Bones of the Buried (37 page)

Anxiously, Edward stared out of the window, looking for some patch of grass flat enough and long enough for the Rapide to land in safety, but they were passing over a rocky landscape without
even a road or track worth the name. The aeroplane began to shake and judder as Harry was convulsed by agonising pains. Edward had never flown a Rapide but it was becoming increasingly obvious that
he was going to have to now. With startling speed, Harry’s condition worsened until he was groaning pitifully. In a few moments, Edward decided, he would be unconscious. He had no time to
consider whether he was competent to fly the machine. It was much more advanced than the ‘knitting machines’, as Harry had called them, which they had flown in Africa. The Rapide was a
modern machine capable of carrying six passengers and flying long distances at speed.

With the utmost difficulty, he climbed over the seats and hauled at the pilot, who was now moaning and semi-conscious. As Edward discovered, unstrapping the body of a man from a cramped seat and
tipping him to one side in the confined space of the cockpit while the aeroplane bucked like a bronco, was almost impossible. However, knowing his life depended on it, he drew on reserves of
strength he had no idea he possessed and finally, the sweat running off him as if someone had left a tap running, he obtained sufficient leverage to push Harry away from the stick. He made a grab
at it, almost turning the machine over on its back. Harry’s body was half in and half out of the pilot’s seat and, in the end, Edward could do no more than crouch in the lap of the
unconscious man. The Rapide was making every effort to spin out of control, diving and swooping across the sky, sometimes so high his ears popped and sometimes so low that the taller peaks
threatened to end its journey in a fiery ball. For five long minutes, which Edward never forgot, he struggled with the plane as if it were a living thing and, when he finally gained control, he was
vomiting, his stomach protesting vigorously at being tossed about like a pancake. The sweat salted his eyes so that he could hardly see and he had an ache in his back which he thought must mean he
had pulled a disc.

He checked the fuel gauge and heaved a sigh of relief. There was plenty of fuel. He tried to find a map or chart and eventually discovered what he wanted stuck underneath Harry’s left
foot. With some difficulty, he prised it away. He knew he was only about twenty minutes from Barajas airport but, in the cavorting about the heavens, he had quite lost his sense of direction. He
climbed as high as he could but saw nothing – no landmark, no river or recognisable mountain. Finally, he took hold of himself and, using chart and compass, worked out where he must be. With
a heartfelt prayer, he turned the Rapide in what he believed to be the direction of the airport. After fifteen minutes of flying, it was with enormous relief that he recognised the outskirts of
Madrid and then, shining like a beacon in the sun, the control tower.

When he was over the airport, he flew in front of the tower and waved at the astonished Ferdy, who recognised him in the cockpit. It crossed his mind that either Ferdy had not eaten the
mushrooms he had pressed on his guest, or Harry’s poisoning was caused by something quite different. He had no way of alerting Ferdy, or anyone else, that he had no idea how to land the
Rapide but they seemed to understand his predicament all the same. When he had made another circuit of the airport, he could see several figures running around on the tarmac waving their hands and
signalling wildly. Edward grinned. Presumably they knew what they wanted him to do, but he hadn’t the foggiest idea. However, the landing strip was clear so, taking a deep breath, he reduced
speed and height.

It was a close-run thing. He landed much too fast and hard, careering well beyond the end of the runway and jerking to a halt on the grass a few yards from some bewildered-looking sheep. With
his last remaining strength, he pushed open the door and almost fell on to the blessed earth – blessed even though he had chosen to fall on a pile of sheep droppings. He was soon surrounded
by a dozen or more men who raised him to his feet and lifted out the unconscious Bragg, exclaiming the whole time in a mixture of English and Spanish.

‘Is there a doctor?’ he asked, when he could make himself heard. His voice sounded unnaturally hoarse and his throat felt as dry as the landscape he had been flying over. ‘He
has eaten something . . . poisonous.’

There was no doctor but one of the men in uniform seemed to have some medical training. He tried to make Harry vomit and succeeded in rousing him enough to make him throw up some of his
breakfast. Then they carried him to a car and drove off at high speed.

‘But you must go back to the city and rest,’ Ferdy was saying. Edward lay exhausted in Ferdy’s armchair in the control tower, sipping gratefully at black
coffee laced with brandy.

‘I’ve got to get to London. I think I’ve got the hang of the Rapide now,’ he said, trying to sound confident.

Ferdy was horrified. ‘No, no, meelor, I forbid it. You cannot fly. It is not possible.’

‘I don’t see why not. There’s nothing wrong with the machine as far as I can see. My landing was a bit rough, I admit, but practice makes perfect.’

Edward had considered trying to find out how Harry had been poisoned but really, what was the point? He didn’t believe Ferdy was involved. The latter had taken it for granted that the
poisoning had been accidental and it would be unforgivably mean-spirited to rub his nose in the reality. Someone in the airport kitchen had been suborned into eliminating Lord Edward Corinth and,
if it meant killing someone else as well, it wasn’t going to hold him – or her – back. It rather pleased Edward to feel that he was so close to the truth he had got his murderer
worried enough to try and bump him off. He never doubted for one moment that the same hand had also been responsible for the attack on Verity and the murder of Godfrey Tilney. And yet,
paradoxically, he still believed he would discover what lay behind the murders in England rather than in Spain.

‘We shall send to Madrid for another pilot.’

‘No, Ferdy, old lad, no time for that. Just do us a favour and top up the tank and I’ll be away. I think I’ve got navigation and landing licked but I don’t want to do
either in the dark.’

He wanted to be off before his enemy could try anything else to stop him getting to England.

‘The English! You are mad,’ Ferdy responded, shrugging his shoulders to indicate admiration mixed with exasperation. His surrender was absolute and he went over the charts with
Edward, pointing out the difficulties he might face. The Rapide was refuelled and Ferdy watched with apprehension as Edward taxied it across the grass to the beginning of the runway. He had to
close his eyes as the aeroplane roared down the tarmac and then sighed with relief as it climbed into the sky and disappeared towards France. He decided to telephone his friend the Baroness. She
would want to know what had happened. Edward had absolutely forbidden him to tell Verity how close he had come to ending his life over the ochre plains of Léon but he had said nothing about
not communicating with Hester Lengstrum.

At Croydon, he was met by Fenton in the Lagonda and was driven not to London but to Mersham Castle.

‘A good flight, my lord?’ Fenton inquired, as he accelerated through Croydon.

‘Not bad, thank you, Fenton. Harry Bragg got taken ill so I flew the bird myself. Easy to master, I’m glad to say. Got lost just the once and almost had to land in the Champs
Elysées but saw the Eiffel Tower . . . in time, thank goodness.’

‘Indeed, my lord!’

‘Just my little joke, Fenton.’

He had, in truth, had some extremely anxious moments over Paris and some minutes later a passing seagull might have heard him abusing the Almighty for the width of the English Channel as he
watched his fuel gauge drop perilously close to the red. He considered that, for an idle aristocrat with more money than sense, he seemed to be busier than many of his friends who took the
nine-five from Sevenoaks each morning and spent the day behind an office desk.

‘Ned, you look tired out. Was the flight exhausting?’

‘Not particularly, Connie. Just getting old.’

‘How is Verity?’

‘On the mend, but it was a near thing. The blow on her head was meant to kill.’

‘How dreadful! You must be so worried. I have written to her.’

‘Yes, that was good of you, Connie.’

‘Come and have tea in the gun room. Gerald is itching to hear what you’ve been up to.’

‘Gerald’s up and about then? That’s very good news.’

‘Yes, he’s almost his old self – complaining about the weather, the food, and blaming it all on the government.’

Edward laughed. ‘And Elizabeth? She’s gone back to the hospital?’

‘Well, I don’t know that she has. She was supposed to. She’s been wanting to leave for some time but we’ve pressed her to stay on. Finally, at the end of last week, I had
to agree that Gerald was well enough to manage without a hospital nurse. The trouble is, of course, she’s become essential to him – to us both. She’s been a true companion and I
really don’t know what I’m going to do without her. Gerald is already beginning to play up. That’s one reason why I’m so pleased you’re here. He is better of course
– much better – but he’s still not quite right. He gets very tired and he’s irritable. He likes to be entertained.’

‘Sounds to me like he’s got very selfish,’ said Edward bluntly.

‘Oh well, I’d just say he’s got used to being the centre of attention and being waited on hand and foot.’

‘Looks to me as if he needs to be shaken up a bit.’

‘Part of the problem is that he feels so useless. He reads
The Times
and gets depressed by the news and feels he can’t do anything about it. You know how badly it hit him when
he had to give up those dinners.’

The year before, the Duke had planned a series of dinners at which influential people from all sides of the political spectrum could meet important Germans informally to exchange views and seek
ways of cementing Anglo-German relations. Unfortunately, the poisoning of General Craig at one of these occasions had made it impossible for them to continue, even though the murder was in no way
connected with politics.

‘You do look tired, Ned. Can’t you take a holiday?’

‘I can’t take a holiday because I’m not one of the world’s workers, am I?’ he answered cheerfully. ‘As Verity’s always telling me, I’m a fully
paid-up member of the idle rich.’

‘But you must rest from all this travelling. What are you doing anyway? I thought David Griffiths-Jones was no longer in prison.’

‘No, but I have still to find out who killed Stephen Thayer and who knocked Verity on the head. The same person perhaps – but then again, perhaps not.’

‘But can’t you leave that to the police, Ned? You’re not . . . you’re not Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Spanish police, bless them, have other things to worry about. As for the egregious Chief Inspector – I have absolutely no faith in him whatsoever. Charles wants to know the truth
about his father’s murder and I gave him my word that I would find out. It’s as simple as that.’

‘It doesn’t sound simple.’

‘But tell me more about Elizabeth. I don’t quite understand. Why hasn’t she gone back to the hospital now Gerald doesn’t need her?’

‘I’m not sure she’s ever going back. I’m rather worried, actually. I wondered if you could go over and see her and find out what the problem is. I felt she and I could
talk about anything but, after you left for Madrid, she . . . changed. She couldn’t have been sweeter. I don’t mean her manner to me changed except that she wouldn’t confide in
me. Did you upset her in some way before you went? I may be wrong but I think it’s to do with you.’

‘Me?’

‘Did you say something to upset her?’

Connie had had hopes of Elizabeth Bury but something had happened which had made her fight shy of Mersham. She guessed it was to do with her brother-in-law because she had first talked about
leaving soon after she had returned from London when she had had dinner with him. It was all most unfortunate: Gerald had behaved like a spoiled child when she insisted on leaving and Connie had
had moments when she could cheerfully have strangled them both.

‘I thought you might like to invite her to the Fourth of June. Gerald feels he’s well enough to go and, to be honest, I think either he or I will burst a blood vessel if he
doesn’t get out of here soon. Anyway, I know Frank is counting on you being there.’

She wondered if she was being too direct. Would her brother-in-law feel he was being manipulated and shy away from taking up with Elizabeth again? To her relief, Edward said, ‘Good idea.
She hasn’t got a telephone, has she? I’ll walk over to Lower Mersham and surprise her.’ Elizabeth had a cottage in the village, which was hardly more than a hamlet, about three
miles away. ‘Of course, she may not be there.’

‘As far as I know, she is. I had a rather cross call from the matron at the hospital almost accusing me of kidnapping her but I explained it was nothing to do with us . . . I am right,
aren’t I?’ she added, looking at her brother-in-law questioningly.

Rosemary Cottage was a tiny house – one up, one down – approached by a wicket gate and a narrow gravel path beside which sweet peas draped themselves over bamboo
stakes and hollyhocks stood sentry. On that first day of June, it seemed that English summer had finally decided to appear in all its buxom beauty. The cottage eaves were embraced by wisteria which
seemed to break over them like spindrift. Pink and white roses climbed carelessly over the porch, threatening to engulf it, and jasmine and honeysuckle mingled their sweet scents so intoxicatingly
that Edward forgot the speech he had rehearsed that morning in the shaving mirror. He had been to the cottage before, of course, but had never gone inside. He had walked Elizabeth over from the
castle two or three times in the spring when she had been nursing his brother, but had always left her on the step, raising his hat and saying goodbye as if she were just an acquaintance. Now he
knocked on the door with some trepidation. It was hard to believe that in this most English of paradises a snake might lurk. How could evil breathe such air and survive? And yet . . . he had
unfinished business with the occupant of the cottage which he very much feared might . . . might not be pleasant to conclude.