Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  ‘How exciting! I didn’t know you wrote detective stories as well. I’ll buy one of those too. I’ll dash round to Bumpus tomorrow straight after breakfast. I wonder if they’ll give me a discount if I say you are a friend?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Byron said, not seeming to notice he was being teased.

  Verity thought he might offer to give her a copy but he didn’t. He sounded a little too pleased with himself and she wanted very much to prick his self-esteem but she could hardly blame him for bragging. She might be tempted to brag if she had had the same success with her writing as he had enjoyed.

  ‘And your wife doesn’t mind you dancing the night away with your charming friend?’ She hadn’t been able to stop herself. ‘Oh sorry, how rude of me!’

  ‘My wife doesn’t mind. We have a sort of understanding. What she does in Hollywood is her business and while she’s away . . . Well, she doesn’t expect me to be celibate. Are you shocked?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Verity was shocked even if she couldn’t admit it. She wouldn’t want to think Edward was ‘dancing’ with other women when she was abroad. ‘I like detective stories,’ she said, trying to recover herself. ‘They’re an escape from the reality of death. Which do you think is your best?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know. I always think my most recent book is my best.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘The Unkindest Cut.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Oh, the usual thing – a man hears something he shouldn’t and gets murdered.’

  ‘The Unkindest Cut – that’s a quotation, isn’t it? I’m sure I’ve heard Edward say it when he cuts himself shaving. You know, he maddens me by seeming to know the whole of Shakespeare off by heart. Is it Shakespeare, by the way?’

  ‘It is, as a matter of fact – Julius Caesar. “Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him! This was the most unkindest cut of all . . .”’

  ‘Yes, it’s usually Shakespeare when the grammar’s wonky. Even I know not to write “most unkindest”. So, in your book the victim was stabbed?’

  ‘He had his head cut off, but in the play Brutus stabbed Caesar, as I expect you remember. I would have called it Cut off his Head but I’d already used it as a title. It’s from Henry VI, you know – all my titles come from Shakespeare.’

  ‘Not Byron?’

  ‘I’ll tell you a secret.’ He leant forward and whispered in her ear. ‘I prefer Shelley. In fact, my detective is called Shelley. “I met Murder on the way – he had a mask like Castlereagh – very smooth he looked, yet grim; seven bloodhounds followed him . . .”.’ he quoted.

  ‘Gosh! I’m quite confused,’ Verity said, trying not to sound sarcastic. ‘So you’re Shelley, not Byron after all!’

  When they returned to the table, Byron swept up Frieda for a foxtrot and Edward suggested Verity might like to dance with him.

  ‘I doubt I’m up to Byron’s standard but . . .’

  ‘Don’t fish for compliments. You know very well you are an excellent dancer.’

  After they had been round the floor a couple of times, she said, ‘Could we sit out the next dance? In fact, I feel rather tired suddenly. Couldn’t we go home to bed? You know, this really isn’t my sort of thing.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Edward replied sharply. ‘You are going to enjoy yourself whether you like it or not. You certainly seemed to enjoy being in Byron’s arms.’

  ‘Edward! You can’t really be jealous? I loathe the man, if you must know, and it’s he who has ruined our evening.’

  Edward was immediately contrite. ‘Sorry, V. I’m a brute. Yes, let’s go back to Albany.’

  She finished her champagne and felt better. They waved goodbye to Byron and Frieda who were still dancing and went to get their coats.

  As they walked into Piccadilly, Verity said, ‘I’ve just remembered. At the lunch today with Sir John Reith, he mentioned that Byron had almost got himself thrown out of the BBC over some woman. Was that Barbara’s sister, do you think, or Frieda?’

  ‘Neither. I rather gathered from Frieda while you were cuddling up to Byron – she was very candid – that it was someone else altogether, the wife of a BBC executive.’

  ‘What do these women see in him? I think he’s positively repulsive.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I remember you saying you thought him good-looking. Most women seem to find him charming.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. He says he can do what he likes when his wife’s in Hollywood and she doesn’t mind. I hope that’s not what you think, Edward – I mean, if I’m away.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. I’m quite hurt that you could think such a thing.’ He took his arm out of hers.

  It was Verity’s turn to be contrite. ‘I’m sorry. That was a horrible thing to say. I apologize.’ She took his arm. ‘Tell me I’m forgiven.’

  ‘You’re forgiven,’ he said but there was still a touch of reserve in his voice.

  ‘How can Byron afford to wine and dine his girlfriend at the Embassy?’ Verity asked, trying to get back on neutral ground.

  ‘His books, I suppose, and I imagine his wife earns a good deal in Hollywood. Perhaps she gives him an allowance.’

  Verity sniffed. ‘Would you accept an allowance from me? It’s demeaning.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep on comparing me with Byron Gates. He’s a . . . well, he’s a shit, if you’ll forgive my language. What my brother would call a cad and a bounder. And I didn’t like the way he was holding you on the dance floor. I thought of coming over and giving him a punch in the eye.’

  ‘What fun if you had! I was merely trying to find out about him.’

  ‘Why? Have I missed something? Are we investigating a crime? What’s he suspected of doing?’

  ‘There is always a crime,’ Verity said sententiously, ‘whether we know about it or not. He’s a womanizer and a philanderer – or are they the same thing? He needs to be taken down a peg or two. Anyway, don’t rile at me. I thought I saw you getting very friendly with Miss Burrowes. I see her as a furry little mouse burrowing into her men before they know it and nibbling them. Yes, look – you are frayed at the edges.’ She touched his cheek.

  ‘What a disgusting image.’ Edward yawned theatrically. ‘I’m getting old. These late nights . . . But it was worth it, wasn’t it, V? Who’s to say when we’ll dance at the Embassy again? Listen! Was that the song of the mythical nightingale? If we do not hear it on a night like this, when shall we?’

  ‘It was the squawk of a taxi,’ she replied unromantically but squeezed his arm so that he would know she wasn’t snubbing him.

  As they entered Albany, the night porter smiled and said, ‘Good evening Lady Edward, my lord . . . A gentleman left this for you, my lord,’ he added, handing him an envelope.

  ‘Thank you. Goodnight, Rogers.’

  ‘I’ll look at it in the morning. It can’t be important,’ Edward said when he had shut the door of his rooms behind them.

  ‘No, look at it now. It’s not in my nature to get a letter and not open it.’

  ‘You open it if you want,’ he called out, going into the bathroom. ‘I’m for bed.’

  Verity tore open the envelope and drew out a sheet of paper. She read it, read it again, turned it over and gave a snort of disgust. She had received anonymous letters in her time when she had been seen as the scarlet woman but nothing like this. She reminded herself that it had been addressed to Edward and not to her.

  ‘What is it, V?’

  ‘I don’t know. Read it for yourself.’

  Edward took the paper and read it aloud. ‘“Your wife is a whore. You mix with whores and sinners in dens of wickedness. He was cut off out of the land of the living.” Good Lord! Where on earth did this spring from? It’s quite bizarre. It’s in block capitals but it’s clearly written by someone educated.’

  ‘Why? Because they spell “whore” correctly?’ Verity said bitterly.

  ‘V, I’m sorry. It is upsetting but you real
ly can’t take it seriously. It’s quite mad.’

  ‘Is the last bit a quotation?’ Verity inquired, pulling herself together. It was ridiculous to be upset by such a thing but it had been a shock. It was the last thing she had expected to find in the envelope. Her guard was down when it came to being insulted. She had thought that, now she was married, she was safe from calumny but apparently that wasn’t the case.

  ‘I’m sure it’s from the Bible but I’d have to ask Tommie to be sure. Hey, come on,’ Edward said, seeing she was on the verge of tears. ‘Don’t let it get to you, V. There’s so much malice in the world but what does it matter when we have each other?’ He took her in his arms and held her to him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sniffling into his shoulder. ‘I know I’m stupid but it was such a shock and we had such a happy evening, despite Byron. Now it’s spoilt.’

  He held her away from him so he could look into her eyes. ‘Now, come on. Don’t you see? I think this is aimed at Byron and his girlfriend – not at us, except by association. Someone must have seen us together.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do, and we must find out if Byron received one too.’ He still had the sheet of paper in his hand. He let go of Verity and read it again.

  ‘Hm, ordinary Basildon Bond you could buy in any stationer. A cheap pen – look how the nib has spread and the ink blotted.’

  Verity felt herself becoming more interested as the shock wore off. ‘Yes, the writer must have been almost stabbing the paper as he wrote. Or aren’t these sort of letters normally written by women?’

  ‘Wait there while I go and talk to Rogers. I’m sure he said it had been delivered by a man. Though, of course, that doesn’t mean a man wrote it.’

  While Edward was out of the room, Verity took off her dress and slipped on a dressing-gown. Now she no longer had her flat in Cranmer Court, she kept a change of clothing and night things in Albany. Edward had made some inquiries and discovered that, though Albany was mainly bachelor apartments, there was no objection to a married gentleman having his wife to stay for a night or two, provided she did not call attention to herself. As she went back into the drawing-room, Edward returned from quizzing the porter.

  ‘All Rogers could say was that it was a man with a moustache, rather shorter than me, but he doubted he would recognize him again.’

  ‘A stick-on moustache, no doubt.’

  ‘Quite possibly. One thing did strike him as odd. Although it was such a warm night, the man was wearing a coat – a Burberry, he thought – and a bowler.’

  ‘When was this?’ Verity asked.

  ‘About eleven thirty.’

  ‘So someone watched us go into the Embassy . . .’

  ‘And saw Byron and his girl . . .’

  ‘But why would they think we and Byron were together if we entered the Embassy separately? Doesn’t that suggest it has to be someone who knew we knew Byron?’

  ‘Or who saw us in the club together. We are assuming “whores and sinners” refers to Byron and Frieda. I may be wrong. I could have spoken to Byron tonight if I had his telephone number.’

  ‘Well, surely Frieda’s number will be in the telephone book?’

  ‘True, but . . .’ Edward looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost one fifteen. I think we must wait till the morning. Let’s try and forget about it, shall we? It would be just what the writer wanted, to spoil our evening.’

  When they were in bed, Edward tried to stroke away the tension he sensed in Verity but it wasn’t until he had made gentle love to her that he felt her relax. As she slept in his arms, he lay awake wondering who had taken the trouble to attack them and why. Rack his brains as he might, he could not think of anyone. He slept fitfully and was glad when it was morning.

  5

  They returned to Sussex the following morning without telephoning Byron Gates. On reflection, Edward had thought it might be better to wait until they saw him before raising the anonymous letter. To talk about it on the telephone might be to make too much of a malicious prank. It would be easier face-to-face either to make light of it or take it more seriously, depending on whether Byron had received a similar letter.

  Edward had, however, rung Tommie Fox who had immediately identified the quotation.

  ‘“He was cut off out of the land of the living”? It’s Isaiah – a famous chapter about Christ. “He is despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” – you remember it?’

  ‘Yes, of course, from Handel’s Messiah.’

  ‘That’s right. Hold on a minute and let me get the exact words. Ah! Here we are. “He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter . . . he was cut off out of the land of the living. For the transgression of my people was he stricken. And he made his grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death.” Why do you want to know?’

  ‘No special reason, Tommie.’ Edward had no desire to tell anyone – even a close friend – that he was getting threatening letters.

  ‘Well, if you need religious instruction, you know where to come.’

  ‘We’re getting quite a lot of that already. You remember Paul Fisher? It turns out he’s our vicar.’

  ‘Paul! I haven’t seen him for some time. I heard he’d been ill – had a breakdown or something. But being vicar of Rodmell should be quiet enough to heal the most unquiet mind.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? The fact is he preaches like some Old Testament prophet reprimanding us for our sins. I went to evensong on Sunday and he implied that, if we get war, it’s no more than we deserve. A trifle unsettling, to say the least.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Paul was always rather a strange bird. I felt he hated our weak Church of England huffing and puffing and would be happier with Calvin or someone like that.’

  ‘I say, Tommie, I’d be really grateful if you could come down to Rodmell for a day or two, or are you still cross about us not getting married in a church? I tell you, Verity is very unhappy about you dropping us.’

  ‘I haven’t dropped you,’ Tommie said defensively, ‘but I have a lot to do in my parish.’

  ‘Will you visit us?’ Edward asked bluntly.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that,’ Tommie responded with genuine warmth, relieved that an obstacle to their friendship had been removed like a rotten tooth. ‘At a time like this, one can’t afford to lose touch with old friends. Not this weekend but soon. I’ll send you a wire. Funny about Paul . . .’

  On the day of the fête the sun chose to shine as though it never did anything else. The bunting flapped idly when the breeze stirred but the Union flag above the tea tent remained somnolent. The villagers congregated on the green, the children dressed in their best, the men wearing Sunday suits and the women brightly coloured summer frocks and hats. The festivities were opened by Leonard who, rather to Edward’s surprise, proved to have a commanding voice and was listened to with respect and attention. Colonel Heron, standing beside Edward smoking and coughing, noted his surprise and reminded him that, as a young man, Leonard had ruled much of Ceylon.

  ‘Ours is the last generation trained from birth to rule an empire,’ Heron remarked when Leonard had finished. ‘As a child, my nanny used to read me G.A. Henty’s stories of derring-do and how the British Empire was made. I attribute my decision to join the Indian Army directly to Henty’s With Clive in India. Did you ever read it?’

  Edward shook his head. ‘Not that one, but I too enjoyed Henty. It was a less complicated time, was it not? Britain’s God-given destiny was to rule the world and anything or anyone who opposed it were His enemies.’

  Heron sighed. ‘I do not believe that the Empire can survive this war. For a century or more we have ruled India by bluff.’

  ‘By bluff?’

  ‘Yes, Corinth. What is it other than bluff when under a million white men rule a country, or to be more accurate a collection of countries, of many millions? This chap Gandhi . . .’ Heron shook his head sorrowfully. ‘This weedy little man dressed
in rags, leaning on a stick and peering at the world through absurd-looking spectacles, is going to destroy the British Empire as surely as Christ destroyed the Roman.’

  ‘It’s an interesting thought,’ Edward murmured. ‘I don’t disagree with you.’

  ‘I say,’ Heron said heartily, ‘I mustn’t maunder on. This isn’t the moment to contemplate the end of empire. We must enjoy ourselves at this particularly English event. I must introduce you to people. Everyone’s dying to meet you. Now, who don’t you know?’

  ‘I’d like to meet Miss Bron and Miss Fairweather.’

  ‘Nothing could be easier. However, you may have to buy some jam.’

  Verity watched Leonard and Virginia walking around the green talking to stallholders and buying a sponge cake from Mrs Craddock, the baker’s wife, and plants from Mrs Smith, the wife of the farmer who owned much of the land around the village. Virginia even bowled for the pig, and the grace with which she flung down the wooden ball and toppled half-a-dozen skittles made the little audience applaud.

  Verity could not decide whether the fête was a celebration of democracy – the sort of social gathering which had prevented the revolution that had engulfed France in the eighteenth century – or whether it actually celebrated the class system. True, the gentry mixed with the ‘lower orders’ but it was at such a superficial level as to be almost insulting. However, she had to admit, everyone seemed to be having a good time and if the villagers felt any resentment at being patronized by their so-called betters, it was not evident.

  She walked over to one corner of the green where excited shouts indicated that a race was in progress and arrived in time to see an attractive-looking girl of about fifteen – lanky, freckled, large-eyed and wide-mouthed – winning the egg and spoon race comfortably ahead of a younger girl with spectacles slipping off her rather large nose.

  ‘Well done, Jean,’ the younger girl panted. ‘What next? Shall we do the three-legged race together?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Jean, well done! Come over here, will you? I want to introduce you to Lady Edward.’