The More Deceived (7 page)

‘I see. Mrs Westmacott, how did your husband get to work and come home in the evening?’

‘He went on the Underground – the Piccadilly Tube.’

‘To Park Royal station?’

‘Yes, it’s only a fifteen-minute walk from here. He used to say that little walk saved his life.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘The walk . . . it did him good. He was always complaining about not having enough fresh air and exercise. So this little walk . . .’ she hesitated and then repeated, ‘saved his life.’

There was nothing else he could glean from Mrs Westmacott for the moment so Edward left, promising to be in touch before long. When he got back to his rooms, he once again read through the papers Major Ferguson had given him. Detectives had questioned staff on the Underground and regular passengers without finding anyone who could say for sure that Charles Westmacott had been on the train the evening he disappeared. The likelihood was, therefore, that he had never caught the train. He had left his office at about five thirty – he was not senior enough to have his own secretary but several colleagues had seen him leave the building. Then, who knows? Had he gone to meet someone? Had that person abducted or killed him? Or had he fled the country for fear of being exposed as some sort of spy? It was futile to guess. Edward threw Ferguson’s papers on the floor in disgust and called to Fenton to bring him a gin and tonic before he walked to his club for a bite of lunch.

‘Tell me,’ he said to Fenton when he appeared with the restorative, ‘if you wanted to disappear and you had reason to think the ports were being watched, what would you do? Go to some remote part of the British Isles and hunker down?’

‘It depends, my lord. I might do that if I wished to absent myself for a short period of time but, if I wished to vanish for a prolonged period, I would lose myself in London or some other great city. In the country, a stranger stands out like a sore thumb and his presence would soon come to the attention of the authorities. In a London boarding house fewer people would ask questions. Everyone is a stranger and people guard their privacy.’

‘Very true. But what if you had to leave the country quickly and without attracting attention?’

‘Then I would take the Golden Arrow from Victoria station and reach France within the day.’

‘Yes, you wouldn’t go by aeroplane. Apart from the cost, you would be noticed. Damn! Needles in haystacks!’

‘Indeed, my lord.’

At that moment, the telephone rang and Fenton went to answer it.

‘It is Miss Browne, my lord.’

Fenton’s disapproval of his master’s choice of female companionship was evident in his tone of voice though it was never expressed in words. It was not his place to comment on his master’s romantic attachments. Fenton was in many ways an unconventional valet. Edward would trust him with his life and, on at least one occasion, had done so. He could be daring and decisive and Edward had no secrets from him save those entrusted to him by Major Ferguson. It was true they never discussed Verity but that was because neither man would contemplate bandying about a woman’s name. That was not done . . . ‘bad form’, as Edward would have put it. Fenton might be happy to break the rules when necessary but he liked the forms to be observed. He had old-fashioned views on what constituted respectability in a female. He admired Verity for her courage and enterprise but he was firmly of the view that it was not a lady’s place to gallivant round the world reporting on wars. If his master loved her, as he reluctantly admitted to himself that he did, then she should tear up her passport, marry him and settle down to darn socks and have children. He suspected that Lord Edward and she were lovers though Edward, considerate of his feelings, had never thrust the evidence in front of him. He accepted that gentlemen had to be allowed their ‘little adventures’, as he put it to himself, but this was not a ‘little adventure’. It was a strange courtship of which he thoroughly disapproved.

‘Miss Browne’s off to Spain in a day or two,’ Edward said brightly. ‘I was expecting her to ring.’

It was a subdued Verity on the end of the line. ‘Did I behave atrociously the other night? I woke up with the most awful hangover so I think I must have.’

‘We all got rather fried, I’m afraid.’

‘You didn’t like my friends,’ she said accusingly.

‘I liked Gerda,’ he offered.

‘Huh. You keep your hands off Gerda. She’s dynamite. Way out of your league.’

Edward thought of several witty things he could say but wisely rejected all of them. ‘Guy Baron’s interesting.’

‘Yes, I don’t know what to make of Guy. He’s not serious, or is he? It’s so hard to know.’

‘
Le style c’est l’homme
?’

‘There’s more to him than he would have you believe.’

‘Is he a member of the Party?’

‘Gosh, yes. David wouldn’t be so thick with him if he weren’t.’

There was a silence and then Verity continued, ‘Anyway, the reason I rang you is to remind you that you are due in Hoxton in an hour.’

‘Agh!’ Edward hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘I’d quite forgotten. Do I really have to?’

‘I thought you might try that line. Of course you have to go. Anyway, it’ll be a laugh.’

‘For you, maybe,’ Edward said bitterly.

‘Buck up! You can’t let Tommie down. Gerda and I will worship from the side lines or administer first aid.’

Edward groaned as he put down the receiver. ‘Fenton, you’ll never guess – I met Mr Fox at that party the night before last and he persuaded me to play football for the Old Etonians against Hoxton’s bravest and brightest. It’s the last thing in the world I want to do but Miss Browne says I can’t let him down.’

‘Very good, my lord,’ Fenton said, pursing his lips. ‘If I might say so, with your knee only just . . .’

‘Don’t say it! I agree, I agree! But, if Miss Browne says I must go, then I must.’ Fenton could see no such necessity. ‘Perhaps I’ve lost my footer boots,’ Edward said, hopefully.

‘No, my lord. I shall bring them to you immediately. Would you wish me to attend, my lord?’

‘Very feudal of you but I think not. You can patch me up me when I return. If ever I do,’ he added gloomily.

Less than an hour later he arrived at the church in a taxi – having decided not to risk the Lagonda in Hoxton – and was greeted by a wildly enthusiastic Tommie. ‘I knew you would come,’ he said, meaning he had expected him not to. ‘You know most of the others, don’t you?’

Edward felt better when he had shaken the hands of fellow victims of Tommie’s moral blackmail, some of whom he had not seen since leaving school. Everyone seemed as disinclined for the fray as he was which cheered him. Another taxi drew up and Guy Baron got out. As Edward greeted him, he smelled the liquor on his breath. He seemed very excited. ‘What fun,’ he trilled. ‘It’s so difficult to meet working-class youths in the West End. It’s going to be so delicious to be stamped on by the proletariat!’

Tommie looked doubtful. ‘You will behave, Guy, won’t you? You’re supposed to be setting an example. Good clean fun and all that.’

‘Bugger that!’ Guy giggled.

They all walked round the corner to the ‘pitch’ which was little more than a piece of wasteland with goal posts at each end, bare of grass in the main but at least, Edward noticed, clear of broken bottles and tin cans.

‘Aren’t you playing, Tommie?’ Edward asked, surprised not to see him in his sports gear.

‘No, I’m holding myself neutral. It’s better that way.’

‘What a sell!’ Edward grumbled. ‘You could have played instead of dragging me out.’

‘That doesn’t sound like the Edward Corinth I used to know,’ the vicar said piously. ‘I hope all that good living hasn’t rotted your soul.’

The two teams shook hands awkwardly and the Hoxtonites took off their cloth caps and rubbed their hands meditatively. The Old Etonians took off
their
caps – mostly gaily striped, recalling schoolboy triumphs – and jogged up and down stretching, with the exception of Guy who, capless, took a long swig from a small silver flask he had in his pocket and then collapsed on the ground. He was helped to his feet by Edward and Tommie who patted him doubtfully and asked if were all right.

‘Fit as a fiddle!’ Guy said, tripping over his bootlaces.

Without further ado the game began. There were a number of spectators – families and friends of the players, Edward supposed. He could not see Verity but he caught sight of Gerda’s red hair and the thought that she was watching made him determined not to shirk. The referee was a thin, unprepossessing, bearded man who, Tommie said, was his curate. Edward took one look at him and decided he would not be able to control the game if it turned rough, as he suspected it might.

In fact, the first half passed without any major incident and Edward began to relax. His knee was bearing up well and he had even scored a goal. He looked out of the corner of his eye to see if he could spot Verity but there was still no sign of her. He began to think longingly of a bath and a well-earned whisky and soda.

He could not but notice that the Old Etonians were larger and healthier than their opponents. A poor diet and too much bad beer, combined with having nothing to do all day but wander around the streets, did not make for physical well-being. However, the captain, a man called Hawthorne, was a burly fellow who, Edward felt instinctively, had no particular love for Old Etonians. It was soon apparent that his restraint in the first half was merely a ruse to lull the opposition into a false sense of security. He seemed particularly incensed by Baron and Edward decided there was something about Guy’s manner which could easily infuriate. He was not effete but he was ‘camp’ – a word he had heard his friend Adrian Hassel use. He flirted – that was the only word for it – with Hawthorne in particular, inciting him to retaliate. Guy often had to rest – cigarettes and alcohol had destroyed his wind. On one such occasion, Hawthorne was thundering down the pitch with the ball at his feet when Guy, sitting on the ground attempting to regain his breath, thrust out his leg and sent him sprawling. The curate chose to believe Hawthorne had tripped and refused to admit the foul, crying falsetto, ‘Play on! Play on!’

Hawthorne got up, looked round like a half-dazed bull, saw his enemy still on the ground and kicked out at him. While the Old Etonians were dressed in football shirts and shorts and wore boots, the opposition possessed no such special clothing. They played in ordinary shirts and trousers and, instead of football boots, wore the working man’s hobnail boots. To be kicked by a foot encased in one of these was no light matter and Edward winced as he saw Hawthorne’s boot connect with Guy’s nose. There was plenty of blood but Guy mumbled that his nose was not broken. After a short pause when the wounded man was hauled off the pitch, the game resumed – though now it resembled not so much a game as a full-scale war. Edward doubled up as he received an elbow in his stomach and then, allowing his bad temper to get the upper hand, tackled a young man with a small moustache and bad teeth with such ferocity that he fell to the ground squealing. Conscience-stricken, Edward stopped to help him up and received a fist to his eye that made him cry out in pain.

It was an altogether disgraceful performance, as Tommie said afterwards, but somehow the match ended in an almost palpable sense of camaraderie. It was as if the artifical politeness in which the game had begun had been replaced by mutual respect. Hardly a player had escaped injury of some sort but even Guy seemed not to bear a grudge and insisted on joining players and supporters at a local public house. The atmosphere was further brightened by the attitude of the spectators who appeared to have enjoyed seeing their loved ones assaulted. Any reserve there might have been between friends of the Old Etonians and supporters of the Hoxtonites had been broken down as, one after another, the players had been dragged off the pitch to have their wounds tended. A great deal of laughter was generated by the state of the players – ripped shirts, bloodied noses and mud over everything.

Unexpectedly – or perhaps not so unexpectedly – Guy Baron had struck up a particular friendship with the man Hawthorne who had put so much effort into reducing his face to pulp. Tommie looked suspicious when the two of them – after a mumbled conversation – waved goodbye and disappeared, no one seemed to know where.

‘You were marvellous,’ Gerda said kissing Edward. ‘Your poor eye! Here, let me put some balm on it. I brought it knowing it would come in useful.’

‘Ouch! That hurt. Where’s Verity?’ he asked. Surely it was reasonable to expect his girl to be there and cheer on his efforts, applaud his goals and wipe the mud off his wounds.

‘At the last moment she could not come,’ André said. ‘Such a pity! She would like to have seen your eye.’

‘She had a last-minute emergency,’ Gerda confirmed. ‘She sent her love.’

‘Huh,’ Edward said, enjoying having a grievance. ‘I suppose she had to cover a dog show for the
New Gazette
. But what can one expect?’

‘No, it was a real emergency,’ Gerda said loyally, though sounding not displeased at his irritation.

‘I took some wonderful photographs,’ André said excitedly. ‘You English are quite mad. In my country someone would have pulled out a gun and shot at his opponent. But see – you are all friends. It is magnificent!
C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas le sport
.’

Tommie came over clasping a pint of bitter and said apologetically to Edward, ‘I am sorry, old boy. You have a ripe one there. Get Fenton to put a raw steak on it.’

Edward went with him to examine his eye in the broken mirror which adorned the urinal wall. ‘Oh God!’ he groaned. ‘How can I interview important civil servants with a black eye? Blast it! Damn you, Tommie, and damn Verity for persuading me to come.’

‘Why are you interviewing civil servants?’ Tommie asked curiously.

‘Oh, did I say that? Forget it, will you, Tommie?’

‘So, how did it go?’ It was Verity sounding cheerful.

‘I only lost an eye, that’s all.’

Edward had got back to his rooms to be ministered to by Fenton, who was suitably sympathetic. A bloody steak was applied to his eye and he lay back on the sofa and groaned. It was then that Verity had telephoned.