The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  ‘Yes, it was. I had done my Pitman course and I applied for several positions. This one came up and seemed the most . . . unusual. I’m afraid I’ve always dreaded being bored.’

  ‘I know what you mean!’ Edward interjected with feeling.

  ‘It must have been fifteen years ago – something like that. Time passes so quickly.’

  ‘But you didn’t stay long? Why was that?’

  ‘You seem very interested in my career, Lord Edward?’

  ‘Not really. It’s just that I have recently met Mr Churchill. He’s quite an impressive figure, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, I am a great admirer. It would be difficult to work for him and not be an admirer.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I was young and I wanted a social life. You couldn’t have that if you were working for Mr Churchill. He demanded the whole of you. After a few months – regretfully – I decided to get a less demanding job. Simple as that.’

  ‘Hey! I don’t want to be rude but what is that stink?’

  As they approached the track, a strong fruity smell of rotting vegetables and worse became impossible to ignore.

  ‘Oh, that’s the sewage farm. It doesn’t always smell as bad as this.’

  ‘Sewage farm?’

  ‘Yes, it’s right next to the Aero Clubhouse. Planes sometimes end up in it which causes merriment, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Of course! I had forgotten. Brooklands is also used by flying enthusiasts, isn’t it?’

  Georgina looked at him with scorn but, fortunately, he did not see her expression as he manoeuvred the Lagonda through the iron gates.

  ‘It’s much more than an aero-club. Brooklands is a centre for the development of the new generation of aero-engines. Look, there’s the Vickers Armstrong factory.’

  Edward whistled. ‘I didn’t know. It’s an impressive outfit,’ he added thoughtfully.

  As they pulled up outside the clubhouse, he said, ‘But you still haven’t told me what’s happening on Saturday.’

  ‘It’s the opening of the Campbell Circuit.’

  ‘The what?’

  Georgina, who was about to get out of the car, sank back in her seat and sighed. ‘I suppose I had better give you a lecture. Brooklands has been worried for some years that its existing track isn’t suitable for road racing.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. What is this track if it isn’t a road?’

  ‘It’s too small. It’s all right for mountain racing. The steeply banked part of the circuit was unique once but times have changed. Cars are bigger and more powerful than they were twenty years ago. The track at Donington and the new Crystal Palace road course is making Brooklands look old hat. To race at full speed along a straight road is impossible in England, so we often go over to Germany to race on the autobahns. Three months ago I raced a Bimotore Alfa Romeo from Munich and clocked up 137 mph.’

  Edward was impressed. ‘And this is official? I mean, the Germans close off the autobahn?’ This time he did catch her look and apologized. ‘Of course they do. I’m being stupid.’

  ‘You can’t race modern cars on ordinary roads and our track here needed improving so that’s what we’ve done.’ She waved at a slim, petite brunette in an open-necked shirt and carrying a leather flying helmet. ‘That’s Kay Petre. You must have heard of her? Canadian – she’s married to Henry Petre, the flying ace.’

  Mrs Petre waved back and walked over to the Lagonda. ‘Hi, Georgie. Introduce me to your friend. I didn’t think you had any use for . . .’

  Georgina hurriedly interrupted. ‘Lord Edward Corinth . . . Kay Petre.’

  Edward got out of the car, raised his hat and shook her hand. It was a small hand and he wondered how this tiny woman controlled a racing car.

  As if she had read his thoughts – no doubt everyone she met thought the same thing – Kay said, ‘As long as I can reach the pedals, I can beat anything on wheels.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Was I so obvious?’

  She laughed and Edward found himself smiling. Before either of them could say anything more, Georgina said, ‘See you later, Kay. I’m taking Lord Edward over to look at the Campbell Circuit.’

  Suddenly serious, Kay said, ‘It’s a marvel but I’m worried about Saturday. The dirt on the concrete . . . we’ll kick up a storm out there and, if we’re not in front, we’ll see nothing.’ She shrugged and added, ‘So I’m going to be leader of the pack if it kills me.’

  ‘Kay’s the fastest woman on wheels despite having to use a special collapsible seat because she’s so small,’ Georgina said as they walked towards the new track. ‘Two years ago she lapped the old course at 127 mph in a V12 Delage. The car was so big that they had to adapt it for her by extending the pedals and raising the seat so she could see the track. Then she raced Gwenda Hawkes and clocked up over 135 mph.’

  When they arrived at the track, Georgina said, pointing, ‘The trouble is, as you can see, by the time they had avoided the sewage farm and the aerodrome there wasn’t a lot of space for new track.’

  ‘And this was designed by Sir Malcolm Campbell?’

  ‘Yes. It’s thirty-two feet wide, increasing to forty feet on the corners, and two and a quarter miles to the lap. The idea is to provide a really fast circuit by super-elevated bends and long straights.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it but it looks fantastic . . . amazing.’

  ‘So you’ll come on Saturday? It’s only five shillings to park beside the course.’

  ‘Certainly I’ll come.’

  ‘And do bring Miss Browne. Come back to the clubhouse and I’ll show you the room reserved for ladies where she can rest if it all gets too much for her. There’ll be a parade . . . everyone with a car – not just us in our racing cars. Everyone will admire this.’ She stroked the Lagonda. ‘It’s a great car. I’m quite jealous.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we race.’

  In the clubhouse they drank champagne and it was obvious to Edward that Georgina – or Georgie as they all called her – was a popular figure. There was much joshing and back-slapping and Edward was looked at with curiosity. His Lagonda was admired and knowledgeably assessed. He met Kay Petre again and she introduced him to a charming young woman called Barbara – he did not catch her last name, Cartland, he thought – who seemed to be one of the Mountbatten set. Then there was Elsie ‘Bill’ Wisdom who, Edward was surprised to discover, was married.

  He was introduced to the Clerk of the Course, Percy Bradley, who took him away from the ladies to talk to him in his office in the Paddock buildings.

  ‘This new track looks magnificent,’ Edward said tactfully. ‘Is it safe, do you think?’

  ‘Quite safe. It’s been engineered to the highest standards. Sir Malcolm oversaw the whole thing. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it, of course, but there seemed to be a lot of stuff on the track – builders’ rubbish – and there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of barriers to prevent an errant machine ploughing into the crowd.’

  ‘It’ll all be cleaned up by Saturday, I assure you, and the barriers reinforced. We have a very good safety record, you know, but cars break down, and crash even – the famous Brooklands “bumps” see to that.’ Georgina had told him about these. They were almost too sizeable to be termed ‘bumps’ and even the heaviest car could find itself airborne coming across one of them at speed.

  Although Bradley would never admit it, the concrete with which the track had been built was not suitable for the use it was put to. It was too ‘shiny’ for one thing and in the rain it could be lethal. Even in the best of weather, steering required huge effort and the ladies had to struggle to drag their cars round corners. In general, tyres were narrow for the size and weight of car and engine and were made of poor compound rubber which never warmed up. Although engines had been developed to an extraordinary degree, there had not been the same progress in developing gears and brakes. Brakes were still fitted only to the ba
ck wheels so stopping was an uncertain art and might take some time.

  Fortunately, Edward was ignorant of the hidden dangers of racing cars at high speed and Bradley was not going to enlighten him.

  ‘I am glad to say fatalities are very rare,’ he said comfortably. ‘In fact, since I have been Clerk of the Course, there have been no deaths . . . injuries, of course, but no deaths. I don’t wish to sound complacent, Lord Edward, but our drivers know what they are doing.’

  ‘But they are always pushing themselves to go just that little bit faster. What am I talking about?’ he said, feeling he was being rude. ‘I suppose, if there wasn’t some danger, then there would be no excitement.’

  ‘That’s correct, Lord Edward,’ Bradley said smiling.

  Georgina was to drive the Napier Railton in the parade but not in the race, contrary to what Alice had told him. In what would be the first of three races, she was scheduled to drive a supercharged single-seater Austin. They strolled down to the garages together where they found her mechanic, ‘Barney’ Mackintosh, working on the Railton, pipe clenched between his teeth. Round his neck a red silk scarf fluttered in the breeze.

  Edward was introduced. ‘This man is a marvel,’ Georgina said. ‘He has a gift for it. He can tune an engine to perfection. I’ve never gone faster than in one of Barney’s babies – that’s what I call the cars he has nursed.’

  ‘It’s quite beautiful,’ Edward said, and it was. Huge wheels, dark unburnished metal, an aerodynamically designed body – the Railton was power personified.

  ‘How fast can you go in this?’ he asked.

  ‘Over 160 mph, eh, Barney?’ Georgina chipped in.

  ‘Good Lord! Not really?’

  ‘Certainly. I think she might do much more if pushed.’

  ‘Aye, she’s sweet as a nut,’ the mechanic agreed, wiping his hands on an oily cloth. ‘She’ll do as much as you ask of her.’

  ‘What about the Austin?’ Edward asked.

  ‘She’ll do 100 mph on the straight – no trouble. But you be careful, Miss Hay. If it doesn’t rain, there’ll be dust. If it does rain, you’ll be slipping and sliding around like it’s an ice rink.’

  ‘It won’t rain before Saturday, Barney, and the dust will soon blow away. Have you seen the windsock? The wind’s already beginning to sweep the track.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Edward asked, pointing to something on Barney’s work bench which looked like a dead flower.

  ‘I don’t know for sure, my lord, but I think it’s a chrysanthemum. Someone left it on the seat of the Austin but – if it were one of Miss Hay’s admirers – I’m afraid they made a mistake. It was quite dead by the time I found it.’

  13

  Verity cheered up the moment Edward told her about the invitation to Brooklands.

  ‘I’m going quietly mad sitting here while you have all the fun. Of course I’m coming with you on Saturday.’

  ‘But, V, the doctor said you were to rest and not get excited. We don’t want you getting puerperal fever or whatever it was he said you might get if you gallivant around. Have you been taking your Yeastvite tablets?’

  ‘Idiot! I haven’t had a baby, thank God. The only fever I’ll get will be anxiety fever. Charlotte and Adrian can come and nurse me while you’re detecting. Please . . . daddy, say I can come.’

  ‘Huh! I have no wish to be your daddy . . . not even your sugar daddy. To be honest, I wish you would come. Twenty-four hours ago I thought this was all pretty straightforward – the two murders – but now I’m not so sure. It’s the chrysanthemum which puzzles me.’

  ‘Well, look. Why don’t we go through it all again, right from the beginning. We’ve done it before and it seems to work.’

  Edward looked into the bright, intelligent eyes, very black in her pale face. He suddenly had a desire to crush her in his arms and pour out his love for her but he knew she hated what she called ‘slush’. So nearly losing her at Guernica had made him realize fully how much he did love her. He might want to go to bed with other girls – Gerda with her red hair and her monkey face – but he loved only Verity and the bond between them had been strengthened by everything they had gone through. There was something . . . not softer exactly, but more reflective – sadder – about her since she had come back from Spain. She had had several long talks with James Lyall and he got the feeling that she no longer saw ‘the cause’ – the Communist ‘crusade’, if that wasn’t a contradiction – in quite such clear-cut terms as she had only a few months earlier when it was a simple fight between good and evil. He would not broach the subject. She would tell him about it when she wanted to and he was happy to wait.

  ‘The beginning then,’ he said, taking his feet off the bed. It was eleven in the morning and Verity was sitting in an armchair beside the bed which Edward – having thrown off his shoes and taken off his jacket – had appropriated. He was drinking black coffee ‘to stimulate the brain cells’, as he put it. Charlotte had tactfully left them alone after plumping up the cushions behind Verity’s head and making her put her feet on a low stool.

  He took up a sheet of paper and a pencil. ‘This is how I see it. Charles Westmacott was feeding information to Churchill which he thought would help Churchill challenge the government’s complacency. In his department he saw alarming figures which made it clear that Germany was arming much faster than anyone seemed to appreciate.’

  ‘But he did not meet Churchill himself?’ Verity prompted him.

  ‘No, his contact was Sir Vida Chandra, Churchill’s friend and financial backer.’

  ‘And how did he know Chandra? Westmacott did not move in those sort of circles.’

  ‘Through his sister-in-law, Georgina Hay. She had met Chandra when she worked for Churchill as his secretary some years ago.’

  ‘I see. So now Chandra sponsors her. Were they lovers, do you think?’

  ‘I have no idea, V, and I’m not going to ask. Chandra is involved in a lot of sports. Let’s leave it at that.’

  ‘Hmm! All right, but if it becomes important to our investigation, you will have to ask her . . . or him.’

  ‘Most of the lady drivers have financial backers except one or two who are rich in their own right.’

  ‘Or married to rich husbands,’ Verity said with sarcasm.

  ‘V! Wash your mouth out. It doesn’t always come down to sex.’

  ‘Huh! It does with the men I know,’ she said. ‘Money and sex.’ Seeing his face fall, she added, ‘Not that I mind that, poppet. There are some men . . . no, one man I like having money and . . .’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Edward went on hurriedly. ‘The fact is, I think Georgina is a lesbian.’

  ‘Now who should wash their mouth out?’

  ‘No, I do, V. I’m serious. All the chat in the clubhouse suggested it was an accepted fact. You know, “I didn’t expect to see you here with a man” sort of stuff. What’s more, I think her lover was, or maybe is, Miss Hawkins, Desmond Lyall’s secretary. They live close to each other and Mrs Westmacott – quite innocently – gave me the impression they were more than just “chums”.’

  ‘I see where you’re going! Miss Hawkins killed . . . No, I don’t! Continue to expound, master. I am metaphorically – and in fact – at your feet.’

  ‘Jane Williams, the junior secretary to Miss Hawkins, heard Westmacott having a row with Lyall just before he was murdered.’

  ‘When was this exactly?’

  ‘About six weeks ago. She heard Westmacott saying, “Why should I? What you are telling me to do is wrong.” Then Miss Hawkins turned up and stopped her hearing anything more, unfortunately. And Mrs Westmacott said he was worried by papers he brought home, one of which she happened to catch sight of. It pertained . . .’

  ‘”Pertained”? What sort of word is that?’

  ‘She saw the address on a letter. It was the address of a secret defence establishment which Lyall might have known about, but not Westmacott.’

  Edward felt guilty. He knew he could
not be quite frank with Verity. She was a Communist and she was a journalist and he could not trust her with any details about the nature of the work done at Bawdsey. It saddened him but there it was.

  ‘So what was Westmacott doing with these papers?’

  ‘I think he had found them on Lyall’s desk and had jumped to the conclusion – probably correct – that he was passing them on to . . . well, I don’t know . . . a foreign power, let’s say.’

  ‘So what had Lyall told Westmacott to do which he didn’t want to?’

  ‘That’s the question! We can only guess. Miss Hawkins gave me some anodyne hogwash which I did not believe for a moment. She said they were arguing about the accuracy of Westmacott’s reports but I would say Lyall was asking Westmacott not to report him to Vansittart or the police.’

  ‘Perhaps, but Miss Hawkins may have been telling the truth and you may be jumping to conclusions. Your theory doesn’t hold water. If the file in question was Westmacott’s only evidence against Lyall it doesn’t amount to much. Lyall had a right to read this file, according to you. Westmacott certainly didn’t. Surely, it was Lyall who could have . . . should have reported him for leaking secret stuff to Churchill?’

  ‘He may not have known Westmacott was leaking information.’

  Verity thought for a moment. Then she asked, ‘Would Churchill have wanted to read the file – the top secret one?’

  ‘No. I happen to know that the information in the file wasn’t the sort of stuff Churchill was after. It wasn’t facts and figures about the strength of the RAF or the Luftwaffe, which is what Mr Churchill needs. Furthermore, I happen to know that he already knew what this file contained.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘From other sources.’

  ‘And you can’t tell me what the file was about?’

  ‘Sorry, V, but no.’ Surprisingly, she did not challenge this. ‘Perhaps there was some other evidence Westmacott had that we don’t know about,’ he suggested.

  ‘So Lyall murdered Westmacott to save his own skin after Westmacott threatened to expose him?’

  ‘I think so, V, but I admit I’m only speculating.’