Sweet Sorrow (22 page)

‘To tell you the truth, Lord Edward, I haven’t seen much of the police. They don’t seem to think I can tell them anything they don’t already know.’

‘And can you?’

‘Well, it was all such a mêlée. I mean, I can’t remember who was there and who wasn’t. To be honest with you, I was in a blind panic. I couldn’t believe that it had happened in my studio. I so admired your wife, Lord Edward. She was as cool as a cucumber. And so brave. She insisted on trying to see if the murderer was still in the building whereas I’d have been happy to leave it to the police. I can see why she is such a good foreign correspondent.’

‘I’ll tell her you said so. Are you still planning to use the interview? With Frieda dead . . .’

‘I think we will – as a tribute, you understand, if your wife has no objection. In fact I was thinking of asking her to say a few words before the interview is broadcast, saying something nice about her. Do you think she would?’

‘I’ll ask her.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So did you recognize anyone immediately after Frieda was found dead?’

‘We didn’t see anyone in the passages or the washrooms.’

‘No, I meant when the news got out that something had happened. Was there anyone you didn’t expect to see?’

‘Not really. I remember Cathcart turning up in the studio almost immediately. And that vicar fellow, Paul Fisher, may have been there as well. In fact, I’ve been thinking about him. Did your wife tell you that right at the end of the recording one could hear Frieda saying something like knotty?’ Edward nodded. ‘Well, what if she said, “Not E”?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that she assumed whoever had come in had mistaken it for Studio E.’

‘And Studio E is . . .?’

‘The chapel. It’s where Fisher holds the Daily Service which is broadcast to a grateful nation.’

‘I see. So you think Paul Fisher might have come into the studio – Frieda turns round to see who it is, starts to tell him he’s in the wrong place and then he smashes her skull in with the statuette of Sir John Reith?”

‘No, I can see it sounds rather absurd.’

‘It is an interesting theory. And you can’t recall anyone else? The painter – Mark Redel – do you know him?’

‘No, I don’t think so but I know his name . . .’

‘Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time, Reg. Here’s my card. Could I ask you to telephone me if anything else occurs to you?’

‘Of course! Frieda was like a daughter to me, Lord Edward. Whatever I can do to help, you can count on me to do it.’

Colonel Rathbone was almost invisible behind a tall stack of brown files but he would have been easy to miss even if he had not been hiding. He was wearing a brown suit and a brown tie. His obligatory toothbrush moustache was brown and bristly and his toupee – Edward was sure it was a toupee – was also brown. He might have been bald on top but little tufts of brown hair in his ears and on his cheekbones and luxuriant brown eyebrows suggested the monkey, and there was something simian about his eyes which – it must have been Edward’s imagination – appeared to be yellow.

There was hardly room in the tiny office for Rathbone to edge round the desk to greet him but he managed it, and Edward tried not to smile as he watched him pull in his stomach to avoid dislodging the mountain of files.

‘Let’s stroll into Regent’s Park,’ Rathbone suggested. ‘It’s a lovely day and it’s a sin to be stopped up in here like a fox in his earth.’

Edward looked at the little man sharply. Why that casual reference to the fox? It was true he was more fox than monkey, now Edward came to think about it, but did
he
recognize that?

Apart from a few pleasantries about the weather, little was said until they were ensconced on a bench in Queen Mary’s Garden admiring the roses.

‘So, what do you want to know and why should I tell you?’ Rathbone asked roguishly.

Edward held his temper in check. ‘I imagine from what my wife told me that you were in the studio immediately after Frieda Burrowes was murdered?’

‘I was in my office and was quickly on the scene when I heard the uproar. I don’t know how well you know Broadcasting House but my office is on the same floor as the “Talks” studios.’

‘And did you notice anything odd – apart from the fact that a murder had taken place, I mean? Did you see anyone behaving suspiciously?’

‘By the time I got to the studio, there was quite a crowd. Two of the commissionaires had arrived and were trying to restore order but they know me, of course, and let me through.’

‘What did you see?’

‘I saw a young woman lying across the table, her head battered in. The weapon appeared to be a statuette of the BBC’s revered but recently evicted chairman, Sir John Reith. It was lying on the floor covered in blood and brains.’

‘Do you know if the police found any fingerprints on the statuette? For some reason, they don’t seem to want to keep me in touch with developments.’

‘No fingerprints. Just blood – Miss Burrowes’s and not the murderer’s, unfortunately.’

‘And who did you see there? I mean, who were you surprised to see?’

‘Well, I saw your wife and the producer, Reg Barnes. I saw Lewis Cathcart who I happened to know had been Miss Burrowes’s lover until she traded him in for the more influential Byron Gates. A vicar fellow was also there – the one who sometimes does the Daily Service.’

‘Paul Fisher.’

‘Is that his name? I don’t keep track of casual visitors to the BBC. I have enough on my plate dealing with the employees,’ Rathbone said a trifle defensively.

‘Were there any women there, apart from my wife?’

‘No. Wait a moment – I’ve just remembered that I
did
see a woman, though at first sight I took her for a man. She was dressed like Hamlet – white shirt with black trousers and a black jacket.’

‘She was – at least I assume she was – Miss Elsa Fairweather,’ Edward told him. ‘Did she seem distraught?’

‘I’m not sure. No, I think she looked . . . not pleased, exactly but . . . I might be imagining it but I would almost say triumphant.’

‘You know Miss Burrowes had a relationship with Miss Fairweather?’

‘It’s on her file,’ Rathbone admitted.

‘Anything else you can tell me? In those files of yours – is there anything to suggest who might have murdered the girl?’

Edward spoke lightly but Rathbone took his question seriously.

‘No, I’m afraid not. I’m only interested in criminals where there is a political connection. That man Cathcart, for instance – he consorts with some rather odd characters.’

‘You mean like Dylan Thomas? I met him with Cathcart at lunchtime.’

‘In the pub, I imagine. He’s more or less an alcoholic so I don’t take him very seriously, but he’s a troublemaker. He’s not employed by the BBC but he often gives talks and reads his poems – the most awful stuff. I’ve always had a distaste for the Welsh – they’re all goats. Look at that man Lloyd George, a dishonest goat if ever there was one.’

Ignoring the slur on the Welsh nation in general, Edward asked why he particularly disliked Dylan Thomas.

‘He’s open to blackmail, though I doubt whether anyone would bother to blackmail him when they could buy him for a few bob. He’s married but he goes after every girl he sees. And he’s a coward.’

‘A coward?’

‘I intercepted a letter of his . . .’ Edward was shocked but said nothing. ‘He was writing to one of his literary friends. I remember his words exactly. “What are you doing for your country? I’m letting mine rot.” He’s registered as a conscientious objector but he’s admitted to friends that he’s just an escapist. One of the people who drinks with him told me he brags that he can’t “do Brooke in a trench”.’

‘Rupert Brooke?’ Edward said. ‘I suppose he means he can’t be a “patriotic poet” – I don’t blame him for that. I think we are a bit too cynical to take that sort of verse in this war. Anyway, that’s by the by. He may be rather “artistic” for my taste but it doesn’t make him a murderer.’

‘No, but Cathcart would do well to choose his drinking companions more carefully.’

‘Is there anything on Reg Barnes?’

‘The producer?’ Rathbone sounded surprised. ‘No, though he does give a voice to some undesirable characters on the left – that odious man Guy Baron for one. But Reg is all right – even given me a tip or two. Why, do you think he had a relationship with Miss Burrowes which went wrong?’

‘He claims it was a father/daughter thing but he might not have liked seeing his little girl play around with people like Byron Gates and Lewis Cathcart, let alone Elsa Fairweather.’

‘Yes, but Barnes was the wrong side of the glass when the murder happened and your wife was with him.’

Edward sighed. ‘I know. I was simply trying not to rule anything – or anyone – out. But you’re right, Barnes isn’t a murderer. Well, thank you, Colonel, you’ve been most helpful,’ Edward said, suddenly tiring of the man and getting up from the bench.

‘Do you have your suspicions as to who killed the girl?’ Rathbone asked.

‘I have, but no evidence as yet. I need to think it through.’

‘Mike Heron – I knew him in the war. I’m glad you were able to get him off the hook. I read all about it in the papers.’

‘You know Colonel Heron?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised. We were both Indian Army. He’s a good fellow and a brave man. I kept my head below the parapet but he led from the front. A man of honour.’ Rathbone barked out a laugh.

‘And do you still see him?’

‘Mike? He’s been up to see me a few times. Had a few pints – showed him around Broadcasting House.’

‘Did you see him the day Miss Burrowes was murdered?’

Rathbone wrinkled his brow. ‘Nope. As I said, we don’t meet very often. Dash it all, you surely don’t suspect Mike, do you? I thought you had proved he was innocent. I tell you, he’s a good man. Wish there were more like him. I can’t stick these artistic types and the politicians are even worse. The truth is, there aren’t many kindred spirits at the BBC. I’ll be quite glad to be shot of it.’

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a posting in Hong Kong. Rather more my cup of tea. Even the war has a silver lining, what? Well, good luck then, Corinth.’ They shook hands. ‘Or should I say “Good hunting”. I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again.’

As Edward watched him stroll off between the banks of roses, he wondered if the England they were going to have to fight for was really the free, democratic country of his imagination. There was something second-rate about Rathbone which made Edward feel dirty. He considered going to the Turkish bath in Jermyn Street but, looking at his watch, realized he would miss his train. It would be good to be back in the fresh country air, he thought.

Verity had caught an earlier train home. Lambert had, she told Edward, grilled her for almost an hour but in the end had seemed satisfied with her account of Frieda’s killing.

‘He even said I was a good witness,’ she ended.

‘Did he discuss Byron’s death with you?’

‘He made me go over it all again. I get the impression he doesn’t think much of Inspector Trewen but he gave very little away. I came out feeling as though I had been wrung out like a wet rag.’

‘The sign of a good interrogator,’ Edward remarked. ‘I must say, I’m pretty exhausted too. It’s been a long day. What say you to an early night?’

‘Good idea. By the way, you haven’t forgotten that Tommie’s coming tomorrow?’

‘No. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve hated him being angry with us.’

‘With me,’ Verity corrected him.

As they got ready for bed, Edward asked, ‘What was it you said that made Tommie “forgive and forget”? I thought he’d never come round.’

‘I didn’t tell you but I telephoned him after I met Paul Fisher at Broadcasting House. I said we needed him to give us his blessing before the war fractured our lives and sent us spinning off who knows where, like a croquet ball.’

‘That was good of you, V. “So shines a good deed in a naughty world.” We’ll sleep well tonight, I think.’

14

‘It’s lovely to have you here.’ Verity nudged her ball through a hoop and croqueted his.

‘You are one of my oldest friends and you are married to an even older friend. I just couldn’t let it go on any longer. I say, isn’t that cheating?’

Tommie Fox watched her apply a sharp tap to her ball which shot his off into the flower bed.

‘It was making Edward unhappy. He didn’t say anything but I know it was.’

‘What’s he been up to down here? I’m probably wrong but somehow I don’t see him as a countryman. Does he garden?’

‘No, he doesn’t garden but he loves walking on the downs with Basil and the girls. They’ll be back soon. In fact, he ought to be back by now but he loses all sense of time when he’s roaming.’

‘Is he sleuthing? He told me about the murders.’

‘Of course he’s sleuthing. I encourage it. It gives him something to think about while we wait for this war to start.’

‘I thought he wasn’t going to do any more of that?’

‘He tried not to get involved but what could he do? One murder right on our doorstep and then Frieda Burrowes a few minutes after she’d been interviewing me. It’s personal, you might say.’

Verity let Tommie croquet her and then, trying to sound neutral, said, ‘Edward wants to ask you about Paul Fisher.’

‘Yes, I know. He’s an odd fish, that’s for sure, but I don’t see him as a murderer.’

‘Because his collar buttons at the back?’

‘No, because he’s a true Christian and Christians don’t go about murdering people.’ Verity bit back a remark about the Crusades. ‘I telephoned and told him I was coming to Rodmell,’ Tommie went on. ‘He didn’t seem particularly interested. Anyway, I thought I would go and see him tomorrow.’

‘He probably didn’t like it that you were staying with us. I asked him to supper but he wouldn’t come. He shares your view on unbelievers. He thinks I’m the devil and, worse still, that I have tempted Edward from the path of righteousness.’

‘Oh no! Surely not . . .’ Tommie protested. ‘I tell you what, I think he’s ill. I happened to meet a friend of his and she said he had cancer. But he’s the most reserved of men and would never admit it. He couldn’t bear to be pitied.’