‘For goodness’ sake, Ben. You know I hate that sort of language.’
‘Sorry.’ He raised his hand in mock contrition and she once again marvelled that anyone could be so hairy under the arms, on the shoulders . . . everywhere.
‘Who was he?’
‘The Baron? God knows. I guess his title was real enough. He had a castle to prove it and Hetty . . . why she was just an innocent Jewish kid from Denver . . . of all places. There aren’t many Jews in Denver, I can tell you. She was lonely, came to Europe, met the Baron in Paris, I think . . . and they were married a few months later.’
‘And then . . .?’
‘Hetty knew she had made a bad bargain the moment she saw the castle.’
‘You mean they hadn’t even been back to his home before they got married?’
‘I know. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it, but she was so desperate to stop being a boring American and lose her virginity, I guess she just sort of went off with the first European who made eyes at her.’
‘And what happened when she saw the castle?’
‘It was just a ruin and Lengstrum, he just wanted her money to rebuild it. But Hetty had regained her senses by then and she just walked away . . . taking the title of Baroness with her.’
‘Did he follow her?’
‘I guess the poor sap didn’t have the money.’
‘When did you meet her?’
‘I met up with Hetty in the States.’
‘And you took her to Africa?’
‘Yeah. Can we skip the rest of the interrogation?’
‘Were you married by then?’ Verity persisted.
‘Sure, I was married to Gloria practically in high school. I just adored her and she wouldn’t let me sleep with her unless we were married . . . so I guess I went through with it.’
‘Just like an English girl . . . Why don’t you divorce? It’s easy in the States, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t want a divorce. I don’t intend to marry again and I still love Gloria . . . and I guess she loves me. Anyway there’s Star.’
‘What is Star?’
‘Star is my daughter and she needs a father.’
Verity was fascinated by all this autobiography. She had never heard him say so much about himself. Before he became maudlin about Star, she wanted to ask him one more question. ‘While you were in Africa, did you and Hetty hear about that Englishman, Hoden . . . Makepeace Hoden, who was eaten by a lion?’
‘Yeah, we did, I guess. I used it in a story I was writing. Look, honey, let’s stop talking and start f . . .’ Verity put a hand over his mouth and he removed it, gently but firmly. ‘I tell you, kid, I only do three things – fucking, writing and fighting – and I only do one of them well.’
‘One last thing, Ben. Was anyone else we know in Kenya when Hoden was killed?’
‘Sure, Tom Sutton. He was the British consul there or whatever they call it . . .’
‘Was Maurice Tate there?’
‘Maurice? No! What makes you think Maurice might have been in Kenya?’
‘Oh, nothing. I must have got muddled.’
Verity had more questions she wanted to ask but it was too late, at least this time. She had got much more out of Ben than she had ever expected. It looked as though Edward might be right. It was certainly a coincidence that so many of her friends in Madrid had also been in Nairobi just when Makepeace Hoden was killed.
She felt the now familiar excitement rise in her as Belasco spread her legs with his hands, as though he was opening the doors to her soul. It was strange but, as Belasco buried himself inside her, the last thing which crossed her mind before she became incapable of thinking at all was the image of Edward Corinth at his most disapproving.
20
The boat train, the Gare de Lyon, the border – surly, unshaven French, smartly uniformed, polite Germans – and at last Frankfurt – the Hauptbahnhof. The upright figure of the Englishman, closely shaved, head up, aquiline nose twitching a little as if it were some sensitive radio transmitter – Fenton had good reason to be proud of himself. The bedraggled young man of the night before, befuddled by drink and the scent of a woman, had been transformed into one of the most immediately identifiable figures in Europe: the English milord. The navy-blue, double-breasted suit, trousers creased to a knife edge, discreet silk tie, heavy overcoat and trilby set him apart from his fellow travellers. Edward stood out like a lighthouse: the product of an English public school and a pedigree which never doubted its superiority to all others. Quite unconsciously, his demeanour and deportment proclaimed it was enough to be English, but to be an English aristocrat was – despite world war, democracy and an economic slump – to be only a little lower than the gods. Policemen saluted him and railway officials touched their caps and hastened to ease his passage. Other passengers looked curiously at him, wondering, perhaps, why he travelled without half a dozen trunks and a manservant to organise his food and toilet. Was he a diplomat? Not quite – the hat perhaps a trifle too rakish. A businessman? Certainly not. He was simply an Englishman abroad.
Comically unaware of the impression he was making, and unconcerned that the French thought him arrogant and the Germans, half-resentfully and half-admiringly, strove to impress on him their own commitment to order and degree, Edward stared out of the window watching the steam cloud the landscape, concealing and revealing features which seemed for a moment significant and then were lost for ever.
It was the same with this investigation. He kept on feeling he was on the point of making a major discovery, of seeing exactly what had been going on, and then something else would come along and confuse his vision. Damn this journey. How he hated feeling dirty and sitting still for so long. It seemed absurd to go so far for one meeting. Chief Inspector Pride would never bother to travel across Europe to question Thayer’s business partner. He was content to rely on the local police, even though they were hardly likely to be interested in inconveniencing a rich businessman with close links to their political masters. No, however tiresome it was, it had to be done.
He opened an envelope which had been delivered to him at Albany by hand just as he was leaving for the station. It was from Verity’s friend at the New Gazette and contained obituaries of Dora Pale and Max Federstein. A paragraph at the end of Federstein’s obituary made him sit up. It said that only two years before he died he had married again and was survived by his wife. There cannot have been children from this marriage or they would have been mentioned but the wife might still be alive. It was a lead he must follow up as soon as he got back to London.
In Frankfurt, he directed the taxi driver to take him to an address given him by Basil Thoroughgood. It proved to be a large house in extensive grounds in the city’s Westend, near the Eschenheimer Landstrasse. The villas in this exclusive neighbourhood, including the one Edward sought, had been built in parkland in the middle of the previous century and, because of their size, elegance and seclusion, were now owned by the richest and most powerful men in the city. As the taxi dropped him off at the elaborately sculpted iron gates, Edward went over in his mind the questions to which he needed answers. A sleek butler opened the door to him and took his card. He was taken to a small drawing-room where, despite the day being warm, a fire burned in the grate. Edward hardly had time to examine a painting of a particularly savage crucifixion, which he was almost certain was an Altdorfer, before the butler reappeared and led him up a flight of stairs, heavily carpeted, to knock on a wooden door more appropriate to a monastery than a suburban villa.
‘Herein!’ a hoarse-sounding voice commanded. The butler opened the door and showed Edward into what was obviously an office but the most luxuriously furnished he had ever seen. Outside it was still daylight but in this room a sepulchral gloom persisted. His eye was immediately drawn to the walls from which hung half a dozen paintings subtly illuminated from hidden lights in the ceiling. He caught his breath as he recognised a Dürer he could have sworn he had last seen in Munich’s Alte Pinakothek. There
was a painting of the interior of a Dutch house in which a young woman was playing a musical instrument of some kind. If he had not known there survived only fifteen authenticated Vermeers in all Europe, he would have said it was by that great master. He was, however, certain that the landscape behind the great ebony desk was a Jakob Philipp Hackert because there was one similar, which he had always loved, in the library at Mersham.
‘I see you like my paintings.’ A little man, with a lined face and flowing white hair, speaking perfect English, got up from the huge carved chair – almost a bishop’s throne – that stood behind the desk. It was almost ludicrous – this tiny man with his great desk and massive chair – but, as he approached Edward, he appeared anything but laughable. He could have been any age between forty and seventy. He walked lithely, like a young man, but his eyes were very old and the duelling scar down the side of his face must have been cut before the war as such badges of honour were no longer permitted to officers of the new German army.
‘I’m so sorry, Herr Hoffmann, but I could not help noticing the Hackert because my brother has one very like it and that must be . . . surely Piero della Francesca?’
‘Ah! I see you are an art lover, Lord Edward.’
‘But these are all great masters.’
‘I have been very fortunate,’ said the little man modestly.
Edward wanted to say that it was not luck that had brought these paintings into this room but huge wealth. Instead he said, ‘It is very good of you to see me, Herr Hoffmann. I can guess how busy you are so I will take up as little of your time as possible.’
‘You were a friend of Stephen Thayer? Such a sad business!’
‘Yes, we were at school together.’
‘Really? At Eton. Stephen was good enough to take me over “the old place” on your Fourth of June. That is your Founder’s Day, is it not?’
Edward suppressed a smile. Hoffmann was evidently vain of his grasp of English idiom, and it diminished him in Edward’s eyes. ‘The old place’ indeed. ‘The Fourth is not actually Founder’s Day,’ he said, ‘but it’s the school’s main “feast day”.’ He paused and then said: ‘His son is a pupil at the school, along with my nephew. We were all very . . . distressed . . .’
‘I, too, was very distressed,’ said Hoffmann, though he did not sound it. ‘He was my partner, as you know, but I also counted him my friend.’
‘I apologise if I ask you about things which you have already discussed with the police . . .’
‘The police? The English police? No one has been in touch with me from that excellent body of men. In fact, I was surprised that they had not been . . . No, wait, I tell a lie . . .’
And not the first one, Edward thought wryly.
‘I had a letter from – let me see – ah yes, here it is, Chief Inspector Pride, but I have not yet had time even to read it. You see, I have only just returned from a business trip.’
‘To England?’
‘To England, yes, and to Paris, Madrid and Lisbon.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Edward, hearing a note of sarcasm in Hoffmann’s voice. ‘I did not mean to sound inquisitorial.’
‘Inquisitorial! Yes, I like it. Of course you must be inquisitorial. We both want to find out who killed Stephen Thayer, do we not?’
‘We do,’ Edward agreed. ‘When you say Stephen Thayer was your partner, what exactly did that mean? To put it bluntly, I would not have thought my friend was in your league.’
‘My league? Ah, I understand. No, Lord Edward, you are right. I had business with him. In London he was useful to me. He provided me with information. He acted on my behalf on occasion. He was not, as you surmise, my partner in any real sense.’
‘Basil Thoroughgood said you and he were partners in the bank. That’s what confused me.’
‘I think it is possible Stephen – how do you say it – liked to “show off”.’
‘You mean you were not partners or there was no bank?’
‘Ah, Lord Edward. There was a partnership, there was a bank . . . on paper. But I am the sole owner. A year ago, Stephen was in something “of a hole” . . .’ He smiled, clearly pleased with the expression. ‘Yes, he was in a hole and I bought his share off him. I was generous,’ he said, momentarily defensive.
‘So you think Stephen might have lost money somewhere else?’
Hoffmann shrugged, ‘Perhaps. How would I know?’
‘You did not ask him?’
‘No. His financial affairs did not concern me.’
‘But they might have if they brought the bank into disrepute.’
‘Disrepute? No, how could they? I do not deal with – what do you say? – the general public. My clients know me and trust me.’
‘So why did you need Thayer in the first place?’
‘It’s useful having a representative in a foreign capital – London above all. As you know, London is the world’s financial capital.’
Edward had the distinct feeling he was getting nowhere. While being courteous, Hoffmann was obviously going to tell him nothing. He decided to try shock tactics.
‘Do you think Thayer was being blackmailed?’
‘Blackmailed? Why should he be blackmailed?’
Was there something just a little too vehement in his repudiation of the idea? Or was it just his way with English? Well, he had learnt one thing: Thayer had been short of money. He had always thought of him as rich but perhaps he had not been in the sense that the rich define rich. Or perhaps he was having to find money for some other reason. He would have to find out. There was nothing more to be gained here.
Edward got up from his chair. ‘That was very kind of you, Herr Hoffmann. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Hoffmann visibly relaxing. ‘And how is my friend Basil?’
He said ‘Basil’ as though he was holding between two fingers a dirty handkerchief.
‘He’s well. Worried about his money,’ Edward added on an impulse.
‘Tell him he has no need. His investments are with very profitable armaments companies.’
‘Such as Krupp?’
‘Why yes, such as with Herr Krupp,’ Hoffmann said smiling.
‘But what if there is a war?’
‘There will be no war,’ Hoffmann said, getting up and coming round from behind his desk.
‘Herr Hitler seems set upon war.’
‘Oh, but he is of no account. It is we bankers and the great financiers who control Germany. Nothing can happen without our permission.’
‘You believe that, do you?’ Edward said drily.
‘I do,’ he replied firmly. ‘There will be no war. Maybe a local war – in Spain perhaps. Soldiers need to try out their toys – but no European war.’
‘And the war against the Jews in this country?’
‘Oh, the Jew has always been hated. But many of our greatest bankers are Jews. That will all pass. In the meantime it gives people someone to blame for our economic failures. My own feeling is that we did wrong in Germany to introduce a sewerage system in our cities.’
‘But why?’ inquired Edward, puzzled.
‘Because, in the last century, regular outbreaks of cholera and other diseases of the poor killed very many people who are now starving – who are now “a drain” on our resources. That is what you call “a pun”, is it not?’
Edward found it hard to speak. This was what chilled the blood: a man in a suit, so civilised he decorated his walls with great art, talking about killing the poor like vermin. He shuddered.
‘You are not cold, Lord Edward?’
‘No, not at all.’
He would dearly have liked a drink – a cup of tea at least – and saw once more that the man he was talking to did not know the meaning of hospitality.
‘Did not your namesake, the author of Struwwelpeter, live near here?’
‘Hoffmann? Yes, in Schubertstrasse, but sadly I am no relation.’
‘It is a favourite book in Engl
ish nurseries.’
‘So I understand and here also, naturally.’
Hoffmann sounded bored. No doubt many other people had asked him the same question.
‘I have always thought the book a little cruel,’ Edward added. ‘Struwwelpeter was always being burnt or cut.’
‘Only when he misbehaved,’ Hoffmann said, smiling. ‘You know “Struwwel” means “slovenly”. We Germans are not slovenly.’
Out in the street, Edward looked up at the shuttered villa. It sent shivers down his spine. How could somewhere so orderly, so decorous, be so sinister? But, as Hoffmann had said, the Germans – so civilised in so many ways – were capable of extreme cruelty. Was Hoffmann in some way responsible for his friend’s death? He did not suppose the man had actually hit him over the head, though Edward had no doubt he would commit murder if he had to. But had he driven Stephen into a position which resulted in his death? It was possible. He had clearly used him and then, when he had finished with him, had spat him out to fend for himself. Hoffmann could have ruined him financially whenever he chose but, even worse, Stephen’s reputation would not have survived his friends in the banking world knowing that he was the cat’s-paw of a man like Hoffmann.
He spent a sleepless night in a small hotel near the station. The trams appeared to live just beneath his bedroom window and clanged and clattered amongst themselves throughout the night. It was a relief to get back to London the following day. For a week he busied himself to very little effect pursuing possible leads which invariably led nowhere. He spent hours in the archives of the New Gazette. He looked up several Eton friends of his and Stephen’s and, to Fenton’s alarm, passed one whole day supine in an armchair in his chambers looking blankly into the middle distance. He had, he knew, to go and see Elizabeth Bury and conclude the conversation he had begun when he had taken her out to dinner. He put it off day after day but at last, on the seventh day after his return from Frankfurt, he realised he could procrastinate no longer. He decided he would go down to Mersham that afternoon after he had fortified himself with lunch at his club.
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