Bones of the Buried (25 page)

Miss Harvey welcomed Edward literally with open arms. ‘Of course I remember you, Lord Edward,’ she said when she had released him from her embrace. ‘I remember all my boys and
twenty years doesn’t seem so long a time. It’s yesterday and tomorrow I have problems with.’

She put the kettle on a gas ring and then sank back into a large armchair which still managed to seem too small for her bulk. Around her on the mantelpiece, on little tables perilously placed to
impede her movement, Edward saw dozens of photographs, some in frames, others propped up behind ornaments – all of boys or young men. It was a custom at Eton that when a boy left, he
presented his friends, his tutors and his Dame with a likeness. In the eighteenth century, it might have been a portrait but, even before the war, it had degenerated into photographs pasted on to
stiff board. Miss Harvey saw Edward looking curiously at one he recognised.

‘That’s Stephen Thayer. You remember him. He was a little older than you but . . .’

‘Yes, Miss Harvey, I remember him very well and it is partly about him that I came to see you. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Tut, tut! I had a feeling you had some reason to be visiting me.’

‘Oh, please don’t think I didn’t want to see
you
. My nephew, Franklyn is in Mr Chandler’s house and he suggested I might like to have a chat.’

‘Mr Chandler,’ the old woman said vaguely. ‘I have met him, I’m sure, but you see I don’t get about much . . . You have a nephew here? Well I never. But, may I ask,
have you got sons?’

‘Not yet, Miss Harvey. I have to find a wife first.’

‘Oh, fiddlesticks,’ said the old lady sounding annoyed. ‘You must be being picky, as we used to say. Everyone loves a lord . . . but I’m sorry. Forgive me for treating
you like a small boy, Lord Edward. It’s a natural fault for us old folk to get time muddled.’

‘You’re not so old . . .’

‘Eighty-four!’ she said triumphantly.

Edward thought he would try to steer her back to the subject which had brought him. ‘But you have an excellent memory for the old days and I wanted to ask you a few questions about Stephen
Thayer.’

Miss Harvey looked at him shrewdly. ‘I read in the
News Chronicle
that he had been murdered.’

‘Yes, that was so shocking. I had not seen much of him since I left Eton but I considered him a friend and his son is a great friend of my nephew.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Do you remember him?’ Edward persisted.

‘I remember him.’ There was something steely in her voice and Edward had the impression she had not liked him. ‘I . . . I don’t want to talk about him if you don’t
mind.’ She took the photograph off the table and put it in a drawer.

‘But please, Miss Harvey, just a couple of questions. I think it might be important.’

‘He was a bad boy. They were all bad boys. They all had to go,’ she said, twisting her hands in her lap. ‘Oh, the tea!’ she added brightly.

As she struggled to her feet to fill the teapot, Edward tried again. ‘I was three years younger than Stephen so no one ever told me why he left Eton early. There was some sort of a
scandal, wasn’t there?’

‘I don’t remember,’ the old lady said shortly. ‘Sugar?’

‘No . . . no thank you. Please, Miss Harvey, I’m not just scandal-mongering. I want to find out who killed Stephen and I think it might be something to do with . . . with what
happened here.’

‘Scandal-mongering! I should think not! The newspapers, I’d never have believed it. The things they got up to . . . reporters, they call ‘em, climbing trees to look in windows,
questioning the “boys’ maids” . . . disgusting!’

The newspapers! It was that bad a scandal. He must get Verity to look in the files.

‘I never heard . . .’

‘They said if Mr Hobbs had been looking after his house properly it would never have happened. It nearly killed him.’

‘What might never have happened?’ Edward said in frustration.

‘Godfrey Tilney, he was a bad boy too, but at least he wasn’t in our house,’ she continued, as if he had not spoken. ‘It was a bad time but the next year . . . we had
some good boys. You . . . we always liked you. So well-mannered, always so courteous. I remember once I tripped and fell down the stairs and you . . . you tried to catch me . . . and I rolled on
top of you. I might have hurt myself . . . but you caught me . . .’ She mopped her eyes: ‘. . . a good boy.’

Godfrey Tilney! There was a connection after all. Miss Harvey was not going to tell him what she knew about Stephen Thayer’s ‘scandal’ but she had told him more than she had
meant. It was bad news, shameful news, and she did not want to be reminded of it. He thought the best thing was to leave it for the moment. He would find out what the papers reported at the time
and then, if necessary, come back with some specific questions.

He finished his tea and got up to go. ‘It has been so nice talking to you about old times, Miss Harvey. I hope I haven’t upset you with my questions but it is important. I must go
now as I have to meet my nephew. I am sure I’ll be back soon and, if I may, I will visit you again. Here is my card. If you remember anything about Stephen Thayer which you think might help
me discover who did this dreadful thing, I would be so grateful if you could telephone or write to me.’

‘Oh, are you going, Lord Edward?’ said the old woman and, for a moment, he thought she might bribe him to stay with a little information but the moment passed.

‘Yes but, as I say, I’ll be back. Now I’ve found you, Miss Harvey, I’m not going to lose sight of you again.’ She looked slightly worried by this remark but said
nothing. ‘Perhaps I can bring my nephew to meet you next time,’ Edward said. ‘It would be good for him to hear what the school was like before he was born. Really, a historian
ought to interview you for your memories.’

Edward left the little house and walked down to the Cockpit wondering if he had stumbled on something interesting or whether he was following a false trail. He would ask Thoroughgood if he
remembered anything of the scandal and he must find out what Chief Inspector Pride had discovered. Maybe the murder had already been solved and no one had bothered to tell him.

It amused Edward, when he pushed open the glass door of the tea room, to see Verity and Frank deep in conversation at a little table in a corner. His first thought was that they looked like
lovers and he had to check a surge of ridiculous jealousy. They were both leaning forward so that their heads almost touched and were ignoring the scones covered in clotted cream and strawberry jam
on the plate in front of them. As he walked towards them, he saw that Verity had a smear of cream at the corner of her mouth and, for a moment, he wanted more than anything else in the world to
bend over and kiss it off her. He was actually standing beside the table before they noticed him and jumped apart almost guiltily. He imagined that this might be how the dead felt, aimlessly
hanging about in the corners of the lives of loved ones left behind on earth – invisible, frustrated, inconsolable. He pushed away such morbid imaginings and said, meaninglessly, ‘Well,
here we are then.’

‘We were talking about Spain,’ said Frank brightly. ‘It sounds most awfully interesting. Verity says in the holidays I can come and see for myself what’s happening. She
says I ought to join theYCL.’

‘The what?’

‘The Young Communist League. What do you think?’

Edward frowned and Verity giggled nervously. ‘Only if your parents agree,’ she said, as though she had just remembered that Frank was only a boy. She made haste to change the
subject. ‘Did you get anything useful out of your Dame?’

‘Yes, I did, at least I think I did. Apparently there was a terrific scandal which actually got into the papers and resulted in several boys being sacked, including Stephen
Thayer.’

‘What about Tilney and Hoden?’ Verity said.

‘She mentioned Tilney was another “bad boy” but said nothing about Hoden and I didn’t press her. She really didn’t want to talk about it.’

‘So what was the scandal?’ Frank inquired.

‘I don’t know. She clammed up. I think she was ashamed of it.’

‘Why? It was nothing to do with her, was it?’

‘No, I don’t expect it was but Thayer was in her house, in her charge. She knew Hobbs, our housemaster, was worse than useless so she must have felt doubly responsible for the boys
in her care.’

‘So what happens now?’ Verity said impatiently. ‘I must go back to Madrid on Monday.’

‘Well, today’s only Thursday. If you could spend tomorrow seeing what the
New Gazette
has in its files, it could be just the lead we are looking for. Oh, and we need to go and
talk to Barrington, the butler, tomorrow. You are coming with me? Then, we all go to the funeral on Saturday. You’re sure you feel you want to, Frank?’

‘Yes, I do. Charles needs me. Look, I’ve had a letter from him. It’s what I wanted to talk to you about. He left it for me when his aunt came to take him home. I had only had a
few words with him when we heard the news and there was so much we didn’t have time to say to each other.’

Frank dragged out of his trousers’ pocket a crumpled sheet of lined paper covered in a childish scrawl. Edward began to read and, seeing that Verity had sat back in her chair obviously not
wanting to look as though she was prying, he asked, ‘May I read this aloud?’

‘Yes, of course. I want Verity to know everything.’ Frank leaned forward over the table again. Spontaneously, he put out his hand to the girl who, at that moment, seemed only a
little less of a child than he. She smiled at him and took his hand in hers, but said nothing.

Edward took a sip of the tea which had been put in front of him by the white-smocked waitress and began to read. ‘ “Dear Frog . . .” ’

‘He calls me Frog because he says that’s what I look like,’ said Frank.

‘And what do you call him?’ Edward inquired.

‘Charles. I call him Charles,’ Frank said in surprise.

Edward began again: ‘ “Dear Frog. Thank you for being so sweet to me when I had the news about my father. He was murdered you know. Isn’t that awful? I mean, he was the
gentlest, most wonderful father I could ever have had. I can’t believe anyone wanting to kill him. Perhaps it was all a dreadful mistake. Chief Inspector Pride doesn’t think so though.
He says they will catch whoever did it. He thinks it might be one of the people he did business with. He says he has ‘got some names’, whatever that means. I do hope you can come to the
funeral and bring that nice uncle of yours. I don’t know why but I think I trust him. I do miss you, Frog. Love, Charles.” ’

‘I don’t think I ought to go with you to the funeral,’ said Verity after they had sat in silence for a moment. ‘It’s a private affair and I don’t even know
Charles.’

‘No, please,’ said Frank. ‘I would like it so much if you came. I want to introduce you to him.’

‘Yes,’ said Edward, ‘we’ll all go, Connie, me, you and Verity. I’m sure Charles won’t mind.’

When the time came for them to say goodbye, Frank took his uncle aside for a moment, with a polite apology to Verity. ‘Uncle Ned . . .’

‘Yes, Frank?’

‘You will find out who killed Charles’s father, won’t you?’

‘The police . . .’

‘No, I don’t think the police . . . they don’t have the same
reason
to find out as we do.’

‘I’ll do my utmost,’ Edward said, holding out his hand.

‘I do so like Verity,’ Frank said confidentially. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’

In his bright, candid eyes, Edward saw neither prurience nor vulgar curiosity but the benevolent interest of a child wanting those he loved to be happy.

‘Not exactly,’ was all he could manage. Frank raised his top hat. It was not quite their style to kiss, or even hug, but uncle and nephew shook hands gravely. Edward felt another
surge of jealousy as he watched Verity kiss Frank on both cheeks, holding her hat by the brim so it did not fall off.

‘I’ve found it!’ Verity’s excited voice squeaked down the telephone line. ‘Edward, are you there? I’ve found it!’

‘What have you found?’ he said, taking the cigarette holder out of his mouth.

‘There’s quite a fat file of reports and it’s really hot stuff. I’ll come round later, shall I, and you can give me a bite of lunch? I’m absolutely famished.
I’ve been working here since eight and I didn’t have time for breakfast.’

‘What’s the date?’

‘April 8th 1936 – why do you want to know?’

‘No, idiot. What’s the date on the newspaper reports?’

‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean – July 12th 1917. It’s sensational . . .’

‘Good girl! Don’t try and tell me any more over the phone. I was thinking of going round to Stephen’s house to see if I can talk to the butler, Barrington. I gather he’s
still there.’

‘Oh, I’m afraid I can’t come with you. I’ve got a meeting with Weaver in half an hour and I daren’t miss that. In any case, I’m not very good with
menservants. I seem to remember I rather messed things up last year when we interviewed General Craig’s valet.’

‘No, you didn’t, but if you trust me to go it alone . . . Anyway, I rather doubt he will have anything useful to report.’

‘That’s OK by me. I’ll come round about one. Bye.’

‘Verity, I’ve told you before about “OK” . . .’ He stopped and shook the receiver but it was dead. Verity was not in the mood for a lecture on the English language
from anyone, especially him.

Edward pulled on the gold chain around his waistcoat and looked at his hunter; it was almost ten thirty. ‘I say, Fenton, Miss Browne’s coming to lunch. Can you find another
chop?’

‘Without difficulty, my lord.’

‘Oh, and make sure there’s champagne on ice. I think we may need to do some celebrating.’

‘Indeed, my lord. Might I inquire if congratulations are in order?’

‘What? Ah, no . . . don’t be an ass, Fenton. I simply mean we’re making some headway in our investigation. I’m going round to Belgrave Square to talk to Mr Thayer’s
butler, Barrington. He may slam the door in my face, of course.’