A Grave Man

by David Roberts

  The Duke seemed to have a great number of chips of various colours and sizes. ‘Where shall I put them – on the red or the black? Even or uneven?’ he asked, looking up at Verity.

  ‘Red,’ she found herself saying. The croupier swept the ball into its orbit and the thirty seconds during which it spun – creating, momentarily, a silver aurora – seemed to Verity to last an eternity. At last, the ball dropped into a slot bearing a red number.

  ‘Shall I leave it there?’ he said, pointing to the pile of chips, apparently entranced by his winnings.

  Verity nodded approval and again the wheel spun and again the Duke won.

  Edward and Fruity Metcalfe were standing discreetly behind her, Edward praying that she would not do anything silly like overturn the tables and declare herself outraged. As the Duke’s luck – or rather Verity’s – continued, a small crowd gathered about them. Finally, the Duke declared that he would stop while he was ahead and rose from his chair. He thrust several large denomination chips into the hole where tips for the croupiers were collected and, for a brief moment, Edward wondered if he might make the appalling mistake of trying to give Verity some of his winnings. He must, however, have seen something in her face because, gracefully, he kissed her hand and told her how much he had enjoyed her company.

  As Edward turned away from the table, he saw Edmund Cardew and, a second later, Graham Harvey. Harvey, sweating badly in a dinner-jacket two sizes too big for him, stumbled across the room towards them. He had his hand in his jacket pocket. Cardew, who had not seen Harvey, walked towards Edward with a smile on his face. As though in a dream Edward saw Harvey draw a black snub-nosed gun from his pocket.

  ‘No!’ he cried, taking two steps towards Harvey and putting out his hand as though expecting him to hand over the gun.

  There was a bang and then a shocked scream from a woman standing nearby. Edward felt as though he had received a terrific punch in the chest and he fell to the floor.

  As soon as he had fired, Harvey dropped the gun and was immediately overpowered by those around him. He looked at Edward in amazement. ‘You?’ was all he said before he was taken away.

  It had all happened so fast. The Duke had been standing behind Edward and – momentarily unaware of why he had fallen – started to go to his aid. Metcalfe, grasping the danger the Duke was in, tried to hustle him away. As the initial shock passed, the Duke seemed to understand what had happened.

  Twisting free of Metcalfe’s grasp, he shouted, ‘For God’s sake, he tried to kill me,’ and then, seeing the blood staining Edward’s impeccably starched dickey, cried out in a shrill voice – almost a scream, ‘I am not leaving until they get a doctor. This man saved my life.’ Metcalfe once again took his arm and, still protesting, the Duke was led away.

  Verity fell to her knees beside Edward, holding his head, shocked into silence.

  Edward was still just conscious. ‘V, I . . . I think I have been shot.’ To his surprise, his voice was little more than a whisper.

  Verity had not actually seen Harvey fire – her view was obstructed by the Duke and his friends – but she had heard the shot. At first, she thought the Duke had been assassinated but, seeing Edward lying on the floor, she understood immediately what had happened. She felt more frightened than at any time since she had left Spain. It was her worst nightmare – Edward would die and she would be truly alone. It was a moment of absolute clarity when she recognized that he was the only person in the world she really loved and trusted. Even her father, whom she adored, could not be more to her than this man dying in front of her.

  ‘Edward! For God’s sake – are you . . .?’

  ‘V, it’s you, isn’t it? My eyes aren’t working properly . . . That idiot Harvey took a shot at me . . . I . . . I don’t think he meant to. Hold me, V. I don’t seem able to get my breath. I wonder if I’m dying?‘ He sounded more puzzled than frightened.

  Fruity Metcalfe returned from seeing the Duke to his car and knelt down beside Verity. His foolish face was a mask of concern as he took off his jacket, rolled it into a bundle and put it beneath Edward’s head. ‘I say, old fellow, are you all right? No, I mean of course you aren’t. Lie still. An ambulance is on its way. Just don’t move. Bravest thing I ever saw, the way you shielded the guv’nor. A genuine hero, what!’

  ‘Where is he?’ Edward managed to mutter.

  ‘The Duke? Don’t you worry, old chap. He’s quite safe and, in any case, they’ve caught the man.’

  ‘No, I mean . . .’ He wanted to ask where Cardew was but could not get the words out. He tried again. ‘V, will you . . .?’

  Rather stupidly, Edward thought afterwards, he passed out before he could explain to Verity who Harvey’s intended victim was, because, of course, despite appearances, he had not been trying to kill the Duke of Windsor. Just before he lost consciousness, Edward saw everything clearly. He realized he knew why Maud Pitt-Messanger had been stabbed to death and why Graham Harvey wanted to kill Edmund Cardew. He wanted desperately to tell someone – in case he forgot or in case he died – but there was no time. He was feeling very cold and he wanted . . . he wanted to see Verity. He could no longer feel her hand. He knew she was there with him but there was something wrong . . . some reason why he could not see her. As he tried to remember what that might be, his eyes closed.

  Monsieur l’Inspecteur dragged his fingers through his thinning grey hair and said disbelievingly, ‘You are telling me that Graham Harvey was not trying to murder Le Duc but this other man – Edmund Cardew?’

  ‘That is correct, Inspector Carbourd. Is Harvey saying that he was trying to assassinate the Duke?’

  ‘He is saying nothing at all, milord. He has not uttered one word since he was arrested. He will not even speak to the lawyer appointed to represent him.’

  To the Inspector’s great relief, this English aristocrat spoke fluent French. It was a considerable surprise as, in his experience, the majority of English visitors to Cannes spoke very little French, preferring to talk loudly in English. He had several times been called to the casino, and even to the Carlton Hotel, to deal with English ‘lords’, some of whom, after investigation, proved to have appropriated their titles, not inherited them. Genuine or not, they were, with very few exceptions, arrogant, stupid and contemptuous of his authority. This one, however, seemed to be the exception which proved the rule. His French was very good, he was courteous – almost apologetic – and yet he was causing more trouble than any of the others by complicating a simple story. As the newspapers had it – and not just the local papers, even Le Figaro – Lord Edward Corinth, the brother of the Duke of Mersham no less, had placed himself between the Duke of Windsor and an assassin’s bullet. The Duke, Le Figaro pointed out, had turned for refuge to France after having been forced by the cold and hypocritical English to forfeit his throne because he had the misfortune to fall in love with a divorced American. That he should now be the victim of such an outrage was an insult to French honour. Fortunately, the would-be assassin had been apprehended but that was almost beside the point.

  The French had shaken their heads when the Abdication scandal had broken – not at the King’s folly but at the fuss his subjects were making. To them, he was romantic and wronged and now this attempt on his life! No Frenchman was involved, thank goodness, or the whole weight of the Sûreté Nationale would have fallen on the Inspector’s shoulders. No, it was simply an English Communist, already known to the English police, and thankfully, he was now behind bars. France was plagued by anarchists and Communists, many of whom had come from Spain when the war went in Franco’s favour. Only three years ago, on a state visit to France, King Alexander of Yugoslavia had been assassinated in Marseilles with the French Foreign Minister Louis Barthou. The killer was a Macedonian in the pay of the Ustase, the Croatian Fascist organization, but to attempt to kill the ex-king of England at the casino in Cannes . . .! That was outrageous.

  And now this English lord was telling him that the intended victim was not the D
uke – was not even himself – but some other Englishman of whom the Inspector had never even heard. Furthermore, he was demanding to be given access to the prisoner and refusing to lay any charges against him.

  ‘But it is not up to you,’ the Inspector said angrily. ‘This is a criminal matter. It was attempted murder and there is no shortage of witnesses. The doctor says the bullet missed your lung by just so much.’ He squeezed his fingers together. ‘You should not be alive. It is a miracle. Even without your testimony, this madman will be convicted but I must warn you, my lord, should you refuse to go into the witness box you may be held to have committed contempt of court. But, forgive me! The doctor said I must not tire you. I shall come again tomorrow. Please think about what I have said.’

  The Inspector very much hoped that Lord Edward would be reasonable. He had an idea he would be a difficult man to coerce. Even in his weakened state, he was obstinate. And the man had powerful friends. The Inspector had received several telephone calls from the British Embassy – which was otherwise keeping a very low profile – informing him that Lord Edward was a personal friend of the British Foreign Secretary, Mr Anthony Eden, and must be treated with respect. On the other hand, this was the most public case he had ever been involved with and the press – not just the French and British press but American and European journalists – dogged his every footstep and were this minute camped outside the hospital awaiting a statement. Lord Edward’s request to interview Harvey would be very difficult to arrange without anyone knowing about it and, in any case, it was quite out of the question for legal reasons. Harvey’s lawyers would allege a conspiracy and the case might be jeopardized. Could he safely ignore Lord Edward’s claim that the man had been trying to kill someone else? It sounded like nonsense but could he be sure?

  The following day, the patient was no less unreasonable and absolutely refused to cooperate.

  ‘I am very sorry, Lord Edward,’ the Inspector said, ‘but what you ask is quite impossible. You must see that. Now, if you would like a lawyer to question him on your behalf, that might be arranged.’

  Edward thought for a moment. ‘I do understand, Inspector, that it is difficult for me to have a private interview with Mr Harvey but what if a friend of mine, Miss Verity Browne, were to see him on my behalf? Would that be possible? You have met Miss Browne?’

  The Inspector shuddered. He had indeed met Miss Browne and so had the doctors and nurses, and she had made all their lives a misery. She seemed convinced that they were not doing enough to save the life of her friend. He assumed she was the Englishman’s mistress but why he should love this moineau . . . this sparrow of a girl when, presumably, he could take his pick . . . and, what was worse, she was a Communist and a journalist! And what was worst of all, she claimed to be a friend of the accused man. He had tried to question her about this and would have to do so again. If it were a conspiracy, he could make neither head nor tail of it. He shuddered again. The English were mad.

  ‘And you know, Inspector,’ Edward continued mildly, ‘she is a responsible journalist but – as she would be acting as my representative – she would, I know, give you her word not to make anything she learnt public without your express permission.’

  The Inspector played for time. ‘Is she, as she claims, milord, a friend of the accused?’

  ‘We are both friends of Mr Harvey,’ Edward said firmly. ‘I know it sounds confusing, Inspector, but it is really quite simple. I will be able to be more explicit after Miss Browne has had an opportunity to talk to him.’ He had an idea. ‘What if you were present during the interview? Surely that would make it all right? You speak enough English to understand what is being said?’

  The Inspector nodded his head but said nothing. He was in two minds. He wanted to get at the truth even if it proved to be more complicated than the obvious conclusion which he and the world at large had drawn – that a Communist had attempted to assassinate royalty. He fondled his bushy moustache, and to Edward’s amusement, his hand then went straight to his head as though comparing the luxuriance of his upper lip with his balding pate.

  ‘Well,’ he said reluctantly, ‘I suppose it might be possible but do you really think Mr Harvey would talk to Miss Browne in my presence?’

  ‘I cannot say but surely it is worth a try? Will you ask Miss Browne to come and see me this afternoon?’

  ‘You wish to discuss this idea with her?’

  ‘I do. I think you will find her at the casino where she is interviewing the staff.’

  ‘You comprehend, Lord Edward? Not one word of this must get out. If anything appears in any newspaper about Miss Browne having special access to the prisoner, I shall have her deported. You must make her understand that I am serious about this.’

  Edward took this as consent and smiled his agreement.

  ‘Graham – it’s me. It’s taken ages to get to see you and I am afraid the Inspector insists on being here while we talk so don’t say anything you don’t want him to hear. They think the two of us make up a Communist conspiracy!’

  Verity tried to speak lightly but it wasn’t easy. She was shocked at his appearance. She had not expected him to look well but he was deathly pale and seemed to have aged ten years. He looked up as she came into the cell but said nothing, lowering his head almost immediately.

  ‘Edward wants you to know that he’s no longer at death’s door and that he doesn’t blame you for shooting him because he knows who it was you were really trying to kill.’

  It all came out in rather a rush and, for a second, Harvey glanced at her with what seemed like surprise. He remained silent but Verity was encouraged.

  ‘Are they treating you all right? They say you won’t see a lawyer. Would you like me to get someone over from England? I think my father would come if I asked him.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he shouted suddenly. ‘No one can help me. I don’t want anyone to help me. I just want to die.’

  The Inspector made to get up and go to Verity’s aid but she waved him away.

  ‘Come on, Graham. Please don’t say that. There are lots of people who want you to live. Me, for instance. And Simon. He sent me a telegram to say he will be here tomorrow and I was to get you whoever or whatever you wanted.’

  ‘I don’t want any help from that man,’ he grunted ungratefully. ‘Tell him to stay away, will you?’

  ‘But you will talk to me?’

  ‘What is there to say?’

  ‘I just want people to know the truth. You weren’t trying to assassinate the Duke of Windsor, were you? You weren’t even trying to kill Edward Corinth. I think you wanted to frighten someone else – Edmund Cardew. Am I right?’

  Harvey covered his face with his hands. Then looking up, he asked, ‘How is he?’

  ‘The Duke?’

  ‘No, not the Duke. What do I care about him? I didn’t even know it was him. I don’t look at the picture papers and I never read anything about royalty on principle. No, I meant how is Lord Edward? I . . . I didn’t mean to . . . damn it, I like the man!’

  ‘He’s not dead, Graham, and he’s not going to die – at least not yet anyway. I told you. He’s tougher than he appears.’

  Harvey grimaced. He looked worn out. ‘Tell him, I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

  Verity leaned forward on her hard upright chair. ‘Would it be easier if I tell you what we – Edward and I – think happened and you can tell me if we are right?’

  ‘If you must, but what does it all matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters,’ Verity said vehemently. ‘I think it all goes back to Maud Pitt-Messanger. She told you and – just before she was murdered – she also told Edward that she had killed her father herself.’

  ‘I didn’t believe her.’

  ‘Unlikely though it seems, Edward came to the conclusion that she was telling the truth. She was the only one who could have done it. It was premeditated. Only Maud would have brought an ancient Assyrian dagger to the Abbey – a dagger from her father’s p
rivate collection, I imagine. No one could possibly have known where Pitt-Messanger would sit and, as far as the police can discover, no one else at Lord Benyon’s memorial service had a motive to kill him.’

  ‘What was the motive?’ the Inspector asked in English. ‘Lord Edward told me about this murder in Westminster Abbey. Très bizarre!’

  ‘Well, at first Lord Edward and I thought it must be because Maud had been prevented by her father from marrying the man she loved. Her and Sidney Temperley’s lives were ruined by him and the poor man died soon after. We don’t know whether he caught cholera by accident or if there was any truth in the rumours at the time that Pitt-Messanger was in some way responsible. Did he substitute infected water for the bottled water they all drank on the dig? We will never know.’

  ‘Maud thought it was an accident. She did not blame her father for Temperley’s death.’ Harvey spoke slowly and in a low voice.

  ‘And then he wouldn’t let her marry you.’

  ‘He couldn’t have stopped us.’

  ‘But you had no money.’

  Harvey shook his head in frustration. ‘I told her I wouldn’t marry her until I could support her. When my book was finished . . .’

  ‘But it never would be, would it?’ Verity asked cruelly. He shook his head in despair again. ‘But that wasn’t why she killed him, was it?’ she continued.

  ‘No, she killed him because of Edwin,’ Harvey agreed.

  ‘Who is Edwin?’ inquired the Inspector, puzzled.

  It was Harvey who answered him. ‘Maud had an elder brother who disappeared when he was a child. They said he had run away to sea but he hadn’t. He was born with a harelip and a cleft palate. His father was disgusted by him.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ the Inspector said. ‘How “disgusted”?’

  ‘He believed in Charles Darwin and his more absurd disciples,’ Verity explained. ‘He believed that the race should get “purer” and . . .’

  Harvey broke in bitterly. ‘He imagined that his children would be clever like him and physically beautiful. His son was disfigured and he believed mentally subnormal. He thought such people should be “eliminated” – not allowed to breed – not allowed to live.’