A Grave Man (17 page)

Verity watched Edward stride on to the pitch and ask for middle-and-leg from the vicar, who was umpiring. She could hear his cut-glass, rather nasal voice quite clearly. She felt she hardly knew him when he was engaged in these male rituals. This was a class activity of which she instinctively disapproved, despite the evident pleasure the event was giving to villagers and gentry alike. She was surprised – and perhaps a little disappointed – that Graham Harvey seemed happy to play and, what was more, play for the Castlewood eleven, not the village. She sighed. Could there ever be a social revolution in a country as conservative as this? Perhaps, she thought guiltily, it might need a war to shake things up.

She watched Edward dig a mark at the crease, beating his bat on the grass as though he was killing some unfortunate beetle. Satisfied at last with the damage he had done, he took time to look about him at the spread of fielders before nodding to the bowler to signify that he was ready for anything the man could throw at him. Verity put her hand up to shield her eyes. The sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon. With the sun behind him, Edward was almost a silhouette. She wondered if she were being self-indulgent, permitting herself to fall in love with a man like him whose background, political views and attitude to life were so different from her own. Perhaps they were doing each other no favours. He could make her crosser than anyone she had ever met. Maybe the compromises they had to make to remain together were damaging them both.

She admitted to herself that she was becoming seriously disturbed by his – in her view – uncritical devotion to Winston Churchill. It seemed to highlight how very differently they viewed the world. She also knew she had had an influence on him and that he had lost many of the prejudices of his class and sex, but were these superficial changes? She knew he had a respect for her and for her ability to do a difficult job well, but could they ever be happy together? He was a product of his class and, when she had first met him, he had tried to patronize her. She had often had to shock him into seeing that when he called her ‘my dear’ or said things such as ‘don’t you worry about that’, he was not being considerate but was belittling her. Although he would never use such language to her – or indeed to any woman – now, could a leopard change its spots?

Edward was what he was – more intelligent than most and certainly better educated – but he was still a man and an aristocrat. Miss Schuster-Slatt might be vulgar and rather absurd but wasn’t there something in what she said? If sexual relations could be subjected to scientific analysis, would not much of what she instinctively disapproved or distrusted about the relationship between the sexes – such as the institution of marriage – be shown to be artificial and without justification? Miss Schuster-Slatt had put most of the blame on outdated religious practices and, as a Communist, Verity agreed with her. Human relations ought to be conducted on simple, uncomplicated lines. She was a capitalist in this respect at least: sex ought to be regulated by the laws of supply and demand, need and the satisfaction of need. She groaned aloud. Why did everything have to be so complicated? She wanted Edward but she hated the idea of being tied down. Might it not be better after all if they parted? It would be painful but better a clean break than a wounded romance limping into an uncertain future.

She must have closed her eyes because she was startled into wakefulness by a hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Towering over her, standing almost to attention, the young German, Adam von Trott, was asking her – in his perfect English – if she would like some lemonade. She accepted the glass he offered and, taking this as some sort of permission, he knelt beside her. An English boy would have talked of the cricket or the weather but never of anything serious. Von Trott, however, at once began asking her about Spain and, in particular, about the razing of Guernica. She responded immediately to his seriousness about politics, flattered that he had sought her out. Virginia had told her something of his past and she had been intrigued. He had been a Balliol Rhodes Scholar, one of the first Germans to come to Oxford after the scholarships had been suspended during the war. He had been a prominent member of the Oxford Labour Club and was in every sense an outstanding figure. He was tall, romantic-looking, with a ringing laugh and – as Verity now had cause to appreciate – great personal charm. As a foreigner and a German to boot, he was a remarkable figure to his contemporaries. It helped that his father was an aristocrat and had been one of the Kaiser’s ministers. His mother was a descendant of John Jay, the first Chief Justice of the United States. His home was a castle – Imshausen in the Trottenwald in Hesse.

They were soon talking earnestly – agreeing and completing one another’s sentences – as though they had known each other in some other life. They both hated war, believing it to be a terrible wickedness perpetrated upon the innocent by evil men. He was fiercely patriotic but hated the Nazis. When they finally stopped talking, they found themselves gazing into each other’s eyes. Verity saw his romantic passion and feared that, before long, he might be faced with an impossible decision as to where his loyalties lay.

‘Are you . . . playing?’ she said at last, indicating the cricket pitch with a wave of her hand. Her voice shook a little but his was quite firm.

‘I cannot play this game but Sir Simon said I should learn how to play it if I wished to understand the English.’

‘So you are batting . . .?’

‘Last of all – number eleven. Sir Simon tells me that the game will be over before I am made to bat. I hope so. I do not want to make a fool of myself.’

‘You won’t do that,’ Verity said and, without knowing why, blushed. She peered at the green sward. The batsmen, the bowler beginning his run and the crouching wicketkeeper were blurred and it occurred to her that she might need spectacles. It was one of the annoying things about cricket that the action took place so far away.

Edward was settling in at the wicket when he was unlucky enough to run out his solid, if rather dull, partner. Edmund Cardew had been at the wicket for almost an hour but had scored only five runs. Edward – on the last ball of the over – slipped what he thought might be a single past the wicketkeeper and shouted at his partner to run. Cardew had, unfortunately, turned his back on him, believing the over had ended and, when Edward called to him, was very slow off the mark. The man in the slips made a grab at the ball and managed to sling it at the wicketkeeper before Cardew could reach the crease. The bails were off and he had to walk back to the pavilion, where he was greeted by sparse if sympathetic applause. It looked like a piece of arrant selfishness on Edward’s part and he knew it. He apologized effusively as Cardew set off for the pavilion but Cardew was unable to hide his fury.

‘Hard luck, old chap,’ Frank said, as he hurried on to the pitch hoping for better luck.

‘I say, Uncle!’ he said when Edward came to meet him. ‘That was a dashed silly thing to do.’

‘I know! I don’t know what I was thinking of. Will Cardew ever forgive me, do you think?’

‘I very much doubt it.’

‘We’ll take it slowly, eh, Frank?’

Until the end of the over, Edward played with all the flair of a dead man, blocking the ball even when he might have hit it. As they met in mid-wicket while they waited for the new bowler to take the ball and rearrange his fielders, Frank said, ‘Don’t overdo it, Uncle. We don’t want to turn the pitch into a graveyard. The natives will get restless if we don’t score. There’s probably only a couple more hours of light – three at the most – and we’ve got a long way to go.’

At that moment, they were distracted by a shout from the pavilion and saw Sir Simon waving what looked like a dog’s lead in the air. Mah-Jongg had somehow slipped his collar and was on the loose. The village boys paddling in the stream scented a hunt and soon spotted the animal running towards trees on the other side of the pitch. Hallooing, they ran after him and managed to drive the lemur on to the pitch where Edward, Frank and most of the fielders joined the chase. Since Mah-Jongg was not a sprinter, they soon caught up with him. Surrounded, he stopped and stared at the ring of faces, mewing in protest. His bushy tail waved angrily and his wicked-looking face dared anyone to come near him. One of the boys, braver or more foolish than the rest, threw himself on the lemur and caught him. He immediately let out a fearful howl and dropped him again. Mah-Jongg had bitten him to the bone and was once again at liberty. Chaos reigned as the chase resumed and it was a full ten minutes before the lemur was recaptured – by Roddy wearing cricket gloves. Meanwhile, the wounded boy was taken off to the cottage hospital to be disinfected and patched up.

Play resumed with the scoreboard showing fifty-five for the loss of four wickets. Frank, aware that there was very little time if they were to reach a hundred and thirty and win the game, started knocking the ball about and, after a couple of fours, hit a full toss with a resounding thwack. At first he thought it would be caught at the boundary but to his great satisfaction it went well over and dropped into the stream. The boys splashing about in the water looking for the ball were shouting and waving their arms excitedly. Frank waited modestly for the applause and was a little surprised when it died out rather suddenly.

‘Well done, old chap,’ said Edward, leaving his crease to congratulate his nephew.

‘What’s all that shouting about?’ Frank said, puzzled. Edward looked round and saw a small crowd gathering at the water’s edge.

‘I say, something’s up all right,’ Frank said and suddenly. ‘I hope I didn’t knock someone out.’

Everyone was walking or trotting over to the boundary to see what the matter was. As Edward and Frank approached, they saw what looked at first like a heap of clothes in the water. Dr Morris was directing the efforts of two young men to carry the dripping bundle on to the grass. It was so heavy that it slipped out of their hands back into the water.

‘Good Lord!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘Isn’t that . . .?’

Verity had removed her shoes and stockings and waded into the water, which hardly came above her ankles. She saw Edward and said, ‘It’s Maud. She’s . . . I think she’s dead.’

There was a hush at her words and the crowd parted to let Edward through. Why this happened Verity did not know. When she thought about it later, she had to acknowledge that Edward had an air of authority which people instinctively respected. Maud was on her back and her dress had ballooned about her. Her straw hat with its circlet of flowers floated limply beside her. Her sodden clothes made it awkward to manoeuvre her with dignity but, with Verity holding her head and Miss Schuster-Slatt – who was also in the water – holding her dress round her legs, Maud was half-carried, half-dragged on to the bank.

‘Is she drowned? Can she be revived?’ Edward asked the doctor, who had had his hand on her pulse.

‘How could she have drowned?’ Verity demanded. ‘The stream is so shallow here and she is on her back. I don’t understand it.’

Edward, still in his cricket pads, knelt clumsily beside her and suddenly exclaimed, ‘Look here, doctor!’

He was pointing to her side from which a pink dribble was staining the grass. Very gently, they turned her on her front and saw the hilt of a dagger.

‘She has been stabbed,’ Verity said unnecessarily.

The police constable, who had been fielding at the boundary, made a great effort to pull himself together. ‘Get back, everyone. Please give us some room here.’

Sir Simon appeared. ‘What’s happening? I was in the pavilion . . . Oh God! Is that Maud? Has she committed suicide?’

‘No, indeed, sir,’ the police constable said. ‘She has been murdered. Do you see the knife?’

‘Good heavens! That dagger . . . it’s the one from the collection . . . I’m sure of it.’ He leant forward to examine the hilt more closely but the constable barred his way. ‘Don’t touch, sir. Might I ask you to send someone up to the house to telephone the police station? I will remain here until Inspector Jebb arrives.’

‘Yes . . . yes . . . of course,’ Sir Simon said, retreating, understandably dazed by the disaster which had overtaken them. ‘I’ll go myself . . . straight away. Murder at Swifts Hill – I cannot believe it! Where’s Ginny? Where’s my wife?’

‘She went back to the house,’ Isolde said. ‘I’ll go and tell her what has happened and ring the police.’

Edward and Verity stood up and, with Dr Morris, stared down at the dead woman.

‘A very great tragedy,’ the doctor said. ‘To be honest, Lord Edward, I would not have been surprised if the poor lass had killed herself. Some suicide attempts are little more than cries for help but I thought, when she cut her wrists, she knew what she was doing. But this . . . Who could have done such a thing? And why?’

‘That’s what we must find out,’ Verity said grimly.

Edward made a little grimace. ‘We let her down . . . I let her down. You were right, Verity. I said Pitt-Messanger’s murder wasn’t our business but of course it was our business. She was so frightened . . .’

‘Frightened?’ Verity said in surprise. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘She told me so.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose there is no more harm that I can do her.’

‘You’ve done her harm?’

‘She confessed to me, just before I went in to bat, that – as I suspected – she had killed her father.’

‘What!’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘She murdered her own father? For God’s sake, why?’

‘I thought it was because he had made her life a misery and prevented her marrying the man she loved.’

‘Sidney Temperley?’

‘Yes, V, and then he told her she could not marry Graham Harvey – not if she wanted his blessing and his money. I thought that might have tipped her over the edge.’

‘That’s why she killed him?’

‘Isn’t that reason enough, V? But, no. In fact . . . Damn it! She was about to tell me why when I had to go and get ready for my . . .’

‘You put
cricket
before finding out why she murdered her father!’ Verity looked at him as though he was mad.

‘I said I would see her in a few minutes down by the river . . . as soon as I was out.’ Edward said miserably. ‘She said she was frightened but I thought she was frightened about what would happen to her now she had confessed.’