A Grave Man Read online

  DAVID ROBERTS was a publisher for thirty years before becoming a full-time writer. He is married and divides his time between London and Wiltshire.

  Praise for David Roberts

  ‘A most engaging pair of amateur sleuths whom I look forward to encountering again in future novels.’

  Charles Osborne, author of

  The Life and Crimes of Agatha Christie

  ‘Roberts’ use of period detail . . . gives the tale terrific texture. I recommend this one heartily to history-mystery devotees.’

  Booklist

  ‘The plots are exciting and the central characters are engaging, they offer a fresh, a more accurate and a more telling picture of those less than placid times.’

  Sherlock

  Titles in this series

  (listed in order)

  Sweet Poison

  Bones of the Buried

  Hollow Crown

  Dangerous Sea

  The More Deceived

  A Grave Man

  The Quality of Mercy

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published by Constable,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2005

  This paperback edition published by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2006

  Copyright © David Roberts 2005

  The right of David Roberts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84529-317-8 (pbk)

  ISBN-10: 1-84529-317-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84529-128-0 (hbk)

  ISBN-10: 1-84529-128-X

  eISBN: 978-1-78033-419-6

  Printed and bound in the EU

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  For Olly

  Romeo: Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.

  Mercutio: No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve: ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.

  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead

  Are but as pictures.

  Shakespeare, Macbeth

  Contents

  August 1937 – February 1938

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  August 1937 – February 1938

  1

  In England, when a great public servant dies, it is customary to hold a memorial service in Westminster Abbey at which his achievements are recalled and his sins forgiven if not forgotten. Death transforms a hated rival into a cherished colleague whose loss is genuinely felt, reminding the survivor of his own mortality. Like the Roman general enjoying his triumph, a slave whispers in his ear, ‘Respice post te, hominem te memento!’ Look behind you and remember you are mortal. If called upon, the mourner composes a panegyric replete with platitudes.

  At the Abbey, he removes his top hat with studied dignity, gives his name to the usher and wonders how far down the list it will appear in the following morning’s report in The Times and the Morning Post. He sings an anthem and listens poker-faced to the eulogy. It is not a long service because the congregation is made up of busy and important men whose time is money. As the organ sounds in sombre magnificence he processes out, proud to be ‘one of us’. He feels a stirring of excitement in the knowledge that soon he will be mingling with the high and mighty on equal terms. At the Abbey door, he whispers a few words of comfort in the widow’s ear, gives the eldest boy a firm handshake and pats the youngest on the head and, his duty done, replaces his top hat. He raises his eyes and sees many friends and acquaintances whom he greets with a sad smile and a modest nod of the head. Gradually, back in the world of the living, spirits lighten and his smile broadens. He makes what he hopes are unnoticed efforts to put himself in the way of those higher in rank or in a more exalted office with whom he can speak a few words and be seen to be doing so. It is the way things are done, at least in England.

  In the case of Lord Benyon, the economist, writer and government servant, who had been killed when the giant airship, the Hindenburg, had exploded in a ball of fire as it attempted to dock in New Jersey, the situation was a little different. For one thing there was the extraordinary nature of his passing. In the second place Benyon’s only living relative was a sister married to a self-important stockbroker. There was no black-veiled widow or desolate children upon whom the mourners could focus their grief and, though no man is without enemies, Benyon had far fewer than most. Even Montagu Norman, the Governor of the Bank of England and an old sparring partner, admired Benyon’s abilities and liked him as a man though he abhorred his ideas.

  The Prime Minister and senior cabinet ministers filled the front pews along with the Court of the Bank of England, the American ambassador, the Provost and Fellows of King’s College, Cambridge, leading British financiers and other dignitaries. There was a certain irony, which Benyon would have relished, that he should be mourned by a political class he had long derided and in a religious service he had been known to describe as ‘hocus-pocus’. For all that, he would surely have been delighted to see so many friends gathered to say their farewells. These friends were a very mixed bag as his interests had extended far beyond politics, economics and business. His wife, Inna, who had died a year before, was a prima ballerina in her youth and had danced for Diaghilev. Many of her friends from the world of ballet had become his friends: dancers and choreographers such as Anton Dolin, George Balanchine and Lydia Lopukhova. His close friends included Sir Thomas Beecham, director of the Royal Opera House, writers and artists such as Virginia Woolf, Morgan Forster and Duncan Grant, as well as actors and theatre directors. Women had loved to confide in him despite his feeble physique, weak eyes hidden behind thick-lensed spectacles and balding head, so it was no surprise to find the Abbey filling up half an hour before the service was due to begin.

  It was early August and the great church was almost hot and certainly stuffy. The Hindenburg had been destroyed in May when the Abbey was being decked out for the coronation; it was only now that it had regained its normal sober dignity and was ready to give death its due. The House of Commons was about to rise for the summer recess, and politicians and civil servants were on the point of departing for the grouse moors or to take what many believed would be their final holidays on the Continent before the outbreak of a new European war.

  Among the many hundreds who had gathered to pay their respects were Lord Edward Corinth and the journalist, Verity Browne. They had found seats way back in the nave where they could see nothing and hear very little. Verity, as a committed Communist and atheist, normally refused on principle to enter a church but on this occasion had swallowed her convictions out of affection for Benyon. In the short time they had known him, both Edward and Verity had come to look upon him as a dear friend. Edward had acted as h
is protection officer aboard the Queen Mary on a recent trip Benyon had made to the United States to try to persuade President Roosevelt to fund Britain’s rearmament programme. Benyon had been unsuccessful, as he feared would be the case, but had at least survived an attempt on his life. Furthermore, he was a bad sailor and the ship had not been as stable as Cunard had promised. A storm in the Atlantic had prostrated him and he had declared that on the next occasion he had to visit the States he would travel by air. The Hindenburg had made several safe crossings and its only disadvantage seemed to be that, as an enemy of Fascism, Benyon hated to travel in an airship adorned with the swastika.

  The service followed the normal pattern. The Prime Minister read the famous passage from Ecclesiasticus which includes, so aptly for Benyon, the words: ‘Leaders of the people by their counsels, and by their knowledge of learning meet for the people, wise and eloquent . . .’ The Archbishop of Canterbury called him ‘a humane man genuinely devoted to the cause of the common good – radiant, brilliant, effervescent, full of impish jokes.’ Verity found herself digging in her bag for her handkerchief and even Edward found his eyes prickling.

  When the service ended, it was twenty minutes before they could even think of making their way to the West Door. Just as the crowd about them thinned and Edward had bent to retrieve his hat from underneath his chair, he heard a shrill cry which seemed to come from a woman who had been sitting a few rows in front of them on the extreme right, close to the entrance to the cloisters. Edward walked into the side aisle and saw that a woman was bending over a man slumped in one of the seats.

  Verity had also heard the woman cry out but was too short to see who it was.

  ‘I say, V, isn’t that Maud Pitt-Messanger – the daughter of the archaeologist? Do you remember, we met her with Benyon once? I hope . . .’

  Without finishing his sentence, he walked towards her, Verity in his wake. Two or three other people had also heard the cry and had turned to see what was the matter. Edward found her kneeling in the aisle, her arms around an elderly man half lying in the chair next to the one in which she had been sitting.

  ‘Miss Pitt-Messanger . . . can I help? It’s Edward Corinth. We met . . . is everything all right?’

  ‘My father . . . he’s . . . I think he’s fainted.’

  Edward saw at once that this was no faint. The old man’s eyes were closed and his face was the colour of parchment. He raised Pitt-Messanger’s limp hand and felt for a pulse. He looked up and saw Verity.

  ‘Get one of the ushers, will you, V? Quick as you can. We need a doctor but I’m very much afraid . . .’

  With the help of several of those who had crowded round, Edward laid the old man on the floor and loosened his collar. It was only then that he noticed the blood which had soaked through Pitt-Messanger’s shirt and stained his coat and trousers. Gently, Edward pulled aside his coat to see where the blood was coming from. He saw with disbelief the handle of a knife sticking out from just below his ribs. The blade had been plunged into his body with such ferocity that it was too deeply embedded to be visible. There was a gasp of horror from those who could see what Edward had revealed.

  ‘Everyone stand back. No one touch anything,’ he said. He recognized one of those who had helped him move the dead man. ‘Cardew, we need the police. Go to the West Door, will you? I noticed two or three constables on duty as we came in. If you can’t see one immediately, find a telephone and ring Scotland Yard. Ask to speak to Chief Inspector Pride and tell him what has happened.’

  The young man disappeared and Edward met the eyes of Miss Pitt-Messanger who had collapsed on to one of the chairs and was being comforted by a woman he did not recognize. As the young woman holding Miss Pitt-Messanger’s hand turned to him, he saw one side of her face had been badly burned, perhaps when she was a child. He looked away, not wishing to embarrass her. Maud was sobbing into a handkerchief and making little moaning noises. He noticed a fleck of red on her glove. He hoped she had not seen the knife. To die in such a way, in such a place, at such a time, was grotesque.

  ‘I’m afraid your father is dead, Miss Pitt-Messanger.’

  ‘Has he . . . has he had a heart attack?’ she managed to ask through her sobs.

  Edward hesitated. It seemed cruel to tell her the truth but she would have to know what had happened. It could not be hidden from her. ‘I am sorry to say I think your father has been murdered.’

  ‘Murdered! Why do you say such a thing? It’s not possible.’

  ‘It ought not to be,’ Edward said gravely, ‘but I am afraid there can be no doubt of it. He has been stabbed and it can only have happened a few moments ago. He is still bleeding from his wound.’

  Two days later Edward and Verity were poring over the newspapers which were spread out on the bed. Fenton, Edward’s valet, was taking his annual holiday – in Margate, he had informed his master, where he had a sister who ran a boarding house. Taking advantage of his absence, Verity had ensconced herself in Edward’s rooms in Albany. It was risky because the managers of the apartments would not have approved and nor would most of their friends and relatives. Edward shuddered to think what the Duke of Mersham would say if he knew his younger brother was living with a girl outside the bounds of matrimony. Or rather he would not have said anything. He would merely have harrumphed and looked at him with pained disapproval which would have been worse. Still, it was only for a week and it was fun to pretend to be married.

  It was odd to love someone as much as Edward loved Verity and yet not be able to marry her. Neither of them was married to anyone else. There were no financial barriers to matrimony and, most important of all, they loved one another. It was simply that Verity was adamant that she could not feel free within the bonds of marriage. She said it would stifle their love, cause them much pain and would probably end in bitter parting. She once explained to him that marriage would mean being ‘relegated to a camp behind the front’. She doth protest too much, Edward had once thought, but by now he was convinced she meant what she said. It was partly the fault of her job. She was not just a journalist but a foreign correspondent, though she disliked the phrase, thinking it pretentious. She had to be free to go anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice. Domestic ties were incompatible with such an occupation which was why right-minded people believed it was a man’s job. A woman ought to stay at home, look after her husband’s comforts and carry his babies.

  ‘It’s a strange business, isn’t it?’ she said comfortably, reaching over him and taking buttered toast from his plate.

  ‘What is? Hang on! You’re dripping butter all over The Times. I was just looking to see who had died.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. Pitt-Messanger was stabbed to death in Westminster Abbey during one of the biggest memorial services in years and yet no one saw it happen and no one has been arrested.’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing to do with us,’ Edward said with a shrug.

  ‘Yes it is,’ she protested. ‘We found him. We called the police. Of course it’s to do with us.’

  ‘I’m not getting mixed up with it, V, if that’s what you are hinting at. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is. Tomorrow I am going down to Chartwell to talk to Churchill about a job. I’m really feeling quite bucked.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ Verity said dismissively. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t like him and I wish you weren’t getting so friendly with him. He’s against everything I believe in from the rights of women to . . . the General Strike. He’s not a friend of the people. I’m surprised you can’t see that.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, V. Once you meet him you’ll change your mind. He’s not perfect – I’m not saying he is – but he’s the only politician who can stand up to the dictators. I’m convinced of it.’

  ‘Do what you want,’ she said, half joking, half petulant. ‘I don’t care if you prefer a fat, over-the-hill politician to me. Leave me if you must but I thought only cads desert their mistresses when they are . . .’

  ‘You’re not going to
tell me you’re pregnant, are you? That would be wonderful!’ Edward exclaimed in mock delight.

  ‘Of course not, idiot! I was going to say “when they are in a mood – mistresses, that is – to give themselves to their paramours with wild abandon”.’

  ‘Sorry and all that,’ Edward said annoyingly, ‘but when my country calls . . .’

  ‘Pompous ass,’ she giggled, pinching him. ‘Have you taken your Syrup of Figs this morning? You are sounding constipated. Anyway, I don’t care. It so happens I too have an invitation. Do you remember my friend Ginny Waring?’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘She’s my only school friend. She was head girl and I worshipped her.’

  ‘Which school was that?’ Verity had often told him she had attended a number of schools from most of which, it seemed, she had been expelled. One headmistress, exasperated by her having climbed to the top of the art school roof where she had got stuck – ‘for a dare’ she explained when the fire brigade brought her down – had called her ‘a thoroughly bad influence on the younger girls, disruptive and impudent’. Edward had always thought this was a very fair description of Verity and had every sympathy with her many headmistresses.

  ‘Grove House. I was there for almost three years. Ginny stood up for me when Miss Haddow wanted to throw me out.’

  ‘Why did she wish to throw you out?’ Edward inquired. ‘Idleness, midnight feasts or was it boys?’

  ‘If you must know, clever clogs, it was boys or rather one sweet, if spotty, lad from the local grammar. Not that I was doing anything wrong. He had lent me a pullover and I had forgotten to return it.’

  ‘So you climbed out of the bathroom window and were caught?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Verity said haughtily. ‘He came, without invitation, and climbed in at the dorm window. It was great fun but one of the girls sneaked. I was hauled up in front of the dragon, as we called Miss Haddow, and only Ginny’s intervention prevented me from being shot out on my ear.’