The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  Edward looked at the girl with horror and then said slowly, ‘I can believe it.’

  They gazed at each other in silence for a moment and there was an understanding.

  Verity came through the mob. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Edward? I’ve asked David and Guy to eat with us tonight. Oh, I see you’ve made friends with Gerda. How do you like him? He’s not bad for an aristo, is he?’

  Edward hated Verity when she was like this, making smart remarks in bad taste, but realized she was still angry with him for being rude to André. He caught a glance from Gerda and stifled his angry retort. ‘Not at all. Why don’t you and André come too?’ he asked her. ‘Or are you being wined and dined by the gallery?’

  ‘I’m sure we’d love to come. I’ll just ask Bandi. Won’t be a moment.’

  She went off to find him. Verity said in a loud whisper as soon as her back was turned, ‘I wish you hadn’t asked her. André’s all right but she’s a nothing.’

  ‘Verity! I’m ashamed of you. She’s not a nothing. She’s a highly talented photographer. Have you looked at these?’

  ‘And you lust after her.’

  ‘I say!’

  ‘Well, that’s why you invited her. Admit it. She’s not . . . faithful to André . . . leads him a merry dance.’ She was suddenly contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have said she was a nothing. She is a very good photographer and brave . . . much braver than me. She says she has to be near . . . always nearer to get the photograph that tells the truth. She’s been almost killed dozens of times. But I still don’t like her.’

  ‘And I don’t like David but I suppose I’ll have to put up with it.’

  ‘Oh, cheer up. You’ll enjoy renewing old friendships and flirting with Gerda.’

  ‘And I’ll end up paying for all of them. It’s a funny thing about Comrades, they regard it as undemocratic to pay their own bills.’

  ‘Think of it as your contribution to the redistribution of wealth,’ Verity said, squeezing his arm. ‘Don’t sulk. I think it a great compliment that David and Guy want to eat with you. After all, you are the enemy.’

  Just as they were leaving the gallery, in bustled their old friend the Rev. Tommie Fox. Tommie had been at Eton and Trinity with Edward and then, to the amazement of his friends, had refused to join the family firm and earn a good living doing not very much. Instead, he had been ordained and was now a Church of England vicar. His father had still not forgiven him. Tommie had recently moved to a new parish in Hoxton and was always roping in his friends to help entertain ‘my boys’, as he called them. Edward admired him enormously. He was hardly ever daunted by the impossible odds against which he struggled. Poverty and its attendants, dirt and disease, were endemic in the slums and Tommie found himself ministering as much to the body as the soul.

  Hoxton had its quota of respectable lower-middle class but poverty bred not only crime but political extremism. Like flies on a dung heap, Mosley’s bully boys trawled the slums recruiting the unemployed and inciting hatred for the Jews and for enclaves of ‘foreigners’ – Italians and French principally but also dozens of smaller immigrant communities – refugees for the most part who, according to Mosley, had stolen their jobs. The black uniforms and boots were also a powerful inducement to join the British Union of Fascists. The semi-military ‘get-up’ gave the new recruits a spurious sense of importance and having someone who seemed to need them made the BUF very attractive. The Communists also recruited in the slums but their appeal tended to be to the better educated and there were not many of those in Tommie’s parish. There were moments when he seriously thought a new war was exactly what his boys needed. Army life would harness so much wasted energy but, when it was borne in on him that he was recommending death and destruction to solve a social problem, he knew he was giving way to despair. There had to be another way.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ Tommie exclaimed. ‘I thought I might have missed you.’ He kissed Verity and shook Edward’s hand so heartily it was almost painful. He was built like a rugby prop forward and had indeed gained a blue at the University but his first love was boxing, which was unusual for a vicar. You could tell from his squashed nose and cauliflower ears that he was a fighter but his expression was all sunshine and amiability. The boxing school he had begun in a disused warehouse was one of the most popular parts of the youth club he had set up.

  ‘Verity invited me,’ he explained to Edward, ‘but I got caught up. There was a rumpus and by the time I had broken it up . . . well anyway. Has Verity told you about it?’

  ‘Told me about what?’

  ‘Sorry, Tommie, I quite forgot.’

  ‘Typical! The thing is, we’re having a football match the day after tomorrow – three o’clock – Old Etonians against my boys. One of my pals has pulled out at the last moment and so I need you. You’ll say yes, won’t you, old boy?’ he finished breathlessly.

  From time to time Edward had ‘done his bit’, as he thought of it. Eton had a ‘mission’ in the East End to which he had gone most holidays. Now he helped Tommie whenever he could. He liked teaching and found that most of the youths did not resent his presence once they saw he was not going to ‘put on airs’.

  ‘Oh, do I have to?’ he wailed. ‘I’m too old to play football. It’s not my game and my knee’s only just got right.’

  ‘You must!’ Tommie insisted. ‘We can’t let them down and you are my last hope. I’m scraping the barrel. Tell him, Verity.’

  ‘Don’t be a weed, Edward,’ Verity backed him up. ‘Guy’s playing and lots of your old friends. It’ll be like one of those school reunions or gaudies – isn’t that what you call them? – you boys love so much. I was never at a school long enough to be invited to a reunion,’ she added wistfully. ‘I’ll bring Bandi and Gerda. It will amuse them to see the primitive rituals of savages. Bandi will take photographs and Gerda . . . she can mop your brow when you fall in the mud.’

  ‘Oh God! Must I? Why should your lads want to play games with Old Etonians? It’s much more likely they want to kill us.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Tommie said, putting an arm round Edward’s shoulder and squeezing.

  ‘There’s a good little man,’ Verity said patronizingly. ‘You do what this nice vicar tells you.’

  Some hours later they sat round a table at Gennaro’s, the ruins of their meal in front of them, cigars and brandy to hand. Edward was feeling rather ill and resentful. The extravagant manner in which the restaurant was furnished was making his eyes ache. It had been redecorated since he had last eaten here and he did not like the result. The pink lamp-shades in the shape of exotic birds offended him and the maze of mirrors dazzled him. He knew he would be picking up the tab and it irked him. He hated them all – the red-faced, self-satisfied Guy Baron, the hard-eyed David Griffiths-Jones and the half-drunk André who he suspected was stroking Verity’s leg under the tablecloth. Tommie had wisely refused to accompany them, saying he had a Mothers’ Union meeting to attend. Only the presence of Gerda made the party tolerable. She sat beside him, a cigar in her mouth, her eyes narrowed against the smoke, patiently listening to him tell stories of Africa, occasionally squeezing his hand.

  ‘You know,’ Baron was saying, ‘when David was in Moscow last month he had a pretty little comsomolka all to himself – slim, ardent, red bandana round her hair. . .’ He hummed the ‘Internationale’. ‘“Who was nothing shall be all . . .”.’

  ‘Basta!’ David said, but not angrily. It was as if Baron was a naughty schoolboy – too charming to be thoroughly irritating.

  ‘And you found the Soviet Union lived up to its promise? Is it truly a classless society?’ Edward had no idea why he chose to bait Griffiths-Jones but it did not matter. David saw the question not as a challenge but an opportunity to lecture his flock on ‘the promised land’.

  ‘Soviet Communism is based on genuine social equality. To engage in socially useful work is a universal duty.’ He looked at Edward with loathing. ‘There is no exemption from this duty for possessors o
f wealth, owners of land or holders of high office. There is a single social grade, that of producer by hand or brain. This is what is meant by a classless society. But the principle of social equality goes much further. It extends to relations between the sexes – everyone lives in an atmosphere of group responsibility and freedom from servility. What is even more unique is the absence of prejudice as to colour or race . . .’

  At this last assertion, Baron exploded with laughter. ‘And what about buggers? Is there prejudice against them?’ He was obviously determined to needle David. ‘No prejudice! Even you cannot believe that, David. Take India, for instance. I am convinced of the incompetence and futility of the Party and the Comintern when I look at their policy. They want the British to leave India before its historic task is complete. The Labour Party agrees! Surrender and grovel. Only Mr Churchill and the right of the Conservative Party see what must be done in India.’

  Baron relapsed into a drunken stupor but Edward smiled. Would Mr Churchill welcome such an ally, he wondered?

  ‘What does Baron do?’ he asked Gerda in a low voice.

  ‘Do? He picks up boys and drinks. That’s what he does.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a job?’

  ‘He works for the BBC. He is in charge of a programme called “This Week in Parliament”. He likes talking to politicians. Don’t ask me why.’

  When the party broke up, David Griffiths-Jones and Baron went off together. They were sharing a house in Chester Square. David said, insincerely, ‘Good to see you again, Corinth. Shall I ever convert you to my way of thinking? No, I suppose not.’

  Baron, very drunk, seemed about to kiss him and Edward backed away. Instead, he shook him by the hand. ‘I like you, Corinth,’ he said solemnly. ‘We must see each other again. You’re in the telephone book? There are things . . .’ His voice tailed off and he looked about him vacantly. Griffiths-Jones pushed him into a taxi but, in a last burst of energy, he leant out of the window and said, ‘Thank you for the . . . party. Very white of you, old man.’ Giggling, he sank back into his seat as the taxi accelerated away.

  Verity, who was also rather the worse for wear, refused to let Edward take her back to the King’s Road. She kissed him wetly and said, ‘When I get back from Spain . . . shall we . . . you know, live together? Oh God, why does my head ache so? Kiss me, Edward. Tell me I’m not drunk.’

  Edward had never seen her drunk before and did not like it. His alert, bossy, irritating bird of a girl had softened at the edges. She had let her defences fall and it made her rather ridiculous but he excused her. She was shortly to return to war-ravaged Spain and she knew now what to expect. He guessed she must be frightened and he knew she had every right to be. She had to go. She could never live with herself if she funked going back. As for what she had said about their living together, he knew that to be a pipe-dream. Not only was it quite impossible socially but, more to the point, he knew she valued her independence too highly. He had resigned himself to the idea that he would never to be able to live with her but whether their love could survive on snatched moments of sex and the odd week or two in London he did not dare guess.

  He kissed her forehead and put her gently into a taxi, murmuring words of reassurance. Gerda and André, who were going in the same direction, said they would see her home. Gerda threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. André did not seem to mind and Verity was already asleep. The taste of her intoxicated him and he walked back to Albany in a state of wild frustration, angry and ashamed of himself.

  3

  The following day, Edward was unsurprised to be rung up by Major Ferguson of Special Branch. He was equally unsurprised to find Ferguson knew with whom he had been consorting the night before.

  ‘Interesting friends you have, Lord Edward. I always thought there must be something about you to get along with so many strange characters with political views so much at odds with your own. At least I assume they are at odds with yours.’

  Edward sighed. ’I don’t know why, Major, but I have rather a headache this morning so perhaps we could ease up on the witticisms. Do I take it you will be calling on me later in the day?’

  ‘At three, if that would be convenient?’

  ‘Quite convenient.’

  Ferguson was a small man with a face easy to forget. He had a small scar on his forehead partly hidden by a lock of hair, heavy spectacles and a military moustache but these were his only notable features. As Edward had reason to know, he was a shrewd operator. He respected the Major’s ruthlessness and his information network. His detailed knowledge of the party at Gennaro’s was proof of that.

  ‘How did you find out about last night? Was it one of the waiters? Say it wasn’t Freddy?’ Freddy was Gennaro’s proprietor.

  ‘Not Freddy,’ Ferguson assured him.

  ‘So, have you come to give me my orders?’

  ‘How explicit was Sir Robert?’ Ferguson countered.

  ‘He said he wanted me to find out who was passing information to Mr Churchill about our rearmament, or rather our lack of it. He said you would give me a list of those who had access to secret files on arms and the arms trade and might therefore be under suspicion. He also mentioned a man who had gone missing – Charles Westmacott. Is that his name?’

  ‘Yes. The information is all here.’ He handed Edward a brown envelope.

  ‘What do you think might have happened? You have investigated?’

  ‘We are completely in the dark. We thought at first he might have defected to the Germans but there’s no evidence of that. We have contacts in their embassy but we have heard nothing. Anyway, he’s too junior to be much of a catch. It’s not clear what he might have to sell.’

  ‘What does his wife think?’

  ‘Naturally, she fears he may be dead. What other reason can there be for his not having been in touch with her?’

  ‘Does she have any idea of the nature of his work and why he might have been in danger?’

  ‘She’s not telling if she does but my impression is that she is genuinely ignorant and innocent. I may be wrong, of course. I thought you might get more out of her than I did. You’ll find a complete report on the investigation – such as it is – here.’ He tapped the envelope. ‘We alerted all ports as soon as we knew he was missing and informed the ICPO.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘You’ve not heard of it? The International Criminal Police Organization was set up – what? in 1923, I think – to exchange information about criminals and missing persons. All the European police forces are members but it’s based in Vienna. Since the Germans have all but taken control there, the ICPO is a bit of a dead duck.’

  ‘Thanks very much! It all sounds impossible. Perhaps I should start at the other end and talk to Mr Churchill? He might have some idea why Westmacott has gone missing. Sir Robert seemed to think Westmacott might have had sympathies in that direction.’

  For the first time Ferguson looked doubtful. ‘It’s very hard to know. I don’t see any real harm but . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I don’t altogether trust you with him. He’s very persuasive. Sir Robert himself is not above feeding him information when he wants a particular point made in the House.’

  ‘Good Lord! If he is leaking information what chance have we got to plug the holes in the bucket?’

  ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’

  ‘Who guards the guards? I thought you did.’

  ‘Touché, but we have a job to do and we must try to do it. Though Sir Robert might ask Mr Churchill to raise a particular point in the House, that’s quite different from systematically feeding him with secret information on the strength or weakness of our armed forces. If Mr Churchill is being fed information, perhaps our German and Russian friends are also getting their sticky paws on stuff they shouldn’t. Some of your Communist friends might feel justified in passing secrets to Moscow.’

  Edward nodded. He had to admit that was more than likely.

  ‘The
re’s another thing . . .’ If Ferguson was capable of being embarrassed, he was now. ‘Churchill’s not sound.’

  ‘Politically?’

  ‘Politically, yes, but I was meaning financially. We know for a fact that he owes his stockbrokers, Vickers da Costa, £1800 and he has seriously contemplated putting his house on the market despite it being the great love of his life.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘It’s our job,’ Ferguson said simply.

  ‘I heard he earned a great deal from his books. The World Crisis sold millions, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but rebuilding Chartwell cost him a fortune and he leads an expensive life. For the moment he has been saved by three millionaire businessmen of dubious reputation – a Moravian-born Jew, now South African, called Sir Henry Strakosch, Sir Abe Bailey and an Indian arms dealer called Sir Vida Chandra.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Edward was taken aback. ‘I have met two of them as it happens, when I was in South Africa. Bailey owns a lot of mines in the Transvaal, doesn’t he? He may be a bit of a rogue but I liked him. Wait a minute! Didn’t his son, John, marry Churchill’s daughter? I’m not sure I wasn’t asked to the wedding but I was abroad.’

  ‘That’s right. They’re divorced now but Churchill and the father are still close friends.’

  ‘And Strakosch . . . I met him too. He’s chairman of Union Corporation. A big wheel! Didn’t he represent South Africa at the Genoa conference?’

  ‘That’s the man. You do know all the right people, Corinth. That’s one of the reasons you can be so useful to us.’

  ‘Oh well,’ Edward said, modestly, ‘South Africa’s a large country but a small place, if you take my meaning. I don’t know the Indian – what was his name – Chandra? Tell me about him.’

  ‘Don’t know much about him. Secretive sort of chap. Hard to get a line on him but we think he’s on the side of the angels. Of course, all millionaires are rogues. That goes without saying but he’s no worse than most. He made his money in armaments during the war. Lloyd George sold him a knighthood. He lives in London now.’