‘So, do you have a picture of the murderer yet? Any idea who you are looking for?’
Edward thought for a moment. ‘I think I do. He’s probably about my age and I may even have met him in Kenya because I believe all this originates there. I think he may have climbed with James Herold in Africa and elsewhere. He could be anti-Fascist because the message left on Herold’s body implies that he did not like his political views. I think there is some connection with Peter Lamming. The photograph torn out of Miss Totteridge’s album may turn out to be Lamming or the murderer or both of them . . .’
‘That’s a clue,’ Verity interrupted. ‘When and where were the other photographs on the same page taken?’
‘They were quite recent . . . all taken about five years ago and mostly in Miss Totteridge’s garden.’
‘But that photograph – the one that was torn out – couldn’t be of Peter Lamming because Mrs Booth told you she had never met him and presumably neither had Hermione.’
‘True. Well, maybe it wasn’t of him.’
‘Perhaps Isabella gave her the photograph,’ Verity suggested.
‘It’s possible.’
‘What does General Lowther’s death tell us?’
Edward was so pleased to hear her refer to ‘us’ that he had difficulty in suppressing a smile. ‘“As flies to wanton boys, they kill us for their sport . . .” I think that’s fairly clear. The General was no doubt responsible for the deaths of many young men in the war and the murderer took his revenge for one in particular.’
‘Right, so go on with your description of the murderer.’
Edward considered. ‘Well, I think that – paradoxically – he doesn’t like killing and blames Miss Totteridge for killing insects . . .’ he hesitated, thinking aloud, ‘or killing someone . . . someone the murderer loved. I am guessing, of course, but the message Mrs Booth found on her sister’s body is a clue. “So shall thou feed on death that feeds on men . . .”’
Verity looked doubtful. ‘I think you are supposing quite a lot on very little evidence. The big question is, were all the murders done by the same person or was Eric Silver killed by someone quite different? If they were all committed by the same person, we must conclude he’s a sadist and does like killing.’
‘I keep changing my mind about that – whether we are looking for one person or two.’ Edward sighed. ‘There was a moment when I thought we were making progress but now I’m not so sure. Stille is certainly brutal enough to have killed Silver in that way.’
‘But why?’
‘He was a Jew, for one thing. But, no, it must have been because the murderer heard what Silver said to me.’
‘But how could he have got into the building?’
Now I think about it, I never heard the front door lock behind me. It’s one of those modern ones. You talk into a phone and Silver pressed a button that opened the door. When I was in, the door swung back and should have locked itself but maybe it didn’t.
‘Anyway V, I want you to keep your eyes open. I don’t like your story of picnicking on Amery’s lawn. I would guess he’s hand in glove with Stille. I might try and do some digging on that.’
‘You think Amery’s working for the Nazis?’
‘Don’t you?’
Verity furrowed her brow. ‘Yes, I think I do, but what can we do about it?’
‘I’ve sent a report to Ferguson. Special Branch will try and keep an eye on him but they’ve got a lot on their plate. They can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day. So, I repeat, keep a weather eye out for dirty tricks. Stille hates you even worse than me ever since you fooled him at that party in the German Embassy.’
Edward was referring to an incident three years earlier when Verity had been invited to dinner by Hitler’s personal envoy who had no idea she was a journalist and a Communist. Stille took revenge by killing her little dog in the most horrible way and Edward had no doubt that he was capable of every sort of wickedness. It was one of the few advantages, Edward considered, of Verity being in Spain and, more recently, Prague – it kept her out of Stille’s way.
‘So, to recapitulate,’ Verity said, calling the meeting to order, ‘the murderer is probably in his late thirties, has lived in Kenya for some years in his youth and may be anti-Fascist. We, or at least you, probably know him because he almost certainly lives around here. Who do you know who fits that description?’
‘Well, I can only think of one person.’
‘Who?’ Verity demanded as she saw him hesitate.
‘My host – Harry Makin, Lord Lestern.’ He thought for a moment and added, ‘I must try to get an idea of his political views. He’s a friend of Amery but that proves nothing. He probably doesn’t have any “views”, political or otherwise. He’s far too selfish to be a political animal.’
Verity looked up at him very seriously. ‘Edward, you’ve been warning me to be careful but it seems to me that you’re the one who needs to keep a weather eye out. Do you have to stay with him? Why not go back to London and do your investigating from there?’
‘And leave you here unprotected? You must be joking, V. I need to stay here for a few more days – at least until after the regatta. I think it will all come to a head then or not long after. I don’t know why but I have a hunch that the murderer has one more victim in mind to complete his killing spree and I need to stop him.’
‘You certainly do if that one person is you!’ Verity exclaimed. ‘I’d like to meet this friend of yours – Makin or Lestern or whatever he’s called. Can you bring him over to visit me?’
‘I might do that. I can’t see it will do any harm and he did say you sounded like his sort of girl.’
‘Charming! He doesn’t sound like my sort of man.’
‘I disagree, V. I think in many ways he is your sort of man.’
Verity considered this. ‘Why? Do you think I like selfish, amoral men without any political views?’
‘No, but he is . . . well, he’s got something women like. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me what it is.’
‘I’ve often wondered what would make you betray your country.’
‘Me?’
‘I was thinking of Jack Amery.’
‘The same reasons you would need to commit murder’, Edward said gravely. ‘Money, revenge, blackmail.’
Verity frowned. ‘So what next?’
‘I want to go and see Miss Tiverton.’
‘Miss Tiverton?’
‘She’s a village schoolmistress – a friend of General Lowther’s. And tomorrow I am going to talk to Herold’s wife. She must know something.’
‘Is she a Fascist too?’
‘I don’t know but I intend to find out.’
‘What is it about the mountains and Nazis?’ Verity asked, taking his arm and leaning on him. ‘She won’t mind talking about it – the murder?’
‘We’ll have to see. It depends what sort of person she is. From what I hear from Treacher, she’s not the shy, retiring sort.’
Verity looked glum and Edward wondered what he could say to cheer her up. ‘Look, V, I know it’s hard for you being stuck here but, if it’s any consolation, I think this is where the whole thing has its – what shall I say? – its core. I mean, there’s evil about and I believe it originates in this sleepy little town, odd though that seems. There’s no need for either of us to dash about the country.’
‘Henley won’t be so sleepy next week . . .’
‘No, it won’t. The town will be invaded by a host of . . . I wonder what you call someone who loves rowing – a philremex . . . philremigium? I don’t know. What an opportunity for someone who intends to kill without being noticed.’
‘So why look so cheerful about it?’
‘I don’t know, V. I suppose I’d like to bring this business to a head.’
‘You say there’s evil here but what can I do to help you uncover it? I feel so useless . . .’
‘You’re not useless. I couldn’t do without you. I need to have you to tal
k it all over with. You point out when I’m going off track.’ He had an idea. ‘You are feeling stronger, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him hopefully.
‘Well, why not go over to Phyllis Court – perhaps Kay would take you – and listen to the gossip. My instinct is that our murderer is familiar with the club. You may pick up something there.’
‘Give me a cigarette, will you, Edward?’
He put his hand to his breast pocket but did not take out his cigarette case. ‘Dr Bladon has forbidden you to smoke.’
‘He’s forbidden me to do all the things I enjoy. I mean, when are we going to be able to . . . you know . . .? Can you keep yourself pure for me?’ She was trying to joke but it didn’t quite come out as she had hoped.
‘Darling V. Of course I can keep myself pure for you! You don’t seem to understand. I’m not interested in anyone else. There’s only you and I can wait for as long as it takes. I won’t pretend that it’s not difficult, you being so close and yet . . .’
‘So far. Forbidden fruit! I suppose we can remain chaste for another month or two. Give me that cigarette now.’
It was a command Edward did not dare refuse. He sensed that she was very near the end of her tether.
‘I haven’t told you that when Mary and I got back from our picnic we found Jill had gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘She had a relapse. We haven’t been allowed to see her so it must be bad.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He hesitated. ‘V, you mustn’t worry . . .’
‘I try not to but of course I do. It’s like having a cloud in the corner of your eye. Most of the time I can’t quite see it but then suddenly I can’t see anything else. Especially just before I go to sleep, when my are eyes shut. Would you mind holding me?’ She looked up at him, wide-eyed, appealing for comfort. He tossed away his cigarette and gathered her into his arms and held her tightly. In sickness or in health . . . he thought, I love this girl and I’m not going to let her go.
When she had said her farewell and watched the Lagonda disappear down the drive, Verity returned to the clinic tired and dispirited. Edward had done his best to make her feel part of his investigation but she accepted that she could contribute very little. Listen to the gossip at Phyllis Court! Was that all she could do? She had other reasons for feeling useless. The papers were full of a great battle in Spain – probably the Republicans’ last effort to beat back the rebels – and she would have given anything, life itself, to be there. She still had many friends in Spain and longed once again to be part of that shining brotherhood who had set out in 1935 to defend the Republic. She knew, of course, that nothing now remained of that Arthurian band of brothers, that it had all – or almost all – been an illusion, but they had been glorious days. And if she were in Prague, she would be reporting on the Czechoslovak crisis. The Germans were making impossible demands on the Czechs, attempting to humiliate them. They seemed to hope that the Czechs would be forced to a point where they could not accept any further demands and so provide Hitler with the excuse he was seeking to invade.
Just as he was leaving, Edward had urged her to ‘buck up’ and ‘look on the bright side’. She had snapped that she did not need his platitudes and it was stupid to tell her to look on the bright side when the world was tottering on the brink of Armageddon. He had apolo-gized, pained and unhappy, and she had burst into tears. It wasn’t just the world crisis that depressed her. Dr Bladon had told her that Jill was desperately ill and likely to die. It was all too much and she had clung to Edward but all he could do was stroke her head. There was nothing he could say to comfort her. They had long ago promised not to lie to one another and, although Edward had occasionally broken the rule – at least by omission – he was certainly not going to try and soothe her with false promises and idle talk of a quick recovery.
8
Edward returned to Turton House depressed and almost ready to give up the investigation. It all seemed so pointless when the world was crumbling under his feet. So it was that, when, at dinner, Harry plied him with very good wine and listened without interrupting as he spilled out his fears for Verity and his thoughts on the murders he was investigating, Edward found that he was telling him rather more than he had intended. He had always found it easier to think aloud when he was on a case. So be it, he thought bitterly. If Harry was a murderer, let him do his worst. He poured himself more wine. Would it be poisoned like Lowther’s? He thought he knew what Herold might have felt. There was no point in trying to avoid his fate. Best to meet it head on and damn the consequences.
‘Did you know Mrs Herold back in the old days, Harry? I suppose you must have done.’
‘You mean his first wife?’
‘He was married before? I didn’t know that.’
‘Oh yes, to the lovely Gwynnie,’ he replied, pouring them both brandy. Edward refused a cigar but Harry took one out of the humidor and went through the whole ritual of cutting off the end, removing the band and lighting it before continuing. ‘Sure you won’t have one? The very best Havana, I assure you. No? Well – where to begin? It’s quite a story. Gwynnie was a mountaineer, better than any of us, better even than Jimmy Herold and he’d climbed all over the world. In fact, they met for the first time at base camp on Everest. Then, as I expect you know, Gwynnie died in a climbing accident. They had only been married for five years. I told you I knew Herold in Africa but I didn’t tell you the whole of it. We had a bit of a tussle for the favours of the delightful Gwyneth Jones when he brought her out to Kenya.’
‘You mean before she married him?’
‘You know me, old boy. When did I ever let a thing like marriage get in my way if I wanted a woman?’ He spoke lightly but Edward felt there was a lot of pain and anguish just beneath the surface. That was the thing with Harry, he thought. You could never tell if he was really capable of loving a woman or if the pleasure was all in the chase. Were the ones he regretted the ones who had got away?
‘After she died on the Eiger, I never spoke to Herold again.’ Harry expelled a cloud of smoke which scented the room and made Edward wish he had taken a cigar after all.
‘You blamed him for his wife’s death?’
‘I did. In my view, he was criminally careless fitting out that expedition. The equipment – even the tents – was not up to standard. I held him responsible for Gwynnie’s death and I wrote and told him so.’
‘Did he answer your letter?’
‘Not a word. I expect he was too busy writing that sentimental load of tosh that made him so much money and netted him a new wife.’ He shuddered. ‘It still makes me sick to think of it.’
Harry explained that Cathy Bartlett, as she then was, had been working for the publisher who had brought out Herold’s account of climbing the highest peaks, including the attempt on Everest which, though unsuccessful, had been judged a brave battle against atrocious weather. But what had really turned the book into a bestseller was the moving account of his – in the end unsuccessful – efforts to save his wife on the north face of the Eiger. His story of being caught on the mountain in a blizzard and having to spend the night in Gwynnie’s arms, cuddling together for warmth on the narrowest shelf of rock, had captured the public’s imagination. The Fall: A Love Story had been a notable Book Society Choice and had made Herold rich.
Cathy had been in charge of taking him around bookshops and arranging lectures and lunches. He had been the main speaker at a Foyle’s Literary Lunch attended by the Prime Minister who had praised Herold as a credit to British manhood. In the two weeks they had spent together going round the country, they had fallen in love. It was almost a cliché – the handsome explorer, widowed and, whether he was aware of it or not, in search of a new mate and a pretty, clever girl who saw how famous he was and believed she alone recognized his loneliness and vulnerability. Her uncritical hero-worship appealed to his lust and vanity. They had married shortly afterwards and enjoyed three years of bliss before she discovered that climbi
ng mountains frightened and bored her.
When he had finished speaking, Harry was silent for a minute or two and then, refilling Edward’s glass, rather surprisingly suggested that they might go and see Cathy Herold together.
‘What say we go tomorrow? It’s only ten minutes in the car. Better sooner rather than later, eh? You never know, old man, I might see or hear something which won’t mean anything to you but which will ring bells with me.’
‘So you never met Cathy?’
‘No fear! I took care to keep out of their way when they came to Kenya on honeymoon. I didn’t want to get into a public row with Jimmy. By that time, my name in the colony was mud – just a few too many adventures, if you take my meaning. Lord D told me he would have me run out of the colony if he heard one more complaint about me. I couldn’t risk that.’
It crossed Edward’s mind that Harry might be lying. Perhaps he did know Cathy. Perhaps he was having an affair with her. Perhaps he had killed Herold to get her for himself. It would be consistent with his behaviour to other women . . . other wives.
As it turned out, his suspicions were unfounded. Cathy Herold had truly loved her husband and had not conspired to murder him in order to marry her lover. Edward was convinced of this when they met the following day. He introduced himself and then Harry. No one but a consummate actress could have counterfeited the surprise she showed when he mentioned that Harry had known her husband years before when he was married to Gwynnie.
‘You knew Jimmy in the old days?’ she exclaimed, looking at Harry with interest. ‘I wonder why he never mentioned you.’
The almost visible flicker of physical attraction which passed between them was obvious to Edward. Clearly, Harry’s magnetism for the opposite sex had not dimmed with the passing years. They both looked younger as they talked about Herold and Kenya. It wasn’t just flirting, Edward thought. It was pure animal attraction. For several years before his death, Herold had been husband only in name and, whether she recognized it or not, his widow was now ready for a new man in her life. And why not, Edward thought to himself. From everything he had heard, she had been a good wife and was still young and physically in her prime. As for Harry – well, the female of the species was his meat and drink.
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