Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  ‘No, you’ll see in a moment. It’s kneeling against a block. I think it’s the one the children used in the pageant. You know, when Charles I was executed. His legs have been tied at the ankle and his hands roped together behind his back. Look! Over there!’

  They had reached the green and walked gingerly towards the dark shadow in the middle where the stage had been. They stared at the torso in fascinated horror.

  ‘Where’s the head?’

  Heron pointed to the edge of the green. ‘He’s been beheaded with my sword just like in the tableau. It’s horrible. I’ll never get the image out of my mind.’

  Edward saw that he was shaking. ‘After you were sick – what did you do?’ he asked.

  ‘I panicked. I ran to PC Watt’s cottage and banged on his door. He didn’t believe me at first when I told him what I had found but I made him come with me to the green. As soon as he saw I was telling the truth, he went back to ring headquarters. He told me to stay on guard but then I thought of you, Lord Edward. I remembered that you had investigated murders . . . I hope you didn’t mind my breaking in on you like that.’

  In the light of the torch, he looked white and haggard.

  ‘No, of course not, but you probably shouldn’t have left your post. Ah, Constable,’ Edward continued as he saw a figure approaching them across the green, ‘my name is Corinth and we’ve recently moved into the village. Colonel Heron came to get me. I was just telling him that he ought to have stayed by the body as you’d instructed, but no harm done, I hope. You have telephoned Lewes?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Watt responded, clearly well aware to whom he was talking. ‘Will you stand guard here? I must make sure no one disturbs the head until the Inspector arrives.’

  ‘Verity, take the Colonel back to his house, will you? There’s no point in him staying here. Make sure he has a tot of brandy. You too, V. This isn’t a pretty sight.’

  For once she did not argue, glad to have an excuse for leaving the grisly scene.

  How the news of the atrocity had spread, no one could say, but there was already a little crowd gathering on the edge of the green, staring at the severed head. PC Watt was having difficulty holding people back and preventing them from poking at it ghoulishly. ‘Keep back, keep back,’ he shouted angrily, ‘and put that dog on a lead. Keep back there, I say. Stay off the green. This is the scene of a crime.’

  Alone with the torso, Edward knelt to examine it more closely in the light of his torch. Byron’s bow-tie had fallen off and lay on the grass, a bloody ribbon. His hands had been tied behind his back with what looked like fishing twine and his ankles were also bound. Edward looked for the cape he normally wore and saw it some distance away. The murderer must have made him take it off before he tied him up. Edward had a horrible feeling that the killer cut off Byron’s head while he was still alive. The terror he must have felt in those last few minutes didn’t bear thinking about. On the other hand, it was a clean cut. If Byron had struggled, there was no evidence of it.

  Edward looked at the sword and then at the neck. The sword was covered in blood but it suddenly came to him that it was unlikely to have been the murder weapon. A sword, so he had read, was not an easy weapon with which to behead someone, particularly if they weren’t ‘cooperating’. Anne Boleyn was executed using a sword, he remembered – in that respect Miss Fairweather’s tableau had been accurate. Heron’s sword – none too sharp by the look of it – would have left a ragged wound but this was a neat execution. It was much more likely that an axe or something similar had been used to behead Byron.

  Edward leant back on his heels and thought about it. Even an axe could be awkward. He had read, only that morning as it happened, in Churchill’s biography of his great forebear, that the unfortunate Duke of Monmouth, captured after his ill-fated rebellion, had been beheaded in the Tower of London. Although the Duke had tipped Jack Ketch six guineas, his executioner had botched the job. Having failed to kill him with three hacks, Ketch threw down his axe in disgust and refused to continue until the angry crowd had made him. Another two blows failed to sever the Duke’s head and, in the end, Ketch had had to worry it off with his knife.

  This seemed a much more professional job. Edward shone his torch around but there was no sign of any other weapon. He examined the twine used to bind the dead man. It looked unremarkable to him but perhaps the police might discover its origin. He wondered why Byron had been on the green after everything had been cleared away. Perhaps he had been composing another deathless ode – no, ‘deathless’ was the wrong word in the circumstances. Had the murderer known he would be on the green? Had he perhaps arranged to meet Byron, or had the attack been opportunistic?

  His train of thought was broken by the sound of a bell, shrill in the night air. He stood up, wondering whether or not to make himself scarce. ‘I go, and it is done – the bell invites me,’ he muttered to himself. In truth, he had no wish to be involved in this murder investigation. On the other hand, if he left the scene now he would have some explaining to do. He watched as the police car came to a halt at the edge of the green. Two large policemen in plain clothes got out, followed by a constable in uniform. Watt pointed his torch at the head and then towards Edward standing over the torso.

  The two burly policemen strode towards him while the constable set about helping Watt push the little crowd of gawpers back off the green.

  ‘Who are you,’ one of the policemen asked, striding up to Edward, ‘and what are you doing here?’

  ‘My name is Lord Edward Corinth. Colonel Heron fetched me after he had discovered the body. He thought I might be able to help.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard of you,’ the policeman said with something like disgust. ‘You live . . .?’

  ‘Just over there, at the Old Vicarage. And you are?’

  ‘Inspector Trewen. Now, sir, please will you go back to your house. I may need to ask you a few questions in the morning. And the man who found the corpse – Colonel Heron, you said – where is he?’

  ‘He was very shocked. I sent him home.’

  ‘You sent him home! Very well. Now, if you don’t mind . . .’

  The other policeman intervened. ‘Sir, the murder weapon . . .’ He pointed his torch at the bloodied sword.

  ‘Actually,’ Edward began, ‘I don’t think . . .’

  ‘Please, sir – do what I ask and go home. You may already have destroyed evidence – footprints . . .’

  ‘It’s too dry for footprints,’ Edward pointed out. Then, seeing the Inspector’s face, he added, ‘but I shall leave you with the greatest pleasure.’

  ‘Before you go – do you know who this man is?’

  ‘Constable Watt will tell you,’ Edward said, turning away.

  He chided himself for being petty but the Inspector obviously had no need of him to solve the crime, for which he was heartily grateful.

  When he got home he found Verity, white-faced and overwrought.

  ‘Is the Colonel all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so. I must say, he looked awfully ill but he wouldn’t let me stay with him. Do you think he murdered Byron? I don’t,’ she added before Edward could answer. ‘He was very shocked and upset.’

  ‘No, I don’t, but it’s nothing to do with us, thank God. An Inspector Trewen arrived and sent me about my business. He made it clear he needed no help in solving the crime.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Edward, about the children. Ada and Jean may not know what has happened. I don’t know who is looking after them but they need to be told now before they hear it from the police.’

  ‘Must we be the ones to tell them?’ he groaned, feeling quite weak at the thought. ‘Won’t they be asleep? It’s very late.’

  ‘Probably, but they should still be told,’ Verity said firmly. ‘I know I won’t be able to sleep if we don’t go over to Ivy Cottage. It’s our duty to try and comfort them. I mean – what a terrible thing for Ada to lose her father in this way and even Jean . . . We must do what
we can.’

  ‘But is it our business?’ Edward protested, knowing in his heart that she was right.

  ‘Whose else is it? Until Mrs Gates gets back – and that may not be for ages – they are quite alone.’

  Edward straightened his back. ‘You’re quite right, V. It’s not our responsibility but we should do what we can to soften the blow. There is something particularly gruesome about this murder. It wasn’t an act of unpremeditated violence – a sudden quarrel or something. This was coldly planned to be as theatrical as possible – an execution in a public place. The killer must have seen the children’s tableaux and thought it would be amusing to echo the execution of Charles I. The murderer is mad – quite mad.’

  ‘And – I’ve just remembered – Byron told me his most recent book is called The Unkindest Cut. Someone has their head cut off. Was it a cruel joke, do you think?’

  ‘I really don’t know.’ Edward felt exhausted and longed to be able to go to bed and forget all about Byron’s ugly death but Verity wasn’t going to allow it.

  ‘In someone’s eyes, he must have committed a heinous crime,’ she continued.

  ‘Treason?’ Edward suggested, thinking of Anne Boleyn.

  ‘Worse, but what, I can’t begin to imagine. We hardly knew him, although we did know he was vain, possibly cowardly and not very kind to his daughter. But none of those are motives for murder.’

  ‘He was a philanderer,’ Edward pointed out. ‘After money, isn’t love, or the loss of it, the strongest motive for murder? But V, I’m determined that we shouldn’t get involved in investigating this case. This is our time together – perhaps the last we shall have before you’re sent off to some far-away place and I won’t see you again for months. These few weeks are very precious to us. We mustn’t let this awful murder spoil things. I won’t let it happen.’

  Verity said nothing. There was nothing to say. She knew that, whether they liked it or not, they would be drawn into the investigation. Their only hope was that the policeman in charge of the case would not want anything to do with them.

  They set out for Ivy Cottage with heavy hearts. Was there was any kind way of telling Ada that her father had been brutally murdered? Edward knocked at the front door. It was answered by a girl, hardly older than Jean, whom Verity vaguely remembered seeing behind the cake stall at the fête.

  ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Mary Tallent.’

  ‘Well, Mary, my name’s Corinth.’

  ‘I thought you must be Mr Gates,’ she said peevishly. ‘He said he’d be back hours ago. It’s almost one o’clock. I need to get home. My mother will be worried. I was supposed to leave at eleven.’

  The girl, pretty enough in a sluttish way, looked almost ugly as her mouth puckered in complaint.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Edward broke in. ‘A terrible thing has happened. The fact is, Mr Gates has been killed.’

  ‘Killed? How do you mean?’ Mary looked at them, stupefied.

  ‘It’s rather horrible but I’m afraid he has been murdered,’ Verity said. ‘We have to break it to the children.’

  ‘Murdered! Oh my God! I didn’t think . . . Murdered? How can he . . .?’

  Verity looked at her with sympathy tinged with contempt. ‘May we come in?’

  Still dumb-struck, Mary opened the door and they followed her into a small but pleasant sitting-room. There were piles of books on every flat surface and a bookcase bulging with them. There were some roses in a vase and, on a desk, several exercise books which, Edward thought, must be the children’s school work.

  Their dilemma as to whether or not to wake the girls was solved by their appearance on the stairs. They were in their dressing-gowns and looked very young.

  ‘Daddy – is that you?’ Ada called, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘No, I’m afraid it’s not,’ Verity said, her heart cold with fear. She was not good with children at the best of times and no one would find it easy to tell a child her only parent had died – had been murdered. ‘I’m so sorry but we have something very horrible to tell you.’ Jean went very white and took her half-sister in her arms.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘Has Dad had an accident?’ Verity was interested to note that she called her stepfather “Dad”.

  ‘Yes, and I’m very sorry to be the person who has to tell you that . . .’

  Ada made an unpleasant snorting sound as though she had been punched in the stomach. ‘He shouldn’t have done it . . .’ she cried out and then put her hand to her mouth as though to stifle her words.

  ‘Dad’s dead?’ Jean asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘What . . . what happened?’

  Verity wished she were a hundred miles away. Seeing her distress, Edward went over to the girls. ‘You must be very brave. We think your father was killed by someone – an enemy.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Jean’s voice trembled but she did not cry. ‘Can we see him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Edward said, ‘not now. The police have taken him away.’

  Still neither girl was in tears. Ada was shivering uncontrollably in Jean’s arms while Jean was trying with all her might not to burst into tears and frighten her sister even more.

  ‘Jean,’ Verity said softly, ‘can you help me get Ada up to bed? I’m going to ask the doctor to come over and give her something to calm her. I’ll stay with you tonight and tomorrow we’ll send for your mother. Until she is able to get here, we will look after you,’ she found herself saying. The two girls – particularly Ada – looked so bereft that it was impossible for her to leave them. Mary Tallent was in such a state that – even if she agreed to stay – she would be worse than useless and simply frighten the girls even more.

  Mary at last found words. ‘Oh, my! How can I get home in the dark? I might be murdered too.’

  ‘How did he die?’ Jean asked, ignoring her.

  ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning,’ Verity said, her courage failing her. ‘We can’t tell you anything more now. Mary, where’s the kettle and the hot water bottles?’ Mary, pulling herself together under Verity’s firm gaze, took two stone bottles out of a cupboard and put the kettle on the hob. ‘Now, while the kettle is boiling, help me get the children back to bed, will you?’

  As Mary and the children went upstairs, Edward said, ‘V, I’m going back to the house. I’ll telephone the doctor from there. Mrs Brendel will know who I should call and I’ll ask her if she would mind coming over to help you.’

  ‘Yes, do that, and escort Mary home on your way. She’s not much use here. Oh, and ask Mrs Brendel to bring over some warm clothes for me. I’ll sleep in the armchair, if I can.’

  There was a knock at the door. It was PC Watt and the vicar.

  ‘Paul, I’m so glad you’ve come,’ Edward said. ‘We have just been telling Ada and Jean about Byron. They’ve been very brave but if you could . . .’

  The police constable looked relieved. ‘So you’ve already told them, have you? The Inspector asked me to fetch the vicar and come round but if . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Constable, but there’s nothing you can do for the moment except take Miss Tallent back to her mother. She’s in rather a state, as you can imagine.’

  ‘It’s a dreadful business. Never come across anything like it in all the years I’ve been here,’ Watt remarked, inanely, Edward thought.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it’s a dreadful business.’

  7

  The following morning Verity was relieved by Charlotte Hassel, who had finished her book. Tired and depressed, she walked home in time to join Edward at the breakfast table. Mrs Brendel, who had insisted on getting breakfast even though Sunday was her morning off, poured her a cup of coffee and asked after the children. She said she would go to Ivy Cottage later to see what she could do to help Charlotte.

  ‘You look terrible, V,’ Edward said, unhelpfully.

  ‘I’m not surprised! I hardly slept while I suppose you were snoring ha
ppily. This morning I decided to tell the girls exactly how Byron had died. I didn’t want them to catch sight of lurid headlines in a newspaper and find out we hadn’t been honest with them. I hated having to do it and I’ll never forget Ada’s face. She was stricken – that’s the only word for it.’

  ‘Can’t we prevent them seeing the newspapers, V?’

  ‘We can try but they can’t be protected from the truth forever. That’s why I decided to tell them the facts as gently as I could. Jean seemed to accept it and was remarkably calm – almost unnaturally so. Ada has – only temporarily, I hope – lost the power of speech. She hasn’t said a word since I told her. She just smiles sweetly and then stares into space. As I say, she’s stricken – it’s the first time I understood what the word means. I can hardly bear to think about it. I hope I did right to tell her. I remember how children in Spain were traumatized by seeing their parents killed.’

  ‘Well, thank God, they didn’t see him killed,’ Edward said. ‘I’ve telephoned the Foreign Office and explained the situation. They said they’ll ask our consul in Los Angeles to speak to Mrs Gates, or rather Mary Brand. She’s filming somewhere in Hollywood. I wonder whether we should have Ada and Jean to stay until she gets back?’

  ‘What do you think, Mrs Brendel? Could we cope if we had them here?’ Verity asked.

  ‘Yes, mam. If I get a girl in from the village to help, I’m sure we could.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t be fair on you, Mrs Brendel,’ Edward said firmly. ‘We’ll find someone qualified – a nanny or a governess – to look after them until Jean’s mother gets back from America.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Verity agreed. ‘There don’t seem to be any grandparents or uncles and aunts. What about asking Frieda Burrowes to come down?’

  ‘It’s a bit awkward, isn’t it? How would Ada feel about her father’s mistress looking after her? And when Jean’s mother returns, do you think she’ll want to find Frieda in her house?’

  ‘No, you’re right. It was a bad idea,’ Verity admitted. ‘I say, I suppose Frieda knows about Byron?’