The More Deceived

by David Roberts

  ‘That’s all right, Fenton, I know what it is when Miss Browne insists on something.’ He introduced her to everyone.

  ‘Miss Browne,’ Georgina said, ‘would you like to try it for size?’ She indicated the car.

  ‘Oh, may I?’ Verity said, a huge smile lighting up her face.

  ‘Of course – as long as you can climb in without opening up any of your stitches.’

  ‘Here, let me help you,’ said Kay Petre, who had walked over from her car.

  Edward noticed that both women knew exactly who she was and how she had received her wounds and treated her with the same respect which she showed them. Sitting in the car, Verity looked very much at home though, to Edward’s certain knowledge, she was an erratic, if dashing, driver. She had owned a Morgan when he met her first and, with her customary impatience, had not even discovered how to get into reverse gear before driving it for the first time. She had had no car for the last couple of years and, when she had insisted on riding a motorcycle the year before, Edward had found out she had no driving licence and had not passed a driving test.

  He wished he had a Kodak with him to take her picture now. As if in answer to his wish, he turned to find André Kavan complete with camera.

  ‘Good heavens! What are you doing here, Kavan? I thought you were in Spain.’

  ‘No,’ he said in his odd mongrel accent, ’I have had enough of Spain.’

  Edward thought he understood why. Gerda’s death at Guernica was reason enough not to want to return to that war-ravaged country.

  ‘I saw your photographs – yours and Gerda’s – in Life magazine,’ he said awkwardly. ‘They were extraordinary. Can anyone have ever recorded the horror and pity of war so vividly?’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Edward,’ Kavan responded gravely. ‘Your praise means something to me as you were there. You have a right to judge my work. I have two or three of Gerda’s photographs you might like to have. I know it was important to her that you liked her work.’

  Edward remembered the way Kavan had taken her camera from him when she lay dead. There had been jealousy, even hatred, in his eyes then. He took these words – if not as an apology – at least as a gesture of reconciliation.

  ‘I’d like that very much.’ They shook hands solemnly and, in doing so, buried more than the antipathy they had felt for one another when they first met. They also put to rest their unspoken rivalry over Gerda. No doubt André still thought Edward had been to bed with her and it made little difference that he had not done so. He had wanted Gerda intensely and, talking to André, he felt the pain in his gut that he had never held her naked in bed and would never do so.

  Verity, too, seemed delighted to see André again and let him take several photographs of her in the car, Georgina and Kay standing behind her.

  ‘I am doing a spread for Life,’ he explained, ‘on the phenomenon of the lady racing driver. I am off to Italy and then Germany next week. Lord Edward, I believe you know Sir Vida Chandra. Would it be possible for me to meet him? I understand he plays a big part in the sport over here.’

  ‘Of course, but here’s the lady who should do that for you since he makes it possible for her to race. Georgina, may I introduce you to the celebrated photographer André Kavan? André, may I present Miss Georgina Hay who is shortly to race on this new track? By the way, where is Sir Vida? He was here a moment ago.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Georgina said brusquely. ‘I’m afraid we must go now. We are being ordered to prepare for the start.’

  Edward was surprised at her sudden froideur. He wondered if he had made a faux pas. Perhaps she was embarrassed to have her sponsorship by the millionaire made public. Fortunately, at that moment Mrs Westmacott arrived with Alice, the Hassels and Miss Hawkins.

  ‘Sorry we’re so late,’ Adrian said. ‘We got caught up in the traffic and then the parade.’

  ‘Well, you’re here now,’ Georgina said, kissing Alice. ‘I’ll see you all after the race.’

  Verity was looking tired and Edward was glad when she was seated once again in her comfortable wicker armchair.

  ‘Did you manage to warn Miss Hay?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t have the chance, somehow. I don’t know, when it came to say something, it all seemed so vague, I thought she would laugh in my face if I told her to pull out of the race. I can’t make up my mind whether I’m in the grip of some sort of fantasy or . . .’

  ‘Oh well, it’s too late now. Look, they are on the starting line.’ She passed him her binoculars and he scanned the crowd, looking for the man he had seen earlier.

  ‘That was Sir Vida Chandra, wasn’t it? I wanted to meet him but he went away just as Fenton and I arrived. He is a friend of Mr Churchill’s, you said?’

  ‘Yes, he was there when I went to have dinner at Churchill’s flat. He’s got a finger in many pies. I don’t know what to make of him. Sometimes I think of him as a patriot doing his best to help Churchill prepare for war and sometimes I wonder if there isn’t something sinister about him.’

  He continued to scan the circuit through the binoculars and his gaze came to rest on the Vickers Armstrong factory. It seemed so odd that the motor racing should take place in the same square mile as Vickers was developing its new aero-engines. He lowered the glasses and said to Verity, ‘Am I imagining things or is this meeting a wonderful opportunity for a bit of industrial espionage?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Crowds of people – anyone could walk into the Vickers factory and look about them. Then, what about the German connection? Didn’t Mrs Petre tell me the drivers often went to Germany to race on the autobahns? Quite legitimate but what an opportunity for – what shall we say? – pursuing other interests.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nonsense, Edward. Are you thinking she or any of the other drivers could be spies?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ but he sounded doubtful. ‘There was something Fred Cavens said to me . . . about fencing don’t y’know. Now, what was it? I remember: “Himmler likes to penetrate British society through sport.” Think of the propaganda triumph the Olympics turned out to be for Nazi Germany.’

  ‘It’s true . . .’ Verity began, then she hesitated. ‘Georgina was saying a moment ago that the bane of motor-racing was that it was becoming increasingly national – not one driver against another but one country against another country. If Kay wins a race, it becomes a Canadian victory. If Prince von Leiningen does, then it’s a German victory.‘

  Edward lowered the glasses again and clicked his fingers. ‘Hey, wait a minute: why racing cars? Why shouldn’t one of the flyers carry secrets out of the country? They’re popping over the Channel all the time.’

  ‘I don’t know, Edward. This is all wild guesswork. You’ve got no evidence of anything.’

  ‘I know I haven’t but I intend to get some,’ he said grimly. ‘I see there’s a delay at the start. I’ll do some scouting around while everyone is watching it being sorted out. Are you all right here for a few minutes, V?’

  ‘Go,’ Verity said dramatically, ‘if it makes you happy. You won’t find anything but go if you must. Still, why not wait until Georgina has raced?’

  ‘I’ll watch it as I stroll round the circuit. Sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I’ve got Fenton, haven’t I? Go for God’s sake.’

  Reaching the Vickers Armstrong factory, Edward was frustrated but also rather relieved to find it closed – not only closed but locked and barred. Perhaps because it was a Saturday or, more likely, because this was a day of celebration for Brooklands, no one was at work. He peered through a dirty window but could see nothing. He tried a couple of doors and found them secure. He was about to turn back to the track when he was challenged by an elderly man in overalls.

  ‘There ain’t no one here. It’s all shut up.’

  ‘Are you the caretaker?’

  ‘The janitor – caretaker – call me what you want. And I was told to keep an eye out for gentlemen as came snooping, d’y’see?�
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  ‘I do see and I heartily approve. In times like these you can’t be too careful, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ the man said sententiously, ‘but “no snooping, Bill” – that’s what the governor told me.’

  ‘Has there been “snooping”, then?’

  ‘I don’t think as how I should be talking about it, begging your pardon, sir.’

  ‘No, quite right. Well, Bill, I’ll be off. Oh, by the way, was the chap they caught snooping a man about my age, short, with sandy hair and a crooked nose?’

  ‘No. indeed, sir. He were a dark-haired young man . . . younger than you, sir. About your height, though.’

  ‘Ah, well, not the man I was thinking of then. Good day to you.’ He tipped his hat to Bill and went on with his walk.

  He saw that Georgina’s race still had not started. One of the cars seemed to have broken down and blocked the track. He thought he might still have time to get back to Verity before the flag went down.

  Verity was in a fever of excitement when he returned. ‘Guess who I saw?’

  ‘I have no idea but you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘Guy Baron. He’s here with André. I asked him why he was here, because he knows less about racing cars than I do, and he said it was “a good place to meet people”. After all, he hadn’t expected to meet me here and now he had. I really don’t know what he was getting at. Oh, and the odd thing was, he was quite sober.’

  Edward bit his lip. There were just too many people at Brooklands who had no business being there and, as Verity pointed out, most of them knew next to nothing about cars. Was it possible that, after all, he had got it wrong and the murderer was . . . but no, he was not wrong. It was two strands getting entangled. If only he could straighten out who did what to whom. He needed to know one thing more.

  He saw the starter and Percy Bradley running around the broken-down car, gesturing and shouting. He could not make out what was being said but it was clear that the race was still some minutes away from starting. He told Verity he wanted to place a bet on Georgina but would be back in a moment.

  ‘You’re so restless, Edward. It’s too late to make a bet. Sit down and relax.’

  ‘I will in just a moment,’ he said airily and slipped off to the Clerk of the Course’s office. A young woman to whom he introduced himself obligingly allowed him to use the office telephone. He had Sir Robert Vansittart’s telephone number – his direct line – but he was not there, it being a Saturday. With a finger in one ear to muffle the noise of roaring engines, he asked instead to speak to Mr Sanderson, the man who had dealt so efficiently with his diplomatic passport. This industrious minion was at his desk and Edward asked him to find out for him where and when a member of Desmond Lyall’s staff had been born. When Sanderson understood why this information was important, he obligingly said he would ring Edward back in an hour when he had made his inquiries. Holding his hand over the mouthpiece, he asked the young woman whether he might give the Foreign Office Mr Bradley’s telephone number to which she agreed, her eyes shining with excitement. This was clearly all much more thrilling than the racing.

  He went back to Verity, having forgotten to put on his bet. She did not appear to have missed him and was once more surrounded by friends. Lord Weaver and his wife were sitting on either side of her. Guy Baron was lurking in the background talking to Adrian Hassel, and Alice and her mother were laughing with Charlotte. It was good to see Mrs Westmacott looking relaxed and happy.

  Guy saw him and came up to him. ‘Such a good crowd here, Corinth. And dearest Verity’s being lionized, positively lionized. I so much envy you having been at Guernica. You saw history being made.’

  Edward winced. ‘It wasn’t history I saw being made so much as the future. In the coming war I very much fear mass murder will become a commonplace. But don’t let’s talk about that now.’ He had no wish to discuss Guernica with a man whom he distrusted and whose friendship with David Griffiths-Jones tarnished him.

  ‘André’s photographs made a great impact,’ Baron continued to probe. ‘Alas! Poor Gerda. Did you ever sleep with her? Kavan thinks you did.’

  Edward looked at Guy with disgust. He felt the anger bubble to the surface but restrained it with a great effort. ‘Where is Kavan?’

  ‘He’s taking photographs at the start. In fact, I think I’ll go and join him.’ He scurried off.

  Adrian approached. ‘I say, I thought you were going to hit the man. What did he do to annoy you?’

  ‘He was attempting to make me lose my temper and, by jingo, he nearly succeeded. That’s all.’

  Suddenly there was a shout from Weaver. ‘They’re off! Look, at last they’re off!’ As the starter’s flag fell, Adrian pulled Edward over to the rail and they watched the drivers rev their engines, desperate to be the first to get away. The growl of the motors was a sound he had never heard before and would never forget. He understood, really for the first time, what it was about the sport which hooked people. It was visceral and seemed to reverberate deep inside him, demanding a response over which he had no control. Momentarily, he forgot his anger and his concerns for Georgina’s safety in the thrill of the chase.

  The Austin took off like a swift among crows. Kay Petre, he noticed, was less fortunate and had to be push-started. There were twelve machines in all. The drivers were impossible to distinguish in their overalls and leather helmets – some had goggles, others visors – but each car was clearly numbered, in Georgina’s case with a large white eight. By any reasonable reckoning, it had to be mad: these women driving at almost 100 mph in their fragile machines, with no straps to hold them in their seats, inadequate brakes, the cars always on the point of spinning out of control. But, as Edward watched, he saw that just because it was so unreasonable his heart beat faster and and his hands clutched the binoculars as though his life depended on them. The excitement of sheer, unadulterated speed gripped him so that it hurt.

  The new Campbell Circuit was to be lapped anti-clockwise – each lap two and a quarter miles. The cars were to make twenty-five laps – a gruelling test for driver and car. They were to proceed down the Railway Straight, as they would have done before the Campbell Circuit was constructed, but make a sharpish left turn on to the new road. They then doubled back parallel to the Railway Straight, swung into the right-handed Aerodrome Curve and then into the Sahara Straight which ran parallel to the finishing straight. After a sharp left-hand bend at Vickers Bridge Corner, they crossed the Aerodrome road to the Fork turn and had to negotiate a climbing right-hand curve between embankments known as the Test Hill Hairpin before a left-handed swing round the Members’ Banking.

  It was a fast course and it was immediately apparent that several of the cars were simply not up to the job. One car had failed to start and the driver – Edward could not see who it was – suffered the indignity of having to be pushed back into the pits. Another car stopped dead on the eighth lap – knowledgeable folk saying that the gearbox must have seized up. Apparently it often happened.

  It was frustrating for the watching crowds because the dust cloud was blinding and Edward wondered how the drivers dared to keep their speeds of over 70 mph when they must have very little idea of what was happening just a few yards ahead of them. He looked around him. Mrs Westmacott had her hands to her mouth and little Alice’s excitement had turned to dismay. The noise of the engines, by now almost animal in ferocity, echoed up to the watchers on the roof. The dust began to make them cough and handkerchiefs and scarves were held to noses and mouths. It could not go on and nor indeed did it. In lap twenty, it seemed as though Georgina – the number eight momentarily visible as she took the lead – approached the Vickers Bridge Corner too fast, struggling in vain to combat the massive understeer. To the horror of the onlookers, her car struck the bridge parapet, tipped up on to its nose and rolled on to its side. Georgina was flung out and slid across the course but, by some miracle was not run over as the other cars, breaking to avoid the Austin, skidded
across the track and concertinaed into one another.

  Edward, aware that there was nothing he could do, nevertheless ran towards the carnage. A firetender was already there dealing with a burning car. Several drivers were walking around in a daze contemplating the disaster. He had no time to tend to anyone other than Georgina. She was being taken on a stretcher towards one of the three ambulances which had reached the accident within three or four minutes. Panting, Edward arrived just as the back doors were being slammed and the ambulance was preparing to depart.

  ‘How is she?’ he called to the driver.

  ‘Badly hurt, I’m afraid, sir – broken bones but not dead, not by a long chalk.’

  He sighed with relief and asked whether he could travel in the ambulance to the hospital. When he had to admit he was not a relative, he was refused permission.

  ‘Where’s she being taken?’

  On being told it was Weybridge Cottage Hospital, he ran back to where Verity and the others were still sitting, hardly able to take in what had happened – it had been so sudden and so complete a disaster. Miss Hawkins was the first to grab him as he reappeared and ask after her friend. When she heard Georgina was badly hurt but not in danger of dying, she covered her face with her hands and collapsed into a chair.

  Verity volunteered to look after Alice while Mrs Westmacott accompanied Edward to the hospital.

  ‘Alice, do you know the way back to the house?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course I do. I’ve often come here with Aunt Georgina.’

  ‘Good girl! Adrian, will you take charge of Alice and Verity?’

  ‘Don’t worry. You go off. We’ll be all right,’ Adrian reassured him. ‘Just give me the key, will you, Mrs Westmacott?’

  She handed over the key to the house, kissed Alice and told her not to worry. ‘Lord Edward says Aunt Georgina is not going to die but we must go and find out how badly hurt she is.’

  ‘Of course, mother,’ the girl said, quite composed. ‘I’ll be all right. Give her . . . give her my love.’