A Grave Man (7 page)

‘Do I take it, sir, that you want me to do a bit of digging and find out what I can about this Foundation?’

‘I would be grateful. It’s not a police matter, at least not yet, but I don’t doubt our country’s enemies are behind it. If you can get me a few hard facts I can send a file to Special Branch and we can put a few spokes in some wheels.’

‘Do you suspect Simon Castlewood of being one of those enemies?’

‘I don’t know. I have met him and he seemed a pleasant enough man. His father was a rogue, fortunate to have died before he was bought to book, but the son seems to be a different type. I don’t want to jump to conclusions. He may be all right. I think he is probably an unwitting dupe of this man Montillo. These millionaires are surprisingly gullible, you know. He may not fully understand what he is financing.’

At Churchill’s insistence, Edward stayed for lunch and they discussed his investigation of the two Foreign Office murders that he had brought to a successful conclusion.

‘I have seen Sir Robert Vansittart only once recently,’ Churchill said. ‘As you know, he does not approve of me but I get the feeling that he is becoming disenchanted with the Government’s conduct of foreign policy.’

‘In what way, sir?’ Edward asked.

‘Neville Chamberlain, our new, energetic Prime Minister, and Lord Halifax have been circumventing the Foreign Office and making overtures to the Italians behind Anthony Eden’s back. They hope to make some sort of “deal”.’ Churchill spoke with studied scorn. ‘Lord Halifax sees Mussolini as an “honest broker” who will help bring about peace with Germany.’

‘And you, sir?’

‘It is a forlorn hope and probably a dangerous illusion which merely distracts us from facing reality. Mussolini is Herr Hitler’s jackal, as I have already said. He snaps at his stronger partner’s heels hoping to pick up scraps. I fear we are once again showing ourselves to be weak in the face of bullying.’

‘And Mr Eden . . . Does he approve?’

‘No, I was talking to him last evening and he was exasperated. Chamberlain and he will come to blows. You cannot have the Prime Minister pursuing his own foreign policy behind his Foreign Secretary’s back. I have a great respect for the Prime Minister and I was glad to second his nomination as leader of the Conservative Party but, whereas we drifted to disaster under Stanley Baldwin, I believe we are now setting course for it with a determination that chills my blood.’

As he drove back through the peaceful countryside, Edward thought how difficult it was to believe that England might soon echo to the sound of falling bombs with the drone of enemy bombers drowning out the songs of the woodland birds. If Churchill was right, Britain would face a war with Germany for which it was ill prepared or, perhaps worse, a humiliating surrender without a fight. It did not bear thinking about. Instead he turned his thoughts to Verity. By a strange coincidence she was in a position to do some useful detective work, but how to get hold of her? She would be back in London on Tuesday so there was not much time if she was to find out anything at Swifts Hill. He was half-tempted simply to drive up there and ask to see her but that was too brazen. It would cause comment and he did not want to embarrass her. In any case, it might be better if, at this stage, he did not meet Castlewood and alert him to the interest he was taking in his affairs. He could write to her and she would receive his letter the next morning but, if for any reason it was delayed, it might fall into the wrong hands. A telegram would be too dramatic. Probably, after all, the best thing was to discuss it with her when she returned. If she suddenly started asking questions she might arouse Castlewood’s suspicions and put him on his guard.

3

‘Do tell us about him.’ Virginia was being at her most annoying and Verity pretended not to know to whom she was referring.

‘Tell you about whom?’

‘Oh, Crumbles, don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. Lord Edward, of course! Is he as good-looking as he appears in the picture papers? I would so love to meet him. Oh! I have just had the most wonderful idea. Next Saturday is the annual cricket match – Swifts Hill against the village. Simon was complaining only last night that he was having problems getting a side together. Simon! Come over here. I’ve just had a brilliant idea.’

When the ‘brilliant idea’ had been explained to him, Sir Simon was suitably enthusiastic and Roddy Maitland added his encouragement.

‘Do you think you could ever persuade him to come?’ Virginia asked Verity. ‘It would be such fun and satisfy all our curiosity. Do say you’ll ask him.’

‘Yes do, Miss Browne,’ Roddy chimed in and Isolde squeezed her arm and said it would be ‘smashing’.

‘I’ll certainly ask him. I remember him telling me how good he was at cricket when he was at school,’ she said, a touch sarcastically.

They were gathered in the drawing-room before dinner, sipping White Ladies, and Verity was wondering how she could get Maud Pitt-Messanger on her own and ask about her father’s murder. She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall opposite her. She thought she looked all right and Simon Castlewood’s interest in her seemed to bear this out. She was wearing a new dress made for her by Schiaparelli. It was surprisingly restrained, the black crêpe cleverly designed to make her look taller than she was. The bodice was entwined with François Lesage’s delicate embroideries, silver leaves and pink flowers on sinuous, winding branches. Verity did not much care for jewellery but she wore a pendant – ivory, coral and gold on a gold chain – given her by Edward, as he put it, ‘to remember Guernica’. It was the first piece of jewellery he had ever given her and she was touched but hesitant about accepting it. When a man gave a girl something as precious and beautiful as this, he was making a claim whether he admitted it or not. Her father was the only man before Edward from whom she had ever accepted clothes or jewellery. In the end she had kissed him on the lips and said she would treasure it. The pleasure it gave him was reflected in his eyes and she was glad she had not rejected it. Neither of her two previous lovers, the American novelist Ben Belasco and her political mentor David Griffiths-Jones, had been the sort who would think of giving her presents.

‘I say, Miss Browne, you look perfectly splendid,’ said Roddy, sitting himself down on the sofa beside her. ‘That’s a topping dress. I mean, I know nothing about frocks and that kind of thing but . . .’

‘Be a dear and stop burbling,’ Isolde Swann said, perching her shapely bottom on the arm of the sofa. ‘Miss Browne has no wish to hear your views on fashion, I’m sure.’

‘No, of course. Sorry and all that. I’m afraid I’m a bit of an ass. Can’t think why you put up with me, Izzy old thing.’

‘I love you, that’s why,’ she said, patting the top of his head in a proprietorial way. ‘Don’t you agree, Miss Browne, that love makes you – what’s the phrase? –
tout comprendre, tout pardonner
?’

Verity hesitated. ‘I’m not sure I have ever been in love . . .’

‘Oh, I say, I thought you and Lord Edward . . .’

‘I do believe, Roddy, you are determined to put your foot in it. I do apologize for this poor goof, Miss Browne.’

‘No,’ said Verity, flailing about, ‘I do love him but I don’t know . . . it’s all so complicated. You see, I live such an absurd life, my job . . . never in one place for more than a minute. It’s really not fair on any man. Oh dear, please let’s talk about something else.’

She realized that this was the very first time she had acknowledged her relationship with Edward in public though it would be folly to think the announcement would come as a surprise to anyone who knew them. In fact, she had blushed to the roots of her hair, which was under a hairdryer at the time, when riffling through the pages of
Tatler
she had happened to see a photograph of Edward and herself taken at Brooklands with a coy caption referring to her ‘war wound’ but assuring readers that she was being tended by ‘the most eligible man about town, Lord Edward Corinth, younger brother of the Duke of Mersham’. She prayed Edward would never see it. It was just the sort of gossip he hated.

‘But surely the only important job a woman has is to look after her husband and bring up his children?’ Roddy said.

With a great effort of will Verity did not shower him with abuse but merely replied, ‘I am sure that is true for many women but not for me, I am afraid.’

To her relief he began to talk about the New Year’s Eve dance the Castlewoods always held at Swifts Hill.

‘You will come, Miss Browne?’ He turned to Castlewood. ‘Sorry, old boy, that was rather cheek but . . .’

‘No, Roddy’s right,’ Castlewood broke in. ‘Ginny was going to ask you. We would so like it if you could come. It is so rare for me to make new friends – when I do I hate to be parted from them.’

He started to talk about his house, which was clearly the great love of his life. Taking Verity over to admire the radiogram, he told her, ‘I can put on a record in here and we can listen to it here, in my study or in the dining-room. It’s American. I saw it when I was last in New York and I knew I just had to have it for Swifts Hill.’

He slipped a record, black and shiny, out of its brown sleeve, holding it delicately between his palms at the rim. Placing it on the turntable he said in a low voice, ‘One of my favourites. Shall we dance?’

It was ‘Stormy Weather’, a favourite of Verity’s too, and for a moment she was inclined to accept his invitation if only to see whether he
would
dance with her. Instead, she laughed to show she knew he was joking and said, ‘Was I very rude?’

‘To Roddy? Not at all. I thought you were very restrained. I was full of admiration. He’s such an idiot but not vicious – at least, so I believe. I can’t understand what Isolde sees in him, though. She could have any man she wanted but she chooses . . .’

‘He’s very good-looking.’

‘You think so?’

‘In a sporty way,’ she added hastily. ‘Not my type but, you must admit, they make a beautiful couple.’

‘Well, indeed. You must have a long talk with Dominic. He has studied these things and he advocates – what does he call it? – controlled breeding. He thinks that we have to weed out the weaklings and bring forth a new generation of supermen. Have you heard of the German philosopher Nietzsche? Of course you have! He said – and I took the trouble to memorize the passage – “experimental science is the last flower of asceticism. The investigator must discard all his feelings, hopes and fears as a human person and reduce himself to a disembodied observer of events on which he passes no value judgement.”’

‘You mean you don’t have to take into account whether you are doing right or wrong? Surely, that’s just what makes us human? Some of us call it conscience.’

‘It’s for the
greater good
, Miss Browne. Individual morality just confuses the issue. Who cares what you or I think is good or bad?’

At that moment Dominic Montillo came up to them and with his rather braying laugh said, ‘Castlewood, did I really hear you talking about Nietzsche to a pretty girl?’

‘We were just saying how beautiful Isolde and Roddy are – as a couple, I mean.’

‘That’s right! And they will have beautiful children. Does that appeal to you – as a Communist – Miss Browne?’

‘Playing God and breeding beautiful children?’

‘Yes. You don’t believe in God so you must believe that man is god. Take a look at Roddy. You see he has a square-shaped head while Isolde’s is oval.’

‘Is that good?’

‘Indeed it is. When you have time, you must let me show you some of the fruits of my research. A round head is a clear sign of degeneracy. Square or oval are strong shapes.’

‘And what is mine?’ she asked, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. ‘It looks round to me.’

‘No, oval . . . square . . .’ For a moment Montillo was at a loss. ‘If I may, I will take some measurements sometime?’ She had managed to embarrass the good doctor and had no intention of helping him out.

It had occurred to Verity that, at dinner, there would be more women than men which would be awkward but, just as the butler announced that dinner was served, they were joined by the local doctor and another man to whom Verity took an instant and instinctive dislike even before he opened his mouth. He was very thin – mere skin and bone, stubble on his face and very little hair on his head. His teeth were bad and it was difficult to guess his age – not yet thirty, she guessed, but if he weren’t so hunched and had more flesh on his bones he might look younger. Whereas the doctor had donned a creased and ancient dinner-jacket, the young man, whose name was Graham Harvey, arrogantly flouted convention and wore grey-flannel trousers secured by a rope belt, an open-neck white cotton shirt and plimsolls, worn through at the toes. It was such a blatant statement of contempt for the conventions of polite society that she expected Sir Simon or Virginia to send him packing but instead they welcomed him warmly as one of the family. Virginia explained that he rented a cottage on the estate and was writing a book.

Verity went into the dining-room on Sir Simon’s arm. She felt him clutching her a little too tightly for comfort and hoped he was not going to be a bore. It was another extraordinary room. Her eyes went straight to the ceiling of which the recessed central portion was entirely covered in aluminium leaf on a blue background, with built-in concealed lighting which made the aluminium shimmer. The floor had a marble perimeter surrounding a buff-coloured carpet. The fireplace consisted of polished, ribbed aluminium panels surrounding an electric fire from which light – imitation logs illuminated from within by light bulbs – but no heat emanated. The fireplace was surrounded by black marble inlaid with a Greek key pattern. This was repeated on the ebonized doors to the room. On the walls hung three genuine Turner seascapes alongside a circular barometer and an electric clock.

Verity was seated, rather to her embarrassment, next to Sir Simon who naturally sat at the head of the table. To her alarm, Graham Harvey was on her other side. She gulped as she felt her host place a hand, fleetingly, on her knee. She had a feeling this was going to be a meal she would remember. The dining-room chairs were upholstered in pink leather. It looked odd – almost comic – but it certainly set off her Schiaparelli dress and, of course, the designer loved pink.