Bones of the Buried (22 page)

‘He’s regained consciousness but he’s still very weak.’

‘He’s at Mersham?’

‘Yes, fortunately there’s a marvellous nurse who looked after him in hospital and she agreed to come back and nurse him at home.’

‘Huh!’ said Verity, reddening. ‘I might have known it! Can you imagine some poor injured miner being able to hire his hospital nurse to come and look after him – that is
if he even got to hospital. I’m surprised your brother didn’t hire the whole place.’

Edward might once have risen to the challenge but now he just grinned at her and dug into his huge plate of
ravioli al sugo
. ‘The old Verity!’ he said sententiously.

‘Less of the old, if you don’t mind, Comrade Corinth. I think I will have to start calling you Comrade, just to annoy you.’ She smiled and touched his hand as it lay on the
tablecloth.

In her cashmere twin-set, fur tippet and string of pearls, she looked like any ordinary upper-class girl with nothing more pressing on her mind than her rather absurd hat – she had always
liked hats. And yet Edward knew it was just a disguise – or rather not a disguise, because there was a part of her which longed to be conventional, but the
active
part of her hated the
whole charade. He guessed it was quite hard for her always to be swimming against the current. It was what had puzzled the Duke: she was, as he put it, ‘one of us’ and yet the whole
purpose of her life was to war against her own class. She wanted to redistribute wealth from rich to poor and to take away economic power from the small group of men who had run the country and the
empire for generations – men like Edward Corinth.

Edward sympathised with her dream of a fairer, less class-ridden society in which there was no yawning gulf between the very poor, living – and often starving – in slums unfit for
animals, and the very rich like himself. What he could not share, as he had told Connie, was her preferred method of achieving her objective. He believed in gradual change brought about through the
ballot box. Verity scorned this as unrealistic: ‘Whoever’s voted themselves out of power?’ she would inquire, with some justice, though ignoring the fact that she certainly would.
She subscribed to the view that revolution was the only way of achieving a just society.

Edward was too much of a cynic to believe that change would necessarily be for the better. If one economically dominant class were destroyed – and he was quite prepared to accept that it
might be, even that it might
deserve
to be – he believed another as bad or even worse would emerge to take its place. In his mind, the slogans and catch phrases of the left –
‘class struggle’, ‘the dictatorship of the proletariat’, ‘monopoly capitalism’, ‘exploitation of the workers’, ‘nationalisation of the means of
production’ – were nothing to do with democracy. After the revolution it would be people like David Griffiths-Jones – ruthless ideologues – who would decide what the workers
wanted and the result would be an even more pernicious system of government. However, Edward did not despair: the working-class people he came across – and they were surprisingly numerous and
varied – were too bloody-minded, individualistic – too conservative with a small ‘c’ – to be taken in by Griffiths-Jones and his ilk.

‘How’s world revolution?’

‘Don’t joke, Edward,’ she said, removing her hand. ‘Sneer all you want, but history’s on our side. Whatever you say, it is a class struggle. Until you understand
that – until you change your life and come over to the progressive side of the conflict, the side of the workers – your life will be unreal, a fantasy. You and your class can’t
cope with reality so you play the ostrich. If you’re not an activist you’re nothing.’

For a second, Edward was tempted to brush aside her words, ascribing them to some lecture of David’s. What could she know about his life – about life, period, as they said in New
York. Then, looking into her eyes, earnest and intense, it was borne in on him that there was something in what she said. His life
was
purposeless – it was a fantasy. He would always
hate Griffiths-Jones’ communism – brutal and self-serving – but he was prepared to admit his life was . . . not what he wished it to be. He did need to change it if he was to
achieve . . . if not happiness, at least contentment. But how . . .?

‘Is the struggle over in Spain?’ Edward inquired.

‘No. David thinks it hasn’t even begun. The Republic is thriving – chaotic but thriving – but the Church and the army are dragging us down. There may be blood spilt
before the new Republic is safe,’ she added darkly. ‘But let’s get off politics. Tell me what you meant when you said you had learnt something which might bear on Tilney’s
death.’

‘Dragging “us” down? Come on, V, it’s not your fight.’

‘Of course it’s my fight,’ she flared up, ‘and yours, too, if you would only recognise it.’

Edward thought it was time to change the subject. ‘I’ve just come from Scotland Yard.’

‘Stephen Thayer? He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he? We’ve just been discussing him at the paper. In fact, to be honest, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I thought
you might give me an insider’s view. I rather need a scoop. Absolutely nothing seems to happen in Spain – at least nothing people over here care about.’

‘No, Verity. I absolutely forbid you to write about Stephen’s murder.’

‘But I only want to . . .’

‘No, and no. I mean it, Verity. If you want me to tell you . . . things, you’ve got to promise me on whatever you hold most sacred that you won’t write about it in any Fleet
Street rag – and that includes the
Daily Worker
– unless I give you my express permission. Understood, Comrade?’

‘Oh, I suppose so,’ she said scowling, ‘but . . .’

‘No buts. I can just see the headline in the
DW
: “Old Etonians murdered by class enemy”. Just finish your
foie gras
.’

Verity saw he was serious and was rather impressed. Maybe he had some spirit in him after all.

She put down her fork. ‘I can’t eat any more.’

‘Well, pass it over. At one and nine, I’m not letting it go to waste.’

‘Old Etonians?’ she said meditatively. ‘So you think Tilney’s death may be linked with Stephen Thayer’s?’

‘Yes, and perhaps Makepeace Hoden’s too. I told you about him, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, he was eaten by a lion.’

‘More or less. Actually, that’s high on my list of things to do – find out exactly how he did die. It may have been an accident, but it’s a bit of a coincidence that
three of my school friends – exact contemporaries, all of whom knew each other well – should die within the space of a few months.’

‘Hmf. A coincidence but why do you think it’s anything more? I mean the
New Gazette
report says Thayer was hit on the head by a rock or something in a – what was it?
– “a frenzied attack”.’

‘Look at this,’ he said, taking out the photograph he had stolen from Sergeant Willis.

‘It’s a pen.’

‘Yes, a cheap fountain pen belonging not to poor Thayer, so almost certainly to his killer. But that’s not all. Do you see that white thing a few inches from the pen?’

‘Ye . . . s, but I can’t make out what it is.’

‘The police missed it too,’ Edward said smugly. ‘I stole this photograph from under Chief Inspector Pride’s nose.’

‘Cripes! Did you really? I didn’t think you had it in you. Is Pride a Chief Inspector now?’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t matter. Look at this, girl!’ Verity considered protesting at being called ‘girl’ but was too intrigued to bother. Edwrard took a magnifying
glass out of his pocket and gave it to her.

‘Sherlock,’ she said predictably. She glued her eye to the glass. ‘Good heavens, it’s . . .’

‘Yes, it’s one of those little matchboxes they have on the tables at Chicote’s. Do you see?’

‘Golly, yes, you’re right. You must be right. So . . .?’

‘So,’ said Edward sombrely, ‘Stephen Thayer’s last visitor and probable killer has to be . . . is likely to be . . . someone we know.’

‘Mmm. Yes, but I suppose the matchbox might have been on the floor for some time.’

‘With servants in the house? I doubt it. Anyway, I was going to try and inveigle myself in to talk to them. If you want to come with me . . .’

‘Pride still hates your guts?’

‘Yes. It’s a bit of a nuisance but it does mean I feel no compunction about not sharing my thoughts with him. I offered and he turned me down like a bedspread.’

‘Mmm, I can see why you are worried: you expect to be the next corpse.’

‘Verity!’

‘Oh, sorry. Can’t you take a joke? It’s interesting, though. I mean, the chances of anyone making that connection between Tilney, Hoden and Stephen Thayer are remote, though
you might be jumping to conclusions. There’s certainly nothing to link Hoden’s death with the other two. There must be Old Etonians being murdered all over the world most of the
time.’

‘Verity!’

‘You know what I mean!’

‘Yes, I wonder how I can find out more about how Hoden died. I don’t have time to go to Kenya at the moment and, even if I did . . . Wait a moment, though, I wonder if the Colonial
Office might have reports of the inquest or anything. There must have been an inquest. I’ll ask Thoroughgood to see what he can get me.’

‘The
New Gazette
has people who report from Africa. I’ll find out if there’s anyone in Nairobi who could do some snooping on our behalf.’

‘Good idea.’

Verity tried not to look pleased. ‘What else can I do?’

‘You can find out if anyone we know who frequents Chicote’s happened to be in England when Stephen was murdered. How long before you have to go back to Spain?’

‘Soon, but I can stay a few days if there’s a good enough reason.’

‘Well, it might be better for you to go back sooner rather than later. You might be able to make some discreet investigations in Madrid. If you’re establishing who was where when,
you can also get a list together of who was in Kenya when Hoden died. Didn’t Ben Belasco say he had been in Africa before going to Spain?’

As soon as he said it, he remembered that, according to David, Verity was having an affair with Belasco. Seeing her in London like this had, for a blessed moment, put it out of his mind.

Verity blushed a little but Edward pretended not to notice. She had no idea that David had told him about Belasco, so had no reason to object to his remark. He hurried on: ‘In the
meantime, I’ve got two visits to make. You can come with me on one if you like. It might be educational in every way. The other would be too dangerous for you.’

‘Tell me all, oh great one,’ Verity ordered, bowing her head and putting out both her hands in supplication.

Edward ignored her play-acting. ‘I want to go to Eton to see if I can dig up any evidence of a connection between the three dead men – beyond the obvious one. If you came with me,
you could research a horrible article about the place for the
Daily Worker
. You can explain how it perpetuates class divisions.’

‘Well, it does,’ Verity said stoutly. ‘Look at the number of Etonians there are in positions of power in the government, the Foreign Office, the Civil Service. I expect even
the Archbishop of Canterbury went to the “old school” – not all appointments are made on merit, I fancy. Anyway, look at the fees: what are they – two hundred pounds a
year?’

‘Eton’s the best, I grant you, but it’s not exclusive. When I was there, we had boys from . . .’

‘Of course Eton’s exclusive. If it didn’t exclude, it would lose half its appeal.’

‘Oh, stow it, Verity. You don’t have to preach to me.’ He added shyly, ‘I’d also like you to meet Franklyn, my nephew, don’t y’know. I have a sort of
feeling you might get on. I may be wrong. He’ll be back for the Easter holidays next week but I don’t want to wait till then to talk to him. As I say, I want to chat to a few people
there who might remember why Stephen left under a cloud. Then there’s Charles Thayer. I want to talk to Frank and to his housemaster about him as soon as I can. I want to do something for him
if I’m allowed. I don’t think he has many living relatives.’

‘Is Thayer’s son called Charles?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know: he just would be, that’s all.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Oh, I don’t know – Charles – it’s so snobby.’

‘There’s nothing particularly snobby about Charles,’ Edward said irritably. ‘What about Chaplin?’

‘That’s Charlie, idiot. Charlie’s a good name, but Charles . . . I ask you. You either have to be a duke or a hairdresser.’

‘Well,’ said Edward, shortly, ‘Charles Thayer is neither; he’s just a boy who has no mother and has just lost his father in the most awful way imaginable.’

‘Oh gosh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a hard-faced bitch . . .’

Edward tried not to look shocked at Verity’s language. ‘I know, but wait until you meet him. You’ll like him.’

‘And what’s the other visit you think is too dangerous for me?’

‘I’ve got to go to Frankfurt to meet this man Heinrich Hoffmann, Thayer’s banking partner. He may have something to tell us, but with your politics it would be madness for you
to go.’

‘I could go in disguise.’

‘What about your passport?’

‘I could get it changed. Joe will help.’

Joe, Lord Weaver, the proprietor of the
New Gazette
, was a friend of both of them, but Edward didn’t trust him as far as women were concerned. He’d never dare suggest to
Verity that Weaver’s motives for employing her as a foreign correspondent were not solely on her merits as a reporter, but she did seem to be very intimate with the man. Of course, he was old
enough to be her father. After all, he actually was the father of the girl Edward had thought himself to be in love with in New York, but still . . .

‘No, I don’t want you,’ he said roughly. ‘I’ve got to prise information out of a Nazi banker. It won’t be easy but your presence would make it impossible.
You’re more use in Madrid.’

‘Oh stuff; bankers go for . . . well, you know . . . girls like me.’

‘Well, you’re not going. What you can do is go through the files at the
New Gazette
and find out if there’s anything interesting on Hoden or Tilney or, for that matter,
Stephen Thayer. Oh, and find out which reporter the
New Gazette
puts on the case. You never know, a good chap might find out something useful.’