Sweet Sorrow Read online

  DAVID ROBERTS worked in publishing for over thirty years. He is married and divides his time between London and Wiltshire.

  Praise for David Roberts

  ‘Roberts just keeps getting better and better with each book.’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘Roberts pays meticulous attention to period detail and the result is a really well crafted and charming mystery story.’

  Daily Mail

  ‘This is a witty and meticulous recreation of the class-ridden middle England of the 1930s . . . a perfect example of golden age mystery traditions with the cobwebs swept away.’

  Guardian

  ‘Roberts has captured brilliantly the light and shade of pre-war Britain under the falling shadow of Nazism. A gripping, richly satisfying whodunit, with finely observed characters, sparkling with insouciance and stinging menace.’

  Peter James

  Also by David Roberts

  Sweet Poison

  Bones of the Buried

  Hollow Crown

  Dangerous Sea

  The More Deceived

  A Grave Man

  The Quality of Mercy

  Something Wicked

  No More Dying

  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, 2009

  This edition published by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2010

  Copyright © David Roberts 2009

  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: 978-1-84901-378-9

  eISBN: 978-1-78033-425-7

  Printed and bound in the EU

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  For Jane, first and last

  How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?

  Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

  Parting is such sweet sorrow . . .

  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

  Contents

  August 1939

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Note

  August 1939

  Prologue

  Byron Gates was a poet. As he used to say, with that characteristic chuckle women seemed to find so attractive, what else could he be with a name like that? Ever since he had first read – though not understood – Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage at the age of eleven, he had determined to be a poet and to honour his namesake. As an undergraduate at Oxford, he adopted a poetic personality which he spent what remained of his life refining and perfecting. He began to dress like a poet, modelling his costume on Oscar Wilde and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, developing a taste for silk shirts and bow-ties. He wore a black or purple cape when he ventured out, the colour depending on his mood. He smoked Gitanes through an ivory cigarette holder and, when he could afford it, he sported a buttonhole – for preference a white carnation. He wore his hair just an inch or two longer than was thought decent and he had a way of combing it with his fingers when he was in the throes of creation which, he had read, was a mannerism of Tennyson’s.

  His mild eccentricity was indulged by his college, Christ Church, and he was only once ducked in Mercury, the college fountain – a passage of arms he wore thereafter like a medal. He was suspected of being a ‘pansy’ but this was far from the truth.

  Although he was a pastoral poet, writing lyrically of the mountains and lakes of his native Cumberland, he was essentially a city man and was never so happy as when he was sipping at his pint in some smoky, stale-aired public house in Fitzrovia. On leaving the university, with a disappointing third, he attempted journalism but the life of a cub reporter did not suit him and, reluctantly, to pay the bills, he took a post in a preparatory school near Marlborough. As his literary reputation grew, he became increasingly impatient at having to teach small boys Latin and English; necessarily ignorant or at least unheeding of the favour he was doing them, they sensed his dislike of them and ragged him unmercifully. It was a minor compensation that the under-matron was pretty and receptive to his overtures.

  By the time he was thirty he had published three slim volumes of verse, the first of which had been described as ‘promising’, the second as ‘daring’ and the third as ‘significant’, though what it signified the reviewer – a drinking companion of his – would have been hard put to say. Brief poems extolling natural beauty and platonic love appeared in small magazines with even smaller circulations on a regular basis. He reviewed poetry for the Telegraph and The Listener, for which he also occasionally set the crossword, writing sharp-edged criticism of his elders, praising his friends, particularly his Oxford contemporaries. The Listener brought him into contact with BBC programme makers and he was commissioned to give a series of lectures on how to read poetry, which proved surprisingly popular.

  With the approach of war, he wrote a sequence of sonnets expressing his disapproval of violence in any shape or form, bravely declaring to a largely indifferent world that he was a pacifist, like his mentor W.H. Auden. Indeed, he would have gone to America with Auden and his friend Christopher Isherwood to sit out the coming conflict in safety had he been able to wangle an invitation from a respectable American university. As it was, he had reluctantly shut up his house in Flask Walk and left Hampstead for Sussex. Virginia Woolf, the celebrated novelist and an old friend of his, had found him a small cottage close to where she lived in the village of Rodmell just outside Lewes, and to this he decamped with his wife and their two daughters.

  Whether it was his name or his fame, if he could be said to be famous, or his pallid good looks and small-boy appeal, he had always enjoyed – even at the university – considerable success with women. His first wife, to whom he had been unfaithful from the day of their marriage – with her sister, as it happened – had died five years earlier of cancer, though some unfriendly folk spoke of a ‘broken heart’. With Marion dead, he had remarried almost immediately a moderately well-known actress called Mary Brand.

  He discovered that the act of marriage was death to romance and immediately began an affair with Frieda Burrowes, an aspiring actress young enough to be his daughter. They had met when she had interviewed him for the BBC and she had signalled her devotion by attending several of his ‘readings’, staying on after the – usually small – audience had dispersed to tell him how profound he was and how affecting his verse. No one ever said that his poetry was memorable – it wasn’t – and he winced when his women chose to quote from poems by his more famous namesake, instead of a line or two from, say, his moving elegy for his dead wife.

  Ada, his daughter by his first wife, now aged twelve, was a shy introverted girl, ‘no
t particularly pretty’, as her father used to say to her face, who was left very much on her own. Her stepmother was by no means an uncaring woman but she had her career, mostly on the London stage but occasionally in Hollywood. She, too, had a daughter, Jean, from an earlier marriage, now aged fifteen. Jean was everything Ada was not – outgoing, noisy and showing every sign that she would be a beauty. Ada worshipped her stepsister and Jean repaid her devotion with casual friendliness. She had a soft heart and the ugly duckling was so obviously in need of mothering that she did what she could to provide it.

  Ivy Cottage to which the Gates family moved was not large and, to Jean’s chagrin, she was forced to share a room with Ada. The girls did not quarrel but it was an uncomfortable arrangement.

  Byron’s young admirer, Frieda, remained in London. Fortunately, he had to go up to town quite frequently. With war almost a certainty, the government, rather late in the day, decided to do what it could to foster patriotism and, as part of that effort, Byron was invited to give a series of talks for the Home Service on what it meant to be British. These proved to be even more popular than his talks on how to read poetry.

  However, the BBC only paid a pittance and, since he never earned more than fifty pounds a year from his poetry, Byron had been forced to find an alternative source of income. He had tidied up his lectures on poetry and Victor Gollancz had published them as a book which had made him a hundred pounds. Then, in 1937, his publisher, who had a thriving list of crime fiction in its famous yellow livery, suggested he might try his hand at a detective story.

  To his own and his publisher’s amazement, Just Like a Coffin had sold very well. Setting crosswords had prepared him for constructing the puzzle at the heart of most detective stories of the period. He hardly bothered to invent a detective, merely providing the reader with an idealized portrait of himself. Nicholas Shelley, the name he sportively gave his detective, was wise, good-looking and ‘philosophical’ – by which his creator meant that he was given to spouting platitudinous opinions on life, death, patriotism and other great topics – but he did solve crimes. Bulldog Drummond might be the man you needed beside you in a rough house, but Nicholas Shelley had brain and a way with the ladies which made many a middle-aged female’s heart flutter on the way out of Boots lending library.

  There was a certain irony, upon which Byron himself had remarked, that as an avowed pacifist he should prove so good at describing murder – bloodless though it usually was. A much greater irony, particularly in view of the trouble he had taken to remove himself from London and the danger of being bombed – an irony which, unfortunately, he was unable to appreciate – was that, even before the war he so much dreaded had broken out, he met a violent death where he least expected it, in the peaceful Sussex village in which he had made his home. It was just such a murder as Nicholas Shelley might have been called upon to investigate but, with the fictional detective’s creator dead, the onerous duty fell to the newly married Lord Edward Corinth.

  1

  ‘But it’s perfectly all right as it is, Mrs Brendel,’ Verity said firmly. ‘I much prefer the walls white and I know my husband has an aversion to flock except in relation to sheep.’

  Verity enjoyed referring to ‘my husband’. She had determined that as she had, against all her principles, got married, and to Lord Edward Corinth rather than to plain Mr Snooks, she might as well revel in her sin. She would not try to pretend that marriage was merely a slight error of judgement for which she could hardly be blamed. And here she was employing staff for the first time in her life. Edward had insisted on appointing a cook/housekeeper on the grounds that, as he put it, Verity was quite without any domestic skills – hurtful but undeniably true – and because she would be away for long stretches of time by nature of her work – she was a foreign correspondent for the New Gazette. Edward had accepted an ill-defined but interesting-sounding job at the Foreign Office, so he was likely to be at home more often than she and would need someone to run the house for him.

  ‘Do you mind that I can’t darn your socks, Edward?’ she had asked him, rather abashed.

  ‘Nor boil an egg or make a bed . . .’ He saw her face fall and stopped teasing. ‘Of course not! You know very well that such a woman would bore me rigid. That is why we will employ Mrs Brendel. And we have the added pleasure of knowing that we are helping someone less fortunate than ourselves. Oh dear, does that sound impossibly smug? But you know what I mean.’

  Mrs Brendel was a Jewish refugee from Nazi Germany – a friend of their near neighbours, Virginia and Leonard Woolf. Leonard – a Jew himself – had been active in helping refugees find work and somewhere to live.

  ‘You can decorate the house how you like, V. The only thing I insist upon,’ Edward had continued, ‘is that you keep it clean and simple – no wallpaper. Wallpaper reminds me of dull London drawing-rooms and is totally inappropriate to a country vicarage.’

  Verity, feeling almost dizzy with virtue – was she not behaving like the wives she had read about who treated their husband’s slightest whim as an order? – opened her mouth to ask Mrs Brendel what she was planning to give them for supper. She was arrested by a cry of ‘Cooee!’ from the French windows.

  ‘Verity, I hope you don’t mind me coming at you through the garden but I could hear you talking . . .’

  She had very few female friends – she found most women irritating. They tended to disapprove of her wandering the world as a journalist, unmarried and unchaperoned. Now that she was married they would disapprove of her all the more. A wife’s place was in the home looking after the children and preparing supper for the man of the house when he returned from the City. She had no children, had no intention of having children and, under pressure, confessed to not liking children. As for waiting at home for Edward to return from town – she had never waited for anything, least of all Edward. At dinner parties, she objected to being sent out of the room with the women to discuss children and ‘the servant problem’ while the men sat over their port and cigars discussing money and politics. However, she had one woman friend to whom she was devoted – Charlotte, a novelist married to one of her oldest friends, the painter, Adrian Hassel. They lived in a cottage just across the field and it was they who had found Edward and Verity their house.

  ‘Of course not! Come in. It’s so hot that Mrs Brendel and I decided to open every window and air the house while we can. It’s wonderful to have escaped London. I really thought I should die, it was so oppressive.’

  ‘And how do you like it here?’

  ‘I adore it! I can’t tell you how grateful we are to you. I don’t think we would ever have found anywhere to live without your help. You know, I feel like a child playing with a doll’s house. I just can’t believe it’s all real.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased, though somehow I can’t ever imagine you playing with dolls,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Is there anything I can do to help you settle in?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Brendel is so efficient. The furniture we brought from Mersham arrived yesterday. It’s all a bit of a muddle now but I’m sure by the end of the week we’ll feel we have lived here for years.’

  ‘And last night . . .? You could have come and stayed with us.’

  ‘I know we could. You have been so kind but we decided we had to “take possession” so to speak. Now, are you coming to dinner tonight? I was just about to discuss what we might eat with Mrs Brendel.’ Verity looked doubtful for a moment. ‘We have got some food, I suppose, Mrs Brendel?’

  Charlotte had to laugh at the hopeless way she looked about her as though expecting a leg of lamb, perfectly roasted, suddenly to appear in front of her.

  ‘Never mind that,’ Charlotte said. ‘You are invited to dinner tonight with the Woolves. They so much want to meet you. Do say you’ll come.’

  ‘Gosh, yes!’ Verity’s faced cleared and she smiled with relief. ‘We’d love that. Edward and I are already struggling to find things to talk about when we are by ourselves,’ she joked.
‘The Woolves . . .? You mean . . .?’

  ‘Leonard and Virginia – round here, they are always called the Woolves. It’s affectionate, you understand.’

  Verity turned to the housekeeper who was standing patiently waiting for instructions. ‘It seems we’ll not be dining at home, Mrs Brendel. I hope you haven’t bought anything that won’t keep?’

  ‘No, mam. There’s a shoulder of mutton but it will keep in the larder until tomorrow, even in this heat.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve been into Lewes . . .?’ Verity sounded surprised.

  ‘No, mam. The butcher calls every Tuesday and Friday, the fish on Wednesday and the baker’s boy calls daily except Sundays.’

  ‘Goodness! Well then, there’s nothing for me to worry about, is there?’

  When Mrs Brendel had departed, Charlotte giggled. ‘I’ll have some difficulty thinking of you as “mam”, Verity.’

  ‘She wanted to call me “my lady”,’ Verity responded defensively. ‘I told her I couldn’t live up to that so we compromised on mam or madam. Do you think it too absurd?’

  ‘No! We’ll soon get used to the new Verity – with a big house and servants and a title . . .’

  ‘Now you’re teasing me again. Why does everyone think it so funny? I can’t get Edward to take me seriously and now you. You’ve got to give me support or else I’ll run away.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Charlotte said firmly. ‘Don’t be such a ninny. Where is Edward, anyway?’

  ‘He’s walking Basil.’ Basil was Verity’s curly-coated retriever. ‘They’ve gone up on the downs. Stay and have some tea. I expect they’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  ‘Haven’t got time. I have a book to finish. My publisher says that, if the war comes, no one will want to buy books – at least not ones like mine.’

  ‘About family squabbles . . .? Oh, I don’t agree. I think people will always want to read novels about normal life to remind them what they are fighting for and as an escape from the horrible present.’