The More Deceived (19 page)

Edward was suddenly overcome with shame. Here he was consumed with worry about Verity and ignoring the fact that Sir Robert had, almost literally, the cares of the world on his shoulders. Added to which he had made him a promise and broken it. He had agreed to find out who was leaking secret information to Mr Churchill and had deliberately done nothing about it. His excuse had been he wanted to concentrate on finding Charles Westmacott’s killer but, although he had followed up a few clues, he had to admit to himself that he was still completely in the dark. In his mind’s eye he saw Alice and remembered his promise to her. Before he went to Spain he had to go and see her. It was his duty. But would he have time? He would like to be on his way tomorrow.

He decided he must put the best possible face on what he had been doing and not sound ineffectual.

‘I apologize, Sir Robert, for breaking in on you when you are so busy but I just wanted to report very briefly on what little we have discovered and to ask you to provide me with a diplomatic passport. I need to get to Spain to find James Lyall, Desmond Lyall’s son, and possibly the last person to see his father alive.’

Vansittart frowned. ‘Is that really necessary? You really think he killed his father?’

Edward hesitated. He did not think James had murdered his father but he had to make his trip to Spain sound worthwhile.

‘I don’t know but I do believe he is in danger and also that he has important information which will lead us to the killer. He may not know he has it but I believe the murderer suspects he has and will do his best to prevent him coming back to England.’

This was wild guesswork on Edward’s part but, as he said it, he believed it and his earnestness seemed to convince Vansittart.

‘I see. What else? Do you know anything about Westmacott’s murder?’

‘I am following up several leads along with Chief Inspector Pride. As soon as I leave here I am going to meet a well-known East End criminal who, I hope, will lead us to the men who carried out the murder.’

Vansittart still looked puzzled – as well he might, Edward thought. He was about to speak when his secretary knocked and entered to remind Sir Robert he was due at the French Embassy in fifteen minutes.

‘Well, my boy, I hope you know what you are doing. It all sounds muddled to me but I have faith in you. Sanderson,’ he addressed the young man who had interrupted them, ‘Lord Edward requires a diplomatic passport and anything else you can think of to make it possible for him to cross the Spanish border. Will you see to it? Goodbye, Lord Edward. Report to me as soon as you get back from Spain, will you? I want to hear about your investigations in detail. And don’t forget what Talleyrand said, “
N’ayez pas de zèle
” – don’t be too impetuous.’

With a nod, Sir Robert left the room clutching his hat and overcoat. Two assistants who had been waiting, laden with briefcases, in the outer office fell in behind him like ducklings behind their mother. Edward sighed. He had bluffed his way and got what he wanted but he knew time was short. He had to find out what lay behind Westmacott’s murder if he was to retain any credibility with Sir Robert. He did not fancy meeting him in a month’s time and having to confess he still knew nothing.

After warning Edward that a diplomatic passport would only take him so far and that bullets were no respecter of passports, Sanderson said he would have the papers he needed sent over to Albany before ten but he would need a photograph. Edward cursed at not having thought of that and telephoned Fenton. That competent fellow relieved his master’s mind by saying he had a spare which he would bring over immediately.

As he left the Foreign Office he looked at his watch and realized he just had time to go into Cartier and check on the powder compact before his appointment with Jack Spot. The manager, Mr Bainton, whom Edward knew well, confirmed that the compact was one of theirs.

‘The dolphin design is a classic and we use it on many pieces of jewellery as well as items such as this.’ He turned it over in his hands. ‘We must have sold a few hundred compacts like this so we could not say who bought this particular one. But you say there was a ring with the same dolphin design? Let us consult our Mr Mason.’

When Edward mentioned Desmond Lyall’s name, Mr Mason’s face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, my lord, I know Mr Lyall. He comes in once or twice a year to buy his wife a birthday and Christmas present – usually jewellery and always to this design. But wait a minute,’ his face clouded, ‘last time he was in – that was before Christmas – it was to tell us his wife had died. I thought he looked very sad, poor man.’

‘And you have not seen him since?’

‘No, my lord. Why, is there something wrong?’

‘I’m afraid there is. He has been murdered. It will be in the papers, no doubt, but until then I would be grateful if you would keep it to yourself.’

The two men looked very shocked and shook their heads at the evil times they lived in. Edward contemplated buying something for Verity but on reflection desisted. She had very little time for jewellery though she loved buying clothes, hats in particular.

Edward took a cab to Earlham Street and had no difficulty in finding the Cat and Fiddle. Seven Dials was by no means the sink of iniquity it had been in Dickens’s day but it was still an area where it made sense to keep your hand on your wallet particularly if, like Edward, your dress and demeanour signalled you were more at home in St James’s Street and Piccadilly. He pushed open the dingy door and made his way to the bar. The place stank of stale cigarettes and warm beer but the brass rail below the counter was polished and the little tables were clean beneath the stains from countless dripping tankards.

He was directed towards a door in the corner, almost invisible behind a dark curtain. He found himself in a small room which was empty except for the large figure of Jack Spot seated in a broken-backed but comfortable-looking armchair.

‘Mr Spot, how kind of you to meet me,’ Edward said, putting out his hand. ‘Can we get a decent pint here?’

As the man dragged himself to his feet, he saw that he had put on a lot of weight since his days on the barricades and had also gained a savage-looking scar which began high on his forehead, just below his thinning, wiry black hair, crossed his eye and travelled over his cheek into his nose which was consequently much misshapen. He wore a moustache and was smoking an enormous cigar.

‘The man outside will bring us beer, my lord. But call me Spotty. Everyone does. How is Miss Browne, if I may ask?’

As a well-known Communist, Verity had met Jack Spot on many occasions and she had campaigned fiercely for his release from prison after the Cable Street riots. It had seemed most unjust to her that Jack should have gone to the Scrubs for fighting Fascists when that was what everyone
should
be doing.

‘She’s in Spain . . . in Madrid,’ Edward said and, once again, cold fear gripped his innards and made him frown.

Spot saw his look and correctly interpreted it. He showed surprising tact, however, in not pursuing his question, simply adding, ‘That young lady stands very high in my regard, my lord. She stood by me when most others abandoned me. Any friend of hers is a friend of mine. Tell me what I can do for you, sir.’

When the beer had been delivered and both men had taken appreciative gulps, Edward told him.

‘Do you know anything about the murder of a man called Charles Westmacott, Spotty? He was found hanging below Chelsea Bridge four days ago.’

‘That’s not nice, that ain’t. I read about it in the newspapers, of course, but I ain’t heard any talk about it – not on my patch.’

Edward looked disappointed. ‘You’ve not heard anything about who might have done it, Spotty?’ he pressed him, leaning forward, his pint in his hand. ‘We think it was probably a political murder. Mr Westmacott worked in the Foreign Office and he might have been killed for some secret papers he was carrying.’

‘When you say “we”, my lord, do I take it you mean you’re a copper?’

‘Yes, but . . . yes,’ Edward said after the very slightest hesitation. ‘Or rather I am temporarily attached to Chief Inspector Pride – you know him, don’t you? – but I am
personally
interested in the case. There’s a widow and a little girl. Death is bad enough but the way he died was horrible. Someone wanted to make mock of him.’

Spot took a sip of his beer and raised an eyebrow, which made his scar take the shape of a question mark. He looked thoughtful. ‘Well, let’s forget about that, shall we? I’m no friend of Mr Pride, nor him of me I should imagine. It was him who got me sent down. Let’s just say you’re a friend of Miss Browne and leave it at that.’

‘Very good, Spotty. But you know nothing about the murder?’

‘Naturally, I
know
about it but, there again, I
don’t
know nothing about it. I ain’t heard a dickey-bird and that’s odd in itself,’ he went on ruminatively. ‘No one in my neck of the woods has been mouthing off about it. I mean, my lord, if it had been part of gang warfare, I would know who had done it. I think you must be right: foreigners must have done it.’

‘But could foreigners – Germans for instance – Nazis – could they have organized this sort of thing in London?’

Spot shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anything is possible if there’s enough money. The thing that puzzles me is that the whole point of killing a man in such a showy way is to frighten off other people but if you don’t leave a calling card and nobody knows who done it, then the whole thing becomes a bollux, if you’ll pardon my French. Do you follow me, my lord?’

‘I do indeed, Spotty.’

‘Anyways, leave it with me and I’ll ask around – tactful like. What shall I do if I hear anything?’

‘Here’s my card – telephone me.’ Edward hesitated and then burst out, ‘I am planning to go to Spain for a week or two. Things aren’t too bright there and I want to reassure myself that Miss Browne is not in danger. Leave a message with my man, Fenton, if you need to while I’m away. I would be most grateful for your help in this, Spotty, and I’ll see you’re not out of pocket.’

‘That’s all right, guv. Anything I can do, I will – for Miss Browne. Fine young lady that, my lord. I trust you will find her well but, if I’m any judge, look for her on the barricades – same as me in my younger days.’ He looked a little wistful.

‘Good, very good! Thank you. I rely on you. What are you doing now?’ Edward added, to be polite.

‘I work the racecourses with Darky Mulley’s mob.’ He touched his misshapen nose with his finger. ‘Green Carnation in the four o’clock at Newbury, my lord. Ten pound on the nose and you’ll do yourself a bit of good. Take it from Spotty.’

Still possessed by a fever of anxiety, Edward returned to his rooms to dress for dinner and warn Fenton to expect delivery of his passport while he was out.

‘I have it already, my lord,’ Fenton said. ‘Mr Sanderson signed the papers when I went over to the Foreign Office with your photograph.’

‘Excellent! You see, I’m determined to leave for Spain tomorrow.’

‘Indeed, my lord.’

He fondled the passport and the letter of authority Fenton gave him as though together they comprised a magic key to Spain and so to Verity. ‘Can you book whatever you think will get me to Madrid in double-quick time, Fenton?’

‘Very good, my lord.’

Edward hesitated by the telephone and decided it would only complicate matters if he were to say he would go to Weybridge the next day to see Mrs Westmacott. In any case, he had so little to report that it was hardly worth it. He would salve his conscience by telephoning. Georgina Hay answered the phone immediately, as though she had been expecting it to ring. He explained that he had to be out of the country for a few days but, as soon as he was back, he would come and see them to report on progress.

‘So you’re no further on?’ she said in her disapproving-headmistress voice.

‘Nothing definite yet, I’m afraid, but we’re following up several leads.’

He thought he had heard Pride use this phrase and it sounded as though something was being done. He felt guilty but then he seemed always to be feeling guilty, though his sins were mostly sins of omission.

He rang the Chief Inspector and told him that he had met Jack Spot and hoped something might come of it. ‘I’m going to Spain tomorrow to find James Lyall,’ he added.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Pride said, sounding surprised.

‘It’s all right, Chief Inspector. I won’t be charging up my trip to you.’

‘I didn’t mean that, my lord. I meant . . .’

‘I know what you meant. The truth is I am worried about the situation in Madrid and I want to see that both James and Miss Browne are safe. If at the same time I can discover what James knows about his father’s death, that will be even better. It worries me that he may not even know his father is dead.’

‘He may have seen an English newspaper.’

‘I don’t think that is likely. Remember, Madrid is under siege. Anyway, I expect to be back in a week or ten days. From everything I hear, Madrid is not a place to be if you want rest and relaxation.’

‘As you say, my lord.’

Pride still sounded puzzled by Edward’s sudden decision. He no doubt thought of it as a whim which only a rich man could afford to indulge and Edward could see it must seem like that. How could he explain to Pride, when he could hardly explain it to himself, his strong premonition that Verity was in danger? Of course she was in danger. Anyone in Madrid must be and she had been in danger before – notably during the ill-fated siege of Toledo but then he had been completely unaware of her predicament and had not been troubled by any premonitions.

Churchill’s apartment in Morpeth Mansions turned out to be a relatively modest duplex at the top of a purpose-built block of flats behind Westminster Cathedral. It was convenient for the House of Commons but much less grand than the house in Eaton Square which the Churchills had rented before.

In the taxi, Edward wished he had telephoned to say he could not come to dinner after all. His mind was entirely on his trip to Spain and he doubted he would be able to concentrate on what Churchill had to say about the state of the world. However, in the event, it did not prove to be an altogether wasted evening. As Marcus Fern had said, it was an all-male gathering. Apart from himself and Fern, Churchill had invited Sir Vida Chandra, a scientist called Robert Watson-Watt and his adviser on scientific affairs, Professor Lindemann. The latter proved to be a most eccentric character – tall, balding and opinionated, he was a vegetarian, non-smoking teetotaller. He did not seem to mind that Churchill drank champagne throughout dinner after which he smoked a Havana cigar with a large brandy and soda.