Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  As she followed Barnes into the studio, a sudden fear gripped her. If Frieda had fainted, she would surely have fallen on the floor and, in any case, she had given no sign of feeling ill. Barnes was already leaning over her as Verity came through the door. She cried out when she saw Frieda’s head. She had been hit with something heavy which had caused a terrible wound. Blood was leaking on to the table in an ever-widening pool. There could not be the slightest doubt. Frieda had been murdered.

  ‘Oh my God! Frieda! How can this be possible? I was only out of the room for a minute. Who could have done it? And why?’

  Verity found that tears were pouring down her cheeks and she wiped them roughly away. It was the shock of finding someone so alive one moment, dead the next, murdered by some lunatic in the heart of Broadcasting House where, just a short time before, she had felt so safe.

  Barnes pointed to a small bust of Sir John Reith covered in blood and worse which had fallen to the floor. There could be no doubt as to what had happened. In the five or six minutes Verity had been in the control room, someone had entered the studio, picked up the nearest heavy object and beaten Frieda to death. It would have been unbelievable had the evidence not been in front of them.

  Pulling herself together Verity went to the door and looked into the passage. There was no one and nothing to be seen.

  ‘The killer must still be in the building,’ she said. ‘Quickly, ring down to security and tell them to stop anyone leaving until the police get here.’

  Barnes still appeared dazed by the suddenness with which the horror had come upon them.

  ‘She was so alive . . . I can’t believe it . . . for this to happen in the BBC of all places,’ he muttered, unconsciously echoing Lady Macbeth. He looked at Verity and seemed to get a grip on himself. ‘Yes, the police – I’ll telephone the front desk.’ Then he added, rather strangely Verity felt, when she thought about it later, ‘Well, at least no one can suspect either of us of killing the poor girl.’

  ‘Whoever did this will be covered in blood,’ Verity pointed out. ‘He must be changing his clothes as we speak or at least cleaning himself up. Where are the nearest washrooms?’

  ‘At the end of the passage but you can’t go on your own. If he’s killed once, he’ll have no hesitation in killing again. Wait while I raise the alarm and then I’ll come with you. Oh God, what a mess! I must inform the DG. Murder in Broadcasting House! It’s never happened before. Why kill Frieda? What had she ever done to anyone?’

  Verity, too, was beginning to recover from the shock. ‘We must keep out of here. There may be . . . Look!’ She pointed to a bloody footprint. ‘Someone needs to be on guard in here.’

  Barnes went back to the control room and started telephoning. Putting his hand over the receiver, he said to Verity, ‘No one covered in blood has been seen at the front desk. I suppose he must have gone out through the back.’

  ‘Let’s go and look at the washrooms. He may be hiding.’

  Barnes would much rather have waited for the police but, unable to admit this to Verity, he followed her down the passage. The women’s cubicle, containing a basin and a lavatory, was small and rather squalid. It was empty and there was no sign of anyone having used it to wash bloody hands or clothes. Barnes emerged from the men’s washroom and shook his head. To his relief, he hadn’t had to grapple with a murderer nor had he seen anything to suggest the basin had been used to wash away blood.

  He had a sudden thought. ‘The murderer . . . he might have gone up the stairs.’

  ‘What stairs?’

  ‘There’s a small spiral staircase at the end of the passage that goes to . . .’

  ‘Goes where?’

  ‘To the Silence Room.’

  Verity remembered Frieda telling her that the Silence Room was where announcements could be made and telephone calls taken without interrupting whatever was going on in the studios.

  Grim-faced, her heart racing, she ran down the passage and up the staircase, her leather-soled shoes clattering against the metal. She thrust open the door of the Silence Room not quite knowing what to expect but fearing the worst. She half-suppressed a cry. A heap of bloodstained overalls lay by a chair. Panting, Barnes came up and stood beside her. They both stared open-mouthed at the sinister pile of clothes.

  ‘That knitted thing with eye-holes . . . it’s a balaclava, isn’t it? He must have put it over his head to disguise himself.’ Verity shuddered. It was clear that this was where the murderer had lurked and where he had changed after attacking Frieda. ‘If only we had been a bit quicker . . .’ she said under her breath.

  ‘We must have only just missed him.’ Barnes was sweating from the effort of climbing the stairs and felt rather dizzy. He tried not to show how relieved he was that they had not come face to face with the killer. ‘What’s that on the floor by the clothes?’ he added, bending down to pick up a shiny piece of metal. ‘It’s a badge, isn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ Verity said urgently. ‘We must leave everything exactly as we found it. Quick – let’s get back to the studio. We mustn’t let anyone in before the police arrive.’

  As they reached the studio, they saw two commissionaires running towards them along the passage.

  ‘There’s been a terrible accident,’ Barnes told them. Verity wondered vaguely why he called it an accident. There was no way of disguising what had happened. For one thing, police would soon be crawling all over the place and, for another, there would be no more broadcasts from the third floor for the foreseeable future. She suddenly felt exhausted and deeply depressed. Why was violent death so often her companion, even here at the BBC, even before war made death a matter of routine? First Byron and now Frieda. Where was Edward? She needed him.

  11

  ‘It was terrible. I don’t think I’ve ever been so shocked. I left Frieda as right as rain and five minutes later she was dead – murdered. It was truly horrible. The mess – her blood spattered all over the table we had been sitting at, the floor, even the walls. It was somehow worse, if you can understand me, that it happened at the BBC. I mean, next to being in a church, Broadcasting House is just the most respectable place. To desecrate it . . . as I say, it was horrible.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, V, but at least . . .’

  ‘You’re going to say that at least I didn’t get my head bashed in. Perhaps whoever did it was after me. Frieda had her back to the door so she could watch Reg through the control room window. Maybe the killer made a mistake.’

  ‘I don’t think so, V. Someone wanted to kill Bryon and his mistress but why Frieda was attacked there, with so many people in the vicinity, I don’t know. The murderer risked being caught a hundred times.’

  Verity was back at the Old Vicarage and Edward had poured her a strong whisky. She had told Mrs Brendel that she didn’t want anything to eat but had been persuaded to drink some broth.

  ‘What was Inspector Lambert like?’

  ‘He was all right. I thought he was stupid at first. He had a rugby player’s frame and a head like a rugby ball with no hair.’

  ‘But he wasn’t stupid?’

  ‘No. He asked me some pretty searching questions. I had to tell him about Byron’s murder, of course, in case there’s a connection. He asked if there might have been anyone in London today who had also been at the fête. I couldn’t think of anyone.’

  ‘Well, I can,’ Edward said ruefully. ‘Leonard and Virginia were in Bloomsbury moving their stuff. You remember them saying they’ve bought a new house in Mecklenburgh Square?’

  ‘Yes, Virginia seemed to be regretting it.’

  ‘Well, I said I would give them a hand if they needed a car to cart round the small things but they thanked me kindly and refused. They said they had help from a young man who works at the Hogarth Press – you know, their publishing business.’

  ‘No one could possibly believe that Leonard murdered a girl he had never met at Broadcasting House.’

  ‘No, but Mark Redel . . .’


  ‘Was he in London?’

  ‘I gather he was visiting his gallery – the Lefèvre. Apparently, they want to drop him as his last show was rather a failure and he was trying to persuade them not to.’

  ‘Golly, and now I come to think of it, Paul Fisher may have been in Broadcasting House because he said he was taking some of the Daily Services this week.’

  ‘What about Lewis Cathcart, talking of Frieda’s lovers?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t I tell you? He was in Broadcasting House, though, as far as we know, he wasn’t in Rodmell when Byron was killed. He came storming into the studio this evening, brushing aside the commissionaire who was trying to keep people out, and was obviously distraught. Reg Barnes told me who he was. There can be no doubt he still loved Frieda. I can see that he might have killed Byron for taking her from him but not Frieda herself.’

  ‘Hm, you can’t be sure of that,’ Edward said. ‘What sort of person was he?’

  ‘Ordinary – mid-forties, I should think – tall, black hair, rather stooping.’

  ‘No, I mean what is he like?’

  ‘How would I know? He was distraught, as I said. You could hardly expect me to chat to him while his former mistress was lying dead on the floor, her brains bashed out by some lunatic.’

  Edward saw that Verity was, understandably, still very upset and apologized. ‘Who else was in Broadcasting House?’

  ‘I don’t know – probably hundreds of people. There were men in suits who arrived even before the police. Who they were, I have no idea – administrators I suppose.’

  ‘One was probably Colonel Rathbone.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Guy Liddell’s man at the BBC.’

  ‘You mean MI5 has someone permanently stationed at the BBC?’

  ‘Yes, Room 305, so I’m told. He vets all appointments, particularly foreigners.’

  ‘But that’s disgraceful. The BBC is independent.’

  ‘Grow up, V. The BBC is the most influential broadcasting organization in the world. In wartime, it would be grossly irresponsible for it not to be monitored. What would people say if some spy or traitor was able to use it to aid the enemy? They’d be justifiably furious.’

  ‘But censorship by some colonel no one has heard of . . .’

  ‘You think he should be elected?’ Edward asked sarcastically.

  Verity looked at him with something like suspicion. She had belonged for many years to a legal organization – the Communist Party of Great Britain – whose every move had been ‘monitored’ by Special Branch and MI5. It had been a thoroughly unpleasant experience knowing every telephone call was being overheard and every friend watched while this information was being filed in some government department not open to democratic scrutiny or control. Edward had succeeded in convincing her that the security services were doing a necessary job in the circumstances, but to find that another organization, one in which most people had implicit trust, was also being ‘monitored’ stirred up her suspicion of all government snooping. And she did not like Edward telling her to ‘grow up’. There had been an edge of contempt in his voice which she had never heard before.

  However, instead of snapping his head off, she said mildly, ‘I hope your Colonel isn’t responsible for internal security at the BBC. Inspector Lambert was very uncomplimentary about the ease with which people can get in and out of Broadcasting House despite the threat from the IRA. Although the front desk is manned at all times and there are commissionaires on hand, there are at least three other exits at the back and at the side of the building. They are supposed to be locked but . . .’

  ‘An exit can also be an entrance,’ Edward commented. ‘But fancy the killer using the statuette of Sir John Reith to kill Frieda! If it weren’t so awful, it would be funny. I mean, his strict morals . . .’

  ‘I wonder if the killer grabbed hold of the nearest heavy object and killed Frieda or if it was planned?’ Verity mused.

  ‘I think it must have been planned. He knew the layout of the studios and had identified the Silence Room as somewhere to change. He brought overalls so he wasn’t covered in blood and a balaclava to disguise himself. No, it was planned all right.’

  ‘But how did he know Frieda would be alone in the studio?’

  ‘Quite a few people would have known that she was interviewing you in that particular studio. He would just have to wait his moment.’

  ‘True – but to use the statuette . . . If you intended to kill someone, wouldn’t you bring a weapon with you?’

  ‘How easy would that have been?’

  ‘You’re right. It wouldn’t have been very easy, now I come to think about it. They were searching people’s bags as I entered Broadcasting House because of the IRA bomb threat. To smuggle in a weapon would be difficult but not impossible, particularly if someone let you in through a side door. If he was already familiar with the studio and had noticed the statuette, he might have decided it was easier to use a weapon already to hand.’

  ‘Would it have been difficult to bring in the clothes he was going to use?’

  ‘No. I asked Reg that and he said a lot of people – announcers for instance – bring in a change of clothes if they are going to be on duty for some time. If the murderer had them on a hanger over his arm, I doubt anyone would have been suspicious.’ Verity hesitated and then exclaimed, ‘Oh Edward, I’m so sick of people being killed all around us. Do you think we’re a sort of ill omen – like the albatross, or do I mean the stormy petrel?’

  ‘I know. You are longing to be away from it all and get on with your job.’

  Again, there was an edge to his voice and she was quick to contradict him.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to leaving you, Edward. You know how much I love being here with you although I admit that I do want to get on with the only job I know how to do. Women are going to play a much greater role in this war than the last and, when I see so many girls already in uniform, I confess I feel jealous. I want to do my bit too. You feel the same, I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry V, I’m a bit on edge. One just longs for this bloody war to start – if it has to – so we can get on with it, and I admit I’m a bit envious of you. You’ll be in the thick of things and I’ll be escorting bigwigs to safety or acting as a messenger boy. I don’t know . . . Sometimes I feel hopeless and useless.’

  He had not told Verity that his first job for the Foreign Office in the event of war would be to escort the Duke of Windsor to safety from his villa in the south of France – he had been sworn to secrecy – but the more he thought about it, the less he liked it. He must obey orders, of course, but it wasn’t exactly how he had imagined serving his country. They could surely find him something more demanding to do than playing nursemaid to an overgrown schoolboy.

  ‘Edward, don’t!’ she said, taking his hand. ‘Everyone must be feeling the same sort of anxiety, the same fear of the unknown. We’ve just got to live from day to day. Let’s get back to finding this madman before he kills anyone else. If we can help rid the world of one killer, we’ll have achieved something. By the way, Joan Harries seems to be getting on very well,’ she continued, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes, I think she’s just what we want. Jean and Ada seem to like her and it won’t be long now until Mary gets back.’

  ‘We have Paul to thank for that,’ Verity said, trying to be ‘Christian’ about a man she instinctively disliked and distrusted.

  ‘Yes.’ Edward shook himself mentally. ‘I wish we knew if Inspector Trewen had turned up anything.’

  ‘A bloody axe?’

  ‘Something like that, but I’m sure the murder weapon has long ago been cleaned and possibly disposed of. Byron’s killer would be mad to hang on to it.’

  ‘But he is mad, isn’t he?’

  ‘Who knows? Leonard says Virginia goes mad sometimes, by which I think he means that she suffers from terrible depressions. She certainly doesn’t want to kill anyone.’

  ‘Except, perhaps, herself,
’ Verity put in. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, but I’ve seen people feel suicidal with depression. I’ve got to know Virginia quite well in the last couple of weeks and, though she seems normal enough most of the time, there’s a sadness in her eyes which never seems to go away – not even when she’s laughing.’

  ‘I know, V. I’ve noticed it too. I sometimes think we’re none of us totally sane. We are about to embark on a war which everyone knows is going to destroy everything we treasure – people, buildings . . . everything. We’ll expect men to kill then. That can’t be sane.’

  ‘It’s not madness to fight against evil. Hitler may be mad but he’s also evil and, until he’s destroyed, we can’t hope to lead “normal” lives. Madness may be an explanation of evil but it’s not an excuse.’

  Edward sighed. ‘You’re right again. So what do we do? We have very little time and no reason to meddle with the professionals who are investigating these murders.’

  ‘I agree. It’s not for us to meddle but we must still keep our eyes and ears open. I feel we owe it to Ada.’

  ‘“My sword glued to my scabbard with wrong’d orphans’ tears”,’ Edward declaimed. He saw Verity’s look and apologized. ‘I think that, instead of an education, they strung flypapers across my brain and every line of verse I was made to learn at Eton seems to have stuck to them. My tutor used to say that to quote was to continue a conversation from the past in order to give context to the present, but I’m inclined to think I’m just talking to myself.’

  ‘Yes, well, you usually are,’ Verity responded unsympathetically. ‘By the way, Inspector Lambert wants me to call in at Scotland Yard early next week to go over a few things. I thought of taking Ada and Jean with me to London. It might do them good to get away from Rodmell and see a bit of life. I could take them to the paper – Jean wants to be a reporter when she’s grown up – and perhaps visit the British Museum . . .’