The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  ‘Corinth’s right, old boy. Give your father a ring now and go and see him.’

  James looked trapped but was clearly very much under Guy’s influence because he said, ‘I haven’t got his telephone number.’

  ‘I have,’ Edward said, drawing his little notebook out of his breast pocket. ‘Shall I dial it for you?’ He knew he was being a bully but surely it was in a good cause.

  ‘No, I’ll do it,’ the boy said and Edward passed him his notebook. There was a pause and then he was talking to his father’s secretary and then to his father. Edward felt guilty at eavesdropping but Guy seemed to have no such inhibition.

  ‘Dad, is that you? It’s me, Jimmy.’

  They could not hear the other side of the conversation but James listened for what seemed like a full two minutes before saying, ‘I’m all right. I am staying with friends in Chester Square. . . . Soon. I am going back soon.’

  There was another silence and then he said, ‘You are sure you want to see me? . . . I just thought . . . All right, tomorrow about four. Bye . . . Yes, same to you.’

  He put the receiver down. ‘I’m going to his office tomorrow. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve got things to do.’

  Solemnly, he shook Edward’s hand and left the room without another word. Edward said goodbye to Guy and departed, feeling as pleased with himself as a Boy Scout who has done his good deed for the day.

  He went to his club for a bite to eat and afterwards telephoned Ferguson. The moment he mentioned James Lyall, Ferguson stopped him and asked him to get in a taxi and come to his office. Edward groaned but, wanting the exercise, said he would walk across to Duncannon Street. Ferguson’s office was a modest three rooms over a pub. If one twisted half out of one of the windows one could glimpse Nelson’s Column but Ferguson never did.

  ‘You must get out of the habit of telephoning me and discussing your investigations for all the world to hear,’ he reprimanded him.

  ‘I haven’t done any investigations,’ Edward said testily. ‘I merely wanted to say that I have put Desmond Lyall in touch with his son.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘I had a tip-off,’ Edward said grandly.

  ‘And he was where?’

  ‘In a nest of vipers.’

  ‘Which particular nest?’ Ferguson inquired mildly.

  ‘He’s staying with Guy Baron and David Griffiths-Jones in a house in Chester Square.’

  ‘Their own house?’

  ‘No, they said it belonged to a friend.’

  ‘You should have found out who the friend was . . . but no, perhaps it was better not to seem too curious. Give me the number and I will find out.’

  ‘I think Baron guessed I was a policeman,’ Edward said, a little embarrassed.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . because I turned up and started asking questions, I suppose.’

  ‘You didn’t admit anything?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Edward replied indignantly. ‘Who do you think came out of the house as I arrived?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’m not very good at guessing games.’

  ‘Bernard Hunt.’

  Ferguson was impressed. ‘I should have known!’ he said at last. ‘Good work indeed.’ Edward was pleased with the reaction. Ferguson said, almost to himself, ‘David Griffiths-Jones, Guy Baron, Bernard Hunt: king, queen and knave! It needs looking into. Yes, you have done well, Corinth. Anything else?’

  ‘Just one small thing. When I talked to Mrs Westmacott and broke the bad news, I asked her again about the files her husband had brought home to work on. The first time I spoke to her she said she did not know what they contained but that one was marked Most Secret. I concluded this meant it came from the cabinets Lyall keeps in his office to which only he has the key. Anyway, this time she said she remembered seeing a letter from this particular file. She did not read it but she recalled the address at the top of the letter because it made her think of a comfortable hotel in the country.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Bawdsey Manor, Felixstowe. Does it mean anything to you?’

  Edward saw Ferguson change colour. He took a drag on his cigarette and started coughing as the smoke went down the wrong way.

  ‘Bawdsey Manor is a top secret scientific establishment. Westmacott had no access to files about the place. Indeed, Lyall’s department has no authority to have a file about Bawdsey. Damn and blast! This makes it all more complicated. If the file didn’t come from the department, where did it come from?’

  ‘Does Lyall know about Bawdsey Manor?’

  ‘Yes, he would know that such a place exists. He has that much security clearance but he would not – ought not – to know what is being done there,’ Ferguson said slowly.

  ‘Lyall would have to know about Bawdsey because the work being done there relates to our rearmament programme?’ Edward hazarded.

  ‘Yes, but he would also know it was absolutely top secret. I shall have to go over to the FO and talk to him. This could be serious. If the Germans get an inkling of what is being achieved there . . .’

  ‘And, presumably, you cannot tell me?’

  ‘No,’ Ferguson said shortly. ‘But you have done well . . . very well.’

  The next morning Edward woke up feeling energetic. He was still enjoying a sense of well-being born of virtue rewarded. He had achieved quite a lot in a short time and he had been absurdly pleased with Major Ferguson’s words of commendation. But now what to do? He was hungry and Fenton fed him bacon and eggs washed down with strong black coffee. He tried to read The Times but threw it down in disgust. There was an editorial praising Hitler as ‘a man of vision’ and the letters included a paean of praise for the new Germany from no less a personage than Lloyd George.

  He paced around the room wondering what he could usefully do. His good humour was rapidly giving way to accidie. He knew he ought to go and see the Westmacotts but, then again, perhaps it was better to wait until there was something definite to tell them. All this stuff about Guy Baron and James Lyall had nothing to do with Westmacott’s murder as far as he could see. He wanted exercise and it was annoying that Fred Cavens was not there to fence with him. He hoped he was having a bad time teaching Himmler la botte secrète.

  He decided, on the spur of the moment, to go to Cleveland Row. The London Fencing Club, of which he had been a member for several years, was located opposite St James’s Palace and was the place to watch the great fencers. Guards officers would come over the road to relax and the atmosphere was that of a gentlemen’s club. It was considered bad form to be too aggressive and the ideal was to let your opponent feel he was your equal, whether he was or not.

  Edward was warmly welcomed and, after changing, he had two or three bouts with friends before being introduced to the very man he most wanted to meet. He had noticed it was often like that. To gain an introduction to a powerful man by writing for an appointment was almost impossible – he would be too well protected by secretaries and underlings – but to be casually introduced by a fellow member of whichever club he belonged to was to meet a man at ease and, literally in this case, with his guard down. Edward might have felt a little guilty if this meeting had been planned – a gentleman did not deliberately seek out another member for ulterior purposes but this was a genuine coincidence.

  Sir Vida had been fencing with a friend of Edward’s and when, after the bout ended, Sir Vida invited him to try a bout with him, he could not refuse. Although he was quite fresh and his opponent – who was at least a decade older – was sweating profusely after his previous engagement, Edward still found himself dancing, dodging and parrying to escape ignominious defeat. Sir Vida clearly did not subscribe to the notion that you fenced with deference. He fenced to win. By a lucky chance Edward had the best of it. He slipped and, feeling his knee give a little, twisted his blade from underneath his opponent’s arm and saw with amazement Sir Vida’s sword clatter across the floor. He was nonplussed and Edward was embarrassed
.

  ‘How did you manage that?’ Sir Vida said ruefully, pulling off his mask.

  ‘It was just a fluke; something Fred Cavens was teaching me, but I had no idea I had mastered it. I think I was slightly off balance so you must put it down to luck. You are far my superior, sir.’

  Sir Vida seemed mollified but still angry with himself as they walked to the changing-room to shower. Edward, seeing him without a shirt, was impressed by his physique. He was broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist – muscular but not heavily built. As they showered, they talked sport and Sir Vida overcame Edward’s modesty to the point where he was telling the story of his racquets triumphs at Eton and Cambridge – which he would never normally do. There was something about this man which made him want to keep his end up and not be dismissed as a nobody. His face was particularly expressive – large black eyes, a delicate bone structure and full, red lips. His looks combined with his wealth and his obvious energy and drive, must, Edward thought, be irresistible to the ladies. He briefly imagined Guy Baron’s reaction to such a man and was devoutly grateful that he was not present.

  At the bar, Sir Vida ordered orange juice – he declared he never drank alcohol – and Edward had a beer. They talked about Lord Desborough who, like Sir Vida, had been at Harrow. ‘He was perhaps the best athlete of any age,’ Sir Vida opined. ‘He was a soccer star at school and set a school mile record that stood for over sixty years. He rowed in the famous 1877 boat race – the only one to end in a dead heat. He sculled from Oxford to Putney – 105 miles – in a day and fenced for England at the 1906 Olympics,’ at – Edward was pleased to discover – the age of fifty.

  The conversation turned to other famous fencers and Old Harrovians. Edward mentioned he occupied what had once been Lord Byron’s rooms in Albany and Sir Vida expressed an interest in seeing them. Edward could hardly do less than invite him to walk back with him to Piccadilly.

  Sir Vida’s car was outside but he waved to the chauffeur to follow them. Fenton let them in and Edward explained that this was the old Melbourne House which had been divided into twelve apartments. Byron’s bow-windowed drawing-room, now Edward’s, had been carved out of the famous Melbourne library.

  ‘And Byron fenced here?’ Sir Vida said, looking round reverently.

  ‘And boxed and seduced his women,’ Edward confirmed. ‘We live in a less heroic age, I fear.’

  ‘That’s a common fallacy, Lord Edward. From time immemorial each generation has thought the great men of its time inferior to those of previous generations. I don’t think Byron thought highly of the great men of his time. What did he say? “The ‘good old times’ – all times when old are good – are gone.”’

  ‘Did he say that? It’s a long time since I read his poetry. Wrongly, I am sure, I think of the man as more interesting than his work.’

  ‘He was – what do they call it now? – a huge best-seller. Childe Harold made him famous “overnight”, as they say.’

  ‘Who then in this present age would you call great? Not Mr Baldwin, surely?’

  ‘No, nor Mr Chamberlain. I believe there is one great man among us, though sadly underestimated – Winston Churchill.’

  ‘Despite his recklessness – the Gallipoli disaster, for example?’

  ‘Despite that.’

  ‘But his views on India – do you subscribe to those? Do you think it can remain part of the British Empire for very much longer?’

  ‘I do so. If the British wash their hands of the subcontinent, there will be years – decades perhaps – of religious war.’

  ‘As it happens,’ Edward said casually, ‘I went to lunch with Mr Churchill at Chartwell just a few days ago. It was the first time I had met him and I confess to having come away believing as you do.’

  His guest looked at him with interest. ‘May I ask, Lord Edward, why you were there? I presume it was not just a social visit?’

  Edward hesitated and then thought he would risk the truth. ‘No. I was asking him how he came to have such accurate information about our rearmament programme and how he justified using such information to spread alarm about our weakness. I tell you this in confidence.’

  Sir Vida thought for a moment. ‘You are not a journalist so I can only suppose that you are a government official. You know, perhaps, that I am one of Mr Churchill’s warmest admirers. I think what he is doing is patriotic and in no way harmful to the national interest.’

  ‘That became my view after I had talked to him,’ Edward said cheerfully.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Does this mean our meeting this morning was planned?’

  ‘Not at all. An accident, I promise you, but – to tell the truth – I did hope to meet you sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Well, Lord Edward, I would recommend you put your questions to me now because this may be your last opportunity.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Edward said as smoothly as he could. ‘I merely wanted to ask if you knew anything about the murder of a man called Charles Westmacott?’

  ‘Westmacott? I have never heard the name.’

  ‘He was a Foreign Office official. In fact, he worked in a department which took an interest in arms and arms dealers. He was found hanging from Chelsea Bridge.’

  ‘Ah! That man! I read about the murder in the newspapers. No, I don’t know anything about it. Why should I? Are you accusing me of killing a man I have never met?’

  ‘I am not accusing you of anything. As a friend of Mr Churchill’s, I thought you might know if he was one of his “sources”.’

  ‘Why ask me that? Presumably you asked Churchill himself.’

  ‘I did. He was evasive.’

  ‘I cannot help you, Lord Edward. Much as I admire Mr Churchill, I am not party to his political activities. I support his campaign to build up our military strength but I have no way of helping him with information.’

  ‘Forgive me if I am being intrusive but surely you buy and sell armaments? Does that not put you in a good position to . . . ?’

  ‘My business is my own affair,’ Sir Vida said shortly. ‘It has no bearing on my politics or Mr Churchill’s – or anyone else’s for that matter. Now, I think it is time I left. My chauffeur will think I have been kidnapped. It was good of you to let me see these rooms. I envy you them.’

  ‘It was no trouble.’ Edward silently cursed himself. He felt he had been clumsy and wasted an opportunity but tried not to show it. ‘You live in London, Sir Vida?’ he asked, helping him on with his coat.

  ‘And Paris and New York. My business takes me round the world but, yes, I have a house in London – Chester Square – although I hardly ever use it. I prefer staying at Claridge’s. I have a suite there.’

  Edward assumed he meant a permanent suite and was impressed. ‘You have been most patient. I apologize for buttonholing you like this. I had an idea you might have been able to throw some light on what is a very unpleasant business but I see I was wrong.’

  ‘I hope you aren’t too disappointed.’

  As he saw him out, Edward said, ‘I am surprised a man in your position is not accompanied by bodyguards. You must have made enemies.’

  Sir Vida’s eyes flashed. ‘This is London, Lord Edward, not Addis Ababa. Goodbye and good luck with your investigation though I am still not clear exactly what you are investigating and by what authority.’

  Edward went back into his rooms and thought about what he had learnt. Had he said too much? Had he asked the right questions? Perhaps he would have done better not to have shown his hand but wormed his way into the man’s confidence. But he knew he would not have been able to play the hypocrite so thoroughly. And, as Sir Vida had said, he was not in any one place for any length of time. If he had not asked his questions when he did, he might never have had another opportunity. What had he learnt? Little enough: that Sir Vida owned a house in Chester Square. If it was the one in which Guy and David Griffiths-Jones were living, what did that prove? Nothing, but it was . . . interesting.

  Weary a
fter his jousting with Chandra, he decided to spend an hour or two at the hammam in Jermyn Street. He then spent a pleasant evening at Brooks’s trying to forget he was a policeman. He returned to Albany about eleven and was relieved to find no urgent messages from Major Ferguson or anyone else. He went to bed and slept soundly, only to be woken by the sound of the telephone ringing. He heard Fenton go to answer it. He looked at the clock on the bedside table. It showed seven o’clock. A telephone call this early could only mean bad news. Without waiting for Fenton to summon him, he slid out of bed, slipped on his dressing-gown and slippers and went into the hall.

  ‘Who is it, Fenton?’

  ‘Major Ferguson, my lord.’

  He grabbed the receiver and barked, ‘What is it, Ferguson? Bad news?’

  ‘I am afraid so, my lord. I thought you would want to know straight away. Desmond Lyall has been found dead in his office. It looks as though he was poisoned though as yet we don’t know how.’

  ‘Good heavens! Lyall dead? Poisoned? How? When?’

  ‘Yesterday evening. Someone left some poisoned cigarettes in the box he kept on his desk.’

  ‘Poisoned cigarettes?’

  ‘Yes. Lyall was a chain smoker which ought to have made him more resistant to it but . . .’

  A thought occurred to Edward. ‘His son, James, was going to see him. Do you know if he managed to do so before . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, he did. It was just a few hours later that his father died.’

  ‘Where is James now? Do you know?’

  ‘Pride’s going to Chester Square in about an hour, as soon as he has finished at the Foreign Office. I thought you might like to be there.’

  ‘Right. By the way, about the house – I have a hunch it belongs to Sir Vida Chandra.’

  ‘Chandra! That needs thinking about. I’ll get Pride on to it straight away.’

  ‘James . . . I blame myself for suggesting he go and see his father. Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘No one is saying James killed his father but he was, possibly, the last person to see him alive. The poisoned cigarettes could have been left at any time. It was a sort of Russian roulette. Lyall may have smoked several ordinary cigarettes before he pulled out a lethal one. As for sending James to see his father – you cannot blame yourself for that. Assuming he had nothing to do with his father’s death, he may sleep easier for having had that last meeting. Perhaps they parted on good terms. We have to hope so.’