Sweet Poison (26 page)

It was a source of embarrassment to Verity that her flat was in Hans Crescent, only a comrade’s stone’s throw from Harrods and Harvey Nichols, temples of bourgeois life, rather than in the Old Kent Road or Deptford High Street. However, it was certainly convenient for the German embassy in Carlton House Terrace. She got a taxi easily – so easily in fact, she had to ask the driver to circle Trafalgar Square a couple of times so that she wasn’t embarrassingly early. When she did at last enter the portico of the German embassy, the fount of all evil as far as she and her political friends were concerned, her heart was beating fast and she was aware of a film of moisture on her upper lip which, as she was wearing white evening gloves, she was unable to wipe away without doing more harm than good.

The first thing which struck her was the effort which had been put into making visitors to the embassy aware they were entering another country. Two massive swastikas embraced an oversized portrait of the Fü hrer, the work of a painter so in awe of his subject as to have reduced what talent he might have had to slavish sycophancy. But once past this reminder of what modern Germany was all about, Verity was surprised by how normal everything seemed. She observed two men in uniform, military attachés on their way out to some function, but the rest of those she saw going about their business were dressed in suits and wore sober ties and were indistinguishable from their counterparts in other embassies or in Whitehall. It was almost a disappointment to Verity. If you enter the devil’s domain you want to be impressed – even a little frightened – but if the enemy proves to be no different in outward appearance to yourself and your friends it is subtly disturbing.

A lackey showed her into a large drawing-room noisy with people having a good time. Von Friedberg saw her immediately and, muttering some words of apology to the couple he had been talking to, he strode across the room, bowed, almost clicked his heels together, and kissed her hand. When he raised his eyes to her face they were brilliant with sexual hunger and, much as it might embarrass her, there was something exciting about recognizing – how could she not? – the man’s undisguised admiration. The conversation all around them hushed and many eyes were turned to see who had made so dramatic an entrance. Von Friedberg introduced her to the Ambassador, a meek, worn-down-looking man, and then to other officials. There were many more men than women and what women there were had the look of seasoned cosmopolitans. Their faces were heavily made-up and their dresses, from Paris fashion houses, managed to look like suits of armour. Verity seemed to be by far the youngest present and she was soon surrounded by a crowd of young men of various nationalities, all speaking very good English. It so happened that Verity had spent three months at a workers’ summer camp near Munich where the German Communist Party sent its young to relax and imbibe the spirit of the movement and meet representatives of the Party in other countries. With the help of a young man who fell hopelessly in love with her she learnt to speak fluent if not accentless German, but she had decided before she set out for the embassy to pretend to have no German in the hope she might pick up information when her hosts talked among themselves. If she was to be a spy there was no point in not thinking like one.

Gradually, the room emptied until at about nine thirty only those were left who had been invited to Friedberg’s dinner-party – it was clearly his party not the Ambassador’s. She had almost to pinch herself to remember that the men she had been talking to as normally and pleasantly as if she had been with like-minded friends in Bayswater or Islington were, some of them at least, representatives of a regime which was imprisoning political opponents – people with political convictions similar to her own – and making life for Jews and other declared enemies of the Nazi Party almost impossible.

Von Friedberg himself took her in to dinner in a small dining-room off the big room in which they had been drinking champagne. The table was set for twenty but there were only six ladies including the Ambassador’s wife, a big brassy woman who understandably seemed to see Verity as an interloper. Friedberg sat at the head of the table with the Ambassador at the other end. He sat Verity on his left and the Ambassador’s wife, Carlotta, on his right. For the most part the men spoke English in deference to their guest and it suddenly occurred to Verity that she was the only non-German present. In a way this was a relief as she had not relished the idea of having to explain her presence to another English person whom she might come across outside the embassy. On the other hand, she wondered if she should be there at all and she said as much to Friedberg, but he smiled and kissed her hand again and said her presence delighted him. On his own territory he was more relaxed than dining at Mersham, when he had been nervous and unhappy even before the General died. He had been pleased to be invited to the Duke’s table but, when there, he had felt himself to be an outsider and the other guests hostile to him and to the Fü hrer, with the exception of Larmore whom he despised.

Before the first course was served there was a moment’s silence and the Führer’s health was drunk. For some reason it had never occurred to Verity that this might happen. Perhaps it was fortunate that it had not, as she found herself standing to drink the toast before she fully realized what was happening. Presumably, she comforted herself by thinking, David Griffiths-Jones would have expected her to go the full distance in her subterfuge, but she shuddered when she considered what some of her friends in the Party would make of it, friends who had friends in prison camps in Germany. Then she shuddered again as she considered what her host might do if and when he discovered he was entertaining a hated Communist. There was no reason why he should not find out since she had never made any secret of her Party membership. And all the time she shuddered, she talked and laughed as if this was just a normal dinner-party in a normal London house.

Fortunately, Verity was not called upon to dissemble to any great extent. As far as Friedberg was aware, she was a journalist working for
Country Life
and she did not disillusion him. When asked, she divulged that her father was a barrister, that she had no mother and lived in Knightsbridge, all of which seemed to satisfy her interlocutor. In order to forestall more probing questions, she asked him what was happening in Germany and why so many people were declared enemies of the state. Von Friedberg told her that in any great social revolution there were victims and that Germany had risen like the phoenix to take her historic place in Europe. ‘We have to be ruthless, my child,’ he said, horribly playful, taking her hand. ‘Our enemies are not gentle people, not like the people you know, so when we find them we have to destroy them before they destroy us. It is as simple as that.’

She asked him about the Duke’s dinner-party. ‘The old man’ – he meant the Duke – ‘is aware of what I have been telling you about our resurgence – that is the word, is it not? – but he and the people like him are too hesitant. They should welcome the new Germany. In Aryan partnership Germany and the British Empire will rule the world. The Latin nations are finished.’ He clicked his fingers dismissively.

‘What about Benito Mussolini’s Italy?’ asked Verity, interested as to how her host would introduce Fascist Italy into his pantheon. He did not even try. ‘Pouff!’ he expostulated, blowing between two fingers as if he was dispersing dandelion seeds. ‘So much for Italy.’ The contempt in his voice was palpable.

‘There were others at the Duke’s table. What did you think of General Craig, for instance?’

‘Germany’s inveterate enemy,’ he pronounced. ‘He died as he had lived – ugly.’

Verity was impressed by Friedberg’s decisiveness, at least in his judgments. She continued: ‘Peter Larmore? The Bishop?’

‘Larmore has been useful to me but that is finished. He is finished.’ Von Friedberg seemed to think he had made a joke.

‘And the Bishop?’

‘The Church of England – it is weak but the Bishop, maybe he is not so weak. I saw him kill your General Craig. That was a good deed.’

Verity gasped. Fortunately, she had a moment to collect herself as Friedberg’s attention was taken by Carlotta, who evidently resented Verity’s hold over her neighbour. Verity was addressed by a well-mannered young man, a Major Stille, whose acuity she feared. As she parried his innocent-sounding questions, her mind tried to deal with Friedberg’s accusation. Made with the German’s characteristic firmness, here for the first time was one of the Duke’s guests prepared to say categorically that he had seen the General murdered. She must ask him to elaborate. Did he mean that he had seen the Bishop put poison in the General’s glass? If he had, why had no one else seen it? And what possible motive could the Bishop of all people have for murdering the General? It was absurd. Ironically, she had her first witness and could only disbelieve him. Who then, she asked herself, would she have accepted as a murderer? If the German had said he had seen Lord Weaver or Peter Larmore doctor the General’s port, would she have found it easier to accept?

She ate her dinner – caviar on blinis, turbot, roast pork, some sort of rum baba, hardly knowing what it was she consumed. It was only as she struggled with the rum baba that, seeing Carlotta engaged in conversation with the unpleasant-looking man on her right, she could edge the conversation back to the murder. ‘I am intrigued, Helmut,’ – he had earlier begged her to use his first name – ‘by what you said about the Bishop. Did you really see him put poison in the General’s port?’

‘No, my dear, not quite that but I saw him push the glass across the table when you and Lord Edward arrived and when we all settled down again at the table the General drank from the glass and died.’

Von Friedberg seemed quite unmoved by what he had witnessed, even took pleasure in the memory. She remembered how quickly he had made his escape after the General’s death, before the police arrived, but presumably if he had panicked then, it was not because of the death but because he feared being caught up in a police investigation and the publicity which would inevitably ensue.

When dinner was over she suddenly felt exhausted. She summoned up the energy to make her goodbyes and declined her host’s offer to send her home in an embassy car. Instead, a taxi was hailed and she sank back on the tarnished leather thankful to be out of a place so normal on the surface but so sinister in all that it denied and disguised. Von Friedberg had been courteous to the last and she had weakly agreed to meet him when he returned from Berlin but she knew she would never see him again. In twenty-four hours Friedberg would have found out all there was to know about her and no one, certainly not a Nazi diplomat, likes to find they have been bamboozled. She shivered even though the night was warm and clutched the fur cloak which Friedberg had himself placed over her shoulders.

When she got home she rescued Max from the care of the elderly woman in the flat below hers. He gave little excited barks, licked her face and wagged his tail so energetically she found herself weeping with relief to have something honest and innocent to love and be loved by. She decided she would ring Edward in the morning. Whatever his failings he was a pillar of decency and normality in comparison with the man who had kissed her hand that evening and looked into her eyes like a wolf in white tie and tails.

12

Wednesday

Edward was awakened at twenty-five past seven the following morning by Fenton bearing a cup of lapsang souchong.

‘What’s the matter, Fenton?’ he said sharply, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. He knew Fenton would never have woken him half an hour earlier than was customary without a very good reason.

‘Inspector Pride is on the telephone, my lord, asking to speak to you urgently.’

Edward got out of bed, took the tea from Fenton and sipped it and then, pulling on his dressing-gown and slippers, went out into the hall. He picked up the receiver: ‘Pride, is that you?’

‘Lord Edward? I apologize for telephoning so early but I wanted to reach you before you went out and before you read the morning papers.’

‘Why? Whatever has happened?’

‘I’m afraid it is Mr Larmore. I understand you played a game of squash with him yesterday?’

‘Yes, but how the devil did you . . . ?’

‘I am afraid you were one of the last people to see him alive. He shot himself in the head late last night. He was found by his man who was awakened by the shot.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Edward horrified. ‘Larmore has shot himself? I can hardly believe it. When I saw him yesterday morning he was depressed, but after we had talked and played a game of squash he seemed much more cheerful. This is dreadful news.’

‘Mr Larmore left three letters: one for the police, one for his wife and one for yourself.’

‘He left a letter for me?’ Edward was amazed. ‘What does it say?’

‘It is addressed to you, Lord Edward, so of course we have not opened it,’ Inspector Pride rebuked him gently.

‘Right, of course. When may I have it?’

‘I wondered if you would mind coming down to the Yard, say at ten o’clock?’

‘I’ll be there, Inspector,’ Edward said and rang off.

‘Fenton,’ he called. ‘The Inspector says that Mr Larmore has shot himself.’

‘I am very sorry to hear that,’ said Fenton, appearing from the kitchen.

‘Yes, and what’s more he has apparently left me a letter along with one to his poor wife and one to the police. I played squash with him yesterday – I can hardly believe it.’ Edward rubbed his forehead as, without knowing it, he always did when he was taken by surprise. He was shocked that someone who had been so very much alive a few hours before was dead. It did not seem real somehow. He bathed, shaved and dressed more rapidly than usual and, refusing Fenton’s offer of eggs, distractedly chewed a piece of toast and drank his coffee. The papers arrived as he was eating and he glanced quickly at the
New Gazette
. There it was; just a brief announcement. ‘Well-known politician commits suicide’. Obviously the news had only reached the paper just as the presses were about to roll because there was little but the basic facts. Apparently, Larmore’s valet had heard the sound of a shot shortly after midnight. He had knocked at his master’s bedroom door and, getting no reply and concerned by what he thought he had heard, he had opened the door and found Larmore lying across his bed – a gun still in his hand – having put a bullet through his brain. None of the other papers had anything to add and indeed the news had come too late to be in either
The Times
or the
Morning Post
.