The More Deceived (18 page)

‘Yes, that’s the impression I got when I talked to him.’ Edward took a minute to absorb what Pride had told him. ‘So, we have two different murders to investigate?’

‘But linked,’ Pride repeated. ‘Have you any ideas, my lord? You have not had anything from your political . . . friends?’

‘Not yet,’ Edward said stiffly.

‘You talked to the boy, my lord. Did James hate his father enough to kill him?’

‘I met him only briefly – we did not really talk – but I don’t think so. They had quarrelled, certainly, but I got the feeling James loved his father, and Lyall certainly loved him.’

‘What was the quarrel about? Do you know?’

‘His going to Spain, I suppose, but it might have been something else. I don’t know for sure. A photographer friend of mine, Gerda Meyer, who knew him in Spain said something about James blaming his father for his mother’s death.’

‘But that was cancer. How could he blame his father for that? He must have seen he was heartbroken.’

‘We’ll have to find James and ask him,’ Edward said flatly.

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Edward said, ‘May I talk to Miss Hawkins and the other people in Lyall’s office?’

‘I don’t see why not. Our interviews will be over today. You must of course make it clear to them that they have no need to answer your questions. Your position is that of an observer and political adviser.’

‘I quite understand, Chief Inspector, and I’ll keep you posted.’

Returning to Albany in a taxi, Edward put his hand in his coat pocket and got a shock. He felt something round and smooth and immediately knew what it was – the powder compact Constable Robbins had fished out of the river near to where Westmacott had been found hanging. He had meant to question Desmond Lyall about it but had quite forgotten. He looked again at the dolphin on the inside of the lid which he was sure was the same as the design on Lyall’s signet ring. Damn and blast! He had suppressed vital evidence. He felt slightly nauseous. He looked at it more carefully. It was a beautiful piece of work. He was no expert but he thought he had seen something similar in Cartier when he was buying a present for Verity. She hadn’t been very appreciative, he remembered. He turned it over in his hand. It was probably part of a vanity case. He wondered if he ought to go straight back to Scotland Yard and hand it over to Pride but then thought that, before he did so, he would take it into Cartier and see if they could identify it. He knew they kept meticulous records.

Marcus Fern was waiting when he got back to Albany. ‘Sorry to barge in on you. I hoped to catch you before you went out but your man said you left here before breakfast. I thought you never got out of bed before nine.’

‘Ah well, something turned up,’ Edward answered vaguely, refusing to satisfy Fern’s curiosity. ‘What can I do for you?’

When Edward had got to know Fern on the
Queen Mary,
where he was acting as Lord Benyon’s secretary, he had thought him brilliant but rather cold. Benyon had been at pains to explain to Edward at the time that ‘secretary’ did not properly describe Fern’s position or his work. He was Benyon’s economic adviser and someone with whom he could discuss problems and ideas. He was about Edward’s age and Benyon had forecast that he would one day be Governor of the Bank of England. However, Fern had unexpectedly taken up with Winston Churchill and his career had suffered as a result. He sat on the boards of several companies but his main concern – one might almost say the obsession – which he shared with Churchill was that Britain was quite unprepared for the war he believed would break out within the next five years. He made speeches on the subject and chaired a small group of like-minded financiers but alienated most of the people with whom he worked. They thought him a bore, a monomaniac, who ought to leave politics to the politicians. Edward admired his dedication – trusted him up to a point – and shared his views but they were not close friends.

‘Well, the fact is, Corinth, Winston asked me to drop in with an invitation. He took to you and wants to see you again. In fact, he wonders if you would have dinner with us tonight?’

Edward had an idea he was being ‘got at’ but did not object. Churchill was trying to enlist him in whatever private war he was waging against those who opposed his crusade and Edward was not unwilling to be recruited.

‘Tonight?’

‘Well, I knew you would probably be busy but I thought I would ask.’

‘No, I am free and, of course, flattered to be asked. Presumably not Chartwell?’ he said with a grin.

‘No, Morpeth Mansions, number 11. It’ll just be a few of us who support the cause, you know. All men, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t quite understand why he should be interested in me,’ Edward said slowly. ‘My influence does not even extend to my family. My brother Gerald thinks I am barking up quite the wrong tree. He is a great friend of Baldwin and very much admires Mr Chamberlain.’

‘To tell the truth, I think he would like to consult you in an area where he believes you are an expert.’

‘That being . . . ?’

‘Protection, I suppose you would call it.’

‘He wants me to be his bodyguard?’ Edward asked with studied sarcasm.

‘Nothing like that!’ Fern said hastily. ‘He has many enemies, as you know, but neither the time nor the inclination to worry about them.’

‘I can’t believe he has anything
to
worry about.’ Edward was still cross. ‘I can’t see Mr Baldwin sending his “heavies” to beat him up just because they disagree politically.’

‘No, of course not! But his views on both Ireland and India have brought him death threats. He takes very little notice but I, and one or two others, think he ought to have . . . advice.’

‘Major Ferguson of Special Branch . . . he is the person to advise.’

‘Special Branch is overwhelmed by its obligation to preserve the government from political adventurists from the far right and the far left of the spectrum. They can hardly be expected to worry about the safety of private individuals.’ He paused but Edward still felt he was being approached with a view to becoming Churchill’s private detective – a position he thought himself, rightly or wrongly, to be above.

‘I am sure Mr Churchill can employ an ex-policeman to guard him.’

‘Oh dear! I am afraid I haven’t explained myself clearly. Mr Churchill has no need of a bodyguard. He wants – or we think he wants – someone not involved in politics to keep an eye on . . . threats to his safety. I am convinced – and I want to convince you – that Winston is our only hope. He is too important to us not to take precautions. You must understand.’

‘You say he has received death threats?’

‘Plenty. Although these are from lunatics and he burns them, I am convinced there is a danger. Have you heard of the Blue Shirts, for example?’

‘Irish Fascists?’

‘Yes, a group of idiots led by “General” O’Duffy, the President of Fine Gael and a former police chief. He’s in Spain now with Franco but some of his people are still here and in Ireland.’

‘What have they got against Churchill?’

‘They don’t like him for a whole raft of reasons – not least his opposition to Britain returning the ports to Eire.’

‘What ports?’

‘As part of the treaty with de Valera which established the Irish Free State, Britain held on to certain fortified ports which will be vital to us in the event of war with Germany – Berehaven, Cobh and Lough Swilly. The government wants to hand them over to de Valera but Churchill regards them as vital to our interests and says so at every opportunity.’

‘I see.’

‘And then there is India. He has done so much to oppose Indian self-government that there are plenty of fanatics who would be delighted to see him dead.’

‘Well, I shall come tonight, as you wish it, Fern, but I don’t promise anything. In the first place – I tell you this in confidence – I am involved in the investigation of the murder of Charles Westmacott, the Foreign Office man, and I strongly suspect he was passing secret information to Mr Churchill. And now his boss, Desmond Lyall, has been murdered.’

Fern whistled. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’

‘It’s all such a muddle! There has to be a link between the two murders but it’s not obvious.’

‘Political?’

‘Maybe. Politics is so fractured. I agree with Mr Churchill that our leadership is criminally supine in the face of the threat from Germany but that’s all I do agree with him about, as far as I can see.’

‘That’s enough to go on with. See you tonight then. No need to dress – just dinner-jackets. Winston has been known to wear his carpet slippers!’

Edward was beginning to be worried about Verity. The situation in Spain was going from bad to worse and it was obvious, even to the casual observer, that General Franco was going to win the civil war. Madrid was under siege and, when the city fell, inevitably the world would believe the battle for the Republic was lost. The Republicans might fight a guerrilla war for many months but the final outcome could not be in doubt. And when Franco did take Madrid the odds were that there would be a bloodbath. Hand-to-hand fighting, snipers, street-by-street battles – the city would not fall without a bitter struggle and any journalist still with the Republicans would be in extreme danger. Franco had no reason to love the left-wing press which had campaigned against him so vigorously for so long and, if he could revenge himself without attracting too much notice, he would.

Edward had been telephoning the
New Gazette
every other day to get the latest news and was just about to do so again when the telephone rang.

‘Hello!’ Edward spoke irritably, his mind on Verity and the peril she was in. The voice at the other end of the line was unmistakably cockney.

‘Lord Edward?’

‘Yes. Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Jack Spot. I heard you was wanting to speak to me.’

‘Of course! Yes, I do.’ For a moment Edward had quite forgotten asking Pride to pass Spot a message to get in touch. ‘I need some information and I am ready to pay for it. Could you come round to my rooms in Piccadilly?’

‘Naw! I don’t think so. Not my territory, if you see what I mean. I wouldn’t feel at my ease.’

‘Where then?’

‘Do you know the Cat and Fiddle in Seven Dials?’

‘No, but I can find it.’

‘It’s in Earlham Street. Can you be there at six, before it gets busy? Ask for the snug. We can talk there private like.’

‘Very good,’ Edward said briskly. ‘I’ll be there.’

As soon as he had put down the telephone receiver he dialled the
New Gazette
and asked to speak to Mr Atkins on the Foreign Desk. Atkins collected and collated reports from the paper’s foreign correspondents. He said he had heard nothing from Verity for several days and that Lord Weaver himself was worried enough to telephone the Foreign Office to ask what plans it had for rescuing journalists and other foreign nationals in the event of Madrid falling to Franco.

‘And what did they say?’ Edward asked.

‘The FO said there was nothing they could do. Standing orders are for journalists to make for the nearest foreign embassy in a crisis.’

‘When do you expect Miss Browne to be able to get through to you?’

‘As you know, my lord, Madrid is under continual bombardment. Miss Browne warned in her last wire that all communications with the outside world might be cut off at any time.’

Edward’s lips thinned and his brow creased. ‘Is she in any danger, do you think?’ It was an absurd question and one which he regretted the moment he asked it. He could sense the man at the other end of the line shrugging his shoulders.

‘I can’t see Miss Browne staying out of danger, can you, my lord?’

Edward could just imagine Verity leaving it too late to take shelter in an embassy. He was suddenly overcome with anxiety. He would give anything to be with her.

‘If I wanted to go out to Spain . . . ?’

‘I wouldn’t advise it, my lord.’

‘I’m not asking your advice,’ he said, needing someone to shout at. ‘I’m sorry, Atkins. I
am
asking your advice and I hope you will forgive me for not liking it.’

‘Not at all, my lord. We are all worried. Many parts of Spain are quiet enough . . .’

‘But not Madrid.’

‘Not Madrid, no, my lord.’

While he had been talking to Atkins, Edward had come to a decision. He resolved to go to Spain – whatever the cost – and find Verity. James Lyall would be his excuse . . . his alibi for doing something no sane man would contemplate. He suppressed his guilt at using the boy in this way by telling himself it would be what James’s father, if he were still alive, would want him to do. Only action, however futile it might turn out to be, could stem his anxiety which threatened to become panic. He knew he might not be able to reach Verity but to do nothing was intolerable. He would ask Vansittart to furnish him with a diplomatic passport. He picked up the telephone again but, instead of dialling, lowered the receiver and replaced it on its rest with a bang. He would go round to the Foreign Office and talk to the great man in person. Face to face, he ought to be able to persuade him to give him the help he needed.

He shouted to Fenton for his coat and hat and strode, grim-faced, into the bustle of Piccadilly. He did not need to be psychic to know Verity was in danger but the fear he felt now was something more than his usual nagging expectation of hearing bad news from Spain whenever she was reporting the war. Verity would pooh-pooh his fears and be thoroughly ungrateful if he did turn up beside her somewhere on the front line. And yet he could not rid himself of his premonition that she was threatened in some personal way and that only he could come to her aid.

It was good to be out in the fresh air and his head cleared a little. It suddenly occurred to him that such a busy and important man as Vansittart would probably not be able to see him on the spur of the moment and he wondered if he were about to make a colossal ass of himself. He was, however, fortunate in his timing and spent just fifteen minutes kicking his heels in an ante-room before being ushered into his office.

‘You have some news about Westmacott’s murder . . . or Lyall’s?’ Vansittart greeted him. ‘It has been a nightmare. We are involved in the most difficult international negotiations and this has to happen. The press is pursuing me with questions I don’t want to answer and, moreover, can’t answer. Anthony had to field a question in the House today. He is hopping mad, I can tell you.’