‘Ah well . . .’ Edward wondered if he could tell her the truth
‘Don’t tell me if it’s embarrassing. I know you were running an errand for that man but don’t feel you have to tell me about it.’
He bit his lip. ‘Churchill did give me a letter to deliver to the Duke. It was advice on how to comport himself – who to talk to and who not to.’
‘Like Hitler, you mean?’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Edward surrendered. ‘It would be a public relations disaster if he went to see him in Berlin. The King and the Government would wash their hands of him. He would never be allowed back into England.’
‘Go and see Hitler? He wouldn’t be that silly, would he?’
‘He might.’
Verity thought about it as she looked over the waves towards the white cliffs. She was a good sailor but it would be a relief to be back on dry land.
Suddenly she said, ‘By the way, while we are talking of secrets I suppose I had better tell you that I am going to Vienna with Adam . . . Joe wants me to report from there and then Prague . . . but,’ she added bitterly, ‘I expect he has already told you.’
‘He didn’t tell me about Adam,’ Edward said calmly.
‘No, that’s our idea. He’s going to show me around. You can see what a help he’ll be. He knows everyone and my German isn’t very good yet.’
‘Are you going as . . .’ the wind whipped across his face as though trying to blow the words away over the white cliffs, ‘his lover?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Verity turned to face him. ‘You see, we think the same way. I shouldn’t have . . . You and I don’t belong together . . . I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry too. I thought we did belong together.’
‘I told you, I need to be free.’
‘To sleep with anyone you fancy,’ he said, allowing bitterness to salt his words for the first time.
‘Edward . . . I don’t just fancy him. I love and admire him.’
‘But you have only known him a few days.’ He heard the pleading in his voice and hated himself.
‘What does that matter?’ she said defiantly. ‘Please, I don’t want to discuss it. I just thought I should tell you . . . so that there were no . . . misunderstandings.’
‘I understand.’ He hesitated and then contradicted himself. ‘No I don’t. I thought we loved each other.’
‘We do, but it has to be as loving friends. Can we still be friends?’
‘I can,’ Edward said with an effort, ‘if you can, though I . . . ’ He paused again. What was the point of bleating about his love for her? Why was it that, however badly she treated him, he still loved her? He grinned wryly. She saw his grin and seemed relieved. Perhaps she had been expecting a ‘scene’.
‘After all, we have a murder to solve – two murders – and not much time.’
He knew she was trying to tell him that she still wanted to be partners and he smiled again, more warmly.
She said, ‘I may not have time to finish it . . . If it takes longer . . .’ She looked at him appealingly. ‘You must finish it. Please, Edward, don’t look at me like that. I have to go to Vienna. It’s . . . It’s my destiny.’
‘I know,’ he said simply.
She took his cold hand in hers. ‘You must solve it . . . for me . . . for us.’ She smiled and for a moment they were ‘together’ again.
‘Shall we go over it all again?’ he asked.
‘When we get off this bloody boat.’
At the breakfast table the next day Edward found, alongside his kippers, a pile of letters. He quickly set aside what were obviously bills and turned to the three remaining envelopes. The first was from Mrs Cardew. She said that, on returning from Swifts Hill, she had immediately come down with pneumonia. ‘At this time of year! Too ridiculous,’ she wrote in a shaky hand. ‘I am recovering but I’m as weak as a kitten, so forgive my writing! I not only bore myself but poor Maggie who is looking after me. What did I do to deserve such good children?’
She went on to say that she had been thinking about the cricket match and the discovery of Maud in the river. ‘Of course, I did not go chasing after Mah-Jongg. I stayed where I was and from my deck-chair I could see everything. I have been thinking hard and I believe I may have seen something odd. I suppose I ought to tell the police but I am not certain enough – if you know what I mean. The last thing I want to do is to cast suspicion on someone perfectly innocent, so I thought of you. If you could ask a few tactful questions . . . It’s probably nothing and I will quite understand if you don’t want to have anything more to do with that horrible tragedy. That poor unhappy girl . . . I can’t believe she deserved to die except in so far as we all must account for our sins eventually. I don’t want to be morbid but I think my reckoning is not so far away now and, the odd thing is, I really don’t mind. I have had a good life and I don’t wish to be a burden to my children. Oh dear! I have just read this over and it sounds maudlin but I won’t tear it up. I have the feeling that you might understand . . .’
Edward picked up the second letter, addressed in a recognizably German hand. There was a small crest on the back of the envelope and he knew it had to be from Adam von Trott. He was unsure if he wished to receive letters from the man who had seduced his girl, but as soon as the phrase ‘his girl’ had formed itself in his mind he became aware how absurd it was. Verity was not his girl but still . . . Curious, he slit open the envelope with his silver paperknife.
‘My dear Lord Edward,’ he read. ‘Verity – Miss Browne – tells me you fence. I wonder if you would do me the honour of a bout or two at the London Fencing Club. The truth is there is something I would like to discuss with you. Without meaning to, I believe I may have behaved improperly and I would like the opportunity of explaining myself. If that is acceptable to you, may I suggest twelve o’clock on Wednesday? I may be reached at the above address.’
There was something a little awkward, almost peremptory, about the young man’s letter but Edward excused it knowing that he would certainly not be able to write a letter in German half as fluently. He was reluctant to discuss Verity with von Trott, which seemed to be the purpose of the proposed meeting. On the other hand, he would like to get a better idea of how his mind worked. He felt it incumbent on himself to be friendly to a ‘good’ German who must be in a most unenviable position politically.
He picked up the third envelope and examined it narrowly. Again, the hand was foreign. The number 7 was written in the Continental way but looking at the postmark he saw it came from Swifts Hill. When he slid the letter out, he saw that it was written on Swifts Hill writing paper but was from neither of the Castlewoods. Just for a moment, he had wondered if Sir Simon had written him to keep quiet about the young lady in the South of France and was glad that he had been wrong. His respect for Sir Simon had not survived the discovery that he was unfaithful to his wife and though he was sure it was not his place to enlighten Virginia – if she needed enlightening – he had no particular wish to see him again, with or without his wife. He did not make the mistake of imagining his morals were much better and he knew that in the ‘smart set’ having affairs, keeping a mistress, or whatever you liked to call it, was taken for granted, but it still shocked him which he knew was stupid and illogical.
‘Dear Lord Edward,’ the letter began, ‘forgive me for writing to you as a complete stranger but I do not know who else to turn to. I am a refugee and refugees do not like to have anything more to do with policemen than they can help. I have certain loyalties too, which makes my position most difficult. From everything I hear about you, I am convinced you are a man of honour and will help me if you can. I shall be in London on Wednesday morning and I wish to call upon you about nine. If that is not possible, please do not write to me here at Swifts Hill but leave a message with your porter. I will quite understand. I have to tell you that Sir Simon does not know I have begged this interview with you and I would be glad if you could keep it to yourself. I am sorry to sound so secretive but you
will understand why when I see you.’
After he had finished his kippers, he went into the hall to telephone Verity and remind her that they were meeting for lunch at Derry and Toms. There was no answer. Holding the receiver gave him an idea and he dialled Mrs Cardew’s number. If it were convenient, he would call in and see her on his way to Kensington. Maggie answered and seemed touched and pleased that he had responded so quickly to her mother’s letter.
‘She’s not well and the doctor isn’t much use. He just tells her to stay in bed and keep warm. She seems to have something on her mind and I know it would ease her to talk to you.’
Maggie squeezed his hand when she let him into the flat and Edward thought what an attractive girl she was. He was quite used to her burn mark by now and hardly noticed it. She led him into her mother’s bedroom which was very warm. The old woman had made an effort for him, he saw. She had put on a little rouge. Her hair was brushed and she was wearing a lacy dressing-gown. But all her efforts could not disguise the fact that she was very ill and Edward thought she really ought to be in hospital. She was breathing with difficulty and her voice was husky. Her Pekinese lay on her bed, also breathing heavily and looking depressed.
‘I am so sorry to see you like this, Mrs Cardew. I was so hoping that the air at Swifts Hill might have . . .’
‘You are very kind, dear Lord Edward,’ she panted, ‘but I am as well as can be expected. My doctor wants me to go to hospital but I have refused. I want to die in my own bed. If I go into hospital, they will push me around, poke instruments into me and in the end I will die just the same.’
‘Mother, please don’t talk about dying. You’re going to get better. The doctor said there was no reason why you should not get over this.’
‘It is all in God’s hands, my dear. Now, will you be a good child and leave me with Lord Edward for five minutes. There is something I want to say to him in private. Go for a walk round the garden or go to the shops. You need some fresh air.’
‘But Mother . . .’
‘I mean it,’ she said firmly. ‘If I want anything, Blackie will get it for me.’
When Maggie had left, Mrs Cardew said, ‘I am so worried about that child. Her disfigurement has prevented her from having the social life enjoyed by other girls of her age.’
‘I think she is very attractive,’ Edward rejoined. As he said it, he realized he meant it.
‘It’s very good of you to say so, Lord Edward, but even if you told her so, she would not believe it. That’s why I want to live until Dominic Montillo has operated.’
‘She told me she was going to have the operation when we were at Swifts Hill. I am glad. Her scar doesn’t worry me but I can see it is a nuisance for her.’
‘More than that, she lacks confidence. To be frank with you, Lord Edward, she is in danger of becoming an old maid. She has a sharp tongue and she uses it to push away men who get too close. You understand? She’s always thinking she will be rejected and she wants to be the one who ends the relationship. She hates to be pitied . . . Well, you can guess . . .’
Mrs Cardew stopped, short of breath after her speech.
‘I quite understand. I hope it works out for her. I was in France a few days ago and I visited the Beauty Institute. I thought it very impressive. They told me Montillo does cosmetic surgery at his private hospital a few miles away but I didn’t have time to go there.’
‘Yes, it would be wonderful if he could help my girl. He intends to take skin from her thigh, I believe, and . . . I don’t know the medical terms but it’s a miracle what they can do nowdays, isn’t it?’
‘It is. And he will do the operation himself?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘May I ask how Maggie got burnt?’
‘A childhood accident. She was six and she was playing in the kitchen. She was very fond of Mrs Adkins, our cook, and she doted on Maggie. However, I should not have allowed it. Kitchens aren’t for children. When Mrs Adkins was looking the other way, Maggie pulled a frying pan off the stove and splashed herself with very hot oil. I have always blamed myself and, of course, Mrs Adkins, was distraught. She died not long after, still grieving. It was a great tragedy. Maggie was such a pretty girl.’
‘She is still,’ Edward repeated. ‘Well, I am so pleased you have told me. Perhaps I may be able to help . . . chauffeur her about, that sort of thing.’
‘You are very kind but Edmund will look after her.’
‘Of course.’ There was a silence and Edward broke it by saying, ‘But you said in your letter that you wanted to tell me something about the day poor Maud was found dead?’
‘Yes. Pass me that glass of water, will you, Lord Edward? I get so very dry talking. Such a nuisance as it’s what I enjoy most.’ She drank and, when Edward had taken the glass from her, she seemed stronger. ‘It’s probably nothing at all. Certainly it is nothing to bother the police with, but I know from what Ginny told me that you have a reputation for finding out what really happened when . . . on occasions like this. Is there any truth in the rumour that is going around – that Maud killed her father?’
‘She said as much to me,’ he said simply, ‘but she was in a depressed state and taking drugs and sleeping pills. She may have imagined it.’
‘But you don’t think she did imagine it?’
‘No. To be honest, I don’t know who else could have killed him.’
‘That poor, tortured woman! I can’t find it in my heart to condemn her. I pray she has found peace at last. God is merciful.’
‘I hope so too. I do feel guilty about Maud, Mrs Cardew. You see, I was there in the Abbey when her father was found murdered and because I was also there when she died . . . I feel I have to help clear it up, if I can. Find out who did such a wicked thing. She said she was going to tell me something about her father. I fear she was killed to keep her from telling me . . .’
‘It’s terribly sad.’ Mrs Cardew shook her head. ‘The old man was a monster. I was glad when I heard he was dead. That was wrong of me, I know, but it’s the honest truth. I thought, now at last Maud can live her own life, but it wasn’t to be.’
‘She could never get over what she had done to her father – it’s the primal curse, parricide – even if he deserved to die.’ He looked at the old lady and wondered what she knew and what she guessed. ‘So what did you see?’ he asked, trying to bring her to the point.
‘Well, as you know, I was watching the cricket from a deck-chair next to the pavilion. In fact, I wasn’t watching the cricket. I have always found it insufferably boring. I was watching everything else. Anyway, I saw the lemur slip out of the pavilion. Lulu, my dog, saw him too and barked. She tried to chase him but she’s so slow she couldn’t catch her own shadow and Mah-Jongg ran off. I called out and then other people saw him. I was still sitting there when everyone joined the chase. I remember Roddy Maitland pretending he was hunting and shouting view-halloo! About two minutes later, when the chase had gone off towards the trees, Miss Berners – you know? Sir Simon’s secretary – came out of the pavilion. She’s a Jewish refugee. The Castlewoods have done so much to help refugees, Lord Edward.’
‘So you think Miss Berners let Mah-Jongg off the leash?’
‘I think she must have. The pavilion was empty except for her.’
‘And did she see you . . . when she came out of the pavilion, I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you speak?’
‘No, she just smiled at me and walked away.’
‘What kind of smile?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, was it a smile of triumph?’
‘Oh, no. Just a smile of acknowledgement.’
‘She wasn’t asking you to keep quiet about what you had seen?’
‘In a smile? No, Lord Edward. It was just a smile. I’m sorry, I realize now I ought to have asked her what she was doing.’
‘Where did she go to then?’
‘She walked off towards the stream.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know if she reached it. I was distracted by the chase. Mah-Jongg had gone in a circle and was running towards me. It was very funny – all the little boys and the men pretending to be little boys.’
‘So, sorry to go on about it, but was everyone chasing Mah-Jongg except you?’
‘I think so. Of course Ginny was up at the house but Isolde was there with Roddy and Simon . . . oh, and Teddy. Or was he? You know, I can’t be sure. Then you and your nephew joined in and some of the villagers. It was quite a mêlée. I’m not a very good witness, am I?’
‘You are a very good witness. The main thing is you were in one place for a considerable time. And Miss Berners – did you see her later?’
‘No. She keeps herself to herself. She’s very discreet. She doesn’t like mingling with Simon’s guests, which I think is quite right.’
‘Do you like her?’
‘I don’t know her. She seems a perfectly nice, well-behaved young woman and suitably grateful for what the Castlewoods have done for her.’
Edward hesitated. ‘So you did not see anything else? How about when Maud was found dead in the stream? You were still in your deck-chair?’
‘Still in my chair, I’m afraid.’
‘That was ten minutes after you saw Miss Berners come out of the pavilion?’
‘I would say nearer fifteen. But you were there, Lord Edward.’
‘I was at the crease and rather bound up with the match until we got involved in the chase.’
‘Of course. How good-looking your nephew is! I hope he hasn’t been ensnared by that terrible American girl.’
‘No, I don’t think so. You think she’s terrible?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Well, yes, I do rather. So you saw nothing suspicious?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
After Edward had said goodbye to Mrs Cardew, he went to see if he could find Maggie. He discovered her in the courtyard, sitting on a bench.
‘She’s dying, you know,’ she said, as he sat down beside her. ‘I really don’t know what to do. Dominic – Mr Montillo, I mean – has had a cancellation and he says he can do my skin graft later this week but with my mother so ill, I don’t think I should leave her for any length of time.’
A Grave Man Page 19