He had been recommended for a VC but, in the end, had been awarded the DSO. Mike Heron was no fraud, as Verity had suspected, but a genuine hero.
Although she was longing to get home and begin preparing for her assignment, she knew she could not do the girls out of their treat. At Lyons Corner House, Verity could only manage coffee and a bun but she watched with pleasure as, to the amusement of the ‘nippy’ who served them, the girls ate themselves silly for 2/9d. She half-listened to their chatter as she went over in her mind the implications of what Weaver had told her. She was excited but also apprehensive. She lusted after a cigarette to calm her nerves but managed to restrain herself from buying a packet from the display case by the till. This was what she had longed for – a foreign posting – but would she be up to it physically and mentally? In Spain, she had witnessed the devastation caused by bombing from the air and Weaver’s words about what might happen to London frightened her. She had to suppress an image of the restaurant in which they were eating being flattened by a bomb and all the innocent men, women and children sitting around her being killed.
She turned once more to the tempting rows of cigarettes piled up beneath a poster advertising Player’s Navy Cut. It featured a pensive-looking sailor staring out to sea and she immediately thought of Frank, Edward’s nephew, aboard HMS Kelly. She shivered and lowered her eyes. Her gaze was arrested by the sight of a familiar face – or rather two familiar faces. At a small table in the corner of the restaurant, Lewis Cathcart was deep in conversation with Colonel Heron. She was about to get up and go over to them when she had second thoughts. What did these two have to talk about so earnestly? She thought back to the moments after Frieda’s murder. Cathcart had been genuinely distraught – or at least she had thought his anguish was genuine – but what if it had all been an act?
She didn’t fully understand how Cathcart and Heron had got to know each other. According to Heron, they had met by chance in a pub near Broadcasting House. It seemed unlikely but Verity knew only too well that real-life coincidences could be even stranger. Had Heron told Edward about Cathcart’s relationship with Frieda to give him a motive for killing her in revenge for being thrown over for Byron Gates? It was all a bit too obvious, she decided. If he really believed Cathcart had murdered Frieda, what was he doing cosying up to him?
By the time the girls had finished their lunch, Cathcart and Heron had disappeared. Verity didn’t know if they had seen her. She thought they probably had but, if so, why didn’t they come over to say hello? It was a puzzle that occupied her all through Jamaica Inn – viewed through a haze of cigarette smoke – and on the train back to Lewes.
While Tommie went off to see Paul Fisher, Edward – rather reluctantly – walked round to see Miss Fairweather. He wasn’t looking forward to the interview but it had to be faced. To his relief he found that she was in London.
‘She’s there a lot at the moment,’ Miss Bron explained, ‘but do come in and have some tea. The kettle’s on.’
‘Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?’
‘No, of course not. In fact, you are a welcome distraction. Not a lot happens in Rodmell – well, I mean not usually.’
He was shown into a little parlour decorated with rather severe paintings by Gwen John, the sister of Augustus. When Edward went over to examine them, Miss Bron said, ‘Gwen is a friend of ours. Elsa prefers her paintings to her brother’s though not many people agree.’
‘I’m afraid I never knew he had a sister but I think they are very good indeed. To be honest, I’m not much good with modern art but these I do like. This painting of a woman in black is very powerful and that one of the girl with the cat on her lap . . .’
‘That’s a portrait of another friend of ours who died young, so we treasure it.’
‘Why is Miss Fairweather in London so much?’ Edward asked innocently when they had sat down.
‘Her publishers are being very difficult. They want her to cut some things from the novel she has just finished which they consider will – what’s the phrase? – “offend public taste”. Ridiculous, really. Radclyffe Hall published The Well of Loneliness ten years ago and Elsa’s book is quite inoffensive in comparison.’
Miss Bron pursed her lips in the bitter-sweet smile the French call a douce-amère.
‘May I ask what it’s about?’
‘I shouldn’t really tell you because Elsa likes her novels to break on the unsuspecting world with a bang, but I’m sure you won’t run to a newspaper and cause a scandal, Lord Edward.’
‘I give you my word.’
‘It’s about two women teachers who live quite innocently together but are accused of vicious behaviour by a parent of one of their pupils. It’s very strong and will, I think, make a good play or film if . . .’
‘If people don’t find it too shocking?’
‘Precisely.’
Miss Bron was noticeably less mouse-like in the absence of her friend. Her hands did not quiver and her voice was firm. She fixed Edward with intelligent eyes and waited for him to speak.
‘I did enjoy the pageant, Miss Bron. You read Miss Fairweather’s words beautifully.’
‘I’m glad you liked it but one must hope that nothing I said influenced the murderer of Mr Gates. There are so many executions in English history, I’m afraid.’ She shuddered. ‘I really don’t see how we can ever have a pageant again.’
‘I’m sorry to have to say that I believe we will be at war next summer so there probably won’t be a fête or a pageant.’
Miss Bron paled and Edward wished he had kept his mouth shut.
‘You know,’ she said fearfully, ‘in Germany they have been sending homosexual men to their terrible concentration camps – I think that’s what they are called. We have many friends in Berlin. We used to go to Germany a lot in the old days. We have had some pathetic letters asking for help in getting to England. I show them to Mr Woolf. He has performed miracles spiriting people out of Germany but it’s becoming more and more difficult. Fortunately, the regime is very corrupt and one can sometimes buy people’s freedom. We heard only the other day that two of our friends – actors, not political in any way – were arrested by the Gestapo three weeks ago and no one has heard anything from them since.’
She looked so stricken that Edward thought she might burst into tears but she managed to control herself. ‘There are evil men ruling Germany now,’ she said fiercely. ‘We must fight them but – you’ll think I’m being melodramatic – Elsa and I do have poison which we intend to take if the Germans invade. We won’t wait to be sent to a camp. We’d rather die by our own hands.’
Edward looked grave. He would have liked to reassure her but he could not in all conscience bring himself to do so.
They were silent for a minute as they considered the state of the world. ‘But, Lord Edward, what is it you wished to say to Elsa? Perhaps I can help, or is it very private?’
Edward shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘May I speak to you in absolute confidence, Miss Bron? Please don’t hesitate to stop me if you think I am being impertinent, but I was hoping to ask Miss Fairweather if she knew about . . .’
‘About what, Lord Edward?’ Miss Bron looked aloof and almost frightening.
‘About Frieda Burrowes’s murder – and particularly where she was that day. You read about the murder in the papers, no doubt, but perhaps you weren’t aware that she was Mr Gates’s . . . his girlfriend. That was kept out of the press.’
‘His girlfriend! But he was married, wasn’t he?’
Edward detected a tremor in her voice. It made him sure that she was lying if she intended him to believe she knew nothing about Byron’s womanizing. He decided, however, to play along and see where the conversation led.
‘Apparently, he and his wife had some sort of arrangement. She is sometimes away in Hollywood for months at a time and . . . well, they had an understanding.’
‘I see.’ Miss Bron looked severe and then suddenly started to giggle. ‘Don’t the
y call it “dcol – doesn’t count on location” in the film world? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh at such a horrible thing. That poor girl . . .’
‘Did you know Frieda, Miss Bron?’
‘Know her? Why on earth should we have known her?’
Again, Edward was certain from the tremor in her voice that she had known Frieda. He decided not to beat about the bush.
‘I heard that Frieda might have been a friend – a lover – of Miss Fairweather’s and that she might have resented her relationship with Mr Gates.’
There was a stunned silence while Miss Bron considered what she had just heard. Edward was quite unable to forecast her reaction. Would she order him out of the house, break down in tears or faint? He waited to see with interest and, when she finally spoke in quite a normal voice, he was almost disappointed.
‘Lord Edward, correct me if I am wrong but are you accusing Elsa of killing Frieda Burrowes? You are suggesting that she was a jealous lover taking revenge for a betrayal?’
Although this was precisely what he was accusing Miss Fairweather of, he said, ‘No, certainly not, but I wanted to be sure that she had an alibi for the time Frieda was murdered. It would ease my mind to know that she . . .’
‘What time was the girl murdered?’ Miss Bron asked coolly.
‘It was quite early in the evening just after she had finished an interview with my wife.’
‘Well, I accompanied Elsa to London and, at the time you mention, we were having an early supper before catching the train back to Lewes. And, before you ask, there would have been dozens of witnesses but none we could call on to support my – our – story. Before that, we were in Bloomsbury with Elsa’s publishers. Will that do?’ Her voice was icy.
‘The strange thing is that I have talked to someone who said they saw Miss Fairweather in Broadcasting House immediately after Frieda was murdered. They said she seemed . . .’ Colonel Rathbone had described it as ‘triumphant’ but Edward decided to use another word. ‘They said she seemed distraught.’
Miss Bron was silent for a full minute while she debated with herself whether or not to deny that her friend had been at the BBC. She came to a decision at last.
‘Lord Edward, I do not suspect your motives in asking me these questions though I would have thought that this investigation was a matter for the police. In fact, I rather admire you for having the nerve to ask them. I feel, therefore, that I should be frank with you. I would ask that this should be the last time we discuss Elsa’s and my private life. You are right. Elsa was for a short time in love with Frieda Burrowes but I can assure you that there was never anything . . . there was no physical side to the relationship. I admit I was . . .’ She hesitated. ‘I was unhappy when Elsa became infatuated with her. The irony was that I introduced them. I did a little acting in the past and one of the last plays I appeared in was a production of Chekhov’s Three Sisters. I was cast – you might say “typecast” – as Olga, the schoolteacher who never loves and is never properly loved. Frieda was playing Irena and she was absolutely enchanting. She wasn’t a great actress – far from it – but she had the naivety, the freshness, to play to perfection a young girl full of life and hope.
‘I admit to being a little in love with her myself but Elsa was completely bowled over by her when I introduced them at the first-night party. I suddenly found myself forgotten, disregarded, cast out by the woman I loved. I don’t know whether you can understand this, Lord Edward, but to find oneself lonely while living with the person one loves is to plumb the full depths of desolation. That was my condition. I felt sorry for Elsa because I knew that Frieda wasn’t serious and would eventually betray her. And she did. In the end, as you can imagine, she had enough of being pursued by a woman who no doubt seemed to her old, ugly and ludicrous.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘All I could do was wait. Elsa was convinced that Frieda would come back to her. For a time she still accepted presents from Elsa – sometimes quite expensive ones. Once, on Frieda’s birthday, we took her to Paris. After dinner at the Ritz, we went on a tour of the clubs – you know the ones I mean? – the Monte Cristo, the Melody, Le Monocle, and drank brandy cocktails until five in the morning. A few weeks later Frieda said she never wanted to see Elsa again. There was the most almighty row but that was the end of it. Elsa never saw her again – at least not until the day she was murdered. Frieda had at least two male lovers, Lewis Cathcart and Byron Gates, at the same time as she was teasing Elsa. Inevitably, in the end, she decided to devote all her time to them. These were men who could do things for her career, you understand. And she was afraid of scandal. It would do her prospects no good if word got out that she had “tendencies”, as she put it to me once.’
‘Did Byron Gates know that Frieda and Miss Fairweather had been . . .?’
‘No, I don’t think so. At least, he never said anything to suggest that he knew. I was afraid he might bring her down to Rodmell but, thank God, he never did. When we heard that he had been murdered after the fête, we were shocked, of course, but not too disturbed. I don’t think either of us actually said, “He deserved to die,” but I don’t disguise from you that we thought it.’
‘But you are now saying that Elsa did see Frieda the day she died?’
‘I’m afraid she did. I shouldn’t have lied to you. It was stupid but I wanted to protect her. She discovered that Frieda was interviewing your wife and said she wanted to call in to say goodbye. I couldn’t stop her even though I told her she was just punishing herself and she would be made to look a fool. She managed to persuade a commissionaire at Broadcasting House to let her through. They knew her as she did occasional work for the BBC – writing scripts or advising producers on how to improve other people’s scripts. I waited down in the foyer, fearing the worst.
‘A few minutes later, she came rushing down to tell me that Frieda had been murdered. I didn’t know what to do to calm her. In the end, we went to a pub and I made her have a double brandy. When she had pulled herself together, we went to Victoria and caught a train home. I told her we must never tell a soul that we had been to Broadcasting House and she agreed, but here am I telling you everything.’ Miss Bron shrugged as though accepting defeat.
‘Did she kill Frieda?’
‘No, Lord Edward, she assured me she hadn’t. I believed her then and I believe her now.’
Edward sat with bowed head considering what Miss Bron had told him. Both women had a motive for killing Frieda and Byron and had the opportunity to carry out the murders, but Edward was inclined to think that neither of them had in fact done so. On the other hand, one of them might have sent the poison pen letters. How painful it must have been for Miss Fairweather to learn that Byron Gates was parading around London with the girl she had loved.
Having gone so far, he thought he might as well ask the question. He knew that Miss Bron would never voluntarily talk about these matters again.
‘As you have been kind enough to speak so frankly about things – painful and private things – which, as you pointed out, are not strictly my business, may I ask one last question and then I shall leave you in peace?’
‘If you think you must.’
‘You may have heard that someone has been sending rather unpleasant anonymous letters. I believe that person lives in Rodmell. I received one, as did Byron Gates and Mark Redel. I believe the letter Mark received upset him so badly that it tipped him over the edge and he decided to kill himself.’
Miss Bron got up and went over to a desk. She opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper.
‘You mean a letter like this, Lord Edward?’
He scanned the sheet. The anonymous author accused Miss Bron and Miss Fairweather of disgusting practices and of being perverts who deserved to die.
‘Yes, like this one. May I ask when you received it?’
‘The day after Frieda was murdered. Do you think our lives are in danger, Lord Edward? Ought we to tell the police?’
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��I think you should,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but I can understand how unpleasant that will be for you both.’
‘I suppose you thought, as most people would, that as rather ridiculous women – lesbians, let’s call a spade a spade . . . we might be authors of this filth. You thought two embittered, perverted spinsters were the most likely people to have written poison pen letters. But in this instance you were wrong, Lord Edward.’
There was a nobility in the way Miss Bron held herself that made Edward admire her strength of character. ‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘I thought you were much more likely to have been a recipient of one of these letters than to have written them yourselves but I decided it was better to ask you face to face. I apologize for upsetting you. My only wish is to discover the truth before anyone else gets hurt. I am pretty sure that whoever wrote these letters considers himself, or herself, to be a moralist and feels bound to admonish anyone he or she believes is leading an immoral life. I’m not a psychologist but my reading of Freud leads me to think that people who write letters like these hate themselves most of all.’
‘As well they might,’ Miss Bron retorted.
‘Byron Gates, Verity and myself, Mark and now you . . . I can only say that I regard it as an honour to be one of such a group. I believe I know who is spreading this poison and I shall now do my best to put an end to it. There is enough unhappiness in the world already without some madman adding to it.’
‘Lord Edward,’ Miss Bron said as she showed him out, ‘I am not going to tell Elsa about . . . about our conversation. I think it would be for the best. I take it that you do not believe either of us killed Frieda or Mr Gates?’
Sweet Sorrow Page 19