Hollow Crown (36 page)

‘I’m so sorry but, when Thoroughgood telephoned, the line was bad and I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Major Ferguson.’ His voice was hoarse, as though he didn’t have much use for it. ‘Our friend said you wanted to know about Geoffrey Hepple-Keen.’

‘That’s right. I don’t know whether you can answer this but does Hepple-Keen work for you, or someone like you?’

‘He’s an MP, isn’t he? Why should he be working for me?’

‘He was in Ireland during the worst of the troubles and he was a policeman then.’

Ferguson looked at him, the scar above his eye twitching but probably, Edward thought, not from nerves. He didn’t look the nervous type.

‘What makes you think that?’

Knowing it must come, Edward had considered how he would answer that question. Since he had no wish to involve Verity in any of this – as a Communist Party member, she would never be a
secret policeman’s favourite person – he had decided to say he had been delving in the archives of the
New Gazette
. But, before he could say anything, Ferguson asked, ‘Did
your friend, Miss Browne, find some references to him being in Ireland when she was looking through the files?’

‘What?’ Edward said, nonplussed. Was Verity so dangerous a character that her every move was being watched?

‘Not magic,’ Ferguson said, with a grin which made him suddenly likeable. ‘Mr Purser, the
Gazette’s
archivist, keeps an eye on things at the paper for us –
but that’s confidential. I must have your word you won’t pass it on to Miss Browne or anyone else.’

‘But that’s outrageous! We
do
live in a police state. I thought it was a Communist Party exaggeration, but it’s true.’

‘There is a very thin line between the personal liberties we all value and the security of the state, Lord Edward. Certain European countries have an advantage over us because their police
can act with total freedom in suppressing dissent and enforcing adherence to the party line. That is not the British way, and never shall be, but we do have to make some compromises if we are to
defend the very freedoms we both value against less scrupulous regimes.’

‘Yes but . . . ’

‘I wouldn’t have come to see you, Lord Edward if I had not been perfectly certain of your patriotism and your discretion. I am not unaware of how you conducted yourself in Spain a
few months back. In short, I am prepared to help you but first I must hear from your own lips why you need this information. You suspect Sir Geoffrey Hepple-Keen of murder? Is that it?’

‘I do, but if you tell me he was working for you and if, as I take it, you represent the . . . ’

‘What I represent is not important,’ Ferguson interjected.

‘But if Hepple-Keen was working for the government, then that would explain some of his actions which, on the face of it, are suspicious.’

Ferguson did not answer immediately. Then he said, ‘I can’t tell you much, I’m afraid. He was working for the government in Ulster a few years back but he went a little too far
. . . off the rails, so to speak . . . so we parted company but . . . ’

‘But . . . ?’

‘But it is possible he was acting on behalf of some important people when he was at Haling. He is – or rather was – a close friend of Leo Scannon, as you know, and the latter
was a close friend of the King. That’s all I can say.’

‘But he wasn’t working for you?’

‘It’s a difficult one to answer honestly, Lord Edward. As you can imagine, we rely on information from a variety of sources – many of them suspect or unreliable. We have to
touch pitch, so to speak. Sir Geoffrey is an influential Member of Parliament and, now and again, he hears things and some of those things he feels able to pass on to us.’

‘But some he does not?’

‘That’s correct. For example he is, as you know, a close associate of Sir Oswald Mosley. For some time he passed us information about that gentleman’s activities which was . .
. useful in keeping tabs on him.’

‘But no longer?’

‘No longer.’

‘Have you asked him why he has given up talking to you?’

‘We have considered doing so but, in the end, we thought it better to watch and wait. We attribute his silence to his being involved with a particular lady.’

Edward’s head, which had begun to ache, cleared. ‘His affair with Mrs Harkness?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Have you any objection to my going on digging, then?’

‘None, so long as you are aware that you are walking on shifting sands. I came to warn you that both you and Miss Browne may be in danger and that, even if you do discover who killed Mrs
Harkness, you may never see the killer brought to justice.’

‘You mean Hepple-Keen has powerful friends?’

‘I can say no more, Lord Edward. I have probably said more than I should have already.’

‘I am grateful, Major Ferguson. Is there any way I can get in touch with you if I have any information I think would be of interest?’

‘Leave a message for me with the porter at your club. I will get it within the hour.’

Edward was impressed and rather alarmed. ‘I had hoped that at least one’s club was safe from surveillance, but I see I’m wrong.’

‘Our safety, at this perilous moment in our history, Lord Edward,’ the little man said gravely, ‘rests on the thinnest of ice and we can only negotiate it with the sort of
faith which enabled Our Lord to walk on the waters of Galilee.’

Verity had always dreaded that the moment might come when her loyalty to the Party was at odds with her loyalty to her country or, worse still, to her friends. That moment had
arrived. The Party ought to receive these letters belonging to Mrs Simpson – there could be no doubt about it. In the
Daily Worker
, Verity would write a hard-hitting article on the
King as a lackey of the Nazis, of his tawdry affair with Mrs Simpson and the rottenness of British society. She could write such an article in an hour and it would burn with moral fervour and
righteous indignation. By selective quotation from the letters, she could probably bring down Baldwin’s government and she might shatter the confidence felt by most ordinary citizens in their
leaders and in their king. It was heady stuff and would make her the most celebrated journalist of the day.

On the other hand, what did she owe to her employer at the
New Gazette
, Joe Weaver, and to her country? Most of all, what did she owe Edward Corinth? He had once asked her what she would
do if her loyalty to the Party conflicted with the interests of the country and she had not been able to answer. On another occasion, he had asked if she would suppress stories about the Communist
Party which might injure its reputation. She had to confess that she probably would and they had gone on to discuss if means were ever justified by the ends to which they were directed. Now she was
faced with just the moral quandary she most dreaded.

Her torment was relieved momentarily by the telephone ringing in the hall. Wearily she clambered down the stairs and lifted the receiver. It was Tommie Fox, in a high state of excitement.

‘Verity, is that you? Have you forgotten?’ His voice sounded more like a parrot’s squawk than a human’s and in the background she could hear people singing and whistles
being blown and the occasional shout of command. ‘The Jarrow Marchers – they’re only a few miles away. It’s a most wonderful thing! I joined the march yesterday. So many
people are coming to walk with us. The crowds are bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. You must come . . . come now. I have to go. I’m in a pub and there’s a queue of people
wanting to use the phone.’ He told her where to find him.

Tommie’s call galvanized her. She had, shamefully, almost forgotten about the march and yet this was a cause close to her heart. It was a visible reminder to the soft, complacent
southerners of what the north was suffering – and she had to be there for the final march on London.

She took a tram and then a bus, sitting on the top deck so she could smoke. Tommie had told her that the pub from which he was speaking, and around which they were resting, was only three or
four hours’ march from Marble Arch. He said they had left St Albans the day before and would stay just outside London so that they could march into the city without displaying the signs of
exhaustion they normally felt at the end of a day’s walking.

She got off the bus well short of her target, partly because the crowds had reduced its progress to a walking pace and partly because she was embarrassed to hop off a bus near men with blistered
feet and boots destroyed by walking.

There was a palpable air of excitement around her as she weaved her way towards the centre of the crowd. A field kitchen had been set up and women were serving stew, tinned fruit and hot tea. It
was cold but the rain had eased and many people were stretched out on mackintoshes on whatever patches of grass they could find, trying to sleep or at least rest their aching legs.

At last she spotted Tommie’s substantial figure behind a tea urn. ‘May I help?’ she said shyly.

‘Verity! I knew you’d come. Of course, take over from me. There’s some fellows over there with the most terrible blisters which need bathing. Yesterday I literally had to cut
off one chap’s socks. They had embedded themselves in his feet. Do you know what a boot-repairer said to me? He said, “It seems sort of queer doing your own job just because you want to
do it and for something you want to help, instead of doing it because you’d starve if you didn’t. I wonder if that’s how the chaps in Russia feel about it, now they’re
running their own show?” If you don’t mind cramped conditions you can stay with us tonight,’ Tommie continued. ‘The daughter of a parishioner of mine lives close by and is
going to let us doss down on her floor.’

Verity reminded him, testily enough, that she was a war correspondent, not a debutante, but in truth she felt ashamed. She ought to have walked the whole way with these men rather than joining
them at the end for cakes and ale.

That evening, tired but much happier, she joined Tommie with a clear conscience at a meeting addressed by Ellen Wilkinson, the indomitable MP for Jarrow, who was very much the spirit of the
march. It was her fiery speeches which had kept up the men’s spirits in the terrible twenty-mile stretch between Bedford and Luton when the wind had driven the rain into the marchers’
teeth all day and chilled them to the bone. Tonight, however, there was a feeling not of triumph but achievement. Lugging their huge oak box containing the petition they were to present to
Parliament, many people had said they would never get so far.

Before Ellen Wilkinson went off to spend the night at the home of the secretary of the local Labour Party, Tommie introduced her to Verity. The MP said how much it meant to the marchers to have
sympathetic journalists along with them reporting the march fairly. ‘Whatever their proprietors think,’ she added meaningfully, and Verity again felt ashamed. ‘You’ve only
just joined us, Tommie tells me?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But you’re here now. That’s what counts,’ Ellen said, smiling at her confusion, and Verity wanted to kiss her.

‘Where’s everyone sleeping tonight?’ she asked.

‘We sleep in schools and drill halls, casual wards – wherever they let us. Then we get up at six thirty and parade at eight forty-five, all packed up and ready to go. You’ve
got somewhere to sleep?’

‘Yes, thank you. Tommie has a friend who lives near here and we’re going to sleep on her floor.’

‘Good! I’ll see you in the morning. I think you’ll find tomorrow interesting.’

‘She’s the most wonderful woman,’ Tommie said reverently after she had departed. ‘“Indomitable” hardly does justice to her fortitude. Nothing seems to depress
her – not rain or wind or the indifference of Parliament. You know Baldwin has let it be known he won’t see us when we present the petition to Parliament? And she certainly isn’t
depressed by the attitude of the newspaper proprietors either.’

‘I gather the bishops haven’t been exactly supportive,’ Verity said tartly.

‘No,’ he sighed. ‘The Bishop of Durham called us revolutionaries and he made Bishop Gordon – Jarrow‘s bishop – apologize for blessing the marchers when they
set off. I sometimes think they would ask Jesus to recant if he was foolish enough to come back to earth. They don’t seem to understand,’ he said unhappily, ‘that poverty is not
an accident, a temporary difficulty, but the permanent state in which most people live.’

‘That’s what I’m always telling you – it’s the basis of the class struggle. Men are regarded as mere instruments of production and their labour a commodity to be
bought and sold. That’s why the Communist Party is the only realistic alternative to capitalism.

‘Businessmen can destroy a town overnight and take no responsibility for the social consequences of their decisions. It’s iniquitous!’

Tommie laughed. ‘You may be right but I still distrust your people.’

‘How can you? I was doing some research in the files: Palmer’s Shipyard in Jarrow employed ten thousand men at the end of the war. Almost twenty years later, a letter addressed to
Palmer’s Shipyard, Ellison Street, Jarrow was returned marked “Not known. Gone away.”’

In the morning, feeling tired and dirty, Verity splashed her face under the kitchen tap and joined Tommie for the march. Every bone in her body ached – the floor had been particularly hard
– and it was good to be out in the fresh air. As they approached the assembly point, they heard a strange groaning sound.

‘What on earth is that?’ Verity inquired.

‘The mouth-organ band. The journalists with us, knowing that many of the men play the mouth-organ, got up a subscription to buy some. You can’t have a march without a
band.’

After a brief but highly effective call to arms from Ellen Wilkinson, the marchers set off – excited, but also full of trepidation. Many of the men Verity spoke to had never been out of
Jarrow before and, to them, London was as foreign as Vienna or Berlin. They had no idea how they would be welcomed. The collective memory of the working class included being charged by mounted
police, cut at with sabres, chained to railings and beaten. Although they had faith in their MP that nothing like that would happen today, they were still frightened – determined but
frightened.