Sweet Poison (8 page)

The Duke roused himself to bring Friedberg to heel – politely, of course. Rather subtly, he thought, he interrupted Friedberg by asking General Craig if he had any particular memories of other great wines he had drunk. The General said he could not say he remembered tasting wines nobler than those he had drunk this evening – he nodded to the Duke in tribute – but he had drunk wines in some queer places. He launched into a story of finding a case of champagne, almost boiled by the sun, in General Gordon’s apartments in Khartoum in 1896. ‘It may have been a great year for port,’ he said ruefully, ‘but not for champagne – at least not in the Sudan. I had always believed General Gordon to have been a teetotaller so what the champagne was doing there in his rooms I have no idea. I brought the wine to Kitchener in his tent and he decreed it would be drunk that night under the stars in memory of the man we had come to rescue. It turned out to be a rather embarrassing occasion. Of course, we had no means of chilling the wine and I got a good deal of chaff for, when the bottles were broached and all we officers – of whom I was the youngest and most junior – had a glass in our hand, and our chief had made a little speech, we all drank only to have to spit out the wine which, as I ought to have guessed, was filthy. Fortunately, the chief thought it was funny. He didn’t have much of a sense of humour – great man though he was – but when he did find something funny he would let himself go. On this occasion he roared with laughter, slapped me on the back and said that as a punishment he required me to drink my glass dry, which I did, and was promptly sick. I think perhaps the chief was really celebrating his safe arrival in Khartoum. It had been a most terrible campaign and we were all heartily looking forward to going home. I shall always remember the occasion: the horrible wine, the chief’s laughter and my being sick in the sand. It cemented a special relationship all we young officers had with Kitchener, but I have a feeling that poor Gordon’s ghost might have been hovering nearby quietly satisfied that we who had come too late to save him had at least come too late to enjoy his wine.’

The Duke smiled and turned to the Bishop. ‘I suppose there is no point in soliciting a story from you, is there Cecil? I know you are not a drinker.’

‘Well, no, Duke, though I do remember when I was a young curate taking a communion service in place of my vicar, who was away. It was an ill-lit barn of a church in Middlesbrough and it was very hard for the priest to see how many people were intending to take communion. I was dependent on the church warden when he brought up the collection plate telling me the numbers. On this occasion – either I was nervous or he mumbled – but I thought he said thirty-three while in fact he had said twenty-three and of those twenty-three a majority were little old ladies who merely touched the wine with their lips and did not drink it. Imagine my horror when I saw that everyone had taken communion and I had almost a pint left in the chalice. As you know, the wine once it has been consecrated must be consumed, so I had no alternative but to drink it all down. It was not good wine and, like you, General, I felt very sick, but unlike you it was out of the question to give way to it. I think the sidesman seeing me stagger through the end of the sacrament thought I was drunk – as indeed I was – and reported me to the vicar. The latter rebuked me for being a fool and I think it was from that moment that I decided the grape and I were never going to be good friends – but,’ and the Bishop refilled his glass for the third time, ‘if I may say so, Duke, you are converting me.’ He smiled at his little joke. ‘This really is quite delicious. Even I can understand that you are paying us a rare compliment, Duke, and I thank you.’ He, as Weaver had done, raised his glass to the Duke and smiled benignly.

The Duke wondered if Honoria would reprimand the poor man, as had the vicar all those years ago, when she smelt the wine on her lord’s breath that night.

Von Friedberg was still thinking about the General’s story of Lord Kitchener and he interrupted Larmore, who wanted to recall for the assembled company the many great wines he had sampled in his life, by asking Craig if Kitchener had been as brave as legend had it.

‘Oh yes, brave, stalwart, obstinate, awkward – all these things – a very great soldier in my opinion, second only to my late commander, Field Marshal Earl Haig, God rest his soul, but unlike Haig, Kitchener was not suited to being a politician,’ said the General, shaking his head mournfully.

They waited for him to elaborate but it seemed that the General, now deep in his own thoughts, was not going to provide examples of Kitchener’s battles with the politicians to prove his point, and the discussion turned to the nature of courage. The Duke, with half an eye on Friedberg, made an eloquent plea for politicians and soldiers to have the moral courage to restrain the ‘sabre rattling’ of their political leaders.

Von Friedberg looked sour and went into a long tirade about Germany demanding its rightful place at the council tables of Europe. The Bishop chipped in to assure the German that most English people wanted his country to return to its position as a leading power in Europe, and Larmore hurried to agree.

‘So, that is what will happen,’ said the German sententiously. ‘Under the leadership of our great leader, Chancellor Adolf Hitler . . .’

‘And is it true you are expanding your army?’ asked Weaver, who had been noticeably silent, content to listen to the others and enjoy his port and cigar.

‘Certainly,’ said Friedberg pugnaciously. ‘We need a new model army like your Oliver Cromwell . . .’

‘Not
my
Oliver Cromwell,’ Weaver muttered but Friedberg did not hear him.

‘. . . and we will build aeroplanes and ships so that no one can say to us “You do this, you do that.” I may tell you in confidence, we have already . . . But no, the wine speaks, Duke, and makes me wish to be indiscreet.’ He simpered knowingly.

The Bishop, his tongue loosened by the wine, said, ‘You make my blood run cold, Baron. I fear for all that I hold dear: humanitarianism, brotherly good will between nations and their leaders. These political creeds we see thriving like weeds in an uncared-for garden – they may not in themselves be evil, they may even bring benefits: jobs, food, a steady income and with these, self-respect, but we must recognize that they are imposed by force and rest on a basis of cruelty and fear.’

The Bishop had spoken with so much feeling there was a moment of embarrassment when he ceased speaking. Everyone tried to avoid the German’s eye though longing to see how he took the attack. Craig looked at the Duke with burning eyes, a small smile curling the edge of his lips, but he said nothing.

Von Friedberg looked round the table at a ring of troubled faces and realized he had gone too far in his triumphalism. ‘Do not worry, my friends,’ he said jovially, actually putting a hand on the shoulder of the General, who was sitting next to him. He puffed at his cigar, sending a plume of smoke over his neighbour who coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. The Duke was anxious lest Friedberg would think the General was being rude, but fortunately he was too absorbed in what he wanted to say to notice the waving hand. ‘We Germans have no quarrel with the English. We admire your Empire. We admire you . . .’ he added mischievously. ‘We are all Aryans and should unite against the lesser races,’ and he waved his finger at Weaver, perhaps in imitation of his leader.

Weaver grunted but said nothing, for which the Duke was grateful.

‘There is room for two empires in the world, surely,’ said Larmore nervously.

‘Ah, Mr Larmore, you are right.’ Friedberg grinned wolfishly. ‘Let me repeat, we Aryans must – how do you say it – “stick together”? Communism is the great enemy and our enemies may overwhelm us unless we have our hand on the sword of justice.’

Friedberg smiled, obviously pleased by his grandiloquence and confident that what he had said would reassure his listeners. But the Bishop for one was uneasy.

‘I always shiver when I hear anyone talk about swords of justice. If indeed yours is a sword of justice, Baron, I urge you not to draw it from your scabbard.’

‘From my scabbard? What is scabbard?’ said Friedberg, momentarily puzzled.

‘
Die Degenscheide
. . . ?’ suggested the Duke, tentatively.

‘
Ja! die Degenscheide – danke
,
mein Herzog
. I did not know you spoke German.’

‘Only a little,’ said the Duke modestly. It was at this point that the conversation turned to what made a good army, and the General and Friedberg unexpectedly found common ground in disparaging Americans. Weaver was just about to put in a mild defence of North American soldiery when they all heard a loud knocking at the door. The Bishop found himself thinking of that ridiculous moment in
Macbeth
when the knocking at the gate disturbs the sleeping castle and the audience want to giggle because they know there will soon be so much blood. Then there was the rattle of bolts, the sound of Bates opening up, followed by the clear, confident cries of the English nobleman returning home.

Ah!’ exclaimed the Duke with irritation. ‘That must be my brother. Please forgive me if I leave you for a moment to find out what has happened to make him so late. Sit and enjoy your wine, please, I won’t be long.’

For whatever reason, the Duke’s guests felt unable to stay put and rose with their host to stroll after him to the door in the dining-room which opened into the hall. Even Friedberg seemed anxious not to be left behind, either alone or with the Bishop, who was rather drunk and feeling melancholy at the bellicosity displayed by the German and by General Craig. The Bishop stumbled to his feet and followed Friedberg, finding himself beside General Craig. ‘You were very silent when Friedberg was telling us his vision of a resurrected Germany,’ he murmured.

‘What is there to say?’ said the General shortly. ‘It confirms what I already knew – that we will be at war with Germany within ten years. Or rather you will be. I shall be watching from somewhere other.’

The Bishop hardly took in what the General had said to him because at that moment the Duke moved into the hall and they saw through the open door the dirty, dishevelled figures of Lord Edward Corinth and Verity Browne.

‘Well,’ said the Duke when he had heard Verity’s story and tut-tutted over his younger brother’s stupidity, ‘I suppose I must not grumble. At least you are safe, Ned.’

Everyone had seated themselves or stood around the dining-table with no other thought but to be near enough to Verity and Edward to hear the story they had to tell. When the company had returned to the dining-room after greeting the late arrivals the Duke dropped back wearily into his great carver and made Verity and Edward sit on either side of him. Von Friedberg, who obviously had an eye for a pretty girl, sat himself next to Verity and beside him was Larmore who seemed to be surreptitiously trying to get the German’s attention, but Friedberg was intent on charming Verity and would not respond even when Larmore touched him on the sleeve. Beside him sat the General with Hermione Weaver standing at his shoulder, which seemed to be making him uneasy. Perhaps he was thinking that she should not be standing while he was seated or perhaps having her at his elbow made him feel claustrophobic.

On the other side of the table all eyes were on Verity, which she obviously enjoyed. Beside Edward, Weaver listened intently as if she were one of his reporters and next to him the Bishop was feeling the effects of the wine. The latter was attempting to disguise his condition from his wife, who had sat down beside him, by staring across at Verity. Blanche and Connie sat themselves at the end of the table opposite the Duke, Connie only too aware that her husband was not pleased to have women invade that holiest time when the men communed with their port. On the other hand, Edward and Verity’s arrival had delighted her. It had given her an excuse for giving up the stilted conversation she was making with Honoria and Celia Larmore, aware out of the corner of her eye that Blanche and Hermione were quarrelling about something in whispers over by the French windows.

‘Miss Browne,’ said Friedberg gallantly when Verity paused to draw breath, ‘you tell us you write for
Country Life
. It is, you must believe me, a pleasure to meet you.’ He made her a small bow from his chair. ‘I also read the
Country Life
. It is sent to me at my castle in Bavaria.’

Verity looked a little sheepish, perhaps feeling she had made too great claims for herself. ‘Oh yes, I am writing some articles for them on life in grand and beautiful houses. The Duchess has very kindly agreed to show me round the castle tomorrow.’

‘That is good. It is a very splendid house.’ He looked slyly at the Duke. ‘They call it a castle but if you wish to see real castles you must visit Germany. Yes,’ he said, intoxicated by the wine and the pleasure of having beside him a young and attractive woman instead of these old men who seemed to distrust him, ‘you must visit me at Schloss Hertzberg, my family seat.’

He smiled roguishly at Verity which made her want to laugh. He was being so charming but it was all wasted on her. He was quite the chevalier, he thought. He put out his hand as if he might seize Verity’s and kiss it. He withdrew it suddenly. He had caught sight of the General’s face which seemed to be contorted with an effort not to laugh. He was outraged. How dare this old man who had killed so many of his countrymen laugh at him. He got up and his chair, unbalanced by the suddenness of his movement, fell backwards. For a moment everyone stared at the German but then they became conscious that the General was not laughing. He was making terrible gasping noises and pulling feebly at his necktie. He began to sway from side to side as though he were attempting to release himself from someone’s grasp.

‘What the deuce . . . ?’ exclaimed Larmore.

Edward was the first to understand the situation. He got up and stumbled round the table. He pushed Hermione to one side and tried to loosen the General’s tie, but the old man was now twisting and writhing so violently that Edward could not do anything; the General’s face was puce with the effort to breathe. With one convulsive jerk he pushed away his chair and fell on to the carpet where he lay twitching like a fish out of water. Edward flopped on to the floor beside him, ignoring an intense spasm of pain which began in his knee and travelled all the way up his spine. He tried to support Craig’s head and shoulders but he knew he could do nothing to ease his agony. ‘Get me some water, will you,’ he called to Hermione, but the girl was too horrified to do anything except shrink backwards, her hand at her throat as though she too were unable to breathe. Connie came rushing up with a glass in her hand but it was too late. As Edward tried to dribble the water into the General’s mouth he choked and the water dribbled down his chin. His eyes bulged as though some intense pressure behind them would propel them out of their sockets. The old man arched his back and then gave a long sigh and collapsed into Edward’s arms. His lips had turned blue and his mouth was fixed in a grin of agony.