Sweet Poison (37 page)

‘Hang on,’ said Verity, worrying they might have an accident if Edward did not calm down and stop hitting his head with a flailing hand. ‘Why didn’t he tell Inspector Pride or us when we went to see him?’

‘He doesn’t like Inspector Pride, apparently. He thinks he’s “common”.’

‘But why not tell us then? I may be common but you aren’t.’

‘Don’t be silly, Verity! He says we just didn’t ask him. It’s quite true; I knew there was a question I ought to ask him but I couldn’t think what it was. I should have asked him if the General had two cyanide capsules – he didn’t, as a matter of fact – and if Jeffries had found the capsule in his clothes after his death. I just took it for granted that the capsule had been the source of the poison, fool that I am.’

‘So why did Jeffries
really
not tell us?’

‘I don’t think he trusted us.’

‘Me, you mean,’ said Verity. ‘He would have trusted you, but he knew I had spilled the beans in the
Daily Worker
of all places! Why didn’t I let you go alone? I knew I was hopeless with valets. Look at Fenton!’

‘Oh, don’t blame yourself. Jeffries is a confused man. He loved the General and would like his murder to be avenged. On the other hand, the accidental death verdict means he can go to his grave without any slur, any stain on his escutcheon.’

‘Where is the capsule now?’

‘He says he is keeping it safe.’

‘Keeping it safe! What did you say?’

‘I said I would come and talk to him in the next day or two.’

‘Golly, what a turn-up for the books,’ said Verity. ‘So who did murder General Sir Alistair Craig VC?’

‘I think . . .’ said Edward slowly, ‘I think Connie was quite right as usual and I have known it all along.’

‘But you are not going to tell me?’

‘Forgive me, Verity, but I have made such a bally pig’s dinner of all this, I want to be sure this time before I sound off.’

‘Well,’ said Verity, a little huffily, ‘don’t forget I’m going to Spain tomorrow.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Edward sombrely, ‘but with any luck all this will be cleared up before you go – or not at all. Ah, here we are: Hans Crescent – home sweet home.’

18

Friday Evening and Saturday

Verity stopped outside the ground floor flat and rang the bell. ‘This won’t take a second, Edward,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pick up Max. Mrs Parsons is a dear but I don’t like her to have to look after my naughty dog a minute longer than she has to.’

There was a noise of shuffling and then bolts being drawn and the door opened on the chain. ‘It’s only me, Mrs Parsons,’ said Verity brightly. ‘I have just come to pick up Max.’

‘Is that you?’ said the old woman peering at Verity suspiciously. ‘Oh yes, it is you.’ As she struggled to open the door, Edward thought he saw that she was crying. When she finally appeared in carpet slippers and with an embroidered shawl pulled over what looked like her nightdress they could see that the old woman was in some distress.

‘Whatever is it, Mrs Parsons?’ Verity said in alarm.

‘Miss Browne, I have such terrible news. I have been trying to tell you but I lost the telephone number you gave me where you were going to be. I haven’t slept a wink.’

‘Please, Mrs Parsons, tell me what has happened,’ said Verity, now thoroughly alarmed.

‘It’s Max.’

‘Max?’

‘Yes, you see I was just taking him out for a walk yesterday afternoon, it was about three I think, yes it was because I had just listened to that programme on the wireless about –’

‘Please, Mrs Parsons, what has happened?’

‘I’m trying to tell you, Miss Browne,’ the old woman quavered.

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Verity. ‘I didn’t mean to shout at you.’

‘As I was going out of the front door I bumped into this nicely spoken young man. He was such a gentleman. He held open the door for me and he stroked Max and said what a nice dog he was, and of course he is, and he asked if he belonged to me and I said no, I was looking after him for Miss Browne who lived upstairs. And the man asked what his name was and I said Max. And then he said he was a great friend of yours, Miss Browne, and I said oh, but you were away for the night but you would be back tomorrow. And he said what a pity to have missed you but he would come back in the morning but in the mean time would I like it if he took the dog for a walk. And well, I said – and I know it was wrong of me but he seemed so nice and my leg was playing up – well I said “Would you?”, and he said he would take him round the gardens and knock on my door in half an hour and give him back. He seemed such a nice man so I . . . oh I’m so sorry, Miss Browne . . .’ Mrs Parsons began to cry in earnest. ‘I said yes.’

‘And he never came back?’ said Edward. Mrs Parsons nodded miserably. ‘Look, Verity,’ he said, ‘don’t worry, I’m sure we can find Max. Let’s take the bags upstairs and then we will plan our campaign. Did you tell the police, Mrs Parsons?’

‘No, I thought he would come back before . . .’

‘Never mind,’ said Verity bravely. ‘Don’t get yourself too distressed, Mrs Parsons. We’ll just take the luggage up to my flat and then come back and see what’s the best thing to do.’

When they reached the flat Verity took out her key to unlock the front door but, as she touched it, it swung open. ‘Let me,’ said Edward firmly, putting down the suitcases and gently moving Verity to one side. He went into the narrow hall and then pushed open the door of the living-room. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. He opened another door and looked into the kitchen which again was undisturbed. Then, with Verity behind him, he opened the bedroom door. The sight that met his eyes made him cry out, and he immediately turned to try to prevent Verity from entering and seeing what he had seen, but he was too late. Verity gave a high-pitched scream and ran into the room. Someone had taken a kitchen knife and with it had hacked off the head of the little dog and then taken the trouble to lay the corpse against the pillows on the bed. The sight of the obscene arrangement parodying the teddy bear which might have been there on the counterpane was something he was never to forget. On the other side of the room, a swastika had been scrawled on the dressing-table looking-glass in what Edward assumed was the dog’s blood.

Verity screamed again and then turned and grabbed Edward, burying her face in his shoulder. ‘Max!’ she sobbed. ‘Max, how couldthey. . . ?’

Edward half dragged Verity out of the room and insisted she take some brandy from a bottle on the sideboard in the living-room. Then he made her come down with him to Mrs Parsons’ flat from which he called the police. He had no doubt that this was the Nazis’ revenge for Verity’s folly in going to the German embassy as Friedberg’s guest. When they discovered she was a Communist activist they must have thought she had deliberately made a fool of the Fü hrer’s personal envoy, and this was their response. He felt physically sick. There could be no doubt that these were evil men and from that moment, whatever anyone told him to the contrary, he remained convinced that they would have to be fought and destroyed like vermin.

Verity’s tears soon turned to ice-cold anger and she wanted to go straight round to the embassy and accuse them of the dog’s murder. It was only with considerable difficulty that Edward managed to convince her of the futility of doing any such thing.

‘There are other ways to fight them,’ he said.

‘Yes, there are,’ said Verity with stern determination.

Edward had been going to try to convince her that she should not go to Spain with David Griffiths-Jones but he saw that there was now no point in even trying. Her commitment to the Communist Party had been sealed in Max’s blood and, furthermore, Edward appreciated that she probably needed to get out of the country. In London she would only do something which would attract the wrath of her enemies.

After the police had been – Edward had considered speaking to Pride but thought better of it – he insisted that Verity come to Albany with him. There could be no question of her staying, let alone sleeping, in her flat. Very gently, he placed the dog in one of the ruined pillowcases and then wrapped a sheet around it. The police had taken away the knife to test it for fingerprints but Edward had little doubt there would be no fingerprints on it; even if there were, what chance would there be of getting anyone in the embassy to agree to having their fingerprints taken?

He took Verity back with him to his chambers despite her protests and asked if she would mind staying in the spare bedroom for the night. ‘Won’t the landlords or whoever they are protest at you having a girl in your rooms?’ She smiled a watery smile.

‘No,’ said Edward, even though he was not certain one way or the other. Fenton was surprisingly gentle with Verity when he understood what had upset her. He petted and pampered her, which in normal times she would not have tolerated and he would never have attempted.

The following day Verity was going to Spain so she did not ever again have to sleep in the flat desecrated by cold, calculated murder. She would have it cleaned out and sold. ‘It’s not suitable for a comrade anyway, is it?’ she said to Edward. ‘When I get back I’ll buy some modest bed-sit in the East End.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Edward. ‘That’s not your style.’

In the morning, Verity telephoned David, explained briefly what had happened to make her take refuge with Edward in Albany, and asked him to pick her up, go back to the flat with her and pack a few necessaries. They would then take the boat train from Victoria and be in Spain forty-eight hours later. It was evident to Edward as he stood at the doorway unwillingly overhearing her conversation that she could not wait to be away. Edward did not blame her but was a little hurt that David and not he had been selected to take her back to the flat and then on to Victoria.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said when he hinted at his feelings. ‘You have already done enough, more than enough. Now it’s David’s turn to “do his bit” as they used to say in the war. He says he can find somewhere to garage the Morgan while I am away which is one problem solved. It’s so sweet of you to say you’ll keep an eye on my flat and . . . that you will bury Max for me.’

As they sipped coffee, strong and black, served by Fenton, who seemed almost light-hearted, whether at seeing his master with a woman or because this particular woman was getting out of his life, Edward could not say, he asked, ‘What were you going to do with Max while you were in Spain?’

‘I was going to ask you to look after him,’ she said brightly.

‘Me! And if I had refused?’

‘I don’t think you would have refused.’ She smiled at him in that way she had and he knew she was right: he would not have refused, however inconvenient it might have been.

When the porters alerted them that Griffiths-Jones had arrived, Verity put her arms round Edward’s neck and kissed him on the lips. ‘Don’t look so mournful,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back soon and perhaps we can detect another murder. I’m sorry we weren’t very successful in putting General Craig’s killer behind bars. Perhaps your theory was right though, and he was his own murderer. Still, I’m not altogether convinced but . . . but what does it matter.’ Then, seeing that her high spirits were making him even more gloomy, she added, ‘We’ve had fun, haven’t we, Edward? I mean, not fun exactly but it was interesting, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he muttered. ‘I think we make a good team. Here, let me come and see you off.’

‘Oh no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. Let’s say goodbye here.’ She kissed him again as though now there was nothing to fear from being intimate. ‘I must go. I’ll send you a postcard from Barcelona.’

‘I’ll look for your name in the
New Gazette
,’ he responded, trying to sound cheerful.

She made a little grimace as though she was going to say something but then, perhaps realizing there was nothing else to say, she raised her hand in a half-wave and disappeared down the corridor clutching a small valise.

Edward was left feeling curiously desolate. He sat in his leather armchair and stared at the ceiling until he guessed that Verity and David must have gone, then he strolled aimlessly down to the hall. He had nowhere to go. Amy was in America and he did not want to see any of his relatives. Then he remembered that he had promised Lord Weaver to visit Hermione. He said she had been asking about him. In any case, he had a few questions that he wanted to put to her about . . . but Verity had said it did not matter any more. Perhaps she was right, but even so it was at least something to do.

Hermione was sitting up in her hospital bed looking pale and much thinner than when he had last seen her. Her hair was lank and her eyes feverish. Edward was quite alarmed at her appearance but she seemed delighted to see him.

‘It is kind of you to have come, Lord Edward,’ she said formally. ‘Mummy’s coming at lunch time but I get very bored.’

‘When do they say you can go home?’ Edward asked, sitting himself down on a metal chair beside the bed.

‘I don’t know – not for ages, perhaps not ever,’ she said dramatically. ‘Of course, they won’t give me any straight answers but I get the feeling I may have damaged myself worse than . . . worse than they first thought.’

‘Oh, I am sorry. You look much better,’ he lied gallantly.

‘Thanks,’ she said, not pretending to believe him.

‘I am afraid I didn’t come here just to see how you were. You see, I have come to the conclusion that you killed General Craig but that you were really trying to kill someone else. Am I right?’

Hermione looked at him long and meditatively as if she were trying to decide something or as if she were judging him.

‘Look,’ she said at last, heaving a great sigh, ‘I didn’t think much of you at first. I thought you were a prig and you made me ashamed of myself. Then I suppose I got some sort of crush on you and you were nice to me even when I had treated you very shoddily, so I think I owe you the truth. I can’t see it matters now,’ she added, unknowingly echoing Verity’s words. ‘It has been a terrible burden and I would like to tell someone. I’m not religious else I could confess to a priest but if it won’t be too much of a burden I would be just as happy to confess it all to you. Is that unfair of me?’