‘So Ginny what’s-her-name has invited you to stay?’
‘Ginny Waring – Virginia Castlewood as she is now. You must have heard of her. She’s married to the millionaire. They built that house in Kent, just outside Tonbridge. Part of it is what remains of a castle and the rest is very modern. There was an article on it in Country Life. She has a pet mongoose – or do I mean a lemur?’
Edward did remember. Sir Simon Castlewood had inherited a fortune from his father who had supplied the army with uniforms during the war. The father had been one of those hard men who ‘had done well out of the war’, as the saying was, but the son had made a better name for himself as a patron of the arts and sciences. He was said to have a fine picture collection and an even finer library. He supported many charities, notably Earl Haig’s fund for ex-soldiers. He had set up a medical foundation to develop cures for tuberculosis and polio. He had financed several expeditions to the North and South Poles and was something of an explorer and naturalist himself.
Verity never did anything without a purpose and Edward was suspicious. ‘So why this sudden desire to look up an old school friend?’
‘No reason except I haven’t seen her for ages,’ she replied airily, snuggling down beneath the sheets, her appetite for toast and marmalade temporarily sated.
‘Hold on! I’ve just remembered. Didn’t Castlewood underwrite Pitt-Messanger’s excavations in Egypt or somewhere?’
‘That’s right and, as it happens, Maud Pitt-Messanger is staying at Swifts Hill. Ginny has such a kind heart and, when she heard about her father’s death, she scooped her up and took her there to recover and avoid the press.’
‘Really, V, you are incorrigible. You want to investigate . . .’
‘Chief Inspector Pride will never find out who murdered her father, now will he?’
‘We may not like Pride but he is a very competent police officer,’ Edward said sententiously. ‘I have every confidence . . .’
‘Well, I don’t, so there.’
Edward pushed aside the breakfast tray and rolled over on Verity. ‘Stop it, you bully. You’re squashing me.’
‘If only that were possible!’ he retorted. They looked at each other with mutual indignation and then Verity was overtaken by the giggles. ‘Men look so absurd in striped pyjamas, particularly if they are trying to lay down the law.’
‘Oh really? You have experience of men in pyjamas, do you? You jade, you juggler, you canker blossom, you thief of love!’
‘How dare you call me a jade. I don’t even know what it means. Are you calling me a horse?’
‘I’m calling you a bad-tempered and disreputable woman and to prove it . . .’
The plates and newspapers slid on to the floor as Edward caught Verity in his arms. She made inadequate attempts to escape but was soon overcome.
Panting, Edward released her. ‘You’ve got jam on your nose,’ he said, as he kneeled astride her.
‘I surrender, I surrender,’ she cried in mock alarm. ‘Don’t hurt me, you nasty, ugly man. I am thinking of getting another dog to protect me. Ouch! Remember, I’m still an invalid.’
Edward relaxed his grip. She had taken a bullet in her shoulder when the Spanish town of Guernica had been bombed and strafed by the Luftwaffe just a few months before. She had been lucky to survive. The photographer, Gerda Meyer, who was with her, had been killed. She was very much better but still not fully recovered – from the shock as much as from the wound itself. Gently, he turned her on her stomach and stroked the scar, still livid, where the bullet had pierced her. She twisted her head to look at him, for once almost meek. ‘My scar . . . I can’t even see it, damn it. Is it horrible? Does it . . . disgust you?’
He remembered the girl who had comforted Maud Pitt-Messanger in the Abbey. Her scar had spoilt her looks. ‘No, my dearest,’ he said, his voice thick with passion. ‘I love every scar, every scratch on you.’ He bent his head and kissed first her shoulder, feeling the wound with his tongue and then, rolling her over, the little scar on her forehead.
She put her hands to his face, pushing him back so she could look into his eyes. ‘And I love you.’ It went against all her instincts. She had held out against him as long as she could but she did love this man – she was almost sure of it. What was more, she trusted him absolutely, without reservation. She closed her eyes and gave a little cry, perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of protest. He needed no warning to treat her gently. With infinite tenderness he buried himself in her, his eyes never leaving her face. She threw her arms around him and held him to her fiercely as if he alone could protect her from the pain and blot out her memories of Spain.
Afterwards, they lay on their backs smoking until Edward suddenly remembered that they had an appointment with a house agent at eleven. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was already half past nine. Verity had been staying with her friends, the Hassels, in the King’s Road since she had returned from Spain. She had sold her Knightsbridge flat before she left and owned no property in England. She had decided she needed a pied-à-terre in London, even though she was abroad for so much of the time. She did not want anything cosy. She had no wish to make a home for herself. She merely needed somewhere to leave the few possessions she did not want to carry about the world with her. She had settled on an anonymous-looking flat in a new, purpose-built block off Sloane Avenue called Cranmer Court. Before she made a final decision she wanted Edward to see it.
London was beginning to have the air of a forgotten city – Petra perhaps, Edward thought as they stepped out of Cranmer Court on to brown, balding grass. The flat had proved to be light and airy, though expensive. Edward wanted her to look at others but Verity was impatient. ‘What is the point? It suits me and I’ve got the money.’
It was a slight embarrassment to Verity, as a Communist, that she was rich. Her father was a successful barrister renowned for his defence of left-wing causes. She had never liked spending his money but her resolve had weakened as the years passed and, anyway, she was earning herself now. Her employer, Lord Weaver, the owner of the New Gazette, saw her as one of his stars and paid her accordingly. The Daily Worker, for which she also wrote, paid her nothing but her book on Spain published by the Left Book Club had sold well and Victor Gollancz had been after her to write another.
The young man from the agency had been pleased and surprised that the flat had been such an easy sale. When he discovered to whom he had sold it, he had been fulsome. Edward was amused to see how Verity, in the face of frank admiration, managed to display irritation and pleasure at the same time.
It was hotter than ever and the dust spread over everything, painting the leaves on the trees grey and casting a grey veil over Edward’s Lagonda. London was emptying, so it was with some surprise that they bumped into Edmund Cardew whom they had last seen at the Abbey when Edward had dispatched him to summon the police. He was an MP – one of the youngest in the House – and was being talked of as a ‘coming man’. The girl on his arm seemed almost a child. At first sight Edward did not recognize her but then, as she moved her head, he saw the burn scar which had transformed her cheek to rice paper, only partly concealed by the hair which fell about her face. It was she who had comforted Miss Pitt-Messanger in the Abbey.
She proved to be Cardew’s sister Margaret – Maggie as her brother called her. Edward shook her gloved hand and they exchanged a few words about the murder. As they did so, it occurred to him to wonder if the handle of the knife which had killed the old man had been clean of fingerprints. All the ladies attending the memorial service would have been gloved of course but then it was not really a woman’s crime. He reminded himself that the investigation was nothing to do with him. He introduced Verity and explained that she had been buying a flat.
‘Excellent!’ Cardew said. ‘Then you must come and meet my mother. She bought one of the first flats three years ago and is quite the queen of Cranmer Court.’
It was impossible to refuse so Verity and Maggie walked ahead of the t
wo men towards the other side of the block. Cardew said in a low voice so that his sister could not hear, ‘When my father died, just after Maggie was born, my mother was left very badly off. She had to sell Molton – our house in Kent – and move into the gatekeeper’s lodge. Then I began to make a little money and I was able to buy her this flat. She can come up to town and see her friends and I have a place to sleep when the House is sitting. I know she will love to meet Miss Browne. The truth is she gets a bit lonely. She says all her friends are dying off like flies and she loves the young. She was a great friend of Lord Benyon, you know. He was very kind to us when my father died. In fact, I owe him a great deal. When I left Rugby he got me a job with his stockbrokers, Thalberg and May. His brother-in-law, Horace Garton, was a partner in the firm. I don’t know if you ever met him?’
‘I met his sister, Mrs Garton, once very briefly. I liked her.’
‘Between ourselves, she is worth two of him but I shouldn’t say so. Garton was always good to me and I am truly grateful. He has retired now.’
‘And you are a partner?’
‘I am but I may have to give it up. I spend so much time at the House. The Prime Minister has said . . . but you don’t want to hear about me, Lord Edward.’
In contrast to her brother, Maggie was silent. Verity, who had not noticed her in the Abbey, was shocked by her disfigurement and imagined she must be shy. She made up for it by talking rather wildly about her trip on the Queen Mary with Benyon but it was a relief to her when they reached Mrs Cardew’s flat. Edmund’s and Maggie’s mother proved to be a woman of considerable charm who was clearly devoted to her children. She was rather stout and when she embraced Maggie the girl almost disappeared. She emerged laughing and adjusting her hat.
‘Mother, please! This hat cost a fortune! Don’t crush it.’
It was pleasant to see how affectionately they teased the old woman. Edward asked Mrs Cardew about Benyon, explaining his and Verity’s connection.
‘That’s so like Inna,’ she exclaimed when Verity described how Lady Benyon had helped her overcome her ‘block’ when she was writing her book on Spain. ‘She was one of my closest friends but alas she is dead. As soon as Blackie brings me the The Times in the morning before I get up, I read the death notices. I expect to see my own there soon,’ she smiled.
‘Mother!’ Cardew expostulated. ‘You talk as if you are in your dotage. You are only as young as you feel. She has so many friends,’ he said, turning to Verity. ‘Tomorrow you are going down to Swifts Hill, aren’t you, Mother? You always like going there. Do you know the Castlewoods, Lord Edward?’
‘I don’t but, as it happens, Verity will be staying with them at the same time as you are there, Mrs Cardew.’
‘My dear, how wonderful,’ the old lady said, smiling at her. ‘Perhaps we can travel together. There’s a train from Victoria at 3.28 that will get us to Swifts Hill in time for tea. But how silly of me . . . you don’t want to be lumbered with an old woman like me.’
‘Not at all,’ Verity said. ‘I would very much like to come with you if I may. The truth is I haven’t seen Ginny since we left school and I am a little scared of meeting her husband.’
‘Oh, Simon’s a charmer. You will get on very well with him. He has an eye for a pretty girl. Not that I am saying he is other than devoted to Virginia . . .’
‘That’s settled then,’ Cardew said. ‘It would be a weight off my mind, Miss Browne, if you would accompany my mother. It’s a long journey and she has not been well . . .’
‘Oh pish, Edmund. I have just had a summer cold which I have not been able fully to throw off. Dear Virginia swears that the air at Swifts Hill – so much cleaner than here in London – will clear it up in no time.’
‘And I am sure she is right,’ her son said. ‘It will do you the world of good.’
Verity found his concern for his mother admirable but slightly suspect. She had never had a mother but imagined that she would be less patronizing than Edmund. She guessed Mrs Cardew must be seventy-three or four. She was hardly at death’s door and why was Maggie so silent? Was it just shyness? She shook herself mentally. She was becoming cynical, she thought. ‘I am staying with friends in the King’s Road, Mrs Cardew. I will pick you up in a taxi . . .’
‘Lord Edward, you are not accompanying us?’
‘No, I was not invited and in any case I have another engagement.’
‘Too bad,’ Cardew said. ‘You should know, Mother, that Miss Browne is a distinguished journalist. A foreign correspondent, I think they call it. Isn’t that right, Miss Browne?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Verity said, reluctant to be flattered, ‘but I certainly work for a newspaper – the New Gazette.’
‘So you must know Lord Weaver?’ Mrs Cardew inquired.
‘He employed me. Is he a friend of yours, Mrs Cardew?’
‘Edmund sees a lot of him, don’t you, dear? He is one of the old monster’s “young men”.’
‘Oh, Mother, where do you pick up those expressions? You have been reading the Daily Express. I am certainly not one of his “young men”, Miss Browne, but he has been good to me. He, too, was kind to us when my father died. Lord Weaver sent many of his friends my way so I owe him what little success I have had as a stockbroker.’
Maggie seemed to want to change the subject because, to Verity’s surprise, she broke her silence. ‘Lord Edward, have you heard whether the police have caught the man who killed poor Mr Pitt-Messanger?’
‘I know nothing more than I have read in the newspapers, Miss Cardew. As far as I know they have not charged anybody, but it’s early days yet.’
‘Quite terrible!’ exclaimed Mrs Cardew. ‘Sacrilege I call it, though I have to admit I could never stand him.’
‘You knew Pitt-Messanger?’ Edward asked in surprise.
‘I knew him, yes, but not well. He was an obstinate old man and he led that poor daughter of his the most awful life. I hope you will tell me, Maggie, if I turn into a tyrant.’
‘Mother!’ the girl protested, taking her hand and squeezing it.
‘He was a tyrant?’ Verity asked.
‘Maybe I am exaggerating but he was so obsessed with his work, he had no time to look to his children.’
‘Children? I thought there was only Maud?’ Edward queried.
‘There was a son – Edwin, I think his name was. He ran away to sea when he was fourteen or fifteen and has never been seen since.’
‘How romantic,’ Verity sighed.
‘Possibly, but to make a child run away from home, you have to have done “unromantic” things to him.’ Mrs Cardew looked fierce. ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it but I know something very unpleasant happened.’
‘And now poor Maud is all alone in the world,’ Maggie sighed.
‘It’s the best thing for her,’ Mrs Cardew said sharply. ‘If it is not too late for her, as I fear it may be, she can set about living her life.’
‘Her father treated her badly?’ Verity inquired.
‘He made her his companion, secretary, housekeeper, dogsbody. He took her on all his digs.’
‘That must have been interesting,’ Edward put in. ‘I remember reading he made some wonderful finds in Assyria.’
‘He uncovered the grave of a great king,’ Cardew said, ‘but there were all sorts of problems. I can’t remember the details. One of the young men who helped him on the dig claimed he, not Pitt-Messanger, had made the find and kicked up a bit of a stink about it. Fortunately for Pitt-Messanger, his accuser died fairly soon after – of cholera, I think – and the scandal died with him.’
‘Yes,’ Edward recalled, ‘there were pictures of some of the treasures he had uncovered in the Illustrated London News . . . a dagger and some jewellery. Amazing!’
Verity looked at him with surprise. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in archaeology?’
‘I have a small collection of my own. Don’t you remember that Etruscan vase I managed to smash?’
‘What did you say, dear?’
‘Sorry, Mother. I just said it was odd there was no body. I mean, usually an ancient grave is robbed of its treasures but they don’t bother to disturb the corpse. On that occasion the opposite seems to have been the case.’
‘I imagine the bones just turned to dust over the centuries,’ Edward put in.
‘Of course! Anyway, why am I talking about corpses?’
2
They were met at the station by the Castlewoods’ chauffeur dressed, Verity thought, like von Stroheim, the film director – leather jacket and trousers, peaked cap and long, black boots. A porter rescued Mrs Cardew’s two suitcases from the goods van and Blackie, her maid, who appeared to be even older than her mistress, appeared from third class with Mrs Cardew’s jewellery bag, which was her special care and never left her sight. The chauffeur, who tipped his cap and said his name was Barry, relieved Verity of her new suitcase and she was glad to be able to look him in the eye. She knew from the Queen Mary that servants judged you by the quality and quantity of your luggage. She wondered if Barry was his first or last name but found herself unable to ask.
As she followed Mrs Cardew into the back of the Rolls, she began to worry that she might not have brought enough smart clothes. The Virginia she remembered from school had had no interest in clothes and wore her school uniform with such disregard for decency that she was frequently in trouble with the form mistress. Even the headmistress, meeting her once in a corridor, had sent her back to the dormitory for having holes in her stockings. However, Verity reminded herself, Virginia was now married to a millionaire and no doubt dressed with the help of a maid. She lay back on the soft leather and sniffed that delicious scent of wealth.
It was an odd inconsistency of Verity’s that, though in principle she disapproved of chauffeurs, ladies’ maids, Rolls-Royces and all the other appurtenances of wealth – and would not know what to do with a lady’s maid if she had one – she enjoyed being the guest of those for whom all this was completely natural. As the car set off – so silently she was hardly aware they were moving – Mrs Cardew’s Pekinese, Lulu, climbed on to her lap and she thought once again how nice it would be to have a dog. A delicious languor overtook her and, without meaning to, she slept.
A Grave Man Page 2