‘Well, he made an effort to be nice to me, and I quite enjoyed myself.’
‘Did you shoot game yourself?’
‘No. The animals are so beautiful. It was enough just to see them. I hated the idea of killing elephants or lions.’
‘But your husband . . .?’
‘He’d never done it before but he loved it. He said he would die happy if he could kill a lion first. We had separate tents because I didn’t need to wake up at dawn like Makepeace.’
‘Yes, you have to be in position before the sun gets up and the heat drives the animals into the long grass to sleep.’
‘I’d forgotten, Connie said you had been in Africa.’
‘It was the happiest time of my life. One day I want to go back and live there.’
Elizabeth looked at him strangely. ‘I hate the place,’ she said.
‘Of course, you must do,’ Edward said in confusion. ‘So what happened?’
‘Well, as I say, I didn’t have to get up so early but I wasn’t sleeping very well so I often did wake before dawn. We weren’t allowed to wander around but I liked to walk to the edge of the camp and watch the dawn. It is the most beautiful sight in the world, don’t you think? The mist rolling back to reveal great expanses of grassland and maybe some animal walking across the view as though . . . as though you weren’t even there.’
‘Yes,’ Edward said, remembering the African dawns he had seen.
‘Anyway, on the day Makepeace died, I was up before dawn and sat myself in a favourite place to watch the sun rise. And, just as the sun broke through the mist, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Joe, one of the boys who carried our stuff, was coming out of his tent.’
‘Your husband’s tent?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps he had gone to wake him?’
‘That wasn’t his job.’
‘So you think . . .’
‘Yes, I do. I was disgusted,’ she said vehemently.
‘Did anyone else see what you saw?’
‘Yes, the head boy, a man we called Barny. I don’t know what his real name was. We gave all the boys names we could pronounce.’
‘And Barny saw this boy, Joe, come out of the tent? When you say “boy” . . .?’
‘Yes, I know, they call all the Africans “boy”, but Joe really was one.’
‘And you think that Barny . . .?’
‘I found out later Barny was Joe’s father.’
‘I see,’ said Edward gravely. ‘Tell me, was this a private safari? Were you the only white people there?’
‘Yes, except for Captain Gates, the hunter, and his assistant. I can’t remember his name, I’m afraid.’
‘That was a bit unusual. Normally, there would be several people – white people – on a safari.’
‘Yes, but Makepeace was adamant he wanted to be alone.’
‘I see,’ said Edward again, but he wasn’t altogether sure he did. Elizabeth was at great pains to say that her husband had been murdered although, at the time, she had acquiesced when the authorities concluded that he had died in a shooting accident. And she was even telling him who had murdered him. Why? What wasn’t she telling him? He had heard of Gates. He was a famous ‘white hunter’. It was extremely unlikely that he had been involved in anything shady. But he was rumoured to be something of a ladies’ man. Might he have been ‘entertaining’ Elizabeth . . .? He looked at her sitting beside him. She seemed to be innocence itself – her skin a little browned by the sun, her auburn hair escaping from under her hat so that she unconsciously swept the strands away from her face with the back of her hand. No, damn it, he could not believe she had murdered her husband.
As if she read his thoughts, Elizabeth said, ‘I didn’t kill him. I won’t say I did not want to . . . sometimes, but I didn’t kill him.’
‘I don’t believe you did,’ Edward said.
24
‘Chief Inspector Pride says they expect to make an arrest in the next day or two.’ Basil Thoroughgood looked at Edward musingly. ‘I say, you look a bit off-colour, Corinth. Did you have a bad time in Spain? I was sorry to hear about Miss Browne. I gather she’s on the mend though. Had the attack on her anything to do with your investigations? By the way, I should say, Pride hates your guts. But then you knew that, didn’t you?’
Edward, despite Connie’s protests, had taken the early train to London. ‘You’re not fit to travel, Ned. You must rest,’ she had insisted when he had told her what he intended to do. Privately, Edward agreed with her. He had telephoned Lord Weaver and explained briefly that his pilot had been taken ill and he had flown the Rapide to Croydon himself. Weaver had expressed surprise that he knew how to fly the aeroplane and Edward had gone so far as to say it had been a surprise to him too.
He had then called the Foreign Office and Thoroughgood had told him he had the reports from Nairobi on Hoden’s death but preferred not to discuss them in detail on the telephone. It was these which Edward was scanning while Thoroughgood talked. ‘Hoffmann said you were polite and knew a lot about art,’ he continued.
‘And you, Basil. I take it from your relaxed tone that you have got your money out of his clutches.’
‘I have,’ Thoroughgood said smugly. ‘Mind you, I think I panicked unnecessarily. I’m seriously thinking of joining one of Herr Hoffmann’s schemes. He thinks I might be helpful.’
‘Oh really? And what does Vansittart say?’
Thoroughgood had the grace to blush. ‘Well, it’s only an idea. I probably won’t but, you know, I have it on the best authority that the German Chancellor has no idea of engaging in a war with England. He admires the British Empire.’
‘That’s what your chum Hoffmann says, is it, Basil? If I were you, I’d treat anything he tells you as if it came from the father of lies himself.’
‘Miss Browne must be pleased her friend is out of gaol?’
‘Yes, and I’m sure David Griffiths-Jones is very grateful for all your help – that is, if you provided any.’
‘What do you mean, you ungracious man? Didn’t I get you a vital two weeks’ grace to find out . . . that Tilney wasn’t dead after all? Or rather . . .’
‘Yes, well maybe. But these reports . . .’ Edward waved the papers in the air. ‘Do you see who they’re signed by?’
‘Of course, Tom Sutton. He was the official who dealt with it. You knew he had been in Nairobi before going to Spain.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘He says it was all an accident . . . and he should know. After all, he was actually there on the safari when Hoden died.’
‘What!’
‘Yes, didn’t he tell you? He knew better than anyone what had really happened . . . the man on the spot, so to speak.’
Edward scratched his head. ‘No, he didn’t tell me. I thought . . .’
‘What did you think?’
‘I thought I knew who killed Stephen Thayer but now . . .’
‘Damn it, you’re not saying you suspected Tom Sutton? He’s above suspicion. He’s one of ours. Pity about his politics, of course . . .’
‘What are his politics? It occurs to me that everyone in Madrid talks politics all the time, but not Tom Sutton. I assumed he had to be neutral because he was working at the British Embassy.’
‘He’s very discreet but I’m afraid he’s on the left, a communist possibly. By the way, how did Griffiths-Jones take it when you asked him to be our eyes and ears in the Party?’
Edward made no reply. He was thinking furiously. At last, he said, ‘Was Sutton in London when Thayer was killed?’
‘No, he was in the south of Spain, I believe, getting intelligence on Mola’s activities. Good man, Sutton. He’s here now if you want to see him. He’s being debriefed and will be going back to Spain at the end of the week.’
‘He’s here now, in London? Has he got a flat here or something?’
‘Yes, at least I think he stays with friends but I can get his address if you want it but . . . are you going down to Eton for
the Fourth? I’m taking him down – trying to get him to see it’s not quite such a bad place after all. If you’re going, I’m sure you’ll see him there.’
‘That reminds me: do you remember a scandal when we were at Eton?’
‘A scandal?’
‘A film star “entertained” Eton boys at a hotel near the school. Thayer was one of them. Hoden and Tilney too, I believe. It got into the papers.’
‘I do remember something about it. Thayer was sacked, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. They all were.’
‘So what?’
‘The film star – a woman called Dora Pale – had a son at the school. He was younger than Thayer – in my year though I didn’t know him. He committed suicide. His father was Max Federstein – the Jewish oil millionaire. Thayer never said anything to you about it?’
‘No, never! You think it has some bearing on all of this?’
‘Maybe. I’ll know for sure soon enough.’
It was almost a tradition that the Duke travel to Eton on the Fourth of June in his Rolls-Royce. The least likely of men to advertise his wealth and position in society, there was something about visiting his son at school which made him throw off all his natural reserve. When Connie had once questioned him about this uncharacteristic desire to display himself like a peacock, he came up with a host of explanations – none of which were altogether convincing. He wanted Frank to ‘keep his end up’ amongst all those tradesmen’s sons; he had no fear of embarrassing anyone because ‘they’re all a damn sight richer than me, Connie dear’; he loved his Rolls-Royce – a Phantom II he had bought in 1930 and the last car actually designed by Royce before his death in 1933. The Duke had considered Royce to be a friend and, when he died, he had the RR grille badge, which was red, replaced with a black one. It was a magnificent beast and the Duke liked to ride in it, particularly when he was feeling depressed. He sometimes drove it himself with his chauffeur sitting beside him like a stuffed dummy but not, of course, on occasions like the Fourth of June.
As it happened, the Duke’s chauffeur was ill so Edward volunteered Fenton’s services. ‘He’s the best driver I know, far better than me,’ he said encouragingly.
The Rolls stopped at Elizabeth’s cottage to collect her and was at once surrounded by half a dozen admiring village children who received halfpennies from the Duke, who was at his most avuncular. He was in high spirits. He was going to see his son of whom he was inordinately proud. He had Edward beside him with a girl he credited with saving his life and whom he considered the epitome of feminine grace and beauty.
‘You know,’ he had said to Connie that morning at breakfast, before Edward had surfaced, ‘I know I’m an old fuddy-duddy, but I think Elizabeth is just the sort of gel a chap with any sense would be proud to make his wife. She’s no fool, she’s warmhearted, pretty as a picture, and gentle. That’s what I like about her: she’s gentle, not aggressive like . . .’
‘For goodness’ sake, Gerry,’ said his wife in alarm. ‘If you even hint at any of this in front of Ned, he’ll run a mile. No young man with any spirit wants to marry a chintz sofa.’
‘Whatever do you mean, Connie? Who said anything about sofas? I just . . .’
At that moment Edward appeared, bleary-eyed but not so sleepy that he could not pick up the atmosphere. ‘Have you two been fighting?’ he inquired, waving a finger in the air.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ned,’ Connie said.
‘I’ve got it! You’ve been talking about me. I can sense it,’ he said, scooping scrambled egg from a silver chafing dish on the sideboard. He turned round and saw his brother trying – but failing – to look innocent. ‘You’re trying to marry me off to Elizabeth. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Of course not,’ Connie interjected just as the Duke said defiantly, ‘Well, why not? Dem’ fine gel, if you ask me. Absolutely pukka, as our pater used to say, God rest him. He’d expect you to be married by now, Ned. And Connie, it’s no use you making faces at me. I will say what I want to say.’
Edward smiled. ‘Tut, tut, Gerry. Didn’t Connie tell you, it puts people off if their family actually like the girl they’re thinking of marrying.’
‘Poppycock!’ exclaimed the Duke. ‘Everyone loved Connie, when I introduced her to the family. Even awful old Aunt Matilda said she was a sensible gel and she had never been known to say anything nice about any woman.’
‘Oh well,’ said Edward comfortably, ‘Connie’s a remarkable woman and much too good for you, Gerry. The least you can do, since for some extraordinary reason she agreed to marry you, is what she tells you.’
‘Cheeky young pup,’ began the Duke when perhaps fortunately the butler entered the room.
‘Excuse me, your Grace, but cook says will you be requiring the asparagus as well as the gulls’ eggs?’
Connie had slipped away to speak to the cook, and the Duke, for once letting discretion overcome his natural urge to lecture his brother, had hidden himself behind The Times.
When the cottage door opened and Elizabeth appeared, Edward was quite taken aback. He had thought her lovely when he had seen her in starched white uniform at the hospital and, even more, dressed up in borrowed finery at Claridge’s. Then, as she sat in her garden wearing an open-necked summer frock, her face and throat browned by the sun, he had thought her lovely but troubled. Now, chameleon-like, she had turned into an elegant, self-assured, ‘Bond Street’ lady in a low-waisted yellow silk dress with a flared skirt and padded shoulders. Her shoes were black and she carried lemon-yellow gloves. On her head, she wore a smart beige hat at an angle which suggested both jauntiness and untouchability.
Connie, sitting in the back, smiled at Elizabeth as Edward helped her into the car. ‘My dear, you look ravishing. Gerald, doesn’t she look lovely?’
‘Lovely, but do buck up, Edward, or we’ll be late.’
Connie was delighted to see that her husband was almost his old self again.
As Edward settled himself opposite her, Elizabeth said, as though apologising, ‘Oh, please, Connie, don’t embarrass me. Connie has been so good to me, Edward. When I explained I hadn’t a thing to wear she insisted on taking me in hand.’
‘Well,’ said Edward gallantly, ‘I don’t know what “taking in hand” means. Whatever you chose to wear was good enough for me, but now you look good enough to eat. No, not to eat – to dazzle.’
As he spoke, his eyes fell on Elizabeth’s left hand in which she held her gloves. Perhaps the word ‘dazzle’ had made him think of rings. He had never seen her wearing a ring but she was wearing one today: a simple gold band. He suddenly wondered if it could possibly be the same one Verity had found in the cave and which had been taken from her finger when she had been attacked in Madrid. He was just about to dismiss the idea as wildly unlikely when, raising his eyes to her face, he saw that she had coloured. He thought about what she had told him of her marriage to Hoden. Was it possible she was wearing his ring? But why should she? She had hated him. Elizabeth must have seen the questions in his eyes. The mute appeal she now made to him for understanding or at least patience until they could speak in private made Edward keep silent.
The Duke had been talking away, oblivious to the involuntary communication that had passed between them but Connie – with her quick understanding and feminine insight – had seen that something had interrupted Edward’s frank appreciation of the beautiful woman seated opposite him.
As Fenton drove the Rolls-Royce out of the village, she said hurriedly, ‘Do you know, Ned, I think it’s frightfully unfair, Frank says he has Early School, just like on any other day.’
‘What’s Early School?’ asked Elizabeth, grateful for the diversion.
‘It’s the work period before breakfast,’ Edward explained.
‘Before breakfast?’ Elizabeth was shocked. ‘How can boys be expected to concentrate before they’ve been fed?’
‘Oh, I do so agree,’ Connie chimed in.
‘It toughens you up for the real world,�
�� the Duke said.
Edward said: ‘This is the only day in the year when the boys can dress up as if they were in Pop – you know, the Eton Society.’ Elizabeth still looked blank. ‘Pop is the school’s self-electing club. Prefects or monitors you would call them.’
‘Oh, don’t try and understand all the cant,’ Connie interjected. ‘It’s supposed to make us women feel out of it.’
‘Yes, but why is the Fourth of June the one day the boys can dress like Pop?’
‘Well, members of Pop dress in colourful, flowery waistcoats while everyone else is in black – black top hat, black tails. But on the Fourth, boys can wear grey waistcoats, stick-ups – you know, a stick-up collar – and a button-hole.’
‘And they can roll their umbrellas,’ the Duke added impressively.
Edward grimaced. ‘It’s all very childish but, you see, all these little rituals and traditions bind us up, make us feel part of an elite.’
‘And that’s good?’ Connie inquired mildly.
‘Well, you sent Frank there, so you must think so,’ Edward said a little crossly.
‘So tell me what happens today,’ Elizabeth asked.
‘Oh, it’s terribly tiring,’ Connie said. ‘You walk for miles looking at unimaginably boring cricket matches and art exhibitions. Still, some of the boys are easy on the eye.’
‘Connie, I’m shocked,’ Edward mocked, ‘and you haven’t even been at the champagne.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Ned. If you can enjoy looking at pretty girls, why mayn’t we look at the boys?’
‘Frank’s good-looking, no question, and he’s clever enough,’ said the Duke.
‘Bright as a button,’ Connie said quickly, ‘but he’s not an intellectual like his friend Charles Thayer. I told you, didn’t I, Elizabeth, about the poor boy losing his father in that dreadful way? We’ve rather taken him under our wing. The only person he’s got to look after him is an aunt or cousin or something. He’s going to spend most of the summer holidays here with us at Mersham.’
Edward saw Elizabeth bite her lip and go quite white. Rather meanly, he thought afterwards, he decided to rub it in that the boy was alone in the world. He was convinced that Elizabeth was the red-headed girl Thayer’s butler, Barrington, had seen saying goodbye to him in a taxi and that she had some responsibility for his death. He had no real evidence but he had a theory – a theory he was hoping to prove this very day. He said, ‘Charles is Frank’s particular friend. I haven’t met him since the funeral but Frank says he’s taken it very bravely.’
Bones of the Buried Page 31