Dangerous Sea (34 page)

‘He won’t see it that way. He’ll blame me for having driven her to her death. If I hadn’t gone on with my wretched sleuthing I wouldn’t have . . .’

‘. . . found out the truth?’ Verity finished his sentence. She was suddenly angry, though not with Edward. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself for that. The truth is the only thing worth going after. You did not drive her to her death.’

‘She wanted to kill herself and I didn’t stop her!’

‘Maybe she did. Maybe she couldn’t live with herself any longer. That was her decision. But for her sake and her mother’s we must call it an accident.’

‘Verity! Can you still love me?’ he asked wretchedly.

‘I love you more when you doubt yourself than when you are certain,’ she said. ‘And I love you for loving the truth. I have said so much about what makes us different but I haven’t said what it is which brings us together.’ She leant over and kissed him on the lips. ‘I love you because you care about the things I care about. We care about facing up to the truth. It’s not easy. It’s not comfortable. We’d all much rather live cosseted by lies and half-truths. It would be easier if we could live in some pretend world, like this boat, but even here, behind the fancy dress, we see reality ugly enough but
real
. You and I are different, aren’t we, Edward? We have the courage to meet the truth face to face whatever mask it wears. Without that we are nothing.’

Verity was speaking with an earnestness he had never heard before. He opened his mouth to say something but she pressed the palm of her hand over his lips. ‘I know you want to get up and face the music but you are just going to have to wait. Doctor’s orders. You stay here and rest. I’ll go and see what is happening. I’ll be back in five minutes . . . promise.’

It seemed all the passengers were on deck to catch that first unforgettable glimpse of the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island beyond it, peopled by the ghosts of so many thousands of immigrants in search of a brave new world in which to begin their lives again. As Edward gazed at the cheerful scene blow him – the little boats dwarfed by the Queen Mary hooting and braying like hounds round the huntsman, he thought of the fresh wave of refugees, greater than any which had gone before, desperate to be where he was now, fleeing a Europe descending into madness.

There was some cheering and a general feeling of exhilaration coupled with some apprehension on the part of the un-American contingent, as Senator Day might have put it. The police and immigration authorities came on board and even the most blameless of the foreigners felt they were under scrutiny. Everyone had something to hide and it was a relief that the police seemed uninterested in discovering what. No doubt they had enough problems without needing to add to them gratuitously. Edward gave a full account of seeing Philly fall over the rail and it was agreed that it was a tragic accident.

Mrs Roosevelt was remarkably stoical about her daughter’s death. She knew Philly had been living on borrowed time. She had been spared the lingering, painful death the cancer would have brought her. And then there was the murder. Edward had expected to be abused by a hysterical woman but Mrs Roosevelt either knew or guessed more than he had supposed of her daughter’s reason for being on board.

He saw nothing of Perry, whom the doctor had sedated and who was being nursed by Frank. Feeling cowardly, he did not seek out the two boys and, when Frank did appear, Lord Benyon seemed to keep him very busy.

As they waited for their passports to be checked, Edward caught Jane Barclay looking at him. She raised her eyebrows in mute inquiry. He pretended not to see her. She could sweat a little longer, he thought spitefully. It was some small punishment for her part in the whole debacle.

He had thought long and hard about where his duty lay in identifying the Senator’s murderer to the police. The New York police had been happy to accept the Captain’s verdict that the Senator’s death was an accident. He had been gazing at the swimming-pool and had fallen in, hitting his head as he did so. He could not swim and so drowned. It was as simple as that. They interviewed none of the passengers, with the exception of Marcus Fern who described finding the body in the pool, and appeared satisfied. Perhaps they did not wish to annoy some important people, Edward thought uncharitably.

And yet, murder was not some trivial misdemeanour to be brushed aside as though it were of no importance. The Senator had been a bad man and the world was well rid of him, but who were Jane Barclay and Philly Roosevelt to take on that task? The killing was murder; it was premeditated and carried out with determination. They had counted on there being no police on board the
Queen Mary
to investigate, and it was bad luck for them that he had been on board and the Senator’s death had got mixed up with keeping Benyon safe. Philly had paid the price asked of her for revenging the harm Day had done her. Jane had not. He wondered whether, if Philly had not been to the psychoanalyst, she would have done what she did. It was one area where he was presumptuous enough to disagree with Freud, whose theories he generally respected. He did not believe that it was always necessary to face up to childhood trauma, or at least not in public. He accepted that to
know
the truth about oneself was necessary if one wished to call oneself a mature human being but to proclaim it to the wider world could cause unforeseeable damage to innocent parties. At best, the truth was a ‘blunt instrument’ and should be wielded with care. So often ‘blunt instruments’ became murder weapons. But how specious was his argument? He
knew
who had killed the Senator – it was no longer a suspicion, he
knew
. If he remained silent, did that not make him an accessory to murder? Did not keeping silent put him on a par with those who made no protest when a fellow citizen was taken from the streets and sent to a camp or shot out of hand with no semblance of a trial? He put this to Verity who told him he was in danger of sounding self-important.

‘There can be no comparison. You are not killing anyone or informing on someone. A class-enemy . . . an enemy of the people is dead. It is not incumbent on you to shop the killer. You are not Father Brown. You’re not justice personified.’

So Edward kept silent. He liked Jane Barclay and he admired Warren Fairley whose life would be ruined if his wife was accused of murder. He felt guilty about Philly’s death and the pain he had caused his nephew and Philly’s twin and mother. These were his reasons for keeping silent, not Verity’s casuistry, but still . . .

Verity and Sam had had some trouble with the immigration officer who checked their passports. She had seen Benyon take Professor Dolmen and his wife up to one of the officials and say something to him. The man had laughed, patted Dolmen on the back and then stamped his papers. How come the officer had seemed much less willing to let
her
enter the States? Were Nazis more welcome than Communists? It seemed so. The immigration officer questioned her closely about her reasons for visiting the United States and appeared to know all about her political affiliations. Humiliatingly, she had to call Edward over for support and he had to use all his charm to get the man to relent. It was her first lesson in the reality of American politics. The United States might be a democracy and it might welcome the huddled masses but the true democrats as she defined them – Communists – were greeted with suspicion. Evidently,
she
might pollute the atmosphere even if Dolmen did not.

The FBI agent, Henry Fawcett, also came on board before the
Queen Mary
docked, and Edward reported on the events that had led to Tom Barrett’s death and Blane’s attempt to murder Lord Benyon.

‘Well, I guess you’ve had a busy time,’ Fawcett said with a grin, ‘but you can relax. We’re taking Blane off now and we’ll interrogate him. I’ll need a statement from you, of course, and your nephew.’

‘What’ll happen to him?’

‘Don’t know yet but I expect we’ll ship him back to England for your people to deal with.’

‘I’m heartily glad to be turning over my badge to you, Sheriff,’ Edward said, recalling a Western Verity had made him sit through. ‘Keep Lord Benyon safe. It’s been a hell of a job getting him here in one piece. I’d hate to see you mess it up now.’

‘We’ll do our best,’ Fawcett said, laconically.

When Bernard Hunt, arm in arm with Doris Zinkeisen, said his goodbyes to Edward and Verity, he confessed that he was gambling everything on becoming a Bernard Berenson figure to the rich and famous, advising on art and buying for his clients.

‘If it comes to nothing, I might have to settle for the Cour-tauld after all,’ he joked.

Edward kissed Doris and was almost drowned in
Acqua Di Parma
. Perched on her head like pastry on a pattypan she wore a
Queen Mary
beret crowned with a representation of the ship. It looked quite absurd but Edward found he had become fond of this madcap. She was spunky, eccentric and not without talent. Her mural in the Verandah Grill might be vulgar but it had the energy and zest for life of its creator.

‘Darling, if you ever visit Hollywood, come and see me. You could give dear Errol Flynn a run for his money.’

Verity looked doubtful. ‘Don’t you mean Franklin Pang-born?’ Pangborn normally played down-trodden clerks or put-upon waiters.

‘Miss Browne,’ Hunt said carefully, ‘we must keep in touch. As you said to me earlier, we have something in common.’

He and Doris had gone before she thought to ask what it was they shared. If the answer was Communism, he might go a long way to making her change her political opinions.

Lord Benyon was greeted by a small but determined group of press and by the British Minister in New York, who whisked him through customs and into an official car, with Fern and Frank at his heels.

Jane Barclay and Warren Fairley were the main attraction for the press. The cameras flashed, capturing Fairley at his most noble and Jane at her most glamorous. The contrast between them was dramatic – the huge black man and the blonde with the hour-glass figure – but Edward was inclined to think they were both ‘tough cookies’. As they said their final goodbyes, Jane kissed Edward and whispered in his ear, ‘Shall we see you in court?’

Edward whispered back, gesturing at Fairley talking to the reporters, ‘Warren holds court. I don’t. As the Boers used to say, “
Alle zoll recht kommen
” – all will come right in the end.’

Jane looked at him. ‘Is that so? I guess I must take that as a decision not to prosecute. You’re not quite the stuffed shirt people take you for, are you?’

‘I accept that as a compliment,’ he responded.

She kissed him again. A reporter, cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth and wearing the uniform of his trade – shiny suit and porkpie hat – took their photograph. Scenting a story, or at least juicy gossip, he indicated Edward with a nod of his head. ‘Who’s d’guy, Jane baby? Some limey by the look of him. Is he your latest “daddy”?’

She winked and said out of the corner of her mouth, ‘I should be so lucky.’

Edward looked round for Verity and saw her all alone reading a newspaper. She seemed on the point of tears.

‘V, what’s the matter? What’s that you’re reading?’

‘Nothing,’ she said bitterly, ‘just a review of my book in the
Times Literary Supplement
, no less.’

‘And it’s not favourable?’

‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘You read it.’

Edward took the paper from her and read the review. It was unsigned, as was the policy of that distinguished publication.

‘Miss Browne has the easily raised emotions of the ill-informed. It appears she does not speak Spanish. She saw mainly socialists. She accepted her facts from them. Visiting Spain for the first time and having the usual blindness to character endemic in the politically minded, she seems to have been carried away by the facial fervour of her friends, their flashing eyes and fervent gestures. She might have seen the same exalted manner in Fascists, priests and peanut vendors.’

‘How beastly,’ Edward said when he had finished the review. ‘I suppose you don’t know who wrote it? Not one of your friends, anyway.’

‘I don’t know who wrote it but I wish he were here so I could wring his neck.’

Edward knew better than to offer easy sympathy. An angry Verity was better than a sobbing Verity. She was tough and he knew she could take whatever was thrown at her.

‘Who was the kind friend who gave you the paper?’

‘One of the people with the man who came to meet Benyon. Do you think it’s some sort of warning to me?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘ “We know you are a member of the Communist Party so behave or else . . .”.’

Edward thought it was entirely likely.

‘It’s a good book, V, and it tells the truth,’ was all he said, however. He was distracted by a shout of greeting.

‘Edward darling. I’ve come to fetch you away. How wonderful to see you again. But what’s this? You’re on sticks. Have you been wounded chasing murderers?’

The woman who had just elegantly slid her long legs out of a Rolls-Royce was Amy Pageant, an old flame and the daughter of Lord Weaver, the owner of the
New Gazette
which employed Verity. Edward had first met her singing in a London nightclub when she was quite unknown and he had watched her become one of Broadway’s most feted stars.

‘Amy! What are you doing here?’

‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

‘Of course I am but how the devil did you know I was on the
Queen Mary
?’

‘I heard just by chance. Ronald read it in the
New York Times
. They list all the important passengers. But you haven’t met Ronald, have you? He’s too divine and we are going to be married, aren’t we, sugar? Just as soon as we have time.’ She kissed Edward on both cheeks. ‘He’s money. I don’t know why but I never seem to have quite enough,’ she murmured.

Edward glanced at Ronald. Plump, smiling, silent, clearly proud to be seen with Amy Pageant, he seemed like the perfect escort.

‘Verity’s here . . .’ Edward said, looking round for her. ‘Oh, she seems to have vanished. No, there she is with Sam Forrest. Sam,’ he called.