A Grave Man

by David Roberts

  ‘Softly, softly!’ he murmured soothingly as she sobbed in his arms. ‘Did you slap him?’

  ‘I did,’ she said, looking up into his face, her arms still about his neck. ‘Was that wrong?’

  ‘It was the right thing to do,’ he told her firmly. ‘His arrogance . . . his need to play God has brought misery on many people – not just you and your brother. He must face his own conscience but at least we have put an end to his wickedness and your slap may bring him to his senses. Now we shall go. I don’t imagine we shall ever come back to Swifts Hill and the thought lightens my heart.’

  ‘And mine too,’ she agreed. ‘He tried to “buy” me. Did you know he was going to try?’

  ‘I confess I did but I thought it was not for me to tell him you weren’t for sale. Was I right?’

  ‘You were right, Edward. Thank you.’

  He kissed her once again and then they got into the Lagonda and Fenton drove them back to London.

  At ten o’clock on Monday February 21st – the date was one Edward would never forget – he walked across the park to the Foreign Office to discuss his future with Sir Robert Vansittart. There had been several earlier appointments all of which Vansittart had had to break. It was wet and cold and the rain made light of his umbrella, making him regret he had not taken the Lagonda. The international situation was becoming ever more serious and the word ‘crisis’ loomed out at him from newspaper placards. It seemed only a matter of weeks, or even days, before there would be the ultimatum which would lead to war. It was no surprise to Edward that, when he arrived at the Foreign Office, he found it alive in a way it had not been when he had last stood on the great staircase under the magnificent chandelier. Secretaries were almost running down the corridors and normally sedate men in pinstripe suits were adjusting their ties and mopping their brows. Edward prepared himself to hear that Vansittart was too busy to see him and indeed it was forty minutes before he was told the great man was ready for him.

  Vansittart was a man of considerable physical presence. He was tall and ruggedly handsome, perfectly dressed and apparently not the least infected by the excitement bordering on panic Edward sensed in his minions.

  ‘Dear boy,’ he said, rising from behind his huge desk and clasping Edward’s hand. ‘You must forgive me for being elusive but it’s been one thing after another. But first let me congratulate you on your recovery. You really ought not to be shot at, at your time of life. I suppose we must regard the Duke of Windsor’s life as worth saving? Now, I never said that,’ he added, putting a finger to his lips.

  Edward opened his mouth to explain that, far from saving the Duke’s life, he had simply been trying to disarm a man who was taking revenge for the killing of his lover but it was all too complicated.

  ‘As always,’ Vansittart continued, ‘you showed resolution and pluck and, if I may say so, more important than either – discretion.’ Edward groaned inwardly. It always came down to this – nothing must get out. The status quo had to be preserved and reputations salvaged. ‘You ought to have a medal or something.’

  ‘I don’t want a medal, thank you, sir,’ Edward said with some asperity. ‘I merely wondered if you might have some employment for me. I would like to contribute something to our preparations for war.’

  ‘Oh, as for that,’ Vansittart said breezily, ‘there will be no war.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir Robert? I thought that if Hitler were to walk into Austria . . .’

  ‘There will be no war because – and I speak in complete confidence – the Prime Minister has taken over the running of our foreign policy himself. He and Lord Halifax will avoid war whatever the cost.’

  Edward was about to say something when Vansittart’s principal private secretary, Mr Sanderson, entered without knocking.

  ‘What is it, man? Can’t you see I am in conference? I thought I said I was not to be disturbed.’

  ‘The Foreign Secretary has asked whether you can spare him a moment,’ Sanderson said unperturbed.

  Vansittart looked annoyed. He obviously did not like being summoned peremptorily in front of a visitor, even by Mr Eden. Edward saw him wrestle with himself but, of course, he could not do otherwise but obey.

  ‘I’ll not be a moment, Lord Edward but I suppose I must see what’s up. It’s most unlike him to . . .’

  Edward murmured that he quite understood and Vansittart got up from his chair and strode out of the room.

  Alone in Vansittart’s office, Edward was tempted – like a small boy – to run round behind the desk and imagine he was His Majesty’s Permanent Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs but he told himself this was not the time to play the fool. He was aware that the job Vansittart might have offered him six months earlier was no longer available. But might there not be something else? He wanted to do his bit. He had got his foot in the door in this great department of state and he had a strong desire to be a part of it. To know more than his fellows, to be at the heart of great events . . . The prospect stirred his blood. He got up to look at the pictures. The portrait of Lord Palmerston was particularly fine and he wondered what that old pirate would have said to Hitler. He certainly would not have had any truck with appeasement.

  The minutes passed and still Vansittart did not return. Edward gazed out over the park. He had heard that plans had been made to dig trenches where civilians could take cover in the event of an air raid. He felt the impermanence of everything. He wondered how Verity was and felt his insides twist uncomfortably. Just as he thought he might slip away – it seemed Vansittart was not going to return in the near future – he heard his footsteps.

  He was not himself – that was certain. He went straight to a cupboard near his desk, poured a whisky and squirted soda water from a siphon into the glass. Edward was still at the window and it was quite evident that Vansittart had forgotten all about him. He coughed gently.

  ‘Lord Edward,’ Vansittart said in surprise. ‘Pray let me apologize. The fact is I have had some extraordinary news and – will you have one of these?’ He indicated the whisky and Edward nodded. ‘The fact is – and I don’t see why you shouldn’t be the first to hear it – Anthony has resigned.’

  ‘Resigned! Mr Eden is no longer Foreign Secretary?’

  ‘Correct. He will make an announcement in the Commons this afternoon. Not a word until then – on your honour.’

  ‘Of course, but why has he resigned?’

  ‘He says he cannot stay now the Prime Minister has effectively take over the conduct of foreign affairs himself. The PM has been negotiating with Signor Grandi, the Italian ambassador, behind Anthony’s back. Apparently, we will recognize Italy’s annexation of Abyssinia in return for the withdrawal of Italian troops from Spain, Furthermore, Signor Mussolini is to act as an “honest broker” between the Prime Minister and Hitler. In short, we shall give the dictators what they want in exchange for a promise that they will leave us alone.’

  ‘But that’s shameful! What about our treaty obligations to France . . . to the rest of Europe?’

  ‘They count for nothing,’ Vansittart said, draining his whisky and pouring himself another one.

  ‘And you . . .?’ Edward asked, caught up in the drama and speaking more freely than he had any right to do. ‘You remain to serve the next Foreign Secretary . . . Lord Halifax, I presume.’ The sarcasm was unintended but that was the way it came out and it seemed to sting Vansittart. Edward wondered afterwards if he had been in some way responsible for Sir Robert’s decision to resign but the man had principles and would inevitably have decided he could not stay to put into effect policies which he regarded as against the interests of his country.

  ‘I, too, Lord Edward, shall resign. Have no doubt about that. I fear I will be unable to help you as I had planned. You will have to apply to my successor but that is the way of the world. I wish you luck.’

  Edward put down his empty glass. ‘Sir Robert, you are a great man and I shall always remember with gratitude your kindness to me. I salute
you and admire you. I shall not take up any more of your time.’

  Vansittart nodded and Edward saw, as they shook hands, that he was too moved to speak. Peace had been bought at the expense of principle and most people would just be grateful that for one day . . . one week . . . one year more the bombs were not to shower down on them. One day soon, the price would have to be paid with interest. One did not have to be Foreign Secretary to know that. As Edward left the building, he saw Anthony Eden – straight-backed and dapper in his perfectly pressed suit – get into his official car to drive the few yards to Downing Street. It was the end of an era and Edward shivered as he imagined what was to follow.

  Fenton looked far from his normal calm self when he opened the door on Edward’s return to Albany. ‘My lord, I am glad you are back. Miss Cardew is here.’

  ‘Yes, I invited her to lunch. To tell the truth, I had almost forgotten in the excitement. You see . . .’

  ‘My lord, forgive me for interrupting but Miss Cardew is in your bathroom and she won’t come out.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean? In my bathroom . . .?’

  ‘She asked whether she could powder her nose and, of course, I said she could. She knows where the visitors’ lavatory is so I had no need to show her. When I re-entered the drawing-room, I realized she had chosen to use your bathroom.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is that she has been in there for twenty-five minutes. I knocked on the door a few minutes ago and there was no answer. And then, just before you came in, I listened at the door and I thought I heard her moaning. I was just about to break down the door. She has bolted it on the inside.’

  It was not like Fenton to take alarm without good cause so Edward hurried through his bedroom and knocked on the bathroom door.

  ‘Maggie! Are you all right?’ he called. There was no answer but he thought he heard something which might be a groan. ‘Hold my coat, will you, Fenton. I’m going to put my shoulder to the door.’

  The bolt gave way without difficulty and the door flew open. Maggie was standing as if in a dream, staring in the shaving mirror. She had Edward’s razor in her hand and was just about to make another cut in her cheek which was already striated with bloodied furrows. She had literally harrowed her skin and turned her face to pulp. Edward wrestled the razor from her and, with Fenton’s help, half carried her into his bedroom and laid her on the bed.

  While Fenton went off to ring for an ambulance, Edward knelt beside her and tried to soothe her. He did not dare touch her face in case, in his ignorance, he made things worse. ‘Maggie! Maggie! What made you do this?’ Moaning but not crying, she tried to turn her head away. ‘Maggie, can you hear me? An ambulance is on its way but I must know why you did this to yourself. Was it my fault? I thought we were happy together.’

  ‘Teddy – he cut his wrists,’ she muttered.

  ‘Oh my God. I am so sorry. Is he . . .?’

  ‘He had taken one of my hairpins and I don’t know how . . . used it as a knife.’

  ‘But he’s alive?’

  ‘Yes. I went to see him in the prison hospital.’

  ‘Well, then – why do this to yourself? Tell me!’

  ‘He . . . he had been told I was . . . I was seeing you.’ She swallowed her words but Edward understood what she was saying.

  ‘But I thought you had told him we were . . . we were friends.’

  ‘I did not dare because I knew he would say I was betraying him. He called me a whore . . . he said . . . he said I was more beautiful with my scar. He said I was as ugly as sin and no man could love me. He said there was a scar on my soul. He said . . .’

  ‘Oh, my poor girl. How terrible! But you are beautiful. I think you are beautiful.’

  ‘I came to talk to you but you weren’t here and . . . and I looked in the mirror and saw that he was right. I am ugly. I deserve to be ugly. All I could do was let my wickedness out. The Harrowing of Hell.’

  Edward buried his head in the sheet. The suffering of this woman would know no end. He suddenly thought of Verity finding the razor in Maud Pitt-Messanger’s bathroom at Swifts Hill on the night she slit her wrists. Yes! The Harrowing of Hell just about described it – the desire to be released from the inferno and to find redemption in blood.

  The ambulance arrived and a temporary bandage was wrapped round Maggie’s cheek. Edward went with her to hospital and she seemed to find some comfort in the pressure of his hand in hers. He thought she might be repulsed by him but what she had done to herself seemed to have brought her some sort of peace. It was as if, having paid the price, she no longer had any guilt.

  Four hours later, quite exhausted, he returned to his rooms. Fenton brought him whisky and asked after Maggie. He told him that her life was not in danger but that she would be very much scarred.

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, my lord. I blame myself for not having broken down the door much earlier but when I showed Miss Cardew into the drawing-room she seemed quite her normal self.’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, Fenton. I think it was only when she saw herself in the mirror that her grief and guilt broke through. Rationally, she knew she was doing nothing wrong in being friends with me. I was not her brother’s enemy but, unfortunately, I proved to be his nemesis. Seeing herself without the scar she had lived with for so many years, her reason broke down and she was overwhelmed with guilt. I am no Freud but I believe what she did is not dissimilar from holy men whipping the skin off their backs to punish themselves for being human.’

  To Fenton, he sounded bitter and deeply depressed. The telephone rang, much to his relief, and he went off to answer it.

  ‘It’s the Duchess, my lord. She asks for a word with you.’

  ‘Oh God! I suppose I must,’ Edward said, levering himself out of his chair. Much as he loved Connie, he really did not want to speak to anyone just now.

  ‘Ned, I’m sorry to bother you but I felt I had to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘It’s Frank. He has gone to America with Miss Schuster-Slatt.’

  ‘But he’s at Cambridge,’ Edward said stupidly. ‘It’s still term time, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and I think this will get him sent down.’

  ‘But why has he gone to America? I don’t understand. Did he tell you?’

  ‘He wrote to me. He said he wanted me to understand. He loves America. He wants to be an American and he is going to work with someone called . . .’ Edward heard paper rustling. ‘Mr Kinsey. Have you ever heard of him? Frank says he’s some sort of scientist.’

  Edward heard her voice shake. Connie was trying to be brave but she was very near the edge.

  ‘The stupid boy! I thought he had finished with that Schuster-Slatt woman. I thought . . . I hoped she had scared him off. Blast and damnation! They’re not planning to get married or anything?’

  ‘He doesn’t say so. Ned, what on earth are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, Connie, I’ll have to ring you back. There’s someone at the door. Look, don’t worry. It’ll sort itself out somehow. Frank’s not a complete idiot.’

  Edward rang off hoping he was right. What a day! Surely nothing else could go wrong? As he turned he saw who his visitor was. Verity stood in the hall looking forlorn and almost scared.

  ‘Have I come at a bad moment?’ she asked, seeing his face. ‘Fenton’s just been telling me that Miss Cardew – Maggie . . .’

  ‘Yes, she wanted to put the scar back on her face,’ he said brutally. ‘Her brother had called her a whore for being friends with me. Oh, yes and Connie has been telling me that Frank has run off to America with Sadie Schuster-Slatt.’

  Verity grimaced. ‘That’s terrible. Poor Edward, but your wound? Is that . . .?’

  ‘Have I recovered from my wound to the heart?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘How is Adam, by the way?’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m back in England. The fact is that he’s been kidnapped – ar
rested, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh God! I am so sorry, V. When did it happen?’ Edward was immediately penitent.

  ‘On January 16th. He had taken me to this concert . . .’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like music.’

  ‘I don’t but Adam was . . . is mad about Gustav Mahler. I had never heard of him, of course!’ she said bitterly. ‘He wants to teach me about music . . . He managed to get tickets for a performance of Mahler’s ninth symphony which he had never heard. It was conducted by Bruno Walter. I hadn’t heard of him either but apparently he’s the nibs. Anyway, it was to be a sort of protest. You see, Mahler’s music is no longer performed in Germany because he was a Jew. And, of course, if Hitler does what he threatens and takes over Austria, he won’t be performed in Vienna either, despite the fact that he directed the Vienna Philharmonic in what Adam calls its golden age. You can guess how tense we all were. It was the most wonderful music I have ever heard and the saddest, too. It made sense of everything we are fighting for. Von Schuschnigg, the Austrian Chancellor, was there and, as we stood for the national anthem, I saw that he was weeping.’