The Quality of Mercy Read online

  Georg knew very well what it was – a tiny drawing by Albrecht Dürer made on his visit to Venice in 1505. It was a sketch of a woman of exquisite beauty with melancholy eyes dressed in Venetian costume – unquestionably a preliminary sketch for a famous painting in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna. Georg’s father had been given it by his father at his bar mitzvah and it had hung over his desk as long as Georg could remember. In the end, he was prevailed upon to take it. Hitler hated Vienna and the Viennese Jews in particular. It was in Vienna that he had failed as an artist and had been laughed out of the Academy of Fine Arts. The first thing he intended to do was to strip the Viennese Jews of every art treasure they possessed. He would begin with the Rothschilds but Himmler’s long arm would search out even the humblest Jew with treasures to seize.

  With tears and prayers, Georg had finally parted from his parents and he was still dazed and grief-stricken. He knew he should look ahead and not dwell on the past. Of course, he could never forget his life in Vienna but he could at least make a future for himself in England as his father had begged him to do. So now, in London, he looked about him but he did not much like what he saw. London was so drab and the people so smug. He went to two Jewish refugee centres and came away determined to have nothing to do with them. He was not one of those poor lost souls. He could make it on his own. If only English cooking wasn’t so bad!

  5

  It was a relief to Georg and to Verity when they departed for Mersham. As Verity had assumed, Edward had asked – or rather informed – his brother that Adrian was also to be a weekend guest and so it was arranged. Georg was to take the train with Fenton, Edward’s valet, and the luggage. Edward was to drive Adrian and Verity in the Lagonda to the memorial meeting for Peter Gray and then go on to Mersham.

  Edward had known Adrian as long as he had known Verity. It had been at a party in the painter’s flat that he had tracked her down after their fateful meeting the night of General Craig’s murder at Mersham almost three years before. Adrian had watched with concern Verity’s refusal to accept Edward’s love and return it. It was true they were an odd couple but he was convinced they belonged together. Both his friends were private and prickly and Adrian tried not to make the mistake of asking either of them when they were going to accept this. He had broken his rule and wondered if he had been foolish to allow himself to lecture Verity while they waited for Georg’s train at Victoria. He comforted himself with the feeling that she had been receptive. She certainly had not told him to mind his own business as she might have done a few months earlier.

  The Lagonda swept out of London and into a countryside already showing signs of spring. Daffodils and primroses coloured the hedgerows and, with the hood down and the wind blowing, Edward began to feel more relaxed. He liked Adrian, though it was a standing joke between them that he could not abide his paintings, and Verity seemed calmer and quieter. It was comforting to be with someone who knew what he felt for Verity – how complicated it was loving someone who rejected marriage on principle and always put her work before her affections. Had Verity not been in the car, he and Adrian might have had one of those terse but loaded exchanges which was the closest men of Edward’s class got to baring their hearts to their friends.

  When they reached the top of Tarn Hill, they followed an unmade-up track until they saw three or four cars and, just beyond, a small gathering of people wrapped in winter coats, collars raised against the wind and holding on to their hats.

  ‘This must be where Gray parked his car,’ Edward remarked as he brought the Lagonda to a halt beside an ancient Austin.

  ‘He could quite easily lug his easel and so on over there,’ Verity said, pointing to where the little group had gathered.

  ‘I must say,’ he shouted, removing his hat which the wind tried to sweep off his head, ‘the view is stunning but it must often have been too cold to paint.’

  ‘And how did he stop his easel blowing away?’ Verity shouted against the wind, clutching her hat to her head.

  ‘There must have been something about this view which made him want to be here whatever the discomfort,’ Adrian agreed.

  In fact, the memorial meeting was held in something of a hollow and some ragged trees gave further protection so at least they could hear what was said and read.

  Rather to Edward’s surprise, Adrian was one of three of Gray’s friends who had been asked to talk of what they valued in him as a man and a painter. Edward was impressed and wished he had known the man Adrian evoked so vividly. Vera read a poem by Tennyson – ‘Crossing the Bar’, which had been a favourite of her uncle’s – and an old friend of his, a man called Reginald Harman, Edward gathered from Adrian, read part of a sermon by John Donne. Then, making sure the ashes would not blow into the faces of the mourners, Vera tipped her uncle’s remains into the wind and Edward was moved – despite not having known him – and felt that a spirit had been freed.

  They stood for a minute in silence, heads bowed, and Edward thought how the war had wounded a whole generation – some in the flesh, many in the soul. Now, another war threatened and new wounds were being inflicted. He prayed for his nephew Frank who might soon be called upon to fight a second war against perverted Prussian militarism. Verity closed her eyes and thought of Georg Dreiser, exiled from his country by evil men, and asked that he might find peace in his new home.

  As the three of them turned to walk back to the Lagonda, Vera came up to Verity and Edward to thank them for coming.

  ‘I’m afraid my uncle did not have many friends. Adrian – you were one – but I think, if he had known both of you, he would have trusted you. By the way, may I introduce you to one of his oldest friends, Reginald Harman.’

  ‘The painter?’ Edward inquired eagerly as Vera turned away to talk to someone else. ‘I have one of your seascapes.’

  ‘I am so pleased,’ Harman said gravely. He had the upright bearing of an old soldier but his goatee beard, unkempt grey hair and fierce grey eyes gave him the appearance of an Old Testament prophet. ‘But, you know, Peter was the better artist. It was a misfortune that he never got the recognition his work deserved, though it never seemed to bother him. However, I have hopes that this new exhibition, which was planned before his untimely death, will remedy this neglect.’

  He sounded pompous but Edward suspected it was the formality of an earlier generation not immediately at ease with strangers.

  ‘His obsession with this place must have worked against any commercial success?’ he suggested.

  ‘It did but he painted other things – other places, people. There’s a portrait of Vera as a child which is a masterpiece.’

  ‘I did not know he was a portrait painter. Did he paint his wife?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather odd? She was the light of his life, I gather.’

  ‘I suppose he thought he did not need to – while she was alive – and then it was too late. Who knows?’

  ‘Where is the exhibition?’

  ‘The Goupil, in September – just before yours, Adrian. I’ll make sure you get invitations to the private view. I understand from Vera that it was your nephew and his friend who discovered poor Peter’s body, Lord Edward?’

  ‘That’s right, close to the drive up to Broadlands. Do you know why he was there?’

  ‘It’s not far as the crow flies. You see over there – that farmhouse?’

  ‘Yes. It looks as though work’s being done on it. I wish I had brought my binoculars.’

  ‘That farmhouse is on the Broadlands estate,’ Harman said. ‘At least I think so. I remember asking Peter about the view and who owned the buildings at the bottom of the picture.’ He hesitated, as though he was going to add something. ‘Perhaps he felt ill and was seeking help. He didn’t like people very much so I can’t think of any other reason why he would walk down towards the house. It’s certainly out of character. He wasn’t a great walker and getting back up the hill to collect his stuff . . .’ He sh
ook his head and the wind whisked his mane of hair into flickering white flames. ‘I have to say I’m as puzzled as you as to what he was doing there.’

  ‘Could he have been meeting someone?’ Edward asked.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Harman replied, after a moment’s thought. ‘He did say something to me about wanting to meet an American painter – or did he say a dealer? I don’t remember – he seemed rather confused – but I assumed it would be in London. I only remember because it was so unusual. He’d almost become a recluse, you understand. He hated meeting anyone new. On the other hand, his paintings were suddenly becoming rather sought after. I believe – and I told him this – that history will mark him out as one of the few English painters of his generation who’ll last. I am so glad I did tell him.’

  ‘How sad to think he won’t be alive to enjoy it.’ Adrian said.

  ‘I don’t feel sad on that account because he would not have enjoyed it. He truly lived for his art. He wasn’t interested in money. I know people say that but, in his case, it was true. He was tortured by depression and only his painting brought him relief.’

  ‘And the ergot he took to control it,’ Edward added.

  ‘I think he had more or less given up taking it. His depressions were nowhere near as severe as they used to be and he was afraid of the effect ergot had on him as a painter. It is a poison as well as a healer. Nature is never as simple as we would like to think. Many natural remedies can have deadly effects in certain circumstances.’

  ‘That’s what I told you when we met in London,’ Vera said to Verity, coming up to Harman and taking his arm affectionately.

  Verity nodded and said, ‘But what do you mean, Mr Harman, when you say he was afraid of the effects on him as an artist?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, he said that, after taking ergot, colour looked different to him. I don’t quite know what he meant but obviously an artist has to trust his eye. He also said that if he took too much, it gave him hallucinations and made him forgetful which could be quite frightening.’

  ‘Hallucinations! You mean he imagined there were snakes in the room with him or something?’ Verity exclaimed. ‘I remember reading something about someone eating hallucinogenic mushrooms and seeing snakes. Ugh! My worst nightmare.’

  ‘I’m not sure what form they took,’ Harman said, sounding as though he did not wish to continue the conversation. ‘I just know they were very unpleasant. Now, Vera, shall we get out of the wind? My old bones are beginning to complain.’

  ‘Of course, Reg. Let’s take refuge in the car.’

  ‘Miss Gray, could I come and talk to you about your uncle?’ Edward said as she moved away. Vera looked surprised but said he could find her at the Slade most days.

  ‘You have a flat in Lawn Road?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know it?’

  ‘Isn’t it an artists’ community of some kind? It’s the building which looks like an ocean liner?’

  ‘Yes, my uncle was a friend of the architect, Wells Coates. He and a friend, Jack Pritchard, designed what they hoped would be a Utopian community for single professional people who just wanted somewhere to sleep. I mean, people dedicated to their work and not interested in domesticity. You must come and see it but, be warned, my flat’s more like a ship’s cabin than anything else – very small but with everything I need. There’s no kitchen – you order food from a central kitchen – but you don’t want to hear about all this.’

  She seemed eager to talk about something other than her uncle.

  ‘Don’t you remember, V? You took me to meet a young German artist who was living in Lawn Road. Not very good, I thought, and you were cross with me because I wouldn’t buy any of his work. We ate in the – what is it called? – the Isobar.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. It’s a sort of club for artists.’

  ‘The Isobar, yes . . .’ Vera said. ‘Fancy you having been there before. Somehow it’s turned into a refuge, or at least a meeting place, for Jewish artists the Nazis have chased out of Germany. It’s perfect for me. I love the feeling of having my own place but being able to find congenial company in the Isobar whenever I want it. But I must go. Reg is getting cold. Goodbye for now, then.’

  When they had walked out of earshot, Adrian said anxiously, ‘I hope we didn’t upset Mr Harman.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Verity said. ‘Was I too blunt? I didn’t mean to be rude. I suppose I’ve just got used to asking perfect strangers quite intimate questions.’

  Back in the Lagonda, Verity asked Edward what he thought of Vera.

  ‘She’s a good girl who has had a difficult childhood. In fact, you could say she never had one – not a proper one, anyway.’

  Vera was not beautiful and she certainly made no attempt to make herself attractive but, when she smiled, her face lit up and Edward had decided he liked her. He would do what he could to help her – though she hadn’t asked him to and he wasn’t sure what help he could give. The last thing she would accept was charity and, if her uncle’s paintings started to sell, she would have an income even if her own pictures failed to find buyers. He thought he would like to see them and decide for himself if they were any good. As for Gray’s death – he wasn’t altogether happy it was just an accident and wished Vera had not insisted on having his body cremated.

  At Mersham, Adrian was warmly welcomed by the Duchess, who had met him in London with Edward. As she greeted Verity, she tried hard to look equally happy but Edward could see the effort behind her smile. Connie, perhaps unkindly, thought that any good deed of Verity’s would always involve her friends having to take on most of the burden and Georg was rather a burden.

  ‘Mr Dreiser’s arrived,’ she whispered. ‘I hope he’s all right. He doesn’t say much.’

  ‘I expect he’s just shy. Gerald can be rather intimidating. I’m so grateful to you for putting him up. It means a lot to me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Verity. One only has to imagine oneself in the same position to want to make him feel at home. It’s just he’s . . .’

  ‘I hope you understand why I had to get him out of Vienna, Connie. The Jews aren’t allowed to come to England without an invitation . . . I had to do something, however little . . . If you only knew . . .’

  Seeing she was genuinely upset, Connie repented of her irritation with Verity for foisting Georg on them and kissed her warmly. ‘Of course I understand. You were quite right to help. We’re too complacent.’

  Verity did at least receive an unrestrained welcome from Basil who jumped up as though wanting to embrace her, in the process almost knocking her over.

  ‘Basil, darling, how large you have grown,’ she said, fondling him. ‘I’m so sorry to have left you for so long but I can see you have been well looked after.’ She smiled brightly and added, ‘Connie, it’s so kind of you to have taken him in – poor exiled hound.’ She nuzzled him affectionately. ‘I hope he hasn’t been too much of a handful.’

  ‘Not at all! Gerald loves taking him for walks. It gives him a reason to get out of the house – Gerald, I mean. And Basil has developed a bond with one of the grooms so he really is no trouble.’

  They went into the drawing-room where tea was laid. The Duke, struggling out of his armchair, looked rather relieved that his tête-à-tête with Georg had been interrupted. Edward thought his brother was looking older. Basil, who had followed them in, knocked against the little table on which the Duke had laid his book and it fell on to the carpet. Verity picked it up for him. It was a recently published admiring portrait of Hitler by Lord Londonderry called Ourselves and Germany. Verity had not read it but she had seen reviews of it and hated what she had learnt of its message. This boiled down to advice to the Prime Minister to give way to Hitler on every issue in the hope that he would leave Britain and its empire alone.

  With a huge effort, she bit back a contemptuous remark, remembering that Londonderry was a friend of the Duke’s. If she got into an argument with him within minutes of entering his house, it would not be ea
sy for her to stay. She knew he was suspicious of her at the best of times. She shook his hand and he mumbled something that might have been a welcome after which she sat down on a chair as far away from his as possible. Paradoxically, although she could hardly have a civil conversation with the Duke, she loved Mersham and thought it the most beautiful house in England.

  Edward shook hands with Georg and patted his brother on the shoulder – the nearest they ever got to an embrace. He had only met Georg very briefly that morning when he had come to Albany with Verity and Adrian before they had set off to drive to Tarn Hill leaving Georg, in Fenton’s charge, to take the train to Mersham.

  Edward had seen the battle raging in Verity and breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that she had managed to hold her tongue. It crossed his mind that his brother had deliberately set out to provoke her by displaying the book so obviously but, on balance, he thought him neither spiteful nor clever enough to plan such a provocation.

  At first, Georg was either too shy or too homesick to make much effort at conversation but Edward turned on his charm and he was soon talking animatedly of the situation in Vienna. Verity was struck once again by Edward’s easy authority and his gift for making the person he was talking to feel that he valued their views.

  ‘How did the memorial meeting on Tarn Hill go?’ Connie asked, thinking Verity looked sad.

  ‘It went well, didn’t it, Adrian?’ She fondled Basil’s ears. ‘I liked Vera – Gray’s niece.’

  ‘Was Gray a well-known painter?’ Connie inquired. ‘I’m afraid I had not heard of him.’

  ‘Well respected rather than well known,’ Adrian said.

  The conversation faded. The butler poured out the tea and Adrian did battle with a scone. Verity stretched luxuriously and let her hand fall from Basil’s head. She gazed about her, contentment stealing over her. ‘Oh Connie, I do love it here. I always sleep well at Mersham. In fact, I sometimes think it’s the only place I can truly rest. I was thinking how right Vera was to scatter her father’s ashes where he had been happiest. When I die, I would like my ashes to be scattered where I was happy.’