Bones of the Buried (32 page)

He opened an envelope which had been delivered to him at Albany by hand just as he was leaving for the station. It was from Verity’s friend at the
New Gazette
and contained
obituaries of Dora Pale and Max Federstein. A paragraph at the end of Federstein’s obituary made him sit up. It said that only two years before he died he had married again and was survived
by his wife. There cannot have been children from this marriage or they would have been mentioned but the wife might still be alive. It was a lead he must follow up as soon as he got back to
London.

In Frankfurt, he directed the taxi driver to take him to an address given him by Basil Thoroughgood. It proved to be a large house in extensive grounds in the city’s Westend, near the
Eschenheimer Landstrasse. The villas in this exclusive neighbourhood, including the one Edward sought, had been built in parkland in the middle of the previous century and, because of their size,
elegance and seclusion, were now owned by the richest and most powerful men in the city. As the taxi dropped him off at the elaborately sculpted iron gates, Edward went over in his mind the
questions to which he needed answers. A sleek butler opened the door to him and took his card. He was taken to a small drawing-room where, despite the day being warm, a fire burned in the grate.
Edward hardly had time to examine a painting of a particularly savage crucifixion, which he was almost certain was an Altdorfer, before the butler reappeared and led him up a flight of stairs,
heavily carpeted, to knock on a wooden door more appropriate to a monastery than a suburban villa.

‘
Herein
!’ a hoarse-sounding voice commanded. The butler opened the door and showed Edward into what was obviously an office but the most luxuriously furnished he had ever
seen. Outside it was still daylight but in this room a sepulchral gloom persisted. His eye was immediately drawn to the walls from which hung half a dozen paintings subtly illuminated from hidden
lights in the ceiling. He caught his breath as he recognised a Dürer he could have sworn he had last seen in Munich’s Alte Pinakothek. There was a painting of the interior of a Dutch
house in which a young woman was playing a musical instrument of some kind. If he had not known there survived only fifteen authenticated Vermeers in all Europe, he would have said it was by that
great master. He was, however, certain that the landscape behind the great ebony desk was a Jakob Philipp Hackert because there was one similar, which he had always loved, in the library at
Mersham.

‘I see you like my paintings.’ A little man, with a lined face and flowing white hair, speaking perfect English, got up from the huge carved chair – almost a bishop’s
throne – that stood behind the desk. It was almost ludicrous – this tiny man with his great desk and massive chair – but, as he approached Edward, he appeared anything but
laughable. He could have been any age between forty and seventy. He walked lithely, like a young man, but his eyes were very old and the duelling scar down the side of his face must have been cut
before the war as such badges of honour were no longer permitted to officers of the new German army.

‘I’m so sorry, Herr Hoffmann, but I could not help noticing the Hackert because my brother has one very like it and that must be . . . surely Piero della Francesca?’

‘Ah! I see you are an art lover, Lord Edward.’

‘But these are all great masters.’

‘I have been very fortunate,’ said the little man modestly.

Edward wanted to say that it was not luck that had brought these paintings into this room but huge wealth. Instead he said, ‘It is very good of you to see me, Herr Hoffmann. I can guess
how busy you are so I will take up as little of your time as possible.’

‘You were a friend of Stephen Thayer? Such a sad business!’

‘Yes, we were at school together.’

‘Really? At Eton. Stephen was good enough to take me over “the old place” on your Fourth of June. That is your Founder’s Day, is it not?’

Edward suppressed a smile. Hoffmann was evidently vain of his grasp of English idiom, and it diminished him in Edward’s eyes. ‘The old place’ indeed. ‘The Fourth is not
actually Founder’s Day,’ he said, ‘but it’s the school’s main “feast day”.’ He paused and then said: ‘His son is a pupil at the school, along
with my nephew. We were all very . . . distressed . . .’

‘I, too, was very distressed,’ said Hoffmann, though he did not sound it. ‘He was my partner, as you know, but I also counted him my friend.’

‘I apologise if I ask you about things which you have already discussed with the police . . .’

‘The police? The English police? No one has been in touch with me from that excellent body of men. In fact, I was surprised that they had not been . . . No, wait, I tell a lie . .
.’

And not the first one, Edward thought wryly.

‘I had a letter from – let me see – ah yes, here it is, Chief Inspector Pride, but I have not yet had time even to read it. You see, I have only just returned from a business
trip.’

‘To England?’

‘To England, yes, and to Paris, Madrid and Lisbon.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Edward, hearing a note of sarcasm in Hoffmann’s voice. ‘I did not mean to sound inquisitorial.’

‘Inquisitorial! Yes, I like it. Of course you must be inquisitorial. We both want to find out who killed Stephen Thayer, do we not?’

‘We do,’ Edward agreed. ‘When you say Stephen Thayer was your partner, what exactly did that mean? To put it bluntly, I would not have thought my friend was in your
league.’

‘My league? Ah, I understand. No, Lord Edward, you are right. I had business with him. In London he was useful to me. He provided me with information. He acted on my behalf on occasion. He
was not, as you surmise, my partner in any real sense.’

‘Basil Thoroughgood said you and he were partners in the bank. That’s what confused me.’

‘I think it is possible Stephen – how do you say it – liked to “show off”.’

‘You mean you were not partners or there was no bank?’

‘Ah, Lord Edward. There was a partnership, there was a bank . . . on paper. But I am the sole owner. A year ago, Stephen was in something “of a hole” . . .’ He smiled,
clearly pleased with the expression. ‘Yes, he was in a hole and I bought his share off him. I was generous,’ he said, momentarily defensive.

‘So you think Stephen might have lost money somewhere else?’

Hoffmann shrugged, ‘Perhaps. How would I know?’

‘You did not ask him?’

‘No. His financial affairs did not concern me.’

‘But they might have if they brought the bank into disrepute.’

‘Disrepute? No, how could they? I do not deal with – what do you say? – the general public. My clients know me and trust me.’

‘So why did you need Thayer in the first place?’

‘It’s useful having a representative in a foreign capital – London above all. As you know, London is the world’s financial capital.’

Edward had the distinct feeling he was getting nowhere. While being courteous, Hoffmann was obviously going to tell him nothing. He decided to try shock tactics.

‘Do you think Thayer was being blackmailed?’

‘Blackmailed? Why should he be blackmailed?’

Was there something just a little too vehement in his repudiation of the idea? Or was it just his way with English? Well, he had learnt one thing: Thayer had been short of money. He had always
thought of him as rich but perhaps he had not been in the sense that the rich define rich. Or perhaps he was having to find money for some other reason. He would have to find out. There was nothing
more to be gained here.

Edward got up from his chair. ‘That was very kind of you, Herr Hoffmann. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.’

‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Hoffmann visibly relaxing. ‘And how is my friend Basil?’

He said ‘Basil’ as though he was holding between two fingers a dirty handkerchief.

‘He’s well. Worried about his money,’ Edward added on an impulse.

‘Tell him he has no need. His investments are with very profitable armaments companies.’

‘Such as Krupp?’

‘Why yes, such as with Herr Krupp,’ Hoffmann said smiling.

‘But what if there is a war?’

‘There will be no war,’ Hoffmann said, getting up and coming round from behind his desk.

‘Herr Hitler seems set upon war.’

‘Oh, but he is of no account. It is we bankers and the great financiers who control Germany. Nothing can happen without our permission.’

‘You believe that, do you?’ Edward said drily.

‘I do,’ he replied firmly. ‘There will be no war. Maybe a local war – in Spain perhaps. Soldiers need to try out their toys – but no European war.’

‘And the war against the Jews in this country?’

‘Oh, the Jew has always been hated. But many of our greatest bankers are Jews. That will all pass. In the meantime it gives people someone to blame for our economic failures. My own
feeling is that we did wrong in Germany to introduce a sewerage system in our cities.’

‘But why?’ inquired Edward, puzzled.

‘Because, in the last century, regular outbreaks of cholera and other diseases of the poor killed very many people who are now starving – who are now “a drain” on our
resources. That is what you call “a pun”, is it not?’

Edward found it hard to speak. This was what chilled the blood: a man in a suit, so civilised he decorated his walls with great art, talking about killing the poor like vermin. He shuddered.

‘You are not cold, Lord Edward?’

‘No, not at all.’

He would dearly have liked a drink – a cup of tea at least – and saw once more that the man he was talking to did not know the meaning of hospitality.

‘Did not your namesake, the author of
Struwwelpeter
, live near here?’

‘Hoffmann? Yes, in Schubertstrasse, but sadly I am no relation.’

‘It is a favourite book in English nurseries.’

‘So I understand and here also, naturally.’

Hoffmann sounded bored. No doubt many other people had asked him the same question.

‘I have always thought the book a little cruel,’ Edward added. ‘Struwwelpeter was always being burnt or cut.’

‘Only when he misbehaved,’ Hoffmann said, smiling. ‘You know “Struwwel” means “slovenly”. We Germans are not slovenly.’

Out in the street, Edward looked up at the shuttered villa. It sent shivers down his spine. How could somewhere so orderly, so decorous, be so sinister? But, as Hoffmann had said, the Germans
– so civilised in so many ways – were capable of extreme cruelty. Was Hoffmann in some way responsible for his friend’s death? He did not suppose the man had actually hit him over
the head, though Edward had no doubt he would commit murder if he had to. But had he driven Stephen into a position which resulted in his death? It was possible. He had clearly used him and then,
when he had finished with him, had spat him out to fend for himself. Hoffmann could have ruined him financially whenever he chose but, even worse, Stephen’s reputation would not have survived
his friends in the banking world knowing that he was the cat’s-paw of a man like Hoffmann.

He spent a sleepless night in a small hotel near the station. The trams appeared to live just beneath his bedroom window and clanged and clattered amongst themselves
throughout the night. It was a relief to get back to London the following day. For a week he busied himself to very little effect pursuing possible leads which invariably led nowhere. He spent
hours in the archives of the
New Gazette
. He looked up several Eton friends of his and Stephen’s and, to Fenton’s alarm, passed one whole day supine in an armchair in his
chambers looking blankly into the middle distance. He had, he knew, to go and see Elizabeth Bury and conclude the conversation he had begun when he had taken her out to dinner. He put it off day
after day but at last, on the seventh day after his return from Frankfurt, he realised he could procrastinate no longer. He decided he would go down to Mersham that afternoon after he had fortified
himself with lunch at his club.

However, in the event, he had once again to postpone his interview with Elizabeth. Fenton telephoned him at Brooks’s where he was lunching. ‘Bad news, I am afraid, my lord. Lord
Weaver has just had a cable from Madrid. Apparently there has been an attempt on the young lady’s life.’

‘Verity? Is she . . . is she . . .?’

‘She is not dead, my lord, but she is in hospital with a suspected fractured skull. She was hit over the head by some unknown assailant.’

‘Oh my God! I told her to be careful. When did you hear?’

‘Lord Weaver telephoned with the news a few minutes ago. He asked me to tell you he was completely at your service.’

‘We must bring her back to an English hospital.’

‘I understand the doctor says she cannot be moved for the time-being, my lord,’ said Fenton.

‘I must go to her immediately.’

‘I anticipated that that would be your wish, my lord. I have arranged with Lord Weaver for Mr Bragg to fly you to Madrid tomorrow at first light.’

‘Fenton, I see now I’ve been a damn fool. I’ve been looking in the wrong place for the wrong man. It’s time I did something right for once.’

Fenton knew the tone of his master’s voice. Lord Edward Corinth was no longer playing games; he was seeking vengeance.

Verity was behaving ‘like a cat on a hot stove’, as Hester had put it. In London, she had been possessed by panic. She had convinced herself she was going to miss
some crucial event in Spain’s history. She imagined she would for ever more be known as the foreign correspondent who was where the battle was not. When she was back in Madrid, however,
nothing had changed and nothing looked like changing. Now she decided she might just as well have stayed in London or, better still,
insisted
on going with Edward to Frankfurt. She craved
excitement, even danger – anything to justify calling herself a journalist and prove she was right to be here in Spain rather than Italy or Abyssinia – or Germany. Few people in England
were interested in Spain but she was certain . . . except sometimes at three in the morning when she could not sleep and twisted and turned in sweat-damp sheets . . . she was
certain
Spain
would be Europe’s tinderbox. All her instincts told her the political crisis was coming to a head. There was going to be a smash – a coming together in open war of the forces of
reaction – the Church and the army – and the new Republic. So why didn’t it happen?