Sweet Poison (24 page)

When they arrived at Albany they found Fenton cleaning the silver. ‘Fenton,’ said Edward, ‘this is Miss Browne. Could you look after her while I change? Get her a drink and so forth.’

‘Very good, my lord,’ said Fenton. He looked inquiringly at Verity.

‘No, nothing, thank you.’ She did not sit down in the armchair Fenton drew up for her but toured the room looking at the pictures and the mantelpiece littered with invitations to weddings, balls and cricket matches. She stared for some time at a portrait on the wall above the mantelpiece of a fine-looking woman with a humorous mouth and a striking resemblance to Edward.

‘Who is that, Fenton?’

‘His lordship’s maternal grandmother, miss, Lady Manners.’ Verity came up close to the painting and tried to decipher the artist’s signature. Fenton said, ‘The artist is the American painter, James McNeill Whistler, miss. Lady Manners was an American, from Boston, his lordship informs me though I understand the portrait was painted in London.’

‘I see,’ said Verity, rather overwhelmed by so much information. ‘May I ask how long you have been with Lord Edward?’

‘Seven years in September, miss,’ replied Fenton.

‘And you like it?’

‘His lordship is a most considerate employer,’ replied Fenton haughtily, making it clear from the tone of his voice that he regarded Verity’s question as impertinent.

Verity, still inspired by Griffiths-Jones’ diatribe against the upper classes, unfortunately insisted. ‘But surely, working as a valet –’

Fenton, in an unprecedented revolt against his social obligations, refused to hear anything more that Verity might say on the subject of his employment despite her being his master’s guest and given into his charge, and said, ‘It is a privilege, as a gentleman’s personal gentleman, to serve his lordship. Now, if you will excuse me, miss, I must attend to my duties.’ Without waiting for her permission he went out of the drawing-room, shutting the door behind him so quietly it was more emphatic than if he had slammed it.

Edward reappeared. ‘Where’s Fenton?’

‘He said he had to attend to his duties.’

‘You haven’t been annoying him, have you, Verity?’

‘Not at all. I merely asked him how long he had worked for you and if he enjoyed it.’

‘Oh lord,’ said Edward in mock alarm. ‘You’ve been spouting Marxism at him, I know. I’m afraid Fenton is not a suitable candidate for conversion to your way of thinking. If you think I am hidebound, Fenton makes me look a Bolshevik. Oh well, I expect he will forgive you one day. Now let’s go, we’ve got work to do.’

Captain Gordon was not in the club, at least so said his friend Caspar, the chucker-out, who looked at Edward as if he wanted to start the chucking-out process forthwith. This was a bit of a blow because, if Edward had anything approaching a plan, it was to try to get Captain Gordon to incriminate himself, the owner of the club or anyone else he chose. Edward was certain the club was just a front for a drugs ring and that Charlie Lomax and, perhaps just by the accident of being in his company, Hermione had fallen foul of some very unpleasant villains. He had no idea how this might be proved but he felt he owed it to Hermione and to her mother to try to do so. He had no faith that Inspector Pride would be able to penetrate this twilight world where society and the underworld met and did business.

There was also the nagging suspicion that somehow the Cocoanut Grove was tied up with General Craig’s death. Edward had convinced himself and, he believed, Verity that the General had been murdered but, despite their joint efforts, they were no further on with proving that it was murder than they had been a week ago, let alone discovering the murderer. Inspector Pride had told Edward that the inquest, at which he might have to give evidence, was fixed for the following Friday and Edward felt, for no very good reason, that if he did not turn up any solid evidence by then, he never would.

He and Verity danced together and he was surprised by what a good dancer she was. He considered asking her if the comrades regarded ballroom dancing as bourgeois depravity, but thought better of it. Verity had not been in a good mood when they were shown to their table but the band was good and the rhythm of the music, the champagne which had appeared on their table without Edward having ordered it, and the dim ‘jungle’ lighting – all greens and reds – had seemed to soothe her.

The cabaret was announced by Captain Gordon’s stand-in, a nervous young man who was singularly lacking in Captain Gordon’s suavity. Once again, Amy Pageant sang her smoky, moody songs and once again Edward was entranced. She smiled at him, obviously recognizing him from his previous visit, and when she had finished the set he applauded vigorously. Verity could not quite see what all the fuss was about and told him so. Edward summoned a waiter and asked him to take his card backstage and give it to Miss Pageant. He scribbled a note on the back of the card asking her if she would do them the honour of having a drink at their table. Ten minutes later she appeared and listened to Edward’s encomiums with polite attention for several minutes before breaking in:

‘You were here with that poor girl Hermione Weaver the night she disappeared, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, I was,’ said Edward, suddenly serious again.

‘Is it true that she was . . . abducted?’

‘Well, all we know for certain is that she left the club with Charles Lomax who was later found dead.’

‘Murdered?’ said the girl, her hand to her mouth.

‘I’m afraid so. He was stabbed.’

‘And Hermione? What happened to her?’

‘She’s in hospital. I am afraid it looks as if the person who killed Lomax pumped her full of drugs and if she had not been found when she was she would be dead.’

‘Why would anyone want to kill Hermione? She’s Lord Weaver’s daughter, isn’t she?’

‘His stepdaughter, yes. I don’t know why they tried to kill Hermione but I would guess they did not want her telling the police who had killed Lomax. Did you know him at all? I know he came to the club quite a lot.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Amy, shivering slightly. ‘I knew him.’

Edward instinctively acquitted her of any involvement in the death of Lomax or the drugging of Hermione Weaver. There was something so genuine in the horror he heard behind her simple ‘I knew him.’

‘He tried to sell me drugs,’ she said starkly, ‘and when I wouldn’t bite he threatened me and said he knew who I was and . . . and well, he tried to blackmail me.’

‘Did you tell this to the police?’

‘No. The police came to the club but they never asked to talk to me and somehow I didn’t feel like going to them. You see, Lord Edward, the club belongs to a friend of mine and I would not want to do anything to cause trouble for him.’

‘Lord Weaver, you mean?’ said Verity.

‘Yes,’ said Amy, turning to Verity for the first time. ‘How did you know?’

‘Captain Gordon told me,’ said Edward.

‘That’s another thing,’ said Amy, ‘the Captain didn’t turn up tonight. He hardly ever misses being here but . . . I probably oughtn’t to be telling you all this. This is my first break since coming to London and I don’t want to get fired.’

‘Have you seen Lord Weaver recently?’

‘No, he’s been so upset about Hermione I wouldn’t want to worry him.’

‘Look,’ said Edward coming to a decision, ‘I think you may be in danger. The people here – Captain Gordon anyway – know you are a friend of Lord Weaver’s. You have seen what happened to Hermione. What if they try something on you?’

‘Oh no, I’m all right. Whoever attacked Mr Lomax and Hermione wouldn’t be interested in me. I’m just the cabaret.’

‘May I ask you where you live?’ said Edward.

‘I’ve got a flat in Poland Street. Why?’

‘I think you ought to move until all this is cleared up. I’ve just got a feeling.’

‘Oh no. Anyway, where would I go?’

‘Verity would put you up for a few days,’ said Edward cheerfully.

Verity gave him a look which he ignored. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Come and stay with me.’

‘No, honestly, it’s very kind of you but there’s no need to worry. Now I’ve got to go or people will start to notice.’

Amy stood up and Edward also rose from his seat. ‘You have got my card?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Well, ring me any time, day or night, if you need me. If I’m not there you can leave a message with my valet, Fenton.’

‘All right and . . . thank you,’ she said and kissed him lightly on the cheek before departing.

‘Thanks for offering me as a hotel,’ Verity said drily as he sat down.

‘Oh, I knew you wouldn’t mind,’ Edward answered, his thoughts still with the lovely girl who had just kissed him. ‘Golly, she’s really something, isn’t she?’

‘If you say so,’ Verity replied but Edward did not hear her. ‘Don’t forget who she belongs to,’ she went on maliciously.

‘Eh? What? Oh no, I can’t believe . . . he’s just a friend of hers.’

‘A friend who brings her over from America and gives her a job in the club he just happens to own? Please, Edward, I know you are besotted but there’s no need to leave all your brain in –’

‘I say,’ said Edward indignantly. ‘I’m not besotted. I just happen to think she’s a lovely girl. Anyone would agree.’

‘Anyone in trousers.’

They bickered for a few minutes and then decided they would learn nothing else in the Cocoanut Grove. The young man standing in for Captain Gordon said he had no idea where that gentleman was and he knew nothing about anything, and Edward was inclined to believe him. The chucker-out looked at them balefully as they left.

‘Taxi, sir?’ he inquired satirically. Edward chose to ignore him and walked away from the club with Verity, still complaining, on his arm. It had begun to rain.

11

Tuesday

Edward woke the following morning feeling as if he had swallowed a rug. The champagne at the Cocoanut Grove must have been worse than he had suspected. He felt anxious, irritated, frustrated. Wherever he looked he saw things he did not like and people he suspected of being other than what they seemed. Those, like Verity, who were demonstrably what they claimed to be were at odds with him. Verity and he had had ‘words’ after leaving the night-club – he could not remember about what precisely – and she had gone off in a huff leaving him to curse womankind in general and female members of the Communist Party in particular.

He thought he would go down to Pall Mall for a swim and maybe a game of squash – his knee was no longer causing him pain. He needed to clear his head and decide whether or not to give up this rather pointless investigation into General Craig’s death – a man with terminal cancer whose appointment with death had been brought forward by only a few weeks. And yet . . . there was something niggling at the back of his mind. Something bothered him. In that black and gloomy place he called his subconscious – he
had
read Freud and found what he had to say about fathers interesting if not totally convincing – suspicion stirred.

Fenton, surprised to find his master up before eight, provided him with black coffee and orange juice. He offered to bring the Lagonda to the door but Edward told him snappishly not to be a fool; he was not so decrepit that he could not walk from Piccadilly to Pall Mall without resorting to the internal combustion engine. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he regretted taking out his frustrations on his valet who could not bite back. ‘I’m sorry, Fenton. Fact is, I’ve put a lot of work into thinking about this murder of poor General Craig – I call it murder without a shred of proof – and every time I begin to think I’m getting somewhere I find I’ve just slammed my head into a brick wall. By the way, should Miss Amy Pageant telephone when I’m not to hand will you do your best to do whatever she asks and, of course, get hold of me as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, sir, and if Miss Browne rings?’

‘Oh tell her . . . tell her whatever you like.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Fenton, sounding as though he meant it.

Edward greeted several friends before seeing Peter Larmore sitting on a bench morosely watching a game of squash. The little black ball was being beaten into a puddle of warm rubber by two youngsters – the splat, pat, splat as the ball hit the walls sounding like so much heavy rain. ‘Don’t look so depressed, Larmore,’ Edward said, sitting down beside him. ‘Neither of us is as young as these two fellows but it doesn’t mean we can’t hit the ball about a bit.’

‘Oh hello, Corinth,’ said Larmore unenthusiastically. ‘I wasn’t thinking about that – though, now you mention it, I am feeling about a decade older than when I saw you at Mersham. The truth is,’ – he looked round to check no one was eavesdropping – ‘I was just nerving myself to go down and join Celia at Bognor. Keep what I say under your hat, won’t you, but I feel I really must tell someone: the Larmore millions – God, how I wish they were millions – have finally gone. I owe everyone. I put everything I had and a good deal I didn’t have on a nag called First Front in the three o’clock at Goodwood and lost the lot. First Front! It was so far behind the winner it came first in the next race.’

‘Well,’ said Edward, ‘if I can –’

‘No! No, thank you. It is very good of you but I owe too much to add to my crimes by touching you.’

‘Can’t you cut down on anything?’

‘Don’t worry! Things have cut down on me. I had planned to take . . . oh well, you know, mustn’t take a lady’s name in vain and all that rot but she’s given me the boot. Gone off with that Jew, Harry Goldstein, and he old enough to be her father.’

Edward was not sure he wanted to hear all this but he had obviously come upon Larmore at a moment of crisis.

‘So what now?’

‘Oh God, I don’t know – end it all, I suppose. Baldwin might have offered me a cabinet post – do you believe it? – but the whips have heard of my money troubles and it’s all up.’

‘Surely there is someone you can go to?’

‘I have been to everyone already. It looks as though I will have to go down to Winchester and beg an audience of Celia’s brute of a father, but he hates my guts. Still, he may help me just for Celia’s sake. More likely he’ll say to her, hang the scandal, get rid of him.’