Something Wicked

by David Roberts

  ‘Kay! What are you doing here? I’m so pleased to see you.’

  ‘I’ve been kicked out of the tournament so I thought I’d come and find you. Where’s Edward?’

  ‘He went off with some “chums”,’ Verity replied, a touch acidly. ‘He said he would be back in a minute but that was half an hour ago. But what happened? Tell me. I thought this was going to be your year.’

  Kay was philosophical about her unexpected exit from the tournament. ‘I played rotten tennis and I deserved to be beaten.’

  ‘Who beat you?’

  ‘A French girl I had never heard of and who turned out to be young enough to be my daughter.’

  ‘Not really?’

  ‘Well, not quite that young but she seemed a child to me. Still, there’s always next year.’

  ‘So who’s going to win?’

  ‘Helen Wills Moody as usual, I suppose . . . but,’ she added, brightening, ‘she’s first got to beat Hilde Sperling – the German girl who could be dangerous – and Helen Jacobs. But Helen Moody will win. She’s ice-cool, a robot on court.’

  ‘Kay, you’re my saviour. I’m so pleased you came to find me. Edward’s been sweet but really, I’ve decided rowing isn’t my sport. It’s all very pretty and everything and some of the men are gorgeous but it’s so repetitive. You see that island with the temple thing on it? A cannon goes off when a race starts, and that’s about the most exciting thing that happens. They parade down the course in parallel, sweating slightly, and one is declared the winner. I know I’m being unfair but it’s not like tennis where there’s so much variety . . . so gladiatorial.’

  Kay laughed. ‘I don’t think you are a sports person at all, if the truth be told. I believe you see all sport as a trivial distraction from the real world of war and politics.’

  ‘I suppose I do really.’ Verity stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘I never liked that story of Drake insisting on finishing his game of bowls even though he had been told the Armada was in sight of Plymouth. It’s such a man thing – so English – always wanting to be “amateur”, as though trying too hard or preparing too well isn’t sporting, not “playing the game”.’

  The contempt with which she spoke made Kay laugh. ‘That includes me, does it?’

  ‘No! Of course it doesn’t. You are serious – in fact you’re wonderful. I really don’t know what I would have done without you encouraging me and setting me a good example. I mean,’ she added, feeling that she was being disloyal, ‘Edward has been simply splendid and I owe him everything but . . .’

  ‘But you need a woman friend sometimes.’ Kay laughed again but gently. She seemed to have a thought because she said suddenly, ‘I tell you what! We’ve talked about it for ages but, now you are so much better, this is the time to do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Take you up in the Tiger Moth. We can do it tomorrow. I’ve got nothing planned as I expected to be playing tennis and the weather forecast is good. Just for half an hour. It can’t do you any harm and might do you some good.’

  ‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’ Verity said, clapping her hands. ‘I’d love that but . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell Dr Bladon or . . . or Edward. They might try to stop me.’

  ‘Our secret then.’ She clasped Verity’s hand. ‘It’ll be a lark. Just say you are having a day off from the regatta and I’m taking you for a drive. That won’t be a lie because I am going to take you for a drive – to Booker Aerodrome.’

  Edward seemed more relieved than anything to know that Kay was going to take Verity off his hands for a day. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being with her. He loved her devotedly but she did demand his full attention otherwise he saw that look on her face he dreaded – that ‘what-are-we-going-to-do-now’ look – and if he failed to come up with anything, she became bored and fell to teasing him. He had an idea that when they were married – if they ever did get married – he would need to find something to occupy her. He began to think that a world war was just what she needed and then felt ashamed. It wasn’t really like that, he reminded himself. It was more like being the only person who knew that Mount Vesuvius was about to explode and bury the light-hearted, pleasure-seeking Pompeians in molten lava.

  There was to be a party that night at Phyllis Court and Edward had taken a table. There would be dinner and dancing, of course, but nothing too dramatic. The fireworks were kept to celebrate the end of the regatta. To Verity’s chagrin, Kay and Edward both insisted that she was not yet well enough to stay up late and drink champagne.

  ‘If you want to come out with me tomorrow,’ Kay said meaningfully, ‘you must get some rest.’ With bad grace, Verity accepted her fate and Kay took her back to the clinic. Edward had invited Kay to join him and Harry at Phyllis Court. Kay was doubtful at first but Verity said she should go. ‘I want a full report in the morning. If Edward misbehaves, I want to hear about it.’

  Harry and Kay took to each other immediately, which was hardly surprising. Kay looked stunning in a long white dress, long white gloves and diamond choker about her slim neck. Harry was just the sort of man she liked. He had seen as much of the world as she had so they compared notes on America, Africa and exotic places in between. They were both keen flyers and decided there and then to take to the skies together as soon as the regatta ended. Harry’s dubious reputation with women – Edward had thought it his duty to warn Kay – merely amused her. She was challenged and, although she did not trust him, she loved his rakish, devil-may-care attitude to life – and it didn’t hurt his being a lord.

  Edward looked on – a touch morosely – as the two of them danced the night away to the music of Jack Palmer and his orchestra. He knew it would please Verity to hear that he had been sidelined and, shortly after eleven, he made his excuses and left. Harry and Kay hardly seemed to notice.

  When he got back to Turton House, he sat nursing a whisky and soda. Idly, he took up a photograph in a silver frame of Harry arm in arm with a beautiful woman. As he studied it, he thought he recognized the woman as Christobel Redfern. She and Harry were both carrying guns and were clearly about to go into the bush to hunt game. There was something about the relaxed, intimate way they stood together, not touching – not needing to touch – that said as clearly as words that they were lovers. On a whim, he opened the frame to see if there was a date or inscription on the back of the photograph but found nothing. However, there was another photograph secreted behind it. It was of Peter and Isabella Lamming. In contrast to the other, it was a formal, posed study which had obviously been taken at their wedding. Isabella had a posy of flowers in one hand and the other was tucked under Lamming’s arm. He was wearing some sort of uniform.

  The next morning, Edward left the house before his host was awake and strolled towards the Stewards’ Enclosure. The races did not begin until eleven but there were already crowds milling around – some hiring punts at fifteen shillings and six pence for the day. He met several acquaintances, one of whom introduced him to Lord Camoys – a Senior Steward and, inevitably, an Old Etonian. Camoys invited him aboard the Arethusa, one of the umpires’ launches, to follow a heat of the Stewards’ Challenge Cup. Leander, the oldest and most prestigious boat club, was rowing against Magdalen College, Oxford. Half an hour later, Edward found himself sitting next to the Magdalen coach as the launch ploughed downriver towards the start with all the superiority of a swan among ducks. He had a strong temptation to trail his hand through the water, as he had done as a child, but remembered being told that anything which could be construed as a signal from someone in the umpire’s launch might allow the losers to challenge the result of a race.

  As the Arethusa rounded Temple Island, Edward admired the elegant folly which, with the church and the ancient bridge, gave Henley its air of serenity. The folly had been built in 1771 by Sambrooke Freeman of Fawley Court, one of the fashionable houses near the town. It was designed by James Wyatt and boasted, Camoys told him, wall paintings in the Etr
uscan style. The Victorians had added, rather unfortunately Edward thought, a heavy wooden balcony. Part of the island had been dug away when the new straight course had been made in 1924 but it was a delightful place to start a race – particularly if all one had to do was watch from a motor launch as other men laboured over their oars. He wondered idly if the captains of Roman triremes had viewed their galley slaves with the same detached satisfaction.

  Back on dry land he thanked Camoys and went off to get a drink. The band of the Grenadier Guards was playing lustily and he stopped to listen. He was tapping his fingers to an overture by Suppé when Guy Black came out from behind the bandstand, deep in conversation with none other than Major Stille. What the German was doing at Henley, Edward could not imagine and what he had to say to Guy was something he did not want to think about. Roderick Black was, he suspected, to the right of Genghis Khan but it had never occurred to him that he – or, worse still, his son – might actually be a Fascist. Stille, who was dressed like almost everyone else in white ducks and a coloured cap, disappeared into the crowd. Edward hesitated for a moment and then decided he might as well make his presence known to Guy. Perhaps he did not realize that Stille was a Nazi agent pretending to be an Assistant Secretary at the German Embassy. It would be a good idea to warn him before Guy compromised himself.

  ‘Hello, Guy,’ he said, touching him on the arm. ‘You are racing today, aren’t you?’

  ‘Corinth! Yes, I am – this afternoon.’

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you were talking to Major Stille. You do know who he is?’

  ‘Of course, I do,’ Guy replied roughly. ‘He rowed for Rudergesellschaft Wiking just after the war. He helped coach them to win the Grand Challenge Cup last year.’

  Edward was taken aback. He had no idea Stille was an athlete but, then, why shouldn’t he be? ‘Wasn’t that the time they gave the Nazi salute?’

  Guy shrugged. ‘I don’t see what all the fuss was about. After all, we have the National Anthem or,’ he added as the band struck up the Eton Boating Song, ‘your old school song.’

  ‘That’s not the same thing at all. I happen to know that Stille is a nasty piece of work. He’s a member of the SS and responsible for German agents in this country.’

  ‘You’re not accusing me of being one, are you?’

  ‘Of course not, but I thought I ought to warn you.’

  ‘What do you expect to happen? Do you think Stille will suborn me or something? Perhaps you think he’ll sabotage the Hornet? My heat today is against a German, Ricard Gustman – one of the best. That’s what we were talking about, if you must know. Though what business it is of yours, I really don’t understand.’

  ‘The Hornet? Is that what your boat’s called?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  Edward hesitated. To mention the murders and their links to the insect world would sound ridiculous. ‘Just a coincidence. I’m sure Verity told me that was the name of the launch she went on with your father and Mary.’

  ‘That’s right, the Henley Hornet. We call all our boats Hornet. A family tradition.’

  ‘Yes, well, do be careful, Guy. Despite what you say, I know Stille better than you and he’s not a man your father would want you to associate with.’

  ‘On the contrary, it was my father who introduced us. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have things to do. Goodbye.’

  Edward let him go without another word. He had heard enough to make him worried. The calm of just a few minutes ago had been replaced by an undefined anxiety. Something bad was about to happen and he ought to be able to prevent it – if he could only work out what it was.

  11

  Verity and Kay had not spoken much on the drive to Booker Aerodrome but an air of suppressed excitement emanated from both of them. Verity had the same feeling she remembered having as a schoolgirl when she embarked on one of her – usually ill-advised – escapades. It was a perfect day for flying. The cloud was high, the wind light and there was a freshness in the air after the previous night’s showers. It was so good to get away from the clinic and forget she was supposed to be ill – forget everything except that she was free.

  Kay parked the car and led Verity into a huge hangar. The doors, which were wide open, framed the sky so the clouds appeared to scud across the blue as though across a vast cinema screen. There were several small planes parked around the perimeter, some with men working on them, the others silent, expectant, like dogs waiting to be let out of their kennel.

  ‘Here she is,’ Kay said, leading Verity up to her Tiger Moth and patting it. ‘Bert – my mechanic – has done all the hard work but, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’d like to give her the once-over.’

  Verity sat quietly on a broken-backed chair while Kay checked the plane and fuelled her up.

  ‘Did you say you’d flown before?’ Kay asked, passing Verity an empty can before jumping down from the engine cowling.

  ‘Only as a passenger. Edward’s a flyer. He says you have to fly in Africa if you want to get anywhere and he once flew us back from Spain.’

  ‘And you didn’t feel sick?’

  ‘Not at all. Has it ever made you sick?’

  ‘No. When my father taught me to fly, I was always concentrating too hard to feel anything.’

  ‘Will you teach me?’ Verity asked wistfully. ‘I’d like that more than anything.’

  ‘Of course, once you are quite well.’

  Verity scowled but said nothing. She was well now, she thought, if only she had more energy. ‘Can I ask how much it costs – a Tiger Moth, I mean?’

  ‘A thousand pounds,’ Kay replied airily. ‘Less if you buy one second-hand. The problem is getting one. They’re all going to the RAF. De Havilland just can’t make enough of them. You see, it’s not just us who want them but other air forces – the Canadians, even the Portuguese, I’m told.’

  ‘I didn’t realize. So the government is at last spending money on new planes?’

  ‘It seems so. The RAF likes Tiger Moths because they are so easy to repair. Everything important is readily accessible, as you’ll see.’

  ‘They’re not fighters?’

  ‘No, they’re trainers but that’s vital. This country’s desperately short of trained pilots.’

  ‘Are all Tiger Moths the same?’ Verity inquired naively.

  ‘I should say not! Mine’s a DH.82A, if you want to be technical. To be honest, it’s not that different from the biplanes they used during the war – improved of course. For instance, the wings and bracing have been stiffened up so you can do quite violent aerobatics even when heavily laden. Barrel rolls, loops, nose dives, bunts – anything you can think of. She’s so strong. I bought her two years ago and I love her.’

  ‘What’s a bunt?’

  ‘A sort of loop. Maybe I’ll show you.’

  ‘Can you fly upside down?’

  ‘Certainly! But not with a passenger on board.’

  Verity was silent as she tried to imagine what it must be like to fly such a machine. ‘She’s definitely a “she”?’

  ‘Yes. I love men but I love women even more,’ Kay said, stroking the propeller, not looking at Verity.

  ‘Have you given her a name?’

  ‘I call her Free Spirit.’

  Kay dispensed sugared buns and hot coffee from a Thermos while Bert and another mechanic rolled the Tiger Moth out of the hangar on to the grass. After they had finished, she locked their handbags in a metal cabinet. ‘Right! Now let’s get you togged up.’ She had a spare flying suit which she said would fit Verity. ‘It’s cold up there, you know,’ she said, pulling at a zip. ‘You look very dashing. All you need now are some goggles. Some flyers won’t use them but I do.’

  When Verity was properly kitted out, Kay produced a camera. ‘I’ll get Bert to take a photograph of us beside the plane. You’ll meet him properly in a moment. He’s a first-class mechanic. I don’t really need to check and refuel her myself but I like doing it. It’s sort of intimate
– like grooming a horse. You can ride a horse someone else has groomed but you don’t have the same relationship with it.’

  They reached the plane and Verity shook hands with Bert. ‘She looks so fragile. Is that just wood under the canvas or whatever it is?’ She prodded a silver wing with her finger.

  ‘Just wood covered in Irish linen coated with dope to give it rigidity,’ Bert confirmed. ‘You’ve got to be careful when you’re working on her but in the air she’s very forgiving, if you understand me, miss. That’s right, isn’t it, Miss Kay?’

  ‘Quite right. You can treat her quite badly in the air – do all sorts of things you shouldn’t and she doesn’t mind. I mean, she might tremble a bit in protest but she won’t crash or anything. That’s why the Tiger Moth is so good for training. Right, here we go. Everything OK, Bert?’

  ‘Nowt to worry about, miss. She’s just wanting a run. You see, miss,’ he said to Verity, ‘I think of her as being like a racehorse. She needs regular exercise to keep her fit.’ He helped her into the seat in front of Kay.

  ‘I’m in the front?’

  ‘Yes, in the instructor’s seat. When we are in the air, you can take over for a minute or two if you like. Get a feel of her. Now, just flick those switches on the side in front of you, will you? I’m afraid you won’t be able to hear me during the flight but, if you press your ear to the Gosport tube, you might catch something if I shout. When I want to point something out to you, I’ll waggle my stick from side to side and you’ll feel your stick move between your legs By the way, if you don’t like anything I’m doing or you want to go back, just put both your hands on the top of your head like this.’

  Verity smiled. ‘I feel quite safe in your hands, Kay. Do what you like with me.’