrs Cooper back to Mersham. Edward, as he kissed his sister-in-law on the cheek, whispered in her ear, ‘You’re a good woman, Connie, and I would marry you myself if you weren’t spoken for.’
She blushed and tapped him on the cheek. ‘And you’re a naughty boy who ought to find a nice girl and settle down instead of rushing around Europe like a . . . like a . . . like I don’t know what.’
‘Like a blue-arsed fly, as Herbert used to say.’ Herbert was the gardener’s son with whom Edward used to play as a child.
‘Edward, behave!’
Charles said, ‘Lord Edward . . .’
‘Give an old man pleasure and call me Edward.’
‘Oh, are you sure,’ the boy said smiling, ‘I don’t want to be . . .’
‘I mean it, old lad,’ Edward said. ‘I think we’re going to be great friends – at least, I hope so.’
‘I would like that very much,’ the boy answered gravely.
In his rooms in Albany, Edward felt suddenly weary. He had no wish to go out tonight but he had promised Elizabeth Bury and he could not possibly stand her up.
‘Bring me a whisky and soda, would you, Fenton, and run me a bath.’
‘Yes, my lord. I trust the funeral went off as well as could be expected.’
‘Thank you, it did and the flowers I sent were much admired.’
‘I am very glad to hear it,’ Fenton said imperturbably. ‘Miss Browne telephoned twenty minutes ago and asked whether you could ring her on your return, my lord.’
‘I’ll do that now, but please . . . a whisky before I drop.’
‘You’re all packed up?’ he asked when he had told Verity about Jameson finding Nadall’s blackmail letter.
‘Yes, I’m going first thing tomorrow.’
‘By air?’
‘Yes, Harry Bragg’s taking me.’
It was quite absurd but, once again, Edward suffered a pang of jealousy though of whom he could hardly say – not Harry Bragg surely. He really had to take a pull on himself.
‘I see,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’ve done wonderfully well to turn up all that information.’
‘I’ve asked the librarian at the Gazette to look out Dora Pale’s obituary and Federstein’s. He must have had one – prominent businessman, store owner and so on. And I’m going to do a bit of sleuthing in Madrid – politics permitting.’
‘Be very careful, won’t you,’ Edward said. ‘We’re floundering around in the dark but, if we panic a murderer, there’s no knowing what he might do.’
‘Or she. The murderer may be a she. It was last time.’ Verity was referring to their investigation into General Craig’s death.
‘Or she, then. Verity . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh . . . nothing.’
‘You’re going to Frankfurt tomorrow?’
‘That’s right, I will let you know what I find out, if anything.’
‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Oh . . . I . . . I am going out.’
‘That’s a pity. I was going to suggest we . . .’
‘I’d have loved to but this is a long-standing . . .’
‘Of course, not to worry . . .’
‘I don’t think I can . . .’
‘Bye then,’ Verity said breezily.
‘Bye. Oh gosh, I’m really sorry about this evening because actually there is something I have been meaning to say . . . Verity, are you there?’
But she had hung up and the line was dead.
‘Fenton! Fenton! Damn it, man, where’s that whisky?’
‘At your elbow, my lord.’
‘Oh, I see. My bath . . .’
‘I have drawn it, my lord, and I have laid out your evening clothes on the bed.’
18
Even after his whisky and bath, Edward was still in a bad temper.
‘This shirt has been starched to blazes, Fenton.’
‘My lord? I will speak to the laundry tomorrow.’
‘Yes do, and where’s my tie . . . oh, there it is. Blast it, why can’t . . . Yes, thank you, Fenton. I don’t know what the matter is. I’m all fingers and thumbs.’
Fenton dextrously completed tying his master’s tie and sighed inwardly. He wanted this evening to be a success. He knew exactly what was biting his employer: it was that girl Verity Browne. What right had she to go and upset his lordship? He had never liked her, or rather he had a grudging respect for her courage and grit, but he thought no well-bred young lady should be rampaging around Europe pretending to be a journalist. In Fenton’s view, girls ought to know their place. They ought to be mothers and wives, not whatever it was Verity Browne thought she was. He had been very glad when that charming young lady who had nursed his Grace had seemed to . . . like his lordship. Now there was someone who knew how to behave to servants. She was polite, gracious even, but not condescending. One knew where one was with Miss Bury and you never knew where you were with Miss Browne. It was the difference between tranquillity and turbulence. He sighed again – more deeply this time.
Elizabeth had an aunt with a small flat in Pimlico and it was from there that Edward picked her up in a cab. He had booked a table at Claridge’s but, when the taxi stopped at the large shabby house now divided into flats, he wondered if he had made a mistake. Perhaps she had not got the clothes for the evening he had planned and would be embarrassed or even humiliated. He guessed she rarely came to London. In fact, he thought he remembered her telling him so when, on an impulse, he had invited her to dine with him and perhaps go on to a night-club.
He rang th
e bell and, as he waited, nervously reached into his breast pocket for his cigarette case. Before he had time to extract a cigarette, the door opened and he gazed with admiration verging on astonishment at the apparition before him. Elizabeth was dressed in a white silk-organdie sleeveless dress revealing long, graceful milky-white arms, lightly freckled. Over her shoulders she wore a black fur cape and on her head, quite failing to cover her flaming red hair, a pillbox hat covered with tiny black organdie flowers. In her hand she was grasping a little net evening bag.
‘Lord Edward,’ she said. ‘Do I look too awful?’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, was I staring? How incredibly rude of me. I was just thinking how . . . how splendid you looked.’
Elizabeth lifted her head and laughed aloud, showing her white teeth and letting a few auburn strands escape from under her hat. ‘I think that must be a compliment.’
‘Please,’ Edward said, gathering his wits, ‘it’s cold.’ He held open the taxi door and took her arm, quite unnecessarily, as she got in.
Geiger’s Hungarian Orchestra was playing in the foyer as they entered the hotel and guests were sipping cocktails before going in to dinner. He saw several women look at Elizabeth speculatively and he was irritated to think that they would be the subject of gossip at luncheon the following day in many fashionable London houses. Edward left his hat and Elizabeth her cape with the cloakroom attendant, a pretty young thing who smiled at Edward. For a second, he thought she might be going to wink. In a bad mood, he took Elizabeth by the arm and guided her towards the restaurant.
‘Shall we go straight to our table?’ he said, and then feared that this might look as though he did not wish to be seen with her. Before she had time to answer, he said, ‘No, come to think of it, I don’t know about you but I could do with a cocktail.’
‘Whatever you wish, Lord Edward.’
‘You’re not going to call me “Lord Edward” all evening, are you?’ Edward felt he was being rather boorish and told himself to relax. Here he was with a beautiful woman about to eat in one of the best hotels in the world before going on to dance with that same beautiful girl in a night-club. To be cross about this was frankly ridiculous. They ordered Manhattans and Charles Malandra, the maître d’hôtel, brought them menus.
Bones of the Buried Page 23