‘But the hanging . . . Could Lyall have done that himself?’
‘I don’t think so. We have to trust Spotty on that. It was our enemy, Major Stille. One, or maybe two, of his men hanged him at Lyall’s request.’
‘You mean Lyall alerted Stille, to whom he was passing secrets, that his position was threatened and so Stille killed Westmacott?’
‘Yes.’
Verity shivered.
‘Are you cold?’ Edward inquired solicitously.
‘No, I was just remembering what Stille did to my little dog. Poor Max! No one is safe until the Nazis are . . .’ She stopped and then asked, ‘But I don’t understand why Stille should make such a song and dance of it. I don’t mean that,’ she said hastily – a vision of Westmacott’s body twisting in the wind underneath Chelsea Bridge coming into her mind – ‘I mean, why make his murder so showy?’
‘Well, I can only think the Nazis were making it clear to others how they would deal with their enemies. Frighten people – after all, that’s why they killed Max.’
‘Well, they didn’t frighten me – the bastards.’ She stopped again, as if trying to eradicate the memory of her dog lying on her bed with its throat cut. ‘And the powder compact you found?’ she said, trying to put the picture out of her mind.
‘It belonged to Lyall’s wife. I think he must have been torn by curiosity or even – let’s give him the benefit of the doubt – remorse. He went to see where Westmacott was murdered and left the powder compact there by mistake. It must have fallen out of his pocket.’
‘Two questions: why did he carry around his wife’s powder compact and why are you sure it was only after the event that he went to Chelsea Bridge?’
‘To answer your second question first: Chief Inspector Pride’s men are thorough. If the compact had been there when they took down the body, they would have found it. As to why he had the thing on him in the first place, I think it was part of a very special present – a wedding or anniversary present – he had given his wife. After she died, he wanted something to remind him of her – to have by him all the time. I can understand that.’
He looked at Verity and wondered, if she had been killed at Guernica instead of or with Gerda, what he would have had to remind him of her. He realized he had nothing – no ring, nothing.
She may have read his thoughts because she hurried on. ‘So Georgina found out somehow, perhaps through Miss Hawkins, that Lyall was the murderer and she persuaded Miss Hawkins to poison his cigarettes and revenge her brother-in-law’s death?’
‘That’s what it looks like.’
‘Do you think Lyall knew about Miss Hawkins being a chum of Westmacott’s sister-in-law?’
‘I have no idea but it doesn’t affect things one way or the other. Pride has checked up on how Miss Hawkins and Westmacott were employed. They were both working in the Foreign Office when Lyall’s department was set up and there is no evidence in the files that, when they were transferred to this new department, the fact that they knew each other ever came up. I think it suited both of them to keep it quiet. They are – or in Westmacott’s case were – reserved, private people who would hate gossip of any kind. Neither of them socialized outside office hours, but, of course, Lyall may have known. Did I tell you, Jane Williams was appointed because her father was a friend of Lyall’s?’
‘No, you didn’t. It’s all too . . . matey. I bet you would find that most people in the Foreign Office – and I may add in all government departments – are where they are because they “knew” someone. Pulling strings! There ought to be proper examinations and interviews open to anyone.’
‘Oh, come on, V! You can’t mean that. People need to trust each other. You have to recruit people you know . . . who play by the same rules . . . who won’t betray . . .’
‘Tosh! According to you both Lyall and Westmacott did betray the secrets they had been entrusted with.’
‘Touché,’ Edward said. ‘But still, you know what I mean. There are always rotten apples but, on the whole, people . . . you know, from our class . . . well, they don’t betray.’
Verity looked at him strangely. ‘Do you really believe that? You call me naïve but that’s . . . For a start, I thought you believed all we Communists were . . . Oh, forget it. Let’s get back to the murders. One thing you’ll never make me believe is that Miss Hawkins murdered Lyall, the boss she obviously adored, because she knew he was responsible for the death of her friend’s brother-in-law. She might have been torn by conflicting loyalties but she would have needed a much stronger motive for killing.’
‘No one is suggesting that.’
‘So, you have got it all wrapped up, nice and tidy?’
‘I thought I had but now I’m not so sure. It’s the chrysanthemums that worry me. What do they signify and why was one found in Georgina’s car?’ Edward told her what Barney, Georgina’s mechanic, had said.
‘If Georgina had killed Lyall to avenge her brother-in-law, might she not have left it there to mislead you?’
‘It’s possible, V, but what was the chance of me ever seeing it unless she thrust it under my nose? I got the feeling she had no idea that the dead chrysanthemum meant anything at all – and perhaps it doesn’t. Oh, hang it all . . talking it through with you has left me more confused than before.’
‘Thanks a lot!’
They were silent for a moment, meditating. At last Verity said, ‘What is the significance of the chrysanthemum? I mean, are there myths and legends associated with it? I remember once, when I was a little girl, my father gave me a book called The Meaning of Flowers – or something like that. I’m afraid I never read it.’
‘I looked it up,’ Edward said smugly. ‘Chrysanthemum, of course, comes from the Greek word meaning golden flower.’
‘Of course!’ Verity said ironically.
‘In Japan, the imperial coat of arms contains a golden chrysanthemum. The Japanese legend – well, it’s also a Chinese legend – tells of a terrible storm. A bamboo boat is blown on to an island. The boat’s full of golden chrysanthemums tended by twelve maidens and twelve boys.’
‘It’s that sort of story, is it?’ she interjected. Edward ignored her.
‘They had been sent to trade the chrysanthemums for the secret of eternal youth but the island proved to be uninhabited so they settled down and built the Japanese empire.’
‘But you said it was also a Chinese legend.’
‘Patience! The aforementioned maidens and boys were Chinese. The chrysanthemum originated in China where it was so highly prized by the nobility that peasants were forbidden to grow them.’
‘Is that it then?’
‘No, actually. There’s another Japanese myth about there being so many gods that some were sent down to earth. The god Izanagi strayed into Black Night. He managed to get back to earth and went for a bath to purify himself. The jewels he wore turned into flowers – specifically, his necklace was transformed into a golden chrysanthemum.’
‘How confusing. Which legend do we go for?’
‘I haven’t a clue. None of them, probably.’
‘What do we do then?’
With great difficulty, Edward refrained from smiling. It was just as he had hoped. Verity’s naturally curious mind had taken charge. Instead of dwelling on the terrible events of the past weeks and the frustration of seeing her account of the massacre at Guernica ignored or dismissed as an exaggeration, she was concentrating on this new puzzle.
‘We go to Brooklands on Saturday and keep our eyes open. My instinct – and it is rarely wrong,’ he added to annoy her, ‘is that Things are Coming to a Head.’
The gleam in his eye as he capitalized coming-to-a-head seemed to satisfy Verity and she smiled.
‘Now, V, you must rest. I will telephone you tonight.’ He kissed her on the forehead.
He felt at peace. Verity had been badly wounded but she was alive and she was safe. Europe might have begun its slide into the abyss but in England it was still safe.
<
br /> 14
It was, Edward thought as he parked the Lagonda and strolled into the crowded clubhouse, very much like Goodwood or the Epsom Derby. Although no one wore top hat and tails – suits were the order of the day – it was what Tatler referred to as a ‘glittering occasion’. Society was well represented. Lord and Lady Mountbatten and their ‘fast’ set adored Brooklands though today, Edward noticed, Mountbatten was not with his wife but a startlingly pretty young actress whose name Edward could not remember. He raised his hat to the Kents – the Duchess elegant as ever in a silver fox tippet – and again to the Marlboroughs arriving in their Rolls with Margaret Whigham, top debutante of her year, shortly to marry the US golfer Charles Sweeney. As Tatler remarked after the last race meeting, ‘Brooklands could hardly be called dowdy if Miss Whigham is there.’
As promised, Percy Bradley, the Clerk of the Course, had arranged for Verity to have a special seat on the roof of the pits where she could watch the parade and the races in comfort. These new ferro-concrete ‘pits’ had just been completed – the first of their kind in Britain – and provided drivers with the most modern facilities for repairing faults, changing tyres and generally getting their cars back on the track in the minimum of time. It was an added bonus that privileged spectators could watch the racing from the roof.
A steward went back to the Lagonda with Edward and escorted Verity – who had firmly refused a wheelchair – up the stairs while Edward and Fenton danced attendance. The Hassels were also coming but in their own car with Mrs Westmacott and Alice. As soon as Verity was seated, she was quickly surrounded by friends and Edward was touched by the affection and respect with which she was greeted. Her reports from Spain had made her famous and her account of the razing of Guernica had drawn as much attention as George Steer’s in The Times. The New Gazette was now acknowledged to have one of the finest foreign desks in Fleet Street.
Leaving Fenton to look after Verity and make sure she did not exhaust herself – this was her first social outing since returning from Spain – Edward went to stretch his legs and admire the real stars of the day – the cars, particularly those driven by the ladies. Many of the cars were having their final polish in preparation for the parade. Doreen Evans was surrounded by admirers in her special bodied single-seater MG. Jill Thomas in her Frazer Nash-BMW 328 and Margaret Allan in her husband’s 4.5-litre Bentley which, she informed Edward, was much faster than his Lagonda, also drew crowds. It struck him again that so many of the ladies were tiny compared with the machines they drove and sometimes they had difficulty reaching the pedals or seeing over the steering wheel without artificial aids. Kay Petre, for one, looked quite unable to control her powerful car but Edward knew she was as effective and fast on the track as all but the very top male drivers. Georgina looked quite tall beside her. She was standing beside the Napier Railton she was to drive in the parade and talking to Barney. She seemed pleased to see him but was, understandably, preoccupied with the parade and her race which was to be the first of the day. He did not stay long but thanked her for introducing him to Percy Bradley who had made Verity’s outing possible.
In the Paddock, Edward saw several people he knew, including Lord Weaver who introduced him to Sir Malcolm Campbell. Campbell was driving his V12 Sunbeam at the head of the parade and he urged Edward to join it in the Lagonda.
‘It’s a historic day. I am very proud of the new circuit, Lord Edward, and I want as much publicity for it as possible. Lord Weaver has promised us a “spread” in the New Gazette – I think that’s what you called it, Joe, “a spread”?’
Weaver was an old friend of Edward’s, and Verity’s employer. He offered to go and sit with her so she would not feel out of things.
‘You don’t have to worry on that score, Joe. She seems to be the centre of attention, or at least she was a moment ago. I am suddenly aware she is famous.’
‘She’s a great girl and I’m proud of her. Backing her was one of the best things I ever did and, I have to confess to you, it was done in part to annoy my editor. He’s a good man but he doesn’t like Verity and I had to put my foot down. What’s the point of owning a newspaper if you can’t print what you want? I have to remind him of that now and again.’
‘Actually, Joe, I’m surprised to see you here. Wasn’t it only yesterday I read an article in your august organ accusing women racing drivers of “flirting with death” and “dicing with their lives”?’
Weaver had the grace to look shifty. ‘I didn’t write that article. I like Brooklands – always have.’
‘Are you putting a bet on the first race?’ Edward inquired.
As at any horse-racing course, betting was permitted and there was already a crowd in the Paddock examining the odds for the first race.
‘No, I don’t think so. Why, are you?’
‘I think I will. A friend of mine, Miss Georgina Hay, is racing.’
‘I know her name.’
‘She’s a well-known driver but I met her because she is the sister-in-law of the Foreign Office man, Charles Westmacott, who was murdered.’
‘The Chelsea Bridge murder?’ Weaver said, looking at him with interest. ‘I might have known you would be involved. If you can give me a story . . .’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid, Joe, but maybe soon. For the moment, take my advice and keep an eye on Miss Hay. She’s a remarkable woman.’
‘I’ll do that. Thank you.’
Together, they left the throng and walked back to Verity who was still comfortably lodged in her armchair. Fenton stood at her elbow, prepared to take her down to the Ladies’ Lounge when she was tired, but for the moment she was breathing in the tributes of friends and admirers like pure oxygen and there was a colour in her cheeks which had not been there before. She greeted Lord Weaver warmly and Edward left her in his charge as a steward informed him that, if he wished to take part in the parade, he must return to the Lagonda and be marshalled into position. Verity and Weaver said they would wave at him. Verity had powerful Zeiss binoculars so she could see right across the circuit. Edward said he would return before the first race, in which Georgina was to take part. It would be a ladies’ Short Handicap and the first of two short races before the main event – a long-distance race over a hundred laps for the new Campbell Trophy.
Dame Ethel Locke King, widow of Brooklands’ founder, cut the tape and then drove forward in a 1903 Napier to begin the lap of honour. Behind her and Malcolm Campbell poured a host of cars, old and new – a veritable living history of the automobile. Edward modestly kept well back in the procession but he did feel proud to be there and proud of his Lagonda Rapier. Milk white and powered by a 4467 cc six cylinder Meadows engine, it was a magnificent machine. A similar model had won Le Mans in 1935. On this occasion, Edward was content to do a steady 5 mph but, even so, he was rather alarmed by the cloud of dust which enveloped him, thrown up by the cars in front. He slowed almost to a halt, not wishing to bump into the car in front – a black Armstrong Siddeley. Because of the dust he could not see the clubhouse and had no idea whether Verity could see him but, lifting the goggles he had put on for effect and which had no practical use, he thought he saw a face he knew. The young man was walking alongside the track with a crowd of enthusiasts.
It came to him that he knew exactly why the man was at Brooklands and he had to fight a desire to stop the Lagonda, vault over the barrier and collar him. A particularly heavy cloud of dust blinded him for a moment and, when he could see again, the man had disappeared. With a grim face, Edward completed the lap, fought his way off the course to park the Lagonda beside the clubhouse and leapt up the stairs to tell Verity what he had seen. He found her all alone except for Fenton, loyally standing at her elbow.
‘Miss Hay . . . do you think she is in any danger?’ Verity asked.
Edward rubbed his forehead vigorously. ‘Of course, V, the chrysanthemum in her car. I must go and warn her.’
‘I don’t think she’ll take any notice but go anyway. I wish I could come wit
h you.’
‘I wish you could too.’ He leant over and kissed her on the lips.
‘Stop that. You’ll cause a scandal, Edward!’ She clutched at him. ’Be careful. Now I’ve started having premonitions. I’ll watch you through my binoculars.’
‘Fenton, don’t let her out of your sight.’
‘I will not, my lord.’
He found Georgina – dressed entirely in black – talking to Kay Petre and Sir Malcolm Campbell. She always wore black, hating to appear after the race smeared in oil, but she must have been aware how good her yellow hair looked against it, at least until she put on her leather helmet. The car on the other hand – a supercharged Austin – was painted green, racing green, as it was called – to signify that it was English. Sir Vida Chandra was also there discussing technical details with Barney. He gave Edward a chilly nod and continued his conversation.
It suddenly seemed quite absurd to warn Georgina in front of Sir Malcolm that, because a dead chrysanthemum had been left in her car and he had glimpsed someone in the crowd whom he suspected of being a murderer, she ought to pull out of the race. If someone came to him with such a story, he would pooh-pooh it so why should he expect Georgina to do anything else? He compromised by breaking into Sir Vida’s conversation to ask Barney if the car was ready for the race – a stupid question, he realized as soon as he had asked it. Sir Vida sniffed derisively but Barney, pipe between his teeth as usual, was polite.
‘Tickety-boo, my lord. She’s going like a dream.’ He patted the gleaming metal as though it were a favourite dog.
A flurry of small boys whom the stewards had been unable to keep out of the pits clustered around Georgina and Sir Malcolm, seeking autographs.
‘It doesn’t look very substantial,’ Edward said doubtfully, resting his hand on the car.
‘It’s strong enough,’ Barney responded, ‘but the main thing is that it’s very light.’
Edward looked round and, to his amazement, found Verity standing beside him. She had got bored perched on the roof and had insisted on Fenton taking her downstairs. Fenton looked at Edward apologetically. ‘Miss Browne insisted, my lord.’
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