Authors: David Roberts
She looked dismayed. ‘It was my fault she was murdered?’
‘I am not saying that, but did you see anyone down by the stream after you left the pavilion?’
‘I saw Mr Montillo and I saw Sir Simon. They were talking together.’
‘You could not have seen Montillo – he was in London that afternoon.’
‘I saw him, I tell you.’
‘Did they see you?’
‘I don’t think so. They were talking too much.’
‘Did you see anything else . . . anyone acting suspiciously?’
‘I saw Mr Cardew but he was not doing anything suspicious. He was just walking.’
‘Did he meet Montillo and Sir Simon?’
‘Maybe. I did not see. I went up to the house.’
‘Did you see anyone there . . . Lady Castlewood, for instance?’
‘No, only the butler, Mr Lampton.’
‘Did you speak?’
‘No. I do not think he likes me. I think he says “bloody foreigner” behind my back.’
Edward smiled. It was a joke but he knew that, for many people in England it was not a joke – Jewish refugees were just ‘bloody foreigners’.
11
The blades clashed and sang. The sweat rolled down Edward’s face behind his mask but Adam von Trott, seemingly tireless, lunged and lunged again until Edward cried, ‘
Kamerad
.’ He lifted the mask from his face, took a towel from the chair and wiped himself.
‘That was humbling,’ he admitted wryly. ‘I thought I was fit but you are fitter. Where did you learn to fence?’
‘At the University of Göttingen. I was elected a member of the Göttingen Saxons, the best student corps. I fought several duels.’
‘I thought duels were illegal in the new Germany?’
‘They are but we still fought them. The scar on the cheek was as much a mark of honour as it was in the old Prussia.’
‘No wonder you can make mincemeat of me. Mind you, you are still a young man. I am having to accept middle age. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I was twenty-eight last week.’
‘Did you celebrate your birthday?’
‘Verity helped me celebrate it,’ he replied flatly.
Edward laughed. ‘So we are fighting over a girl! How romantic. Please. Adam, neither of us owns Verity. She will do what she likes whether we approve or not.’
‘She loves me,’ he said belligerently.
‘
Kam der neue Gott gegangen
,
hingegeben war ich stumm
,’ Edward quoted.
‘You speak German?’ Adam said, surprised.
‘I’m learning. Know thine enemy.’
‘
Touché
! When a new god approaches, I surrender without a word,’ he translated. ‘That sounds defeatist to me.’
‘Realistic, I would say.’
‘Am I right in saying that Hofmannsthal goes on,
“halb mich wissend und halb im Taumel, betrug’ ich ihn endlich und lieb’ ihn noch recht
!
”
Unable to stop myself, I basely deceive him though loving him still.’
‘That’s too dramatic,’ Edward shrugged his shoulders.
‘
Die Grenzen meiner Sprache bedeuten die Grenzen meiner Welt.
The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.’
‘Who said that?’
‘The philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein. Have you heard of him?’
‘I heard him lecture once at Cambridge. I hardly understood a word even though he was speaking English.’
Adam laughed. ‘He’s a great man – Viennese, you know, not German – and a friend of my family.’
After they had showered, they sank into armchairs, Edward feeling limp and lethargic after his exertions.
‘What is it that makes you tick, Adam?’ he inquired.
‘What makes me tick?’ He looked puzzled.
‘What drives you – what is most important to you?’
‘Oh, I understand! Patriotism of course.’
‘My country right or wrong?’
‘I suppose so. I hate the Nazis and I will never rest until they are expelled from government – from my country – but that makes me love my country more. If you see your pet lion being torn to shreds by jackals, you hate the predators but not the lion.’
‘Tell me, Adam, is it true you are joining the Foreign Office when you get back to Berlin?’
‘I cannot without joining the Party.’
‘Which you won’t do?’
‘Never, but it is my duty to rid my country of these vermin from the inside. I could never go into exile.’
‘So what
will
you do?’
‘I have been offered a job at IG Farben by a friend of my family, Ministerialrat Dr Buhl.’
‘But IG Farben is controlled by the Nazis!’
‘I know. It is very difficult. I probably won’t take the job but I must do something to help my country.’
‘So, if there’s a war, you would never go to England or America?’
‘I am a patriot, Lord Edward. Surely you can understand that. Would you leave England and fight against your country even if you hated the government in power?’
‘No,’ he agreed, without having to think about it. ‘I would not.’ He paused and then asked, ‘The Jews – how is it possible to treat them as if they were not human?’
‘We don’t all treat the Jews that way,’ he said gruffly, obviously uncomfortable. ‘As a child, I lived for some time with an old Jew and loved him dearly. Do you know the expression
Schutzjuden
?’
‘Protected Jews? Who are they?’
‘Ever since the Middle Ages, we nobles have protected the Jews on our estates and we will continue to do so.’
Edward thought it would be unkind to press him further. He must know it was impossible for him and his aristocratic friends to protect the Jews. However, he thought he might as well mention Lisel Berners’ husband and see if Adam could use his influence to bring him to England.
‘When you were at Swifts Hill, did you meet Simon Castlewood’s secretary, Miss Berners – a Jew?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why?’
He explained the situation and Adam said he would see what he could do.
‘Why did you want to see me?’ Edward asked, when it seemed they had nothing more to say to one another.
Adam roused himself. ‘I had two reasons for inviting you to fence. No, three – I heard you were a good fencer and they were right.’
‘I had a good tutor – Fred Cavens. Do you know him?’
‘Of course, one of the best.’
‘And your two other reasons . . .?’
‘First of all, I felt instinctively that I could trust you. We are two of a kind with the same background. We play the game by the same rules, shall I say. I wanted to be sure that you understood me and that – what is the expression? – I was not being a cad.’
‘By taking my girl?’ Edward smiled ruefully. ‘I told you before that we both have to accept that Verity is not some ordinary girl but her own unique self. God – or whoever in the Communist Party fills in for God – made only one of her. As I said, no one owns her. She is a free spirit.’
‘I believe she still loves you,’ Adam said naively.
‘But she loves you more.’
Adam thought about this. ‘She loves me differently. Perhaps it will be as Gaunt said in
Richard II
– our “rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last”. We played it at Oxford. I was the fascist Duke of Northumberland.’
‘Maybe.’ Edward was suddenly bored with this boy. It was in bad taste to discuss Verity in this way and he knew she would not forgive either of them if she ever found out. ‘What was your other reason for wanting to see me?’
‘It is nothing but Verity said you were investigating that poor woman’s murder – Miss Pitt-Messanger.’
‘Yes.’
‘Two things really. I know that both Castlewood and the surgeon, Montillo, have many friends among the Nazis.’
‘So I have been told,’ Edward said drily.
‘You knew that?’
‘I did but Verity was going to ask you to find out more about them – their links with the Nazis. Something bad is going on and Montillo is at the heart of it. I am thinking of going back to Cannes to do some sleuthing.’
‘Sleuthing?’
‘Make some inquiries. What else?’
‘It’s probably not significant but you should know I saw Lady Castlewood walking down towards the stream a few minutes before Miss Pitt-Messanger’s body was found.’
‘She, at least, could not have murdered Maud,’ Edward said briskly. ‘She isn’t strong enough.’
‘Maybe so, but that’s not it. She had been talking to the maid – the pretty one, you know, who is such a great favourite with Sir Simon? I went up to the house to fetch a book – cricket can be rather dull to a foreigner,’ he said with a grin. ‘I saw the maid in tears and Lady Castlewood stalking off towards the stream. Naturally, I did what any man would do who finds a pretty girl in tears – I put my arm round her and asked what the matter was.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said, “Not you too,” and pushed me away and ran into the house.’
‘“Not you too”? Someone had been bothering her?’
‘Adding two and two together, I would say Lady Castlewood might have been scolding her for some indiscretion . . .’
‘With Sir Simon?’
‘I think so. I thought it might be important but I expect you will say it is tittle-tattle – a word I learnt at Oxford.’
‘Yes, but a detective must listen to tittle-tattle. Why didn’t you tell Verity?’
‘It’s not something to tell a woman . . . You think I am old-fashioned that I do not like to talk about sex with a lady?’ Edward raised his eyebrows but said nothing. ‘It is not polite and Lady Castlewood is her friend,’ Adam ended, on the defensive.
Soon after, the two men parted and Edward walked back to Albany feeling a little soiled. Adam was an honourable man, he was sure of that, but he was thrashing around in a net which was daily drawing tighter about him, restricting his movements and reducing his options. He was a patriot who hated the Nazis. He wanted to remain in Germany and work for his country without being contaminated by those around him. How could a good German square the circle? Edward was grateful he was spared such a problem. On the spur of the moment, he decided he would accept the job Sir Robert Vansittart had offered him to run the department in the Foreign Office which assessed foreign intelligence. It was his duty.
It would never have occurred to either Adam or Edward to ask the other to keep their conversation at the London Fencing Club a secret from Verity but it was equally certain that neither man would mention it to her. She was not the sort of woman any man with an ounce of common sense would try to manoeuvre or second guess. On the other hand, it was uncomfortable for Adam, who abhorred lying even by omission, to be asked by her, as they lay in bed watching the new day through the curtainless windows, to use his friends in the German Embassy to investigate Sir Simon’s links with senior Nazis.
He got out of bed, ignoring Verity’s protests that it was only seven thirty, and began to dress. When he was in London, he used a flat lent him by a friend, presently in Hamburg on business, but recently he had been living with Verity in Cranmer Court. It was as though, after helping her move in, he had forgotten to move out. It was still hardly furnished with only the radiogram from Peter Jones, the bed, a table, a couple of chairs and a telephone – which she had insisted on installing immediately she bought the flat as a necessary tool of her trade. There was a public telephone in the main entrance hall, which was sufficient for many of the residents, but Verity could not picture with any pleasure the porters listening in on her private conversations.
They only had one record – ‘Stormy Weather’ – which they played incessantly. Adam found himself humming it now as he looked out over the river while he pulled on his trousers. Battersea Power Station smoked in the distance and the sun reflected off roofs, glistening after a recent shower.
‘Yes,’ he said, sounding perhaps a little too prepared, ‘I believe Sir Simon has links with several of our beloved leaders and also with IG Farben. I am going to ask my friend, Fritz Schieff, whose flat I am using . . .’ he glanced round at Verity stretched naked on the rumpled sheets and corrected himself to ‘whose flat I was expecting to use.’
‘It’s a lovely flat,’ she said drowsily. ‘Come back to bed, Adam. We can go there this afternoon if you want.’
‘I have written to Fritz,’ he said firmly, ignoring the interruption, ‘to see if he can find out anything about Sir Simon’s links with IG Farben. As you know, Fritz is in Hamburg which is where the company has its headquarters.’
Verity sat up, pulling the sheet over her breasts. ‘You have already written to Fritz? What made you think of doing that?’
Adam stared ferociously at the power station and said, as casually as he could, ‘It was something Lord Edward said.’
Thoroughly awake now, Verity looked at Adam’s back silhouetted against the window and bit her lip. Was her new lover in cahoots with Edward? Was there some conspiracy of which she was the subject? She hoped not. Edward had an unnerving way of undermining her relationships by remaining on good terms with his rivals. But, she checked herself – that sounded smug and arrogant. Did she really think of the two men in her life as rivals? It was absurd. She loved Edward and respected him. He was – and she had no idea how it happened – her closest friend and occasional lover. But Adam was something else; her true love. His body, as she saw it against the light, milk white – almost luminous – straight-backed, slim-waisted, made her want to crush him in her arms. But what of his mind? She knew him to be honourable, intelligent and a committed anti-Fascist but what did he really think about her? Was she just ‘entertainment’ or was this ‘true love’ for him too? She feared his only true love was his country, which he simultaneously despaired of and valued above all else.
As if in answer to her unspoken question he came back to the bed and sat upon it. He leaned over her, put his arms on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. ‘Marry me,’ he said.
‘You don’t mean that,’ she gasped. It was a shock. She had never expected such a declaration and it knocked the breath out of her as though she had received a blow to the stomach. She had said the first thing that came into her mind and it wasn’t the right thing to say. He had got up again and his back view told her he was hurt. She tried to explain what she had meant – it wasn’t that she did not love him but rather that they were trapped in the nexus of two worlds which had, in this explosive moment in history, come into each other’s orbit. ‘I am a Communist and you are a German aristocrat.’