Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  ‘“Alas! The love of women! It is known to be a lovely and fearful thing.”’

  ‘Don Juan, I think.’ Mr Murchison looked pleased with himself. ‘I might add, “Sweet is revenge – especially to women.” Mr Gates’s namesake had much to say about women and death, did he not?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Murchison, and much of it quotable, which I fear is more than can be said about Mr Gates’s published work. He seems to have shared Lord Byron’s disregard for morality, particularly in regard to women, but behaviour tolerable in a genius looks merely shoddy in a lesser man. Do you not agree?’

  ‘I do, Lord Edward.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be impertinent, Murchison, but I imagine that not many of your clients are accused of murder. Have you considered involving a London firm with more experience of criminal matters? Because of who Mr Gates was and the nature of his murder, public interest will be immense and a jury may be affected as much by public opinion as the facts of the case.’

  ‘I am very much aware of that,’ Mr Murchison said stiffly. ‘I was considering going to Tenbury and Cootes but the Colonel isn’t a wealthy man so I hesitate to . . .’

  ‘A very good firm. One of the partners – Mr Hutchinson – is a friend of mine. And if it is a question of money, I will be happy to guarantee payment of their fees although I am surprised to hear you say that the Colonel could not afford the very best legal representation. He has a large house . . .’

  ‘A most generous offer, yes indeed,’ the solicitor said, his face once again wreathed in smiles. ‘If you are quite serious, I shall telephone Mr Hutchinson immediately. The Colonel does indeed own his house but it is mortgaged to the hilt. He has no other significant assets. He was, as you probably know, in the Indian Army and that is not a profession in which to make a large sum of money. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries it was quite different and many an officer came home with a considerable fortune, but not these days, I fear.’

  ‘I would very much like to talk to the Colonel. Can that be arranged? I had the impression that Inspector Trewen would refuse me but . . .’

  ‘Of course, Lord Edward. Now that you are part of the defence team . . .’

  ‘If the Colonel is charged, he will not be given bail, I imagine?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. It would be most unusual in a murder case, as you well know.’

  ‘Colonel Heron may be guilty of murder. It is possible, but I am certainly not yet ready to accept that he killed Mr Gates despite what you have told me. Would you broadcast your intention to “mete out justice” before actually doing so? I wouldn’t.’

  These remarks were meant as a reproach to the solicitor for assuming that his client was guilty, but Mr Murchison seemed unaware of it as he ushered Edward out of his office, bowing and smiling with all the unctuousness of Uriah Heep.

  As he got into the Lagonda, Edward murmured to himself,

  ‘“Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave,

  But his shall be a redder grave;

  Her spirit pointed well the steel

  Which taught that felon heart to feel.”’

  He felt momentary guilt for quoting Byron facetiously when the matter was so grave. Could Colonel Heron have pointed the steel? ‘There’s blood upon that dinted sword’! He wondered if ‘dinted’ was the same as dented. He sighed. Damn and blast! Could he never be allowed to watch a murder case from the sidelines without getting involved? It seemed not.

  Edward arrived home to be told by Mrs Brendel that Verity was at Ivy Cottage with Jean and Ada. As he was finishing lunch, Mr Murchison telephoned to say that the police had, after all, decided not to charge Colonel Heron.

  ‘Apparently it was something you said, Lord Edward, about the beheading not having been done by the sword. The doctor has confirmed your suspicion and the police are now looking for an axe or something similar.’

  ‘Very good! By the way, did you telephone Mr Hutchinson?’

  ‘I did. He will come down from London if he is needed.’

  ‘And where is the Colonel now?’

  ‘I think he’s on his way to see you. I hope you didn’t mind but I told him of your very kind offer to fund his defence which, of course, we now hope may not be necessary.’

  ‘I see. I rather wish you hadn’t told him but there we are.’ He heard someone knocking on the front door. ‘That may be the Colonel now. Goodbye, Mr Murchison, and please keep me in touch with any developments.’

  Edward went into the hall to find Mrs Brendel opening the door to a harassed-looking Colonel Heron.

  ‘They’ve released me,’ he said, grasping Edward by the hand, ‘and I believe I owe it to you, Lord Edward. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. When you are cooped up in a cell accused of murder, you do have time to think. I’ve got no relatives and precious few friends here in England and I felt very alone. Then to hear that you had been working on my behalf – well, it lifted my spirits no end.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Colonel. I merely pointed out to Inspector Trewen that, from the brief glimpse I had of poor Byron’s body, it didn’t look as if his head had been cut off with your sword. Mr Murchison tells me that the doctor who examined the body came to the same conclusion.’

  ‘I feel very embarrassed. I gather you heard from Mr Murchison that I’d made some silly threats against Gates. I meant nothing by them, I assure you, but he did treat his first wife despicably. Murchison probably mentioned that she and I were close at one time – it might be called an engagement, informal, you understand – but I had my career. Marion did not fancy accompanying a chap to the subcontinent and who can blame her? It wouldn’t have been an easy life for a white woman. Instead, she married Gates and lived to regret it.’

  ‘I heard Gates say that the quarrel had been made up the following day when you went to apologize.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. I was in India when Marion married and when she died, and I suppose I felt guilty about not being there when she needed me. When I got back to Blighty, I discovered that the bloody man had been fooling about with other women while Marion was lying in a cancer ward, and I saw red. I wrote him a couple of letters calling him names but he never answered and after a bit I let it drop. When I heard he was moving into the neighbourhood with his new wife, I’m afraid my anger reignited.’

  ‘I see.’ Edward hesitated before continuing, ‘I imagine there may be others he hurt by his philandering, but no one deserves to be executed – especially when there are two children who are probably going to be badly scarred by it.’

  ‘That’s right. The girls – I can hardly bear to imagine what they must be going through. Ada particularly . . . Who is looking after them?’

  ‘My wife is with them now. She is bringing them back here. We decided it would be easier and better for the children if they stayed with us until Jean’s mother can get back from America.’

  ‘But that’s a burden . . .’

  ‘We think we may have found someone to help look after them. The vicar knows a girl – a teacher staying with her parents in Lewes – who sounds suitable.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you. Dear, dear! Even though I had nothing to do with Gates’s murder, I do feel guilty about the girls . . . Ada in particular. She’s an orphan now. If I can help . . .’

  ‘There’s no reason why you should blame yourself if, as you say, you didn’t kill him.’

  ‘I say, old man, I’m telling you the truth. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  Edward grunted, not yet ready to declare his faith in Heron’s innocence. ‘By the way, I suppose you don’t know who did kill Byron, if it wasn’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I do,’ Heron answered, to Edward’s surprise. ‘I suspect it was a man called Lewis Cathcart – one of those long-haired poet chaps who works at the BBC. I happened to meet him in a pub nearby. We got talking – you know how you do when you are drinking at the bar. I must have had a drop too much because I told him about Marion. Anyway, he said Gates had stolen his girl –
an actress called Frieda Burrowes. He said he was going to get him even if it was the last thing he did.’

  ‘And you think he meant he was going to kill him?’

  ‘Well, it seemed on the cards at the time but it may have been like me in my cups – just words.’

  ‘Quite a coincidence meeting this man Cathcart. Do you mind me asking what you were doing in a pub near Broadcasting House? Not your usual stamping ground, surely?’

  ‘I was on my way to the Travellers’ to meet a chap I know who I thought might offer me a job. To tell the truth, I’m a bit hard up at the moment as Murchison may have told you.’

  ‘But the Travellers’ is in Pall Mall?’

  ‘I know, the BBC wasn’t exactly on my route, but I was a bit early for lunch and, anyway, I felt I needed a drink before meeting this chap.’

  ‘Did you get the job?’ Edward asked mildly.

  ‘Never made it to the club, I’m afraid. I just stayed in the pub till closing time. Cathcart poured me into a cab and I came back here – tail between my legs. I doubt it would have come to anything,’ Heron finished sheepishly, coughing heavily.

  Edward looked at him closely. He wasn’t sure if Heron was telling him the truth. On balance, he thought he probably was, or at least part of it.

  ‘That’s a nasty cough, Heron. Let me get you a drink. I expect you need it. Whisky and soda?’

  ‘Please. And it’s Mike – you must call me Mike. What do you think I should do now?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s a London lawyer Mr Murchison will want you to talk to if Inspector Trewen changes his mind and rearrests you.’

  ‘But I can’t let you pay for that,’ Heron protested.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. He’s a friend of mine called Tom Hutchinson. He won’t be sending any bills, at least not for the moment, but you must see him. It is very important that you are properly advised. I don’t think you killed Byron, but there’s a case against you and it’s a strong one.’

  ‘Ought I go and see the girls? I’d like to tell Ada that I didn’t kill her father.’

  ‘In a day or so, perhaps – this isn’t the right moment. Go home and get some rest. We’ll talk again tomorrow. In fact, come and have dinner.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to find such a good friend in a comparative stranger. Why are you helping me?’

  ‘I don’t like seeing the law get it wrong. And I don’t like Inspector Trewen jumping to conclusions. Mind you, if I find you’ve not been telling me the truth, I’ll . . .’

  ‘I’m telling you the gospel truth,’ Heron insisted. Edward nodded, accepting his word, for the moment at least.

  ‘Are you awake?’ It was after midnight and Jean had been asleep for an hour or two but had been wakened by Ada sobbing. Sensing she had disturbed her stepsister, Ada tried to stifle her grief but could not do it. ‘Would you like to get into my bed?’ Jean offered.

  Ada said nothing but put her feet on the cold floor and jumped into Jean’s bed. She felt safe in the Old Vicarage. She liked Verity and was half in love with Lord Edward but her grief for her father could not be easily assuaged. She knew that he had never loved her and believed she had never been worthy of his love. Was she in some way guilty of his death? She puzzled over it but could come to no conclusion.

  It had not been easy for Jean, either. Although she did not know her stepfather very well, what she did know she had not liked. When her mother was away, he had sometimes come and sat on her bed and stroked her foot and then her leg until she protested. It was one advantage of Ivy Cottage being so small and having to share a room with Ada – her stepfather had given up coming to say goodnight to her.

  ‘Ada, dear,’ she said as she held the girl in her arms, ‘you must cry as much as you want. Don’t try and be brave. I know I’d howl like a banshee if my mother had been . . . had died.’

  ‘Daddy didn’t love me, I know it,’ Ada sobbed. It seemed easier to say these things with her head buried in Jean’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Jean whispered, not really believing it. ‘Of course he loved you. He was very proud of you. He wanted you to become a writer like him.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’ Ada said, sounding almost hopeful.

  ‘He told me ages ago,’ the other girl said firmly. In fact, it had been Jean who had said Ada would write novels and her father had pooh-poohed the idea but she couldn’t admit that. Ada must be left with some fond memories of her father. Her self-confidence, always at a low ebb, had hit rock bottom, naturally enough, when she had been told she was an orphan and, worst of all, that her father had been murdered. However, Jean suspected that, behind the natural grief Ada was suffering, there was an added feeling that she had not been worthy of him.

  ‘Ada, is there anything you want to tell me? I know how lonely you feel but I will always be here, I promise, and my mother will want to look after you as though you were her own daughter.’

  ‘No she won’t,’ Ada said fiercely. ‘Why should she? I’m a stranger. I’m not related to her. I’m . . .’ She remembered a word her father had used once when she had asked to go with him to London. ‘I’m an encumbrance. I’m not clever or beautiful like you. I wish . . . I wish I was dead.’

  ‘That’s a wicked thing to say,’ Jean chided her.

  ‘Well, I am wicked. I . . . He told me . . .’

  ‘Who told you – your father? What did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ada said sullenly. ‘It’s a secret. I promised not to tell.’

  ‘Can’t you even tell me? I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘No.’ Ada shuddered as if she were battling with some demon. ‘No, not you, not even you. I love you, Jean. You are the only person in the world I do love, so I won’t kill myself unless you stop loving me. I promise.’

  ‘Ada!’ Jean said faintly. It was a burden she did not want to bear. ‘Please don’t talk about killing yourself,’ she whispered but Ada had fallen into a deep sleep of exhaustion.

  8

  Verity had had an anguished trunk call from Frieda Burrowes earlier that day in response to a message she had left for her at the BBC. Frieda took no notice of the operator’s three-minute reminders that the call was costing a small fortune. Should she come to Rodmell? Who had killed Byron? What was she to do now? Apparently a reporter called Ken Hines had been making her life a misery, wanting to know if she had been Byron’s mistress.

  ‘Look, Frieda,’ Verity said, seizing on something she might be able to do to help, ‘I think my husband knows Hines. I’ll ask him if he can get him to stop persecuting you.’

  ‘Will you, Verity? You are kind. I know you think I’m a sort of scarlet woman and I shouldn’t be – have been – sleeping with Byron but, honestly, his wife doesn’t mind. He told me she gets up to all sorts in Hollywood and the bloody thing is – or was – I did love him. I gave up someone else for him. Did you know that?’

  Edward had told Verity what Heron had said about Cathcart threatening to kill Byron for taking Frieda from him. However, she didn’t want to admit it to Frieda so she avoided giving her a straight answer.

  ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come down here. The press will latch on to you and the last thing anyone needs is more publicity. Anyway, best say no more, Frieda. These long-distance calls aren’t secure and you don’t know who might be listening.’

  ‘Well, good luck to them,’ Frieda said viciously. ‘I had another reason for telephoning. Before all this happened, I talked to Mr Barnes, my boss, and he gave me the go-ahead to do an interview with you – if you still want to do it, that is.’

  ‘Do you still want to do it?’ Verity responded.

  ‘I’ve got to go on working. What else can I do? You say I can’t come down to Rodmell . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course I’ll do the interview if you’re sure. It must be awful for you but I think you must be patient for a few days until the press move on to something else. The New Gazette has been pressing me to write about Byron’s
murder but I’ve refused.’

  ‘Why don’t you come to London and then we can talk properly? I feel so excluded. I’m worried about Jean and Ada, for one thing. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for them?’

  ‘I don’t think so. As a matter of fact, they’ve moved in with us until Mary Brand gets back from the States.’

  ‘Goodness! That’s really kind of you, Verity.’

  ‘They’re no trouble and it won’t be for long but we couldn’t leave them at Ivy Cottage. Ada’s in deep shock and hardly speaking, but the vicar has found a competent woman to help look after them so I’m not tied to the house. When do you want me to come up to town to discuss the interview? I need to know what’s involved.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow? That’s rather short notice.’

  ‘Well, I thought you were expecting to go abroad any day.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. I’ll speak to Edward and telephone you back.’

  ‘That would be good. Thank you, Verity. I was afraid you might not want to have anything more to do with me.’

  ‘You mean because of your relationship with Byron?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not one to talk about morals. I think marriage is an overrated institution but I suppose we have to live with it.’

  When she had rung off, Verity went to look for Edward. She found him sound asleep in a deckchair on the lawn, his panama hat over his eyes, a book by Virginia Woolf lying on his lap unopened. She did not wake him.

  At breakfast the following morning, Verity, smartly dressed for her day in London, poured Edward a second cup of coffee and milk for the girls. ‘You are sure you don’t mind me going up to town? I’ll be back in time for dinner. I haven’t forgotten that Colonel Heron is coming so I’m aiming to catch the six ten. Will you meet me, Edward?’

  ‘Of course we don’t mind being deserted, do we, girls?’ He appealed to Ada and Jean in mock self-pity. Ada nodded solemnly. She was still hardly speaking but Edward thought she was weathering the shock. Her colour was better and she had stopped chewing the ear of the teddy bear she had brought with her from Ivy Cottage. ‘You take off for the big city and leave us in our cabbage patch. We don’t mind, do we, Jean?’ Edward pressed his advantage and Jean giggled nervously. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you, V? After I’ve dropped you at the station, I’m going to pick up the young woman Paul has found. She sounds just what we need. I’ll bring her back here to meet the girls and, if we all like her, we’ll take her on.’