Bones of the Buried (16 page)

‘Yes, of course. I’ll tell her as soon as she gets in.’

‘Thank you, Hester, I’ll . . . I’ll talk to you later.’

He telephoned the embassy but, as he had expected, everyone had gone home except for a sleepy-sounding clerk who refused to give Edward Tom Sutton’s home number. Verity must have it or, if
not, presumably he would be at Chicote’s again tonight. He wondered why he felt so worried – almost guilty – about the Tilneys hearing the news from a newspaper. He could try
telephoning them himself but he knew that, even if he could get through, the line was likely to be bad and it would be very difficult to make himself understood. They probably wouldn’t even
remember who he was. He wondered if he was making excuses but decided he was just being practical.

He went up to his room, took off his jacket and shoes, lay on his bed and settled down to some serious worrying. What if Gerald were to die? He suddenly realised how much he loved his brother.
Gerald had been fortunate in one respect. He had found in Connie one of the few women with the sense to recognise that beneath all his pomposity there lay a genuinely good man. She was the anchor
who had given Gerald the strength to lead a useful and fulfilling life. He had not wished to become Duke of Mersham but, as the position had been forced on him, was determined to use whatever
influence it gave him to stop England being dragged into another European war.

Edward had no desire to succeed his elder brother. It was a great weight off his mind that Connie and Gerald had had a son, their only child, who had been named Franklyn – or Frank to his
family and friends – as were all immediate heirs to the dukedom of Mersham. Frank, now aged sixteen, was at Eton. Uncle and nephew got on well, liking and respecting each other. Edward was
young enough – ‘unfossilised’ as the boy put it – to play the part of the older brother Frank had never had. He pitied his nephew and feared for him. It might seem
magnificent to be heir to a dukedom but the silver spoon was poisoned. In the modern world being a duke, Edward considered, was rather ridiculous. It was bad enough to be a duke’s younger son
with pots of money and no chance of being taken seriously. His birth – his position in society – aroused expectations in some people, suspicion in most, and envy in a few. As far as
women were concerned, he knew the girl he wanted was put off by his being a lord while the girls who threw themselves at him were precisely the kind he despised. Would it be worse for Frank?

It made him itch with frustration that he could not at once rush to his brother’s side and he knew he would not be able to sleep. It seemed to put everything else into perspective. What
did it matter if David Griffiths-Jones rotted in a Spanish gaol or if Godfrey Tilney, whom he remembered as a bully and a liar, had been murdered by one of his enemies? In the mood he was in, he
was prepared to believe that anything bad which happened to these political troublemakers was no more than they deserved.

At last, unable to lie still any longer, despite aching limbs and a headache which made him giddy and sick, he got up, grabbed his coat and walked hurriedly towards Chicote’s. It was
almost eleven o’clock but it was just possible Tom Sutton would be there and could be persuaded to telephone London for him. Chicote’s was much less busy than it would have been earlier
in the evening. The bar was only half full and the waiters chatted behind the long wooden counter, surreptitiously dragging on cigarettes. There was no one at the table which seemed to be reserved
for Ben Belasco and Hester but he spotted Maurice Tate talking to Carlos, the barman. Tate had his back to him. He had his arm around the shoulders of a slim young man in a dinner jacket whom
Edward identified as the pianist. He went up to Tate and tapped him on the shoulder. Tate turned round, his face a picture of irritation, but his annoyance quickly turned to something like alarm.
‘Ah, Lord Edward, it’s you. Um, this is my friend Agustín.’

Agustín looked about twenty-four or five. He had long eyelashes, a swarthy skin and almost shoulder-length hair which fell lank on his none too white collar. He smiled into Edward’s
face and then looked down at his feet. In that moment, Edward knew that this half-starved-looking Spanish boy was Tate’s lover and the knowledge disgusted him.

Tate saw the expression which passed over Edward’s face and knew at once that he had been judged and found wanting. Homosexuality was not a crime in Spain as it was in England but not
because Spanish society was more tolerant. In Spanish culture there was nothing finer than the comradeship which came naturally between men – it was of a higher order than the love between a
man and a woman – and sexual feelings dishonoured it.

‘I was looking for Tom Sutton. I suppose he’s not here yet,’ Edward said a little too quickly, ignoring Agustín.

‘No,’ said Tate, ‘he should be here. He usually comes about now.’ It seemed to be an effort for him to speak.

‘I’ll wait then,’ Edward said shortly. Then, his natural good manners insisting he ought not to sound superior or worse still, contemptuous, he added, ‘I need to get
Sutton to telephone London for me. I have had some bad news which makes it necessary for me to get home as soon as possible.’ He cursed himself for coming out with all this but he was
embarrassed and that made him voluble.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tate. ‘Have a drink while you’re waiting. Carlos . . . what will you have? Sherry? Cognac?’

‘Just a beer, please.’

‘
Una caña
,
por favor
,
Carlos
. An illness in the family?’ he said, turning back to Edward.

‘Yes,’ said Edward shortly, not wanting to say more to this man for whom he had an instinctive dislike. Then, realising he was being rude, he added, ‘My elder brother has had a
riding accident.’

‘The Duke?’ said Tate and Edward again felt the disgust well up inside him. What was he doing talking to this odious man? He hated to think of Verity having friends like Maurice
Tate, Belasco and even Hester Lengstrum who seemed to think marriage was a convenience to be shrugged off when it had served a purpose – in her case making her a baroness.

‘Look,’ said Tate, ‘we could try telephoning from here. This is about the best time for getting through – after the end of the business day.’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ Edward began but Tate had said something to Carlos who brought out from behind the bar an ancient-looking instrument which did not hold up much hope of
communicating with the next room, let alone England.

Tate spoke into the telephone for some time and then said, ‘There’s about an hour’s wait. Give me the telephone number in England and the operator will call us back when he
gets through.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Edward said. He suddenly remembered that he did not have the number of the
New Gazette
and that, even if he did get through, Lord Weaver would
not still be in the office. He hesitated and then gave the Mersham Castle number. He supposed he ought also to ring the Tilneys but, to his relief, he realised he could not as he did not have their
number on him.

Agustín had slipped away during this and was strumming at the piano. ‘Who do I pay?’ Edward said.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll settle up later. Let’s go to our table. Carlos will call us if the operator gets through.’

‘Did you say you were putting on a performance of
Love’s Labour’s Lost
?’ Edward said to make conversation when they were seated.

‘Yes, the English theatre is quite popular here. In fact everything English here has a certain snob appeal.’

‘Aren’t they all too busy with their politics to go to Shakespeare?’ Edward said. There was a touch of scorn in his voice of which he was unaware – scorn for Tate and for
the Spanish. Tate looked at him curiously. He was disappointed. This English lord with a ridiculous name was not stupid and yet he seemed to share all the prejudices of his class and nationality.
How often had he heard the English insult foreigners – it had made him quite embarrassed on occasion – and how few of them bothered to learn the language. If only the English could hear
themselves! Ignorance and superiority; it was an unpleasant combination.

‘Funnily enough,’ he said, ‘despite the difficult political situation, all kinds of Spanish, who would never normally be seen in the same room together, come to watch our
plays. I sometimes think we supply a vital channel of communication between the different “faiths” as one might call them. Somehow, in Spain, it all comes down in the end to religion
– or lack of it. The odd thing is, the atheists are more fanatical than the Catholics.’

Edward relaxed a little. He was beginning to feel that this man was not quite as odious as he had first thought. ‘
Love’s Labour’s Lost
. . . it’s one of the plays
I know least well. Remind me what the plot is?’

‘There’s not much plot and what there is is rather absurd, though I believe Shakespeare based the play on real events. It’s sort of love’s revenge. Four young men –
the King of Navarre and his friends – take a vow to forswear love for three years. Then along comes the Princess of France with some ladies but they are not allowed into the palace because of
the King’s vow. They are naturally insulted at being made to camp outside so they decide to seduce the men from their vows.’

‘Yes, I remember now,’ Edward said. ‘Doesn’t it end rather oddly?’

‘Yes, just as all the women are paired off with the men and they are celebrating there comes news of the King of France’s death.’

‘Death triumphs over love?’

‘That may be the moral,’ Tate agreed.

‘And the jokes are dire, aren’t they?’ Edward said.

‘They
are
very literary and
were
very topical so some don’t make much sense now but oddly enough the wit is very Spanish. There’s even a word for it:
“
gracia
” – repartee, as in fencing. Actually, it’s not quite as esoteric as you might think and it does have some very good lines. For example, Rosaline tells Berowne
that he must earn her love by working in a hospital among “the speechless sick”, and he sneers at her: what is the point of struggling against pain and decay – “To move wild
laughter in the throat of death”? Perhaps it isn’t a sneer but one of Shakespeare’s profound poetic truths. I don’t know but it’s a line which always gives me pause.
You must also remember that Shakespeare was writing more of a masque than a play. We have to add the music.’

‘Hmm!’ Edward said. ‘Interesting – I must reread the play. Sounds as if you’ve given yourself quite a challenge. When’s the first performance?’

‘Not till the beginning of July. We would like to do it outside so we’ll wait till the weather warms up! Perhaps we can entice you back to Madrid then.’

Edward was excused having to answer by the arrival of Hester, Ben Belasco and Verity. As Edward and Tate rose to greet them, Hester said, ‘Ah, there you are. We’ve been looking all
over for you. We went to your hotel but they said you had gone out.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, Hester, I was looking for Tom Sutton. I wanted to telephone home and it seems I can’t do it from the hotel, so I thought I would try the embassy.’

‘Did you find Tom?’ Belasco said, seating himself.

‘Not yet but Tate – Maurice – has very kindly booked a call for me from the telephone at the bar.’

‘Terrible business,’ Belasco grunted.

‘Yes, horses . . . they’re so dangerous,’ Tate said.

‘I don’t mean that,’ said Belasco scornfully, ‘I mean Tilney.’

Tate looked bemused. Hester said, ‘For God’s sake! Don’t say he hasn’t told you. They found Godfrey Tilney half-way up a mountain – murdered.’

‘Murdered!’ said Tate. ‘But . . . but we knew that.’

Verity then had to tell him what she and Edward had discovered. Tate seemed stunned by the news. It was interesting, Verity decided, how differently everyone took the news of Tilney’s
‘second’ death. Hester had been upset but more intrigued than anything else. Belasco had frankly enjoyed it. He had hardly known the dead Englishman and had certainly not liked him.
Verity thought she could see him storing away all the details for use in some future book. He made her tell him about the exact circumstances of the discovery – how Rosalía had behaved
and what the priest had said – everything. Tate seemed to be taking it most to heart, although she couldn’t think why. Of course it was horrifying, but Tate’s reaction seemed
extreme. It was common knowledge the two men hadn’t liked one another.

‘So what were you talking about all this time?’ Verity demanded of Edward.

‘
Love’s Labour’s Lost
,’ he told her.

Verity said nothing but looked at him with disbelief. Then, collecting herself, she said, ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your brother’s accident.’

‘Yes,’ said Edward distractedly. His headache, which had abated somewhat, was now worse than ever.

‘I have reported everything to the police,’ she told him eagerly. ‘We are all going up to San Martino at first light.’

Edward, who could hardly concentrate, said, ‘Not me. I’ve got to go back to England.’

‘But you can’t,’ Verity burst out.

‘I can,’ Edward said brutally. ‘What more is there for me to do here?’

‘You’ve got to find out who killed Tilney.’

‘No I haven’t. I came here to get your David out of gaol and I have.’

‘
My
David,’ said Verity angrily. ‘He’s your friend.’

‘No he’s not. He’s your lover, or was. He’s no friend of mine.’

Verity blushed and everyone looked embarrassed, particularly Belasco.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Edward. ‘Please forgive me. I . . . I don’t know. But you see, I must get back.’

‘You’re a stuck-up, selfish bastard,’ Verity said, rising white-lipped from the table. ‘What have you done when it comes down to it? You go and see David who tells you
how to find Tilney and, when you get there, you find he has been killed, probably because someone heard you gassing about where you were going. And . . .’ She held up her hand to stop Edward
interrupting her. ‘. . . and I don’t know what makes you think they’re going to let David out of gaol. They can probably be persuaded he didn’t kill Tilney because, as you
so rightly pointed out,’ she said sarcastically, ‘he was in the clink, in a dungeon, at the time but they will still want to know who killed the man they buried, and they will want to
know why David did not tell them Tilney was alive and save them the trouble of trying him for murder. I suppose you didn’t think of that.’