‘Did they tell you why?’
‘I understand they feared he might have been poisoned but really, Lord Edward, you should speak to Inspector Treacher about it.’
‘Of course! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ Edward paused and then asked, ‘At his funeral – the original funeral – were there many people?’
‘A few villagers. Mrs Venables and Miss Tiverton, of course. He had no relatives that we know of.’
‘No strangers?’
‘None. Hold on, though, a wreath was left on the grave that no one admitted sending.’
‘Who delivered it?’
‘No one knows. We found it the day after the funeral. There was no card or anything.’
‘You don’t happen to know what the General did when he went to London? I know he went to see his wine merchant but that can’t have been the only reason?’
‘A woman, you mean?’ the vicar said with the easy frankness of the new, modern clergyman.
‘Well, I . . .’
‘The funny thing is when I did ask him once, he said he went to church. Somewhere in the City, I think he said.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Did he mention St Mary’s, Cripplegate? I rather think he did but I took him to be joking.’
‘That’s interesting. Did he ever say anything to you about death? Miss Tiverton told me she was sure he expected to die sooner rather than later.’
‘No, nothing.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘Although, now I come to think of it, I do remember – it must have been the last time I saw him – he quoted Abraham Lincoln. “We cannot escape our past.” Nor can we,’ he added with a shrug.
After interviewing the vicar, Edward called in at the police station as arranged where he found Treacher and Chief Inspector Pride exchanging information. Treacher, looking uncomfortable, seemed to greet him with relief as a welcome distraction from the interrogation he had been suffering at the hands of his grim-faced senior colleague. He looked even glummer when Edward had given them his report.
‘I would go to Cripplegate myself,’ he ended up, ‘but being a cripple . . .’ he laughed weakly at his joke, ‘I’ll have to leave it to you, Pride.’
Pride nodded his head. ‘You probably want to hear how I’m getting on.’
Edward listened while Pride brought him up to date with the investigation into Eric Silver’s death. When he had finished, Edward sighed heavily. ‘So we now know where we stand?’
‘Yes, we do,’ Pride said firmly.
‘The writing on all the notes is in the same hand? We’re sure of that?’
‘Yes, even though there was an attempt to disguise it. And, what’s more, our handwriting expert is almost certain it matches the writing you sent me, Lord Edward.’
‘But there’s still not enough evidence to make an arrest?’
‘Not for a day or two. You must keep a weather eye open, though. The murderer will suspect you know his secret and may try to harm you before we can put him in handcuffs. How is your leg? Don’t forget, you would be at a disadvantage in a scrap.’
Edward grinned. ‘I know the danger I’m in. Still, I’m hoping to provoke an attack and force the issue.’
‘A dangerous strategy, Lord Edward.’ Inspector Treacher stroked his whiskers.
‘Have you had the results of the post-mortem, Treacher?’
‘It was cyanide. Not very much but enough to kill an old man. I can’t think how we missed it.’ Treacher looked down at the floor and Pride studied the calendar on the wall.
‘So General Lowther was poisoned?’ Edward tried to overcome the Inspector’s embarrassment.
‘Yes, my lord. I feel very much to blame. If the doctor hadn’t been about to retire I would have had him struck off,’ he added savagely.
‘Hmm.’ Pride looked as though he was going to say something unpalatable about the investigation so Edward broke in again.
“Treacher, did you find out anything when you reinterviewed Miss Totteridge’s staff?’
‘Yes,’ he replied heavily, obviously chagrined to have to admit once again that he had missed something vital the first time. ‘I’ve just been telling Chief Inspector Pride. Her gardener said a man from the chemical company had come round to find out what she thought of the new poison. They were in the greenhouse for some time and the gardener said he saw the man leave. My guess is our murderer took the opportunity to lace her tea with the poison. We’ve checked with the chemical company and, of course, they knew nothing about a visit from any of their people.’
‘Would the gardener be able to recognize our murderer?’ Edward asked.
‘Probably, but it’s still not quite enough to convict him.’
‘And Eric Silver? I did think his was a different type of murder committed by someone else. Was I wrong?’
‘I believe you were,’ Pride said. ‘Silver’s murder was different because the murderer panicked. The killings of Lowther, Hermione Totteridge and Herold were all carefully planned. Silver’s murder was hurried and unplanned. I think the murderer overheard what Silver told you, Lord Edward, and decided to kill on the spur of the moment. He must have wanted to involve you and thought it gave him the perfect opportunity.’
‘You mean leaving the family motto on Silver’s body?’
‘Correct!’ Pride replied. ‘And it worked. You saw it as a challenge, just as the murderer hoped you would.’
‘I’m afraid he hates me and that was another reason he killed Silver so horribly. He did not hate Lowther, Herold or Miss Totteridge – not in the same way, not to the same degree. It should have been me, not Silver, in that dentist’s chair.’
Pride nodded in agreement. ‘He’d say that he only killed those who, according to his perverted logic, deserved death and were ready for it. Herold and Lowther, certainly. Miss Totteridge was different. An obstinate old woman, I think he would say, who refused to give him the reassurances he demanded from her.’
‘And the photograph he stole from her album?’ Edward asked Treacher.
‘I can’t be sure but I think it was of Peter Lamming and Isabella. It wasn’t taken by Miss Totteridge herself but sent by her niece from Kenya – probably so her aunt could see the man she was going to marry. I’m guessing but I think we’ll find it once we start looking.’
‘I think so, too,’ Edward said thoughtfully. ‘Well, let’s draw the net a bit tighter and try to bring this whole nasty business to a head, shall we?’
The two policemen looked at him without smiling, fearing that the worst was still to come.
Edward closed his eyes for a moment. ‘So wicked, so ruthless! It makes me sick to my stomach,’ he muttered half to himself. ‘We are what we do and this man has done evil.’
Arriving at the clinic, he half-expected to find Verity listless and weary once the exhilaration of surviving her ordeal in the Tiger Moth had faded. Instead, he found her jumping around in excitement.
‘You’re full of beans, V. What’s happened?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s happened. While you’ve been touring the countryside, I’ve been reading a book.’
‘Glad to hear it. One of Mrs Woolf’s socialist tracts?’
‘I’ve been reading,’ she said reprovingly, ‘that book of Herold’s you gave me.’
‘The Fall?’
‘The Fall: A Love Story. More precisely, I’ve been reading the account of the climb on which his first wife was killed.’
‘On the Eiger?’
‘Yes. It’s very well written but there’s something more.’ She looked at him with shining eyes and Edward thought she seemed almost her normal self again.
‘Don’t tease! Tell me,’ he smiled.
‘James and Gwyneth Herold didn’t climb the Eiger alone. There were several others in the party including your friend Harry Makin. That was his name before he inherited his title, wasn’t it?’
‘Good Lord, V! Why didn’t I read that book before? From now on, you won’t find me criticizing Inspector Treacher for not carrying out a thorough inves
tigation.’
‘When you went to see Cathy Herold, didn’t Harry go with you? Why didn’t she recognize him or at least know his name?’
‘Because she had never met him before and because I introduced him as Lord Lestern. Why should she make the connection?’
‘They had never met before?’
‘No.’
‘Well, hadn’t you better tell her?’
‘I suppose so,’ Edward said meditatively, ‘but not quite yet. I need to think about all this. Darling V,’ he added, pulling himself together and taking her hand, ‘you’ve done well – very well. Do you feel up to coming to the regatta tomorrow?’
‘Try and stop me! I want to be in at the kill.’ She realized what she had said and made a face. ‘I didn’t mean that. You know what I meant, don’t you, Edward?’
‘I do,’ he replied, looking at her fondly.
‘By the way,’ she said, the thought striking her. ‘Weren’t you going to talk to Herold’s nurse? What did you say her name was? Mrs Paria? Such an odd name.’
‘Yes, I was, but the agency she worked for say that she has disappeared – gone abroad they think. They said she was . . . Oh God, of course! What an idiot I am! I’ll never do The Times crossword again!’
13
‘Miss Browne – or may I call you Verity? I can honestly say I have heard so much about you . . . from Edward,’ Harry added unnecessarily.
Edward was curious to see if they took to each other at their first meeting. He could see Harry was putting on the charm and, though Verity was smiling, he knew instinctively that she did not like him.
The final day of the regatta could be something of an anticlimax. There were many fewer races than on previous days and the finals sometimes turned out to be a damp squib, but today was going to be different.
The sun shone and the breeze was light – nothing to worry rowers or spectators. The stands were already crowded and there was a general feeling of excitement in the air. Harry was in his element on the launch he had hired called, appropriately, River Life. Cathy Herold greeted Edward with suspicion and hardly deigned to take Verity’s hand, fearing perhaps that she would catch something from her. As soon as they were on board, Harry made Verity comfortable with a rug over her knees. Edward had exchanged his crutches for a stick but he, too, was glad to sit down. When Harry had cast off, he called Cathy over to help him steer. This seemed to involve a good deal of horseplay and there was much giggling and holding on to one another which made Edward feel rather uncomfortable, as though he and Verity were de trop. The Henley Hornet passed them driven by Roderick Black. Harry’s party waved and Mary and the Bruce-Dicks waved back.
He focused his attention on Verity, making sure she did not tire herself or get cold until, rather ungratefully, she asked him not to fuss over her. Fortunately, it was a large launch with a cabin down two or three wooden steps where one could escape the rain or the company. Looking at his programme, Edward could see only two races he particularly wanted to watch – Eton against Radley in the finals of the Ladies’ Plate at midday and, of course, Guy Black in the finals of the Diamond Sculls at two thirty. The American, J.W. Burk, was much fancied but everyone agreed that ‘anything could happen’. Guy had confounded his critics by reaching the finals but he knew it would take a miracle for him to beat Burk. In a way, it took the pressure off him.
After the first race, Harry stopped the engine and knotted the rope round a willow which drooped over the river. Appearing to remember his manners, he came to sit beside Verity. Edward limped towards the prow where Cathy was leafing through the pages of a magazine without much interest. She didn’t seem particularly pleased to be interrupted but commiserated with him politely enough about his leg and asked what it had felt like to kill a man even if it was in self-defence.
‘Cathy,’ Edward admonished her, ‘what’s got into you? Have I done something to offend you?’
‘I’m just fed up with you asking questions and stirring up old scandals. From what Harry has been telling me, you seem to have put James down as the villain of the piece. My husband was a great man in his day – twice what you are,’ she added belligerently.
‘I think he was politically naïve but he was a brave man and he was murdered. I can’t see why you should object to my trying to find out who did it.’
‘No one murdered James,’ she replied icily. ‘You persuaded me to think someone had but I have come to realize that I was wrong to take you seriously. You’re just a trouble-maker and as for Miss Browne, I don’t know what she is doing here. She ought to stay in that clinic and not spread her germs around.’
Edward was angry but then became thoughtful. Who had been getting at her? Had Harry been talking to her about Herold? It seemed likely.
‘I think I know who killed your husband,’ he said in a low voice.
‘You know?’ She looked worried, even dismayed. ‘How could you possibly know? I told you, he wasn’t murdered. He was an ill man and he died from a heart attack.’
Edward treated this with the contempt it deserved and changed the subject. ‘The nurse – how long had she been coming before your husband died?’
‘A fortnight – maybe three weeks. We had another girl before that but she wasn’t a trained nurse.’
‘She didn’t live in?’
‘Mrs Paria?’
‘That was her name?’
‘Yes. April Paria. It was an odd name but she said it was South African – Dutch, I think.’
‘You know she seems to have disappeared?’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Inspector Treacher hasn’t been able to track her down. What did she look like?’
‘I don’t know. Anonymous. Smartly dressed, in her fifties I should say . . . I liked her. She was the no-nonsense type – strong too. She could lift James out of his chair . . . Oh, I say! You don’t think she . . .?’
‘In Latin a bee-keeper is an apiarius or, if female, apiaria – almost an anagram of Paria.’
‘Are you telling me she murdered James? No, I don’t believe you,’ Cathy said after a pause. ‘I repeat, he wasn’t murdered. I really don’t want to talk about it any more.’
After an hour, during which they watched three races, Edward asked to be put ashore. He needed to stretch his legs. Although his knee was much better and he could bend his leg with relatively little pain, sitting in a launch even as large as Harry’s had made it stiffen up. Verity insisted on accompanying him. Harry seemed relieved to be rid of them – perhaps wanting to have Cathy to himself, Edward thought.
‘You’re sure you’re up to it?’ he asked anxiously for at least the third time as he helped Verity out of the launch. ‘Dr Bladon made me swear not to exhaust you.’
‘I’m feeling very much stronger. I’d like to come, honestly. Anyway, you may need my arm more than I need yours.’
Not wishing to be accused of fussing again, Edward took her at her word and they strolled along the river bank enjoying the colourful scene. He could not walk very fast but then neither did he wish to. He wanted to enjoy the moment. How many more sunny days with Verity at his side were left to him, he wondered? ‘What a couple of crocks we are,’ he said aloud and she squeezed his arm more tightly.
‘We have each other so it can’t be all bad,’ she said with a smile. ‘You know, I do believe I’m happy. Isn’t that amazing? I didn’t think one ever knew one was happy until after it was all over.’
‘And I’m happy too.’ Then, not wishing to tempt fate, he added, ‘So I suppose that means something bad is going to happen.’
‘Pessimist,’ Verity chided him. Suddenly, she stopped and pointed. ‘You see that tent – they’re advertising a photographic exhibition inside. Do let’s have a look. Your friend . . .’
‘George Bushell.’
‘Yes, he took a photo of us on the first day – remember? Let’s see if it’s on show.’
It was dark inside the tent but the photographs fixed to wooden panels were well lit.
Edward peered at the print. It was in black and white, of course, but it was so vivid it might have been in colour. The sun had cast an interesting shadow over the boats and punts around them so they seemed in some clever way, highlighted.
‘That’s quite a pretty girl I’m with,’ Edward said at last.
‘And that’s quite a distinguished-looking man beside me,’ she laughed.
A hearty voice hailed them from the back of the tent. ‘Is that who I think it is? Edward, you seem to have been in the wars. What did you do – fall over a tent peg or have you been destroying more of Henley’s heritage?’
‘George!’ Edward greeted his friend warmly. ‘Yes, something like that. I say, did you overhear us saying rude things about your photograph?’
‘It’s very “period”,’ Bushell joked. ‘In two or three years’ time, they’ll be saying this photograph sums up the last regatta before the war.’
‘Don’t joke, Mr Bushell,’ Verity said, shivering.
‘Sorry. But I wasn’t joking. This is history, you know, and I’m recording it. Oh dear, I didn’t mean to make you glum. Here, let me give you a copy. I’ve got one somewhere. I’ll just put it in an envelope and then I must get back behind my camera. Won’t be a jiffy.’
As they waited, Verity said, ‘He’s right, isn’t he, Edward? These are the last moments of peace.’
‘Maybe but, according to The Times, the Prime Minister is going to Germany to meet Hitler so there may still be a chance of delaying the inevitable. Chamberlain will find some other sop to pacify him. I don’t doubt that he’ll sacrifice Czechoslovakia to save our skins.’
‘But that would be so . . . disgraceful.’
Edward shrugged. ‘Let’s have a look at some of the other photographs while we’re waiting for George. Hey, look at this, V. Do you recognize anyone?’
The photograph showed two men talking earnestly to one another.
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