The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  ‘No one witnessed the meeting, I suppose?’

  ‘No. The secretary saw James into his father’s office but was absent when he left. Sometime later she found him dead.’

  ‘Miss Hawkins?’

  ‘Yes. Look, I have to be somewhere in five minutes – the Foreign Secretary wants a briefing and then I have to see Vansittart. I’ll catch up with you later.’

  Edward put down the receiver and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, an unconscious gesture which Verity, had she been there, would have recognized as indicating he was under stress.

  The death of two fathers, he thought to himself. There might be many other things Lyall and Westmacott had in common but both had children who would suffer from their deaths.

  ‘Fenton, bring round the Lagonda, will you. I am going out. Ferguson says Desmond Lyall has been murdered.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear that, my lord. I will bring the car round directly. Might I inquire if you think Mr James Lyall killed his father?’

  ‘I do not, Fenton, but you can bet your bottom dollar that Chief Inspector Pride will think he did.’

  Pride arrived at the house in Chester Square to find Edward gazing up at the shuttered windows. ‘I have been knocking and ringing the bell but there is no answer,’ he commented.

  Pride nodded. ‘The birds have flown? The boy must have known we would come looking for him here. However, I have applied for a search warrant. We may still find something.’

  ‘It’s all probably quite innocent, Chief Inspector. Guy Baron and David Griffiths-Jones were planning to go back to Spain and they have probably taken James with them. You know he joined the International Brigade?’

  ‘So you told me. They’re all Communists, I understand?’ he said with barely concealed contempt.

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector, and I have a hunch the house is owned by Sir Vida Chandra, the arms dealer. I have asked Ferguson to check if I am right.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. An Indian gentleman, as I believe, with too much money to be honest.’

  ‘Really, Pride, you do jump to conclusions.’

  The Chief Inspector snorted derisively.

  Back in his office the Chief Inspector finished telling Edward about Desmond Lyall’s death. ‘James spent an hour with his father and left about five. Miss Hawkins put her head round his door at six to say she was going home and found him lying across his desk.’

  ‘He was still in his chair?’

  ‘Yes. Miss Hawkins thought he had had a heart attack while he was working. She’s a most sensible woman. Instead of panicking, she tried to revive him but, when it was clear he was dead, she called an ambulance and Mr McCloud – he was just leaving when he heard her cry out – telephoned the police. The call was put through to me.’

  ‘What made him call the police? I mean, Miss Hawkins thought Lyall had died of a heart attack.’

  ‘McCloud said he “did not look right”.’

  ‘What did that mean?’

  ‘He could not quite say but it seems to have been the chrysanthemum.’

  ‘The chrysanthemum?’

  ‘It was dead and broken in half. McCloud found it underneath the cigarette box on the desk.’

  ‘But this is April. There are no chrysanthemums in April.’

  ‘That’s right, my lord. As McCloud knew, they bloom from September to December. There’s quite a folklore surrounding chrysanthemums, so I am informed. They can stand for life or rest but a dead, broken flower signifies death.’

  ‘That’s fantastic! Are you suggesting someone’s sending us messages . . . ?’

  Pride shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. The man is dead, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Can you tell me about how he died?’

  ‘It looks like nicotine poisoning.’

  ‘Good heavens! I’m afraid I have never heard of it. How is it administered?’

  ‘It can be drunk or, as in this case, inhaled. Lyall smoked a Turkish brand – Murad – and one of the cigarettes seemed to have been laced with the poison. Probably more than one – they are all being tested. Anyway, the cigarette which killed him was still between his fingers so death must have been almost instantaneous. A lethal dose is about fifty milligrams and death is almost immediate.’

  ‘But the cigarettes – the poisoned ones – could have been left in the box on his desk at any time. I remember him offering me one.’

  ‘Did you smoke it?’ Pride asked mildly.

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘If the murderer poisoned only one of the cigarettes then it could have taken days before he reached it but, if there were several, they must have been left in the box very soon before he died. He got through as many as forty a day, Miss Hawkins says. She often told him they were bad for him.’

  ‘But not this bad! What are the symptoms? I mean, is nicotine poisoning a painful death?’

  ‘The doctor says the diaphragm muscles are paralysed and death occurs from respiratory failure. In other words, you die of asphyxiation.’

  ‘How horrible!’ Edward said, automatically taking a deep breath. ‘And it works fast?’

  ‘As fast as cyanide.’

  Edward rubbed his forehead. ‘This must have been done by someone close to him. There must be a personal motive. He wasn’t a sociable man so we ought to be able to narrow down the list of suspects. Could he have brought the poisoned cigarettes into the office himself?’

  ‘Just possibly. He normally bought several boxes every week or two from the tobacconist over the road. We’ve talked to the man who served him – it’s a most respectable shop, I should add – and he had not been in for ten days. They were expecting a visit from him.’

  ‘You do believe the deaths of Westmacott and Lyall are connected, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I do but, as I am sure you would agree, my lord, the two murders are very different. Westmacott’s was clearly the work of an organized group. It has all the signs of a gangland killing but so far none of my people – narks, snouts, that’s what we call them – have got a sniff of who might be behind it. Which suggests to me that it’s political.’

  ‘Agreed. While Lyall’s murder . . .’

  ‘Is personal.’

  ‘Although you could say that both men were asphyxiated. Have you had a chance to talk to his friends? I don’t even know where he lived.’

  ‘He had a service flat in a block near Portland Place. We have had a look round it but there’s nothing there. Hardly any personal belongings – a portrait of his wife by Lavery – that’s about it.’

  ‘But was that where he had always lived?’

  ‘No. His wife was a rich woman. They had a house in Cadogan Gardens and a country place near Oxford – Steeple Aston. After she died, he sold everything and went into a shell from all accounts. Never saw anyone or did anything. When his wife was alive they used to do the season. They were keen on racing and Sir Robert said he met him at Ascot one year. He even owned a racehorse, he was telling me. But Lyall was hard hit by his wife’s death and when James joined the International Brigade . . . well, it was the last straw.’

  ‘But Vansittart thought well of him?’

  ‘Oh yes. He worked harder than ever after his wife died. Sir Robert said his work was exemplary, except perhaps he was too unsociable. His staff respected him but never “knew” him. He wasn’t the sort of man to interest himself in their private lives.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the impression I got when I talked to him.’ Edward took a minute to absorb what Pride had told him. ‘So, we have two different murders to investigate?’

  ‘But linked,’ Pride repeated. ‘Have you any ideas, my lord? You have not had anything from your political . . . friends?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Edward said stiffly.

  ‘You talked to the boy, my lord. Did James hate his father enough to kill him?’

  ‘I met him only briefly – we did not really talk – but I don’t think so. They had quarrelled, certainly, but I got the feeling James loved his fath
er, and Lyall certainly loved him.’

  ‘What was the quarrel about? Do you know?’

  ‘His going to Spain, I suppose, but it might have been something else. I don’t know for sure. A photographer friend of mine, Gerda Meyer, who knew him in Spain said something about James blaming his father for his mother’s death.’

  ‘But that was cancer. How could he blame his father for that? He must have seen he was heartbroken.’

  ‘We’ll have to find James and ask him,’ Edward said flatly.

  They sat in silence for a few moments, then Edward said, ‘May I talk to Miss Hawkins and the other people in Lyall’s office?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Our interviews will be over today. You must of course make it clear to them that they have no need to answer your questions. Your position is that of an observer and political adviser.’

  ‘I quite understand, Chief Inspector, and I’ll keep you posted.’

  Returning to Albany in a taxi, Edward put his hand in his coat pocket and got a shock. He felt something round and smooth and immediately knew what it was – the powder compact Constable Robbins had fished out of the river near to where Westmacott had been found hanging. He had meant to question Desmond Lyall about it but had quite forgotten. He looked again at the dolphin on the inside of the lid which he was sure was the same as the design on Lyall’s signet ring. Damn and blast! He had suppressed vital evidence. He felt slightly nauseous. He looked at it more carefully. It was a beautiful piece of work. He was no expert but he thought he had seen something similar in Cartier when he was buying a present for Verity. She hadn’t been very appreciative, he remembered. He turned it over in his hand. It was probably part of a vanity case. He wondered if he ought to go straight back to Scotland Yard and hand it over to Pride but then thought that, before he did so, he would take it into Cartier and see if they could identify it. He knew they kept meticulous records.

  Marcus Fern was waiting when he got back to Albany. ‘Sorry to barge in on you. I hoped to catch you before you went out but your man said you left here before breakfast. I thought you never got out of bed before nine.’

  ‘Ah well, something turned up,’ Edward answered vaguely, refusing to satisfy Fern’s curiosity. ‘What can I do for you?’

  When Edward had got to know Fern on the Queen Mary, where he was acting as Lord Benyon’s secretary, he had thought him brilliant but rather cold. Benyon had been at pains to explain to Edward at the time that ‘secretary’ did not properly describe Fern’s position or his work. He was Benyon’s economic adviser and someone with whom he could discuss problems and ideas. He was about Edward’s age and Benyon had forecast that he would one day be Governor of the Bank of England. However, Fern had unexpectedly taken up with Winston Churchill and his career had suffered as a result. He sat on the boards of several companies but his main concern – one might almost say the obsession – which he shared with Churchill was that Britain was quite unprepared for the war he believed would break out within the next five years. He made speeches on the subject and chaired a small group of like-minded financiers but alienated most of the people with whom he worked. They thought him a bore, a monomaniac, who ought to leave politics to the politicians. Edward admired his dedication – trusted him up to a point – and shared his views but they were not close friends.

  ‘Well, the fact is, Corinth, Winston asked me to drop in with an invitation. He took to you and wants to see you again. In fact, he wonders if you would have dinner with us tonight?’

  Edward had an idea he was being ‘got at’ but did not object. Churchill was trying to enlist him in whatever private war he was waging against those who opposed his crusade and Edward was not unwilling to be recruited.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Well, I knew you would probably be busy but I thought I would ask.’

  ‘No, I am free and, of course, flattered to be asked. Presumably not Chartwell?’ he said with a grin.

  ‘No, Morpeth Mansions, number 11. It’ll just be a few of us who support the cause, you know. All men, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand why he should be interested in me,’ Edward said slowly. ‘My influence does not even extend to my family. My brother Gerald thinks I am barking up quite the wrong tree. He is a great friend of Baldwin and very much admires Mr Chamberlain.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I think he would like to consult you in an area where he believes you are an expert.’

  ‘That being . . . ?’

  ‘Protection, I suppose you would call it.’

  ‘He wants me to be his bodyguard?’ Edward asked with studied sarcasm.

  ‘Nothing like that!’ Fern said hastily. ‘He has many enemies, as you know, but neither the time nor the inclination to worry about them.’

  ‘I can’t believe he has anything to worry about.’ Edward was still cross. ‘I can’t see Mr Baldwin sending his “heavies” to beat him up just because they disagree politically.’

  ‘No, of course not! But his views on both Ireland and India have brought him death threats. He takes very little notice but I, and one or two others, think he ought to have . . . advice.’

  ‘Major Ferguson of Special Branch . . . he is the person to advise.’

  ‘Special Branch is overwhelmed by its obligation to preserve the government from political adventurists from the far right and the far left of the spectrum. They can hardly be expected to worry about the safety of private individuals.’ He paused but Edward still felt he was being approached with a view to becoming Churchill’s private detective – a position he thought himself, rightly or wrongly, to be above.

  ‘I am sure Mr Churchill can employ an ex-policeman to guard him.’

  ‘Oh dear! I am afraid I haven’t explained myself clearly. Mr Churchill has no need of a bodyguard. He wants – or we think he wants – someone not involved in politics to keep an eye on . . . threats to his safety. I am convinced – and I want to convince you – that Winston is our only hope. He is too important to us not to take precautions. You must understand.’

  ‘You say he has received death threats?’

  ‘Plenty. Although these are from lunatics and he burns them, I am convinced there is a danger. Have you heard of the Blue Shirts, for example?’

  ‘Irish Fascists?’

  ‘Yes, a group of idiots led by “General” O’Duffy, the President of Fine Gael and a former police chief. He’s in Spain now with Franco but some of his people are still here and in Ireland.’

  ‘What have they got against Churchill?’

  ‘They don’t like him for a whole raft of reasons – not least his opposition to Britain returning the ports to Eire.’

  ‘What ports?’

  ‘As part of the treaty with de Valera which established the Irish Free State, Britain held on to certain fortified ports which will be vital to us in the event of war with Germany – Berehaven, Cobh and Lough Swilly. The government wants to hand them over to de Valera but Churchill regards them as vital to our interests and says so at every opportunity.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And then there is India. He has done so much to oppose Indian self-government that there are plenty of fanatics who would be delighted to see him dead.’

  ‘Well, I shall come tonight, as you wish it, Fern, but I don’t promise anything. In the first place – I tell you this in confidence – I am involved in the investigation of the murder of Charles Westmacott, the Foreign Office man, and I strongly suspect he was passing secret information to Mr Churchill. And now his boss, Desmond Lyall, has been murdered.’

  Fern whistled. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’

  ‘It’s all such a muddle! There has to be a link between the two murders but it’s not obvious.’

  ‘Political?’

  ‘Maybe. Politics is so fractured. I agree with Mr Churchill that our leadership is criminally supine in the face of the threat from Germany but that’s all I do agree with him about, as far as I can see.’

  ‘That’s e
nough to go on with. See you tonight then. No need to dress – just dinner-jackets. Winston has been known to wear his carpet slippers!’

  9

  Edward was beginning to be worried about Verity. The situation in Spain was going from bad to worse and it was obvious, even to the casual observer, that General Franco was going to win the civil war. Madrid was under siege and, when the city fell, inevitably the world would believe the battle for the Republic was lost. The Republicans might fight a guerrilla war for many months but the final outcome could not be in doubt. And when Franco did take Madrid the odds were that there would be a bloodbath. Hand-to-hand fighting, snipers, street-by-street battles – the city would not fall without a bitter struggle and any journalist still with the Republicans would be in extreme danger. Franco had no reason to love the left-wing press which had campaigned against him so vigorously for so long and, if he could revenge himself without attracting too much notice, he would.

  Edward had been telephoning the New Gazette every other day to get the latest news and was just about to do so again when the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello!’ Edward spoke irritably, his mind on Verity and the peril she was in. The voice at the other end of the line was unmistakably cockney.

  ‘Lord Edward?’

  ‘Yes. Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Jack Spot. I heard you was wanting to speak to me.’

  ‘Of course! Yes, I do.’ For a moment Edward had quite forgotten asking Pride to pass Spot a message to get in touch. ‘I need some information and I am ready to pay for it. Could you come round to my rooms in Piccadilly?’

  ‘Naw! I don’t think so. Not my territory, if you see what I mean. I wouldn’t feel at my ease.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Do you know the Cat and Fiddle in Seven Dials?’