Bones of the Buried (39 page)

‘I believe he was,’ Elizabeth answered vaguely, ‘but I never met him.’

‘So you’ll come?’ Edward said brusquely.

‘I haven’t got anything to wear.’

‘Oh bosh. Connie will lend you something.’

She smiled at him. ‘You really want me to come?’

‘Yes, I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you.’

‘Well then, I’ll come. What time do we have to be there?’

‘About twelve. I’ll pick you up from here about ten. We’ll wander round with Frank, if he’s not playing cricket, look at the school and watch some cricket perhaps.
Don’t be alarmed, it won’t be for long. Then we’ll have lunch and after that watch the afternoon parade of boats.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The school eights and a few other odds and sods row up the river in all their finery. But the fun is that they try and stand up holding their oars and, with any luck, at least one of them
falls in. Childish, I know, but fun all the same. The whole thing is repeated when it’s dark and then there are fireworks. But I want to get there a bit early because I want to talk to my old
Dame again. I think she has the secret.’

‘What secret?’

‘She told me something about why your husband, Godfrey Tilney and Stephen Thayer were thrown out of the school but she wouldn’t tell me the whole of it. I think I can persuade her
now.’

‘And you think all three were murdered because of something that happened when they were schoolboys?’

‘I know it sounds preposterous, but yes, I do. You know the expression “revenge is a dish best served cold”?’

‘Yes, but that cold? You really think someone would wait – what is it – nearly twenty years before taking revenge for some schoolboy prank?’

‘I think this might have been more than a prank. But yes, I do think people can harbour hate in their hearts for years waiting for the moment when they can do something about
it.’

Elizabeth shivered. ‘I’m not sure. You see, I think I know why my husband was killed.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. You know I said we went on this safari as a sort of new beginning – a second honeymoon, Makepeace called it.’

‘But the safari didn’t really help?’

‘Well, he made an effort to be nice to me, and I quite enjoyed myself.’

‘Did you shoot game yourself?’

‘No. The animals are so beautiful. It was enough just to see them. I hated the idea of killing elephants or lions.’

‘But your husband . . .?’

‘He’d never done it before but he loved it. He said he would die happy if he could kill a lion first. We had separate tents because I didn’t need to wake up at dawn like
Makepeace.’

‘Yes, you have to be in position before the sun gets up and the heat drives the animals into the long grass to sleep.’

‘I’d forgotten, Connie said you had been in Africa.’

‘It was the happiest time of my life. One day I want to go back and live there.’

Elizabeth looked at him strangely. ‘I hate the place,’ she said.

‘Of course, you must do,’ Edward said in confusion. ‘So what happened?’

‘Well, as I say, I didn’t have to get up so early but I wasn’t sleeping very well so I often
did
wake before dawn. We weren’t allowed to wander around but I liked
to walk to the edge of the camp and watch the dawn. It is the most beautiful sight in the world, don’t you think? The mist rolling back to reveal great expanses of grassland and maybe some
animal walking across the view as though . . . as though you weren’t even there.’

‘Yes,’ Edward said, remembering the African dawns he had seen.

‘Anyway, on the day Makepeace died, I was up before dawn and sat myself in a favourite place to watch the sun rise. And, just as the sun broke through the mist, I saw something out of the
corner of my eye. Joe, one of the boys who carried our stuff, was coming out of his tent.’

‘Your husband’s tent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps he had gone to wake him?’

‘That wasn’t his job.’

‘So you think . . .’

‘Yes, I do. I was disgusted,’ she said vehemently.

‘Did anyone else see what you saw?’

‘Yes, the head boy, a man we called Barny. I don’t know what his real name was. We gave all the boys names we could pronounce.’

‘And Barny saw this boy, Joe, come out of the tent? When you say “boy” . . .?’

‘Yes, I know, they call all the Africans “boy”, but Joe really was one.’

‘And you think that Barny . . .?’

‘I found out later Barny was Joe’s father.’

‘I see,’ said Edward gravely. ‘Tell me, was this a private safari? Were you the only white people there?’

‘Yes, except for Captain Gates, the hunter, and his assistant. I can’t remember his name, I’m afraid.’

‘That was a bit unusual. Normally, there would be several people – white people – on a safari.’

‘Yes, but Makepeace was adamant he wanted to be alone.’

‘I see,’ said Edward again, but he wasn’t altogether sure he did. Elizabeth was at great pains to say that her husband had been murdered although, at the time, she had
acquiesced when the authorities concluded that he had died in a shooting accident. And she was even telling him who had murdered him. Why? What wasn’t she telling him? He had heard of Gates.
He was a famous ‘white hunter’. It was extremely unlikely that he had been involved in anything shady. But he was rumoured to be something of a ladies’ man. Might he have been
‘entertaining’ Elizabeth . . .? He looked at her sitting beside him. She seemed to be innocence itself – her skin a little browned by the sun, her auburn hair escaping from under
her hat so that she unconsciously swept the strands away from her face with the back of her hand. No, damn it, he could not believe she had murdered her husband.

As if she read his thoughts, Elizabeth said, ‘I didn’t kill him. I won’t say I did not want to . . . sometimes, but I didn’t kill him.’

‘I don’t believe you did,’ Edward said.

‘Chief Inspector Pride says they expect to make an arrest in the next day or two.’ Basil Thoroughgood looked at Edward musingly. ‘I say, you look a bit
off-colour, Corinth. Did you have a bad time in Spain? I was sorry to hear about Miss Browne. I gather she’s on the mend though. Had the attack on her anything to do with your investigations?
By the way, I should say, Pride hates your guts. But then you knew that, didn’t you?’

Edward, despite Connie’s protests, had taken the early train to London. ‘You’re not fit to travel, Ned. You must rest,’ she had insisted when he had told her what he
intended to do. Privately, Edward agreed with her. He had telephoned Lord Weaver and explained briefly that his pilot had been taken ill and he had flown the Rapide to Croydon himself. Weaver had
expressed surprise that he knew how to fly the aeroplane and Edward had gone so far as to say it had been a surprise to him too.

He had then called the Foreign Office and Thoroughgood had told him he had the reports from Nairobi on Hoden’s death but preferred not to discuss them in detail on the telephone. It was
these which Edward was scanning while Thoroughgood talked. ‘Hoffmann said you were polite and knew a lot about art,’ he continued.

‘And you, Basil. I take it from your relaxed tone that you have got your money out of his clutches.’

‘I have,’ Thoroughgood said smugly. ‘Mind you, I think I panicked unnecessarily. I’m seriously thinking of joining one of Herr Hoffmann’s schemes. He thinks I might
be helpful.’

‘Oh really? And what does Vansittart say?’

Thoroughgood had the grace to blush. ‘Well, it’s only an idea. I probably won’t but, you know, I have it on the best authority that the German Chancellor has no idea of engaging in a war with England. He admires the British Empire.’

‘That’s what your chum Hoffmann says, is it, Basil? If I were you, I’d treat anything he tells you as if it came from the father of lies himself.’

‘Miss Browne must be pleased her friend is out of gaol?’

‘Yes, and I’m sure David Griffiths-Jones is very grateful for all your help – that is, if you provided any.’

‘What do you mean, you ungracious man? Didn’t I get you a vital two weeks’ grace to find out . . . that Tilney wasn’t dead after all? Or rather . . .’

‘Yes, well maybe. But these reports . . .’ Edward waved the papers in the air. ‘Do you see who they’re signed by?’

‘Of course, Tom Sutton. He was the official who dealt with it. You knew he had been in Nairobi before going to Spain.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘He says it was all an accident . . . and he should know. After all, he was actually there on the safari when Hoden died.’

‘What!’

‘Yes, didn’t he tell you? He knew better than anyone what had really happened . . . the man on the spot, so to speak.’

Edward scratched his head. ‘No, he didn’t tell me. I thought . . .’

‘What did you think?’

‘I thought I knew who killed Stephen Thayer but now . . .’

‘Damn it, you’re not saying you suspected Tom Sutton? He’s above suspicion. He’s one of ours. Pity about his politics, of course . . .’

‘What are his politics? It occurs to me that everyone in Madrid talks politics all the time, but not Tom Sutton. I assumed he had to be neutral because he was working at the British
Embassy.’

‘He’s very discreet but I’m afraid he’s on the left, a communist possibly. By the way, how did Griffiths-Jones take it when you asked him to be our eyes and ears in the
Party?’

Edward made no reply. He was thinking furiously. At last, he said, ‘Was Sutton in London when Thayer was killed?’

‘No, he was in the south of Spain, I believe, getting intelligence on Mola’s activities. Good man, Sutton. He’s here now if you want to see him. He’s being debriefed and
will be going back to Spain at the end of the week.’

‘He’s here now, in London? Has he got a flat here or something?’

‘Yes, at least I think he stays with friends but I can get his address if you want it but . . . are you going down to Eton for the Fourth? I’m taking him down – trying to get
him to see it’s not quite such a bad place after all. If you’re going, I’m sure you’ll see him there.’

‘That reminds me: do you remember a scandal when we were at Eton?’

‘A scandal?’

‘A film star “entertained” Eton boys at a hotel near the school. Thayer was one of them. Hoden and Tilney too, I believe. It got into the papers.’

‘I do remember something about it. Thayer was sacked, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. They all were.’

‘So what?’

‘The film star – a woman called Dora Pale – had a son at the school. He was younger than Thayer – in my year though I didn’t know him. He committed suicide. His
father was Max Federstein – the Jewish oil millionaire. Thayer never said anything to you about it?’

‘No, never! You think it has some bearing on all of this?’

‘Maybe. I’ll know for sure soon enough.’

It was almost a tradition that the Duke travel to Eton on the Fourth of June in his Rolls-Royce. The least likely of men to advertise his wealth and position in society, there
was something about visiting his son at school which made him throw off all his natural reserve. When Connie had once questioned him about this uncharacteristic desire to display himself like a
peacock, he came up with a host of explanations – none of which were altogether convincing. He wanted Frank to ‘keep his end up’ amongst all those tradesmen’s sons; he had
no fear of embarrassing anyone because ‘they’re all a damn sight richer than me, Connie dear’; he loved his Rolls-Royce – a Phantom II he had bought in 1930 and the last car
actually designed by Royce before his death in 1933. The Duke had considered Royce to be a friend and, when he died, he had the RR grille badge, which was red, replaced with a black one. It was a
magnificent beast and the Duke liked to ride in it, particularly when he was feeling depressed. He sometimes drove it himself with his chauffeur sitting beside him like a stuffed dummy but not, of
course, on occasions like the Fourth of June.

As it happened, the Duke’s chauffeur was ill so Edward volunteered Fenton’s services. ‘He’s the best driver I know, far better than me,’ he said encouragingly.

The Rolls stopped at Elizabeth’s cottage to collect her and was at once surrounded by half a dozen admiring village children who received halfpennies from the Duke, who was at his most
avuncular. He was in high spirits. He was going to see his son of whom he was inordinately proud. He had Edward beside him with a girl he credited with saving his life and whom he considered the
epitome of feminine grace and beauty.

‘You know,’ he had said to Connie that morning at breakfast, before Edward had surfaced, ‘I know I’m an old fuddy-duddy, but I think Elizabeth is just the sort of gel a
chap with any sense would be proud to make his wife. She’s no fool, she’s warmhearted, pretty as a picture, and gentle. That’s what I like about her: she’s gentle, not
aggressive like . . .’

‘For goodness’ sake, Gerry,’ said his wife in alarm. ‘If you even hint at any of this in front of Ned, he’ll run a mile. No young man with any spirit wants to marry
a chintz sofa.’

‘Whatever do you mean, Connie? Who said anything about sofas? I just . . .’

At that moment Edward appeared, bleary-eyed but not so sleepy that he could not pick up the atmosphere. ‘Have you two been fighting?’ he inquired, waving a finger in the air.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ned,’ Connie said.

‘I’ve got it! You’ve been talking about me. I can sense it,’ he said, scooping scrambled egg from a silver chafing dish on the sideboard. He turned round and saw his
brother trying – but failing – to look innocent. ‘You’re trying to marry me off to Elizabeth. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Of course not,’ Connie interjected just as the Duke said defiantly, ‘Well, why not? Dem’ fine gel, if you ask me. Absolutely pukka, as our pater used to say, God rest
him. He’d expect you to be married by now, Ned. And Connie, it’s no use you making faces at me. I will say what I want to say.’

Edward smiled. ‘Tut, tut, Gerry. Didn’t Connie tell you, it puts people off if their family actually
like
the girl they’re thinking of marrying.’

‘Poppycock!’ exclaimed the Duke. ‘Everyone loved Connie, when I introduced her to the family. Even awful old Aunt Matilda said she was a sensible gel and she had never been
known to say anything nice about any woman.’