Bones of the Buried

by David Roberts

  The sound of the gun going off, Edward’s cry and Elizabeth’s screams reached the eight struggling to turn their boat before floating back downstream. Only it wasn’t an eight; it was Monarch, the ten-oared boat which Charles Thayer was coxing. Charles, in mid-turn, relinquished his hold on the rudder and half-stood to see if he could identify the source of the noise from the bank. In doing so, he managed to upset the clumsy old boat and, with a mighty splash, it turned turtle. No doubt, this disaster would have been merely farcical in daylight or if the boys had not drunk so much strong cider but in the darkness, with the current dragging them towards the weir, there was real danger that they could become caught up in the oars still attached to the upturned boat or trapped under it.

  Edward, hearing the boat capsize, released his hold on Sutton who threw off Frank and got to his feet. He had no pistol now – it was somewhere in the undergrowth – and he looked about him for a way of escape. Elizabeth, who had been watching the water, cried out, ‘Charles, I can’t see Charles.’

  For a moment, the two men and Frank hesitated, staring across to the water which foamed white where the crew was thrashing about. Some were even laughing. Charles was nowhere to be seen.

  Edward said, ‘I can’t see the boy. I think he might be trapped under the boat. I’m going to swim out there.’

  He started to peel off his coat and cried out in pain. There was no question of his being able to swim anywhere. Frank had already taken off his coat and shoes and now leapt into the water but, as he thrashed about in the weed and rushes, Edward had a terrible feeling that the whole ridiculous business would end in tragedy. Time had gone into slow motion. Charles was going to drown and he was standing on the river bank unable to do anything about it. Then, beside him, he saw Sutton, coatless and shoeless, dive clean as a knife over the rushes into the dark water. It was quite deep, even at the edge of the pool, and Edward saw him cleaving through the water using a powerful Australian crawl. For several minutes, nothing could be seen from the bank. Elizabeth helped Frank back on to the bank and then two or three boys from the capsized boat arrived and also had to be helped through the reeds on to dry land.

  ‘Look!’ Frank cried. He was dripping, covered in evil-smelling mud, his hair plastered across his face. He was pointing out into the pool.

  ‘I see him!’ Edward shouted. ‘Quick, Frank, I think he needs help.’

  Sutton was swimming with one arm, using the other to support Charles. It was obvious the boy was unconscious because he made no effort to help himself. With a splash, Frank jumped back into the water.

  ‘The weir makes the current treacherous,’ Edward shouted above the cries and splashes of the boys making for the bank. ‘You, lad,’ he called to one of those swimming towards them from the boat and who, miraculously, still wore his straw boater, ‘you over there, help that man!’

  With considerable effort, covering themselves in mud and weed, they dragged the half-drowned boy on to the bank.

  ‘Stand back,’ Elizabeth said, once again the competent nurse. She turned Charles on to his front, squeezing and pumping the water out of his lungs until the boy’s reflexes took over and he vomited.

  By this time, other boats turning to join the procession had appeared. Soon there were chaotic scenes as the coxes tried to avoid the capsized Monarch, while their crews twisted and turned to see what had happened.

  ‘Are you bleeding?’ Elizabeth asked Edward distractedly. ‘I can’t see in this light. We’ve got to get Charles somewhere warm and dry. Oh, who’s that?’

  It was Fenton. Connie had become increasingly alarmed at the length of time Edward, Frank and Elizabeth had been absent and she had gone off to where the cars were parked to seek reinforcements. There she found Fenton smoking Craven A and had urged him to go and find out where they had got to. He had been only a few hundred yards away when he had heard the shot and Edward’s involuntary yelp of pain. As he ran into the little clearing beside the weir, he saw Elizabeth kneeling beside Charles who was wrapped in her cloak. Taking her words as an instruction, he caught the boy up in his arms and – with surprising strength and gentleness – carried him back towards the car. Edward followed with Elizabeth and Frank, the latter soaked to the skin but otherwise unharmed. Sutton, to Edward’s relief, had disappeared.

  As the little party walked through the trees back to the car they bumped into Connie and Gerald.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Edward reassured them. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about. Charles has had a wetting, that’s all. Monarch capsized.’

  ‘Goodness me!’ Connie cried in alarm. ‘He’s not hurt, is he?’

  ‘He’s rather water-logged but he’ll survive.’

  ‘And Frank dived in to save him,’ Elizabeth added.

  ‘Frank, come over here. I can’t see in this light. You’re wet through. And Edward – what’s wrong with your shoulder?’

  ‘Let’s get back to the car and drop the boys at their houses. Charles has had a bit of a fright and his Dame will probably want to see he’s all right. And Frank . . . you’re all right, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Another time, old lad. I’ve just got one or two things to clear up and then I’ll come down and give you and Charles a full report. Until then, the less said the better, eh Frank? Connie, I’ve managed to catch a bullet in my shoulder. Nothing to worry about. Elizabeth’s patched me up for now but we might call in on the doctor if he’s still awake when we get back.’

  ‘A bullet! What on earth . . .?’ Connie caught Elizabeth’s eye and stopped. The bullet was obviously not something to discuss in front of Gerald. The Duke seemed unable to take in what had happened and Connie and Edward tacitly agreed that he should not be enlightened. He was half-asleep and showing signs of exteme fatigue. It was enough that he knew the boys had fallen in the river but were otherwise unhurt.

  ‘Shouldn’t we go to the hospital?’ Connie said in a low voice.

  ‘No. I don’t want a lot of questions and hospitals have to report gunshot wounds to the police.’

  Further conversation was made impossible as, with a crack and several bangs, the firework display began. The sky was lit up with coloured stars, showers of gold and silver, and a rocket pierced the black-velvet sky to break above their heads in a glorious umbrella of fire. Everyone except the boy in Fenton’s arms involuntarily raised their heads to watch the night sky transformed into light and colour. Then, at Edward’s urging, they continued their trek. He put his good arm round his nephew’s shoulders and whispered in his ear, ‘Frank, you’re a brave boy and I probably owe my life to you. And Charles . . . you did what I couldn’t do and tried to get him out of the water.’

  Frank raised his head and a smile lit up his face as brightly as one of the brilliant flares illuminating the sky.

  ‘Did I really, Uncle Ned? I thought perhaps I had made things worse.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Edward assured him. ‘But say nothing to anyone about what happened tonight between that man and me. We saw Charles fall into the water and, when he didn’t surface, you went in after him.’

  ‘But who was the man?’

  ‘Someone I know – someone who had a grudge against Charles’s father but he wasn’t his killer, I think. I promise I’ll tell you about it but, for the moment, I’d like to keep it all quiet. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . your shoulder?’

  ‘I’ll get that seen to as soon as we’ve dropped you two off. It hurts like hell but I don’t think it’s very serious.’

  The boy said nothing but squeezed his uncle’s undamaged arm. As they reached the car, he said, ‘Uncle Ned, is it all over?’

  Edward looked at his nephew gravely. ‘Not quite over for me perhaps, but over for you and Charles.’

  Then, for the first time since Frank was a small child, he kissed him – on the forehead. ‘Over for you,’ he repeated.

  27

  ‘How’s it feeling . . . your head?’

  ‘I’m per
fectly well, thank you, Edward.’

  ‘Well enough for me to take you out tonight after the play?’

  ‘Certainly . . . of course.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re cross with me?’

  ‘Why should I be cross with you?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to know. Is it because I had to do without you . . . I mean, in England? It was you finding the ring which was the clue connecting Tilney’s death with Sutton.’

  ‘I know. It’s not that.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Oh, do stop asking me questions.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They were silent. Edward had come back to Madrid eager to tell her about Tom Sutton – how he had saved Charles Thayer from drowning and then disappeared. ‘Vanished off the face of the earth,’ he would have said, but she had not questioned him. She had not been suitably interested in how he came to have a bullet wound. He had been all prepared to shrug off his bravery under fire – well, not literally of course. That would have been too painful. She had not even congratulated him on almost managing to catch a murderer. In a way, he was relieved. There were still some ‘aspects of the case’ – that was the phrase he found himself using to himself, as though he were a proper detective – which he would have enjoyed puzzling out with her. On the other hand, there was all Sutton had told him about Griffiths-Jones, how he had alleged David had got to Tilney and shot him so that all he had to do was celebrate the event. He didn’t want to have to tell her that, even if it were all lies. So, maybe, it was a relief to find Verity in a deep sulk.

  After a moment or two, she put out her hand and touched his. I’m sorry, Edward. How’s your poor shoulder? I didn’t mean to be irritable. It’s just that . . . I feel I’m missing everything.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’ve been rushing around chasing murderers and all I’ve been doing is waiting . . .’

  ‘I didn’t catch Sutton. No one did. You should have seen Pride’s face when I reported on the night’s events. He didn’t want to believe me but, of course, I had witnesses to most of it – Frank and Elizabeth. He’s not really interested in Makepeace Hoden’s death – I can understand that. That’s not his problem and he as much as told me it wasn’t mine either. However, to find there was a spy at the Madrid embassy and then let him escape! He had the cheek to blame me; said I ought to have – how did he phrase it? Oh yes, apparently I ought to have “apprehended him”. As if I hadn’t had other things to worry about – like whether little Charles was still alive.’

  Edward found he was burbling on to try to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Pride thought I was fantasising at first, but when the embassy confirmed that Sutton had cleared his desk and, he hinted, other people’s too . . .’

  ‘Stolen things?’

  ‘Not money, but files . . . secret documents . . . about British intentions in Spain . . . that sort of thing . . .’

  Verity shivered. ‘I don’t know what to think. His motives were good . . . The Party has to act if Britain and France won’t . . .’ She hesitated. ‘But he definitely killed Hoden?’

  ‘Hoden was the worst sort of . . . Don’t feel you have to mourn him, Verity. Anyway, I feel grateful to Sutton. He saved Charles when no one else could have done. If he took a life, he also gave one back.’

  ‘So that would suggest he didn’t kill Charles’s father?’

  ‘Yes, although we still can’t quite say QED. Saving Charles from drowning might just have been spontaneous – something anyone would do without considering who it was. In any case, he had no quarrel with the boy. That’s the most likely thing, though it might have been an act of contrition to save the son of the man he had killed but . . .’

  ‘But you don’t think so.’

  ‘No, the boat capsizing . . . the boy in the water . . . it all happened so fast. I doubt whether anybody would have had time to analyse why they acted as they did.’

  ‘So, did he kill Stephen Thayer?’

  ‘Hard to say for sure. We don’t have enough evidence but, on balance, I would say he didn’t. He said Elizabeth had written to him saying she had come to like Stephen and she didn’t want him killed, and she confirmed it.’

  ‘That was big of her,’ Verity said sourly.

  Edward ignored her. ‘Elizabeth had heard Stephen say how sorry he was that he had contributed to Oliver’s anguish, that he had been bored and selfish as a young man and regretted he had been seduced by Dora Pale. He had a conscience.’

  ‘Hmf! Very cosy. I suppose they all wept and forgave each other . . . ugh!’

  ‘I think he wanted to talk to me about it and about Mike Nadall’s amateurish attempt to blackmail him. Elizabeth thinks Pride is right and the bank was finished and Stephen was all but bankrupt . . . and that he was desperately trying to find ways of paying the investors back. Even if it meant dealing with the Nazis, and even though his conscience told him it was wrong.’

  Verity snorted. ‘I don’t believe a word of that. He was just a capitalist exploiter who was about to get his come-uppance.’

  Edward was silent. He thought Verity was, consciously or unconsciously, trying to lead him away from accusing David of . . . anything. She had decided that Tom Sutton, whom she had never liked, was to be the villain of the piece. After a moment he said, ‘One thing I can’t forgive him for is banging you over the head.’

  ‘Oh, that was my fault. I shouldn’t have waved my hand around. You’re sure that was Tom?’

  ‘Yes, whether he killed Godfrey Tilney or not – and whatever he says, he’s still our prime suspect. He left the ring – Elizabeth’s ring – the ring with which Max had married her mother – in the cave as a sign that Oliver had been avenged.’

  ‘Ugh! How macabre.’ Verity shivered. ‘Whatever you say in his defence, Tom was a twisted, unhappy man.’

  Like David, Edward was tempted to add but restrained himself. Instead he said, ‘I don’t defend him. Don’t forget that he got someone to put something unpleasant in Harry Bragg’s food hoping to kill the both of us.’

  ‘How is Harry, by the way?’

  ‘He’s quite recovered. He has the nerve to pretend he wasn’t that ill and that I got the wind up and nearly crashed his “old gel”.’

  He saw he was failing to amuse her so he became serious. ‘You really think there’s going to be an uprising? A civil war?’

  ‘I know so. David’s never wrong about that sort of thing . . . politics.’

  ‘Well then, aren’t you pleased? It will be your chance to make your name.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s what I hate about myself. I feel like a hyena or a jackal, whichever it is, waiting to feed off someone else’s misery.’

  ‘You shouldn’t feel that, V,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve spent months trying to alert the world – Britain in particular – to what’s happening over here – that something should be done to prevent civil war. In article after article, you’ve argued that if the democracies do nothing it will send out the wrong message – that there is no will to fight Fascism.’

  ‘Yes,’ Verity agreed, looking a little less miserable, ‘and I’m right. I know I am. If only France and Britain had given their whole-hearted support to the government . . .’

  ‘You think it’s too late?’

  ‘David says it is.’

  ‘You’ve seen a lot of him?’ he asked causally.

  ‘No. He blows in when I least expect it and then he’s off again for weeks at a time. He’s terribly important in the Party here, you know. The President relies on him.’

  Verity looked at him with naive pride in the man she still clearly loved. Edward hadn’t the heart to be angry, or even jealous, but he was sad and apprehensive. He didn’t know if it was prejudice or instinct, but he believed what Sutton had told him. He believed David Griffiths-Jones had killed Tilney – because he needed to, because the Party thought it necessary. One thing was certain: he could never tell Verity that he believed her lover to be a murderer. S
he had to arrive at that conclusion herself. If Edward accused David, she would see it – however unreasonably – as an attack upon herself. He had to let her find out for herself what kind of man it was she loved. And that meant – it made him sick at heart to admit it – allowing her to go off with this man into God-only-knew-what danger. It wasn’t that he thought Griffiths-Jones might hurt her. He wasn’t that sort of a brute. He was a cold-blooded killer of anyone who came between him and what he was trying to achieve. ‘The ends justify the means’ – that was what he would say. In any case, reluctantly, he had to admit that, as far as Griffiths-Jones was capable of loving anyone, he probably loved Verity and, more importantly, she was useful to him and to the Party.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Do you want to know the rest? About Tilney?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course I do. Tell me – you knew the ring I was waving around was something to do with Sutton before your Eton shindig?’

  ‘I guessed because, of course, I hadn’t seen it.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Well, when we found Tilney in the cave, I could see the body wasn’t yet stiff – rigor mortis hadn’t fully set in.’

  ‘How could you have been so . . . so objective?’ Verity said, shuddering. She was silent as she thought back to that day. Finding him like that had saved David’s life but it was still a horrible sight – Tilney dead in his chair with the flies buzzing in and out of the hole in his head like bees round a hive. ‘What else?’ she said at last.

  ‘Well, we had been with Belasco quite a lot of the time when he might have otherwise been up in the mountains. Anyway, I can’t see what possible motive he could have for killing Tilney.’

  ‘I remember you saying he had been shot with a small gun – a woman’s pistol – like the one Sutton used on you.’

  ‘Yes, and he had been shot at such close range. It must have been someone he knew quite well, or was even expecting.’

  ‘Perhaps the murderer stole up on him while he was asleep – you know, like Claudius in Hamlet.’