The Quality of Mercy Read online

Although the Duke would never have admitted it, even to himself, the idea of Frank joining the navy frightened him. The boy was everything to him and, besides, there was the question of who would inherit Mersham. What if Frank were to die without having married and had a son? Ned would – most reluctantly – inherit, if he outlived him, but what good would that be? His brother showed no sign of marrying and having babies. The title would become extinct and Mersham would belong to some distant cousin. It didn’t bear thinking about. Perhaps, after all, it would be better if Ned did marry the Browne woman – better than nothing. No, the responsibility was Frank’s. That Indian girl the boy was so mad about . . . she was the daughter of a maharaja . . . but to have a brown Duke of Mersham . . . Was that better?

  ‘Champagne and smoked-salmon sandwiches!’ harumphed the Duke. ‘What’s wrong with beer and ham sandwiches?’

  Verity was glad to be back, although she knew the Duke might be less than pleased to see her two weekends running. She tried once again to put her finger on why Mersham appealed to her so much. There was something about the castle, honey-coloured with age, serenely unperturbed by the antics of those who inhabited and visited it, which put things into perspective. ‘What fools these mortals be,’ it seemed to say and the river, which made a placid moat about its ancient walls, echoed the sentiment. Even the swans floating on the shimmering surface seemed superior. Although it was not warm, Verity was sitting out under the copper beech in a deckchair. She had a rug over her knees and a book in her hand – a travel guide edited by Eugene Fodor – but she wasn’t reading it.

  Lord Weaver had telephoned to tell her that he had totally failed to get permission from Austria’s new rulers to allow her return to Vienna as the New Gazette’s correspondent and it now seemed she would go to Prague instead. Accepting the inevitable, she decided she must now bone up on a country of which she knew next to nothing. According to Fodor, writing in 1936, ‘Today the whole of Czechoslovakia is at peace and dominated by the desire to keep the peace,’ and he had gone on to remark that countries are like women, ‘the best are those which are least talked about.’

  As she gazed unseeingly at the water, she found herself smiling wryly. Czechoslovakia’s peace would soon be shattered – of that she was sure – and the country would soon be ‘talked about’, if that was what she wanted. Basking in his success at absorbing Austria into the Reich, Hitler was poised to gobble up one more country. Her thoughts turned to Georg. She felt guilty and irritated in equal measure. She knew he wasn’t happy. He was worrying about his parents of whom he could get no news and, to put it brutally, he was becoming rather a bore. He was still staying with her in Cranmer Court but this could not go on for much longer. She needed her privacy and Georg, naturally enough, was always hanging about with nothing to do but mope. He had no friends except the Jews he met at refugee centres who had similar problems. He had no money and refused to take any off her. When she did force some on him, he took it with bad grace as if she were insulting him.

  The only light at the end of the tunnel was the interview he had been offered at the BBC. They were looking for linguists to broadcast to the Continent. The government believed this to be a cheap and effective way of bolstering the morale of the oppressed peoples of Europe but Edward said – and Verity agreed with him – there was a danger these broadcasts would encourage the Czechs and the Poles to believe that Britain would come to their aid if they were attacked which, in reality, did not seem likely or even practicable.

  Thinking of Edward made her think of Churchill. She always tried to be as honest with herself as she could and she was now beginning to accept that she might have been wrong about him. He could never be forgiven for his part in breaking the General Strike but his hatred of Fascism was as strong as hers. She sighed. And what about Edward? Churchill had told her she would be making a mistake if she refused him. Was he wrong? Adam was beginning to fade from her memory. Had it been real love? It had seemed so at the time but now she was not so sure. It had been a coup de foudre – a thunderstorm which had overwhelmed her and then passed, leaving her shaken but . . .

  At that moment, Edward himself appeared. As she watched him cross the lawn, immaculate as always in jacket and tie with grey flannels creased to carving-knife sharpness, it was almost as if she was seeing him for the first time. The long beaky nose, the strong determined chin and, although she could not see them at this distance, the shrewd, gentle eyes. His purposeful stride quickly brought him to her side.

  ‘V, I’ve been looking for you. I’ve just been having the most extraordinary talk with Georg. I really don’t know what to make of it . . . Hey! Why are you looking at me like that? You’re trembling. Are you cold? You ought not to sit out in April . . . V, my darling, what is it?’

  It was the first time he had called her ‘darling’ and the word made the tears run even more freely down her cheeks. He knelt beside her and, rather awkwardly, put his arms around her.

  ‘Tears? What are these for? The fate of nations or some-thing nearer home?’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she gulped. ‘What do I care for the fate of nations? I care about us – about you. I can see you clearly now.’

  ‘Not until you wipe away your tears, you can’t. Here, take my handkerchief. It’s quite clean. Is all this about Adam?’

  ‘Yes, I mean no. I thought I loved him. I did love him but . . . but it’s over. Oh, I’m such a fool! Can you for-give me? I can’t forgive myself. It’s you I love, I can see it quite plainly now. It has always been you – I have just been so caught up in myself . . . so utterly selfish. Can you love me even though I’m what the Duke would call “soiled goods”?’ She tried to laugh through her tears.

  Edward was taken aback. He took her face in his hands to see if she were serious. ‘You mean it?’ he said, almost afraid. ‘This isn’t just – you know – on the rebound? You won’t fall in love with someone else at the polo?’

  ‘Don’t tease, Edward. I know I deserve it but please don’t tease me. I’m serious. I’ve been thinking about it all week . ..’

  ‘All week?’ Edward pretended to be impressed.

  ‘I’ve been trying to sort myself out. You know I’ve always loved you but I thought it was as a friend – as a loving friend – but I understand now that you’re the only man who can make me happy . . . Am I making any sense?’

  ‘A bit but, dearest V, are you sure? I don’t think I could bear it if it turns out to be another mistake.’

  ‘Oh God, how can I make you believe me? I know it’s my own fault. I deserve it if you can’t believe me . . . It’s too late, isn’t it? You don’t . . . you don’t care for me any more?’

  ‘My darling . . .’ was all he could say. He half lifted her out of her deckchair and held her to him and, unresisting, she let him. When he began to kiss her face, she kissed him back fiercely, angry with herself for not seeing what everyone else had seen – that he was her man for now . . . for ever.

  Connie, glancing out of her bedroom window, saw them locked in each other’s arms and sighed. So there it was, she thought. Ned had found his woman and won her. There was a tear in the corner of her eye. She had never felt that burning, jealous love – so uncomfortable and difficult to make room for in ordinary humdrum life – and now she knew that she never would. For a moment, she felt naked envy but it was soon replaced by happiness that in a world of violence and betrayal two people could still love one another. It must mean that in the end – the bitter end – human decency would triumph over hatred and despair.

  Stuart Rose gazed at Frank enraptured as he swung off his pony, landing lightly on his feet, and took a long glass of lemonade from the silver tray which the butler held out to him. As he raised his head to drain the last drops, the melting ice slid over his chin and fell on to the grass. Rose wanted more than anything to spring up and embrace the boy – smell the sweat already cooling on his chest and lick the wet lips now parted in laughter. Fortunately, his will was much stronger than his lust and he
merely smiled and asked Frank to sit beside him for a moment.

  Frank had no idea of the emotions he stirred in the man in the deckchair and would not have believed it had he known of them. To him, Rose was a teacher, better than any he had come across at Eton, who had opened his eyes to art and culture. They had been to London galleries together, listened to Beethoven symphonies on the Broadlands radiogram and pored over art books in Rose’s bedroom.

  In short, Rose had set out to woo him and had been successful but, now that he had him literally at his feet, he did not know what to do. Frank had been chattering away but Rose had heard not a word he said. Perhaps, he thought, it was enough to know that he could make Frank do what he wanted. There was no need to prove it. It was clear that Edward Corinth – whom he had immediately identified as an enemy – had seen what he was about and distrusted his motives in taking on Frank’s education. He had to give him his due, however. The uncle had not said a word of warning to his nephew. He was wise enough to know it would only make Frank fly to his mentor’s defence. Rose smiled wryly. He had Frank in the palm of his hand and yet could do nothing with his power. Perhaps, after all, he was educating the boy from sheer good nature and his reward was to watch him blossom, quite unaware of the feelings he aroused in his new friend.

  Rose, at Owen Coombs’ bidding, had insinuated him-self into the Mounbatten set and for the past few weeks had virtually lived at Broadlands. During one of his brief visits to London, he had taken the opportunity of going to Cranmer Court – not to meet Verity, whom he knew to be at the New Gazette, but to talk to Georg Dreiser. Coombs had told him of Georg’s close contacts with a group of scientists working on the bomb which Hitler hoped might win him the war. Coombs had also told him that Georg had to be prevented at all costs from taking the secret of the atomic bomb to the Americans.

  ‘Better Hitler keep his secrets than that. He has to be made to see that his scientist friends must transfer their allegiance to the Soviet Union.’

  ‘And if Dreiser will not be persuaded?’ Rose had asked.

  ‘You must persuade him,’ Coombs said, thumping the table. Verity would have been surprised to see her smiling, easy-going inquisitor so animated.

  ‘But if he won’t?’ Rose insisted.

  ‘Then you must get rid of him.’

  Rose raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m a loyal member of the Party,’ he drawled, ‘but I’m no murderer.’

  ‘The Party decides what you are and what you are not,’ Coombs had said flatly.

  Georg had heard the knock on the door of the flat and had decided not to answer it. He knew enough about unexpected knocks on the door to be aware that they should not be answered. Then he reminded himself that he was not in Vienna. He was in England and there was no state police to haul him off to some cellar to be beaten into submission by men in black uniforms. He laid aside the precious Dürer drawing which he had been examining with wonder and delight. Cautiously, he opened the door, making sure that it was still on the chain.

  Rose – speaking fluent German – was at his most affable and explained that he was a friend of Miss Browne’s whom he had met recently at a dinner. He said she had mentioned him and he had dropped by to see if he could be of any help. He had many friends and perhaps he could put him in the way of a job.

  Georg was disarmed and let him in. Ten minutes into the conversation, Rose casually mentioned the scientists at the Friedrich-Wilhelms University in Berlin, Pettersson and Brasch. Georg immediately understood why this man had come to visit him. The only mystery was his allegiance. He had already had a brief interview with a young man at the Foreign Office and been dismissed as just another hysterical refugee, not to be trusted or taken seriously, and Georg had left the meeting in despair. Although Edward had promised to put him in touch with someone in authority in the British secret service, his contact had proved elusive and no meeting had yet been arranged. It made Georg nervous and unhappy that he had such vital information but no one would listen. Poor Cassandra! Now he knew what she must have felt bringing news of Troy’s doom to those who would not believe her.

  For a moment, he had wondered if this man who had come to see him unannounced was Lord Edward’s contact but it seemed unlikely – he was too smooth, too American. He might be an agent of the new Reich trying to trap him into revealing what he knew and what he intended to do with his knowledge. He sensed the danger he was in and knew he had to get the man out of the flat even if this meant promising things he had no intention of delivering.

  Rose, at his most charming, had suddenly started to talk about the glittering career he would have in the Soviet Union if he cooperated and Georg sighed with relief. An agent of the German Reich might have killed him there and then to stop his mouth. It was clear that this man needed him and he smiled and nodded his head to every blandishment. They talked about Lord Louis Mountbatten and Rose asked if he would be accompanying Verity to the polo match at Broadlands. Georg admitted that he would – not, of course, that he was remotely interested in the game but Verity had made it clear that he would be expected to accompany the Mersham party to watch Frank show off his new-found skills. Georg did not mention that his real motive for wanting to go to Broadlands was to see Joan Miller – who, as Hedwig Kiesler, had been his childhood sweetheart.

  Rose seemed satisfied but had made it clear that he would expect a favourable answer from Georg when they met at the weekend as guests of Mountbatten. It was an unlikely rendezvous for a Jewish refugee and an American Communist and, for that very reason, was likely to go unnoticed. Just as he was preparing to leave, Rose noticed the Dürer drawing lying on a table. Georg cursed himself for not having thought to hide it before opening the door. Rose immediately saw what it was and his enthusiasm was unfeigned. He asked how it had come into Georg’s possession and if he contemplated selling it. In order to end the conversation, Georg rashly said that he might need to. Rose promised to speak to friends in the art world and, when they met, would give him an idea of its likely value.

  ‘It may be worth many thousands of pounds if it is genuine,’ he opined.

  Stung, Georg said it was certainly genuine and explained its provenance. Rose left feeling pleased with himself. He had achieved much more than he had anticipated and the sight of the Dürer had excited him. If he could not own it, he longed to be the agent commissioned to sell it. Apart from the financial reward, which would be considerable, it would make him talked about in the art world.

  Georg, on the other hand, was dismayed by this new threat. He sat with his head in his hands for some time after Rose’s departure and tried to think what it was best to do. He was not safe. Even here in England he was not safe. He wished he hadn’t let Rose see the Dürer. He even wished he hadn’t proudly shown it to Verity. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her but . . . He decided not to tell her about Rose’s visit. There was too much to explain and he did not think she would understand. He did not do her justice but that was the decision he made.

  The Mersham party found Broadlands en fête and it seemed that half the county had been invited to watch the polo. Lady Louis had still not returned from wherever it was she preferred to Broadlands but, as her husband appeared quite unconcerned by her prolonged absence, no one was brave enough to ask embarrassing questions. Edward saw him take the Duke aside and heard him mention Frank as they walked out of earshot. If Mountbatten wanted to make a friend of Gerald, he could not have found a better way if, as seemed likely, he was about to praise his son.

  On balance, the Duke was forced to admit that Mount-batten was proving a good influence. Polo had given Frank a new enthusiasm and, under Mountbatten’s tutelage, he had blossomed – not just as a sportsman but as a young man with a future. Gone was the sulky boy who liked to puzzle and enrage his father. In his place, Gerald found he had a son to be proud of. Connie’s anxiety that he might be lured into a ‘fast set’ and seduced into a world of loose morals and high spending now seemed wide of the mark. True he had been on one or two ‘bende
rs’, as Edward described them, with Stuart Rose whom Gerald instinctively disliked as an American and a ‘pansy’ – fortunately, he was not aware that his son’s friend was also a Communist – but as Frank had returned from London enthusing about a painter called Picasso and lecturing him on the Quattrocento he supposed it was all right.

  What Connie and Gerald had not understood about Mountbatten was that he was ambitious and, once he had an object in view, every pleasure had to be surrendered to gain it. Although he played hard, he worked harder. He liked fast cars and glamorous women but nothing got in the way of his determination to be first in any sporting endeavour he attempted or, more importantly, to rise to the top of his profession. The navy was what mattered most in his life and he was passing some of his enthusiasm for the service on to Frank.

  Mountbatten understood more clearly than most politicians – and some of his superior officers – how unprepared the Royal Navy was to meet the new cruisers and battleships Germany was producing at an alarming rate. Many of the navy’s impressive-looking ships were out of date, under-gunned and vulnerable to modern German hardware. Mountbatten was waging a campaign to modernize every aspect of the navy from training to equipment. He was particularly worried about the guns on which the navy’s destroyers relied and was trying to persuade the gunnery chiefs to buy the Oerlikon which was why his weekend guests included Helmut Mandl and his wife. Under cover of the festivities, Mandl was to meet the admiral who would decide whether or not to purchase the new gun.

  Edward had received a cryptic message from Liddell that Mountbatten had also been prevailed upon to invite Heinrich Braken and he had been told in no uncertain terms that this was his opportunity to make Putzi his ‘friend’. He had to be persuaded that his future lay in remaining in England and not returning to Berlin. Edward was dubious that he could do any such thing but, all in all, he was rather looking forward to the day’s entertainment. He decided it was going to be what his father would have termed ‘a rum do’. So many people who would not in the normal course of events be found at a polo match were to gather for a variety of reasons, none of them sporting. Frank had invited Verity and, rather to Edward’s surprise, she had jumped at the idea. Of course, she had always had a soft spot for him and Frank certainly admired her. She was also pleased to have something with which to entertain Georg.