The Quality of Mercy Page 14

  ‘Well, I . . . But, he tells me, you don’t like his paintings.’

  ‘I have to be honest, I don’t. But it’s all in the eye of the beholder, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so . . .’ She sounded distracted.

  ‘Did you want to say something to me about your uncle’s death?’ Edward asked gently.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, grateful to be brought to the point. ‘Two things really. First of all, the doctor at the inquest said he had taken more than three times his usual dose of ergot.’

  ‘Could he have taken too much by mistake – forgotten he had already dosed himself?’

  ‘That’s what the coroner thought. The beastly stuff can give you hallucinations and generally confuse and upset you. Maybe he was confused and took a second dose.’ She did not sound as if she believed it. ‘It’s horrible stuff. It can even cause dementia if taken for too long a period, the doctor said.’

  ‘You didn’t see any sign that he was . . .’

  ‘Losing his mind? No. He was as sharp as ever. Better than he had been, in fact. He hadn’t needed ergot for some time, or so I thought. I was very surprised to discover he had started taking it again.’

  Edward looked at her in surprise. Reg Harman had said he was forgetful. ‘As sharp as ever’? That didn’t ring true. ‘Could something have upset him – made him anxious?’ he suggested.

  ‘It’s possible but he would never have told me if there was. His depressions, which for so many years had been unbearable – so bad that sometimes he talked of ending it all – were not nearly so frequent. For a full year he had not had an attack to my knowledge. His work was going well and his paintings were beginning to sell. He had an exhibition planned, as you know? It’s rather beastly but the gallery thinks the publicity about his dying . . . Oh, I can’t bear to think about it! People are such ghouls – but they say it will help sell the paintings.’

  ‘That is horrible, Miss Gray, but as long as they are appreciated . . . Was there any other reason why his depressions had eased?’

  ‘Just time passing, I think. It’s so long since the war, the memories were fading. That’s what he said. It even made him feel guilty that he was no longer so haunted – as though he was betraying his dead friends – but I told him he had paid enough.’

  ‘I see. What was the other thing you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘He didn’t keep a diary. He wasn’t organized in that sort of way but he had a habit of writing notes to himself on the canvas he was painting – in the top left-hand corner usually. Then, when the picture was almost finished, he would paint them out and transfer any notes he still wanted to his next canvas.’

  ‘And you found something?’

  ‘I was just tidying up his studio and getting things ready for the exhibition. I was looking at the picture he was working on when he died and I suddenly saw it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A scribble in the top left-hand corner: R – or it could have been M – Tarn Hill – Sat.’

  ‘Hmm! You’ve no clue, presumably, to whom he was referring.’

  ‘No, I . . . I was just curious – the two things together.’

  ‘Are you suggesting he might have been murdered?’ Edward said slowly.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she was panting a little, ‘but he might have had a terrible shock . . . Like you said – perhaps something did upset him. Something I did not know about.’

  Edward wondered what had made Vera change her mind so suddenly. Did she guess what was signified by the scribble on the corner of the canvas?

  ‘It’s certainly worth taking a bit further,’ he said carefully. ‘There’s not enough to warrant talking to the police. Leave it with me for the moment and I’ll put on my thinking cap. If we could find out who he was going to meet – if indeed there was anybody . . . By the way, what was the picture he was painting?’

  ‘It was another view from Tarn Hill. He had painted it dozens of times but he never seemed to get tired of it.’

  ‘How near to finishing it was he when he died?’

  ‘About halfway. He had a very odd way of painting – from the top of the canvas downwards. I’ve never known anyone else paint that way.’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’

  ‘The picture’s still in his studio in Mornington Crescent. I haven’t got round to clearing it out.’

  ‘No, of course not. May I come and have a look next week when we are back in London?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t paint over the notes on the canvas.’ She gave him a look and he added hastily, ‘I know you wouldn’t but . . . Put the picture somewhere safe when you get back to town. You never know, it could be evidence of something.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m imagining things?’

  ‘No, I don’t take you for the type of woman who would imagine something was wrong when it wasn’t.’

  Vera looked relieved.

  ‘Thank you, Lord Edward. You are very kind to help me. I didn’t know who else to ask. Adrian suggested I talk to you.’

  ‘Well, I will do what I can to put your mind at rest, Miss Gray.’

  Announcements were made that the polo would begin in half an hour and Verity – thinking that she had neglected Georg – went in search of him. As she walked round the back of the marquee, she saw him talking to another man whom she knew to be Braken. She had heard about him but had not met the man and did not want to. From what Edward had told her, Putzi – as they seemed to call him – was a peculiarly noisome individual and she had no wish to get into a shouting match with him while a guest of Mountbatten. However, it intrigued her that Georg would have anything to say to him and, on an impulse, she hid behind a fold of the marquee and tried to eavesdrop. The conversation was heated and, though she was some distance away, she could hear words and even whole sentences when they raised their voices. Although they were talking in German which she still could not speak fluently, she was able to understand much of what she heard. It took her only a few minutes to make out that they were quarrelling over a woman.

  Then she heard the name Hedwig. She did not know a Hedwig but, as she strained to hear, she deduced that each was warning the other off. It appeared that both men regarded this Hedwig as his. A quarrel over a woman, Verity thought – how typical of men! The dispute was becoming increasingly heated and she began to think that, if she did not step in, Georg, who was by far the weaker of the two, might be flattened.

  Putzi called Georg a dirty Jew and Georg retaliated with a string of expletives at whose meaning Verity could only guess. His normally pale face was red with anger. Then, just as she had made up her mind to intervene, Putzi turned on his heel and stalked off hissing, ‘Kommen Sie nie wieder in meine Nähe oder Ich bringe Sie um!’ ‘Stay away from me or I’ll kill you.’ Georg stopped where he was for a few seconds and then marched off in the other direction. Verity caught a glimpse of his face convulsed with fury and decided not to make herself known. It would be embarrassing to have been so obviously eavesdropping on a private quarrel and she had no wish to upset him further. She would let him cool down and then talk to him.

  As she walked round to the front of the marquee and joined the crowd streaming towards the polo ground she saw Edward.

  ‘Who’s Hedwig?’ she said, taking his arm.

  ‘Hedwig? Why, that’s Joan Miller. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you after the match. Come on, I want to see Frank on a horse. He’s so handsome and I’m not the only one who thinks so.’

  ‘Pony, not horse,’ he corrected her, enjoying the feel of her arm under his.

  The four Bluejackets, smartly turned out on ponies clearly eager to begin, chatted among themselves while swinging their sticks and doing stretching exercises. They wore the famous Royal Navy blue polo shirt with a diagonal red stripe bordered with white and gave the impression of being slightly bored, as if they could not quite understand why Lord Louis had invited them to play against these amateurs, bu
t his word was law. They did not speak much – they had no need, knowing each other’s game so well – but occasionally threw amused glances at Frank who was looking tense. Sunita and Ayesha attracted most of their attention. Mother and daughter – though they could have been sisters – were remarkably alike and it was hard to say which of the two was the more beautiful. Sunny bobbed around offering his wife and daughter unwanted advice while Mountbatten was very attentive to Ayesha who seemed to enjoy it.

  The sailors joked sotto voce about their chances with Sunita but they could see that she only had eyes for Frank. Her attempt to look as much like a boy as possible only emphasized her femininity. Her slim figure was clad in a red silk shirt and white breeches, her legs encased in gleaming brown boots. Her long black hair was tied primly behind her head with a red ribbon. One of the two grooms – whom she addressed as Jim – was helping her on with her helmet, knee pads and gloves while Mountbatten discussed with her which stick she was going to use.

  Harry – still annoyed at not playing – was doing his best to rile Frank.

  ‘Do put a sock in it,’ Frank said irritably. ‘I know you’re sore you’re not going to be able to show off in front of the women but at least you can enjoy seeing me make a fool of myself.’

  Mountbatten noticed Harry was unsettling Frank and told him off in no uncertain terms. Sulking, the boy made off, muttering imprecations under his breath.

  Frank had seen the size of the crowd and had an attack of nerves. Why had he persuaded his mother and father to come? Oh God! And there was Verity and Uncle Ned. His bowels loosened and he wondered if he would have to make a run for the lavatory, but the moment passed. They rode on to the ground to a scatter of applause, the umpire threw in the ball and there was no longer time for fear.

  The first chukka passed so quickly Frank never even got to touch the ball. The Bluejackets, insolent in their superiority, outmanoeuvred the Broadlands Fencibles to score twice and Mountbatten, losing his temper, swore a naval oath or two and wrenched savagely and unnecessarily at his pony’s bridle. Scenting a walkover, the Bluejackets relaxed in the second chukka and Ayesha shot a goal from under her pony’s neck which even her exacting captain had to applaud.

  By the fifth chukka, Frank thought he had got the hang of it and swung his stick with all the abandon of a novice. Stretching for a stroke he could not possibly make, he hit his captain in the ribs with his stick – fortunately not very hard – and was treated to a dressing-down by the injured Mountbatten. The game was exhilarating and he suddenly found his eye, scoring twice after taking the ball down the ground and popping it expertly between the flags. Then, at 6-8 to the Bluejackets, disaster struck.

  Basil, overexcited by the ponies skidding about chasing a ball in front of him, tore his lead from Verity’s grasp. He leapt over the low boards which kept the ball in play and disappeared among the ponies’ hooves in hot pursuit of the ball. Verity screamed as she caught a glimpse of him charging straight into the path of Sunita’s pony. She never had any chance of avoiding the dog and there followed a mêlée of flying limbs – equine, canine and human. Sunita was thrown straight over the head of her pony which, unable to stop, kicked her as it tried to regain its balance. Basil, terrified by the chaos he had caused, ran across the pitch dodging flying hooves and disappeared into the crowd. At this moment the heavens opened and the rain fell as though a giant bucket of water had been thrown over the struggling players.

  Verity, her hands to her face, watched in horror as the two umpires and the grooms rushed to Sunita’s aid. Frank, his heart in his mouth, leapt off his pony to join Ayesha and Mountbatten who were already on the ground beside her. There was no immediate sign of blood and it was difficult to know how badly she had been hurt. Mountbatten, cursing the dog and its owner, gently took off Sunita’s helmet and was relieved to find that it seemed to have given her some protection.

  If this had been a proper match, rather than a friendly, a St John’s Ambulance team would have been on hand but Mountbatten had not thought it necessary given the nature of the event. He immediately despatched the grooms to fetch a stretcher and to summon an ambulance using the telephone he had recently installed in the stables. Fortunately, there was a doctor among the onlookers who pushed through the small crowd surrounding the girl. Sunny, in a frenzy, danced about his daughter, splashing himself and everyone around him with mud. Mountbatten angrily told him to calm down.

  Everyone waited anxiously, disregarding the rain, until the doctor had finished his examination and judged that Sunita could safely be moved. In truth, she could hardly stay where she was. Umbrellas had been raised over her but provided very little protection against the downpour. The grooms returned from the stables with a stretcher to say that an ambulance was on its way. Sunita was gently lifted on to the stretcher and carried back to the house. Mountbatten, his face now streaked with mud and rain, asked the doctor how badly hurt she was.

  ‘Hard to tell until we get her to the hospital. She’s badly bruised where the pony’s hooves connected with her stomach and at least one rib and her left arm are broken. She’s concussed but how badly I can’t tell. The important thing is to discover if there is any internal bleeding.’

  Verity was consumed with guilt at having let Basil tear himself from her and cause such havoc. It was no good Edward trying to reassure her or Connie telling her it was just an accident.

  ‘I just couldn’t hold on to him. He’s so strong and I wasn’t expecting . . . Will she be all right? Should I go to the hospital?’

  ‘No one’s going to blame you, V. It was just an accident. Polo’s a dangerous game. Everyone knows that,’ Edward said unhappily.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘We can’t do anything to help Sunita. There are plenty of people to look after her – her parents, Frank, Lord Louis, Harry – where is the boy, by the way? Let’s go and find Basil, shall we? I’ve no idea where he’s got to but he needs a good ticking off. He must learn to behave.’

  They walked across the sodden grass – fortunately the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun – to where they had last seen Basil and began calling his name and whistling.

  ‘I hope he hasn’t gone for miles,’ Verity said anxiously. ‘There’s the main road over there.’

  ‘Let’s go towards the stables. He may have hidden himself there. He knows he’s in disgrace.’

  As they approached the paved courtyard around which the stables were built, they heard a howling noise.

  ‘Is that Basil?’ Verity said in alarm. ‘He sounds as though he’s in pain. I wonder if he’s hurt. Perhaps one of the ponies kicked him.’

  ‘Serve him right if they did,’ Edward said grimly.

  They quickened their pace and soon came to the gate into the stables.

  ‘There he is!’ Verity cried, pointing towards the other side of the courtyard. ‘What’s he doing? He seems to be howling at the moon, except there isn’t one.’

  Edward’s brow furrowed. ‘Do you hear that, V? It sounds as though one of the ponies is kicking his stable to bits.’

  As they approached, the noise from the stable increased to a steady but violent beating of hooves against wood. Verity grabbed hold of Basil by the lead still attached to his collar. She patted his head distractedly as the dog wrapped himself around her legs, his eyes bulging and his ears twitching uncontrollably.

  ‘Look at him! He’s spooked – no wonder, with that noise. See what’s the matter, Edward. Why is that pony going wild in there? It’s horrible.’ She put her hands over her ears.

  Edward peered gingerly through the top half of the stable door, which was open, but pulled back abruptly. The pony was facing away from him, his hooves flying up as though desperately kicking at something of which he was very afraid. But it was not the beating hooves which made Edward retreat in horror. A pile of what for a second he thought were old clothes lay just to one side of the stable door. It was not a pile of clothes he saw when he looked again but the remains of a hum
an being. The head had been smashed to a bloody pulp and the body tossed to one side by the flailing hooves of the terrified animal.

  At that moment there were shouts and the two grooms ran up to ask what they were doing.

  ‘You’re Johnson, aren’t you?’ Edward said, recognizing one of the men who had been holding Frank’s pony before the match started. ‘There’s been some sort of frightful accident. We heard the dog howling and the pony kicking his stall. When I looked in, I saw . . . Well, see for yourself. There’s a dead body in there – kicked into a bloody mess. It’s not a pleasant sight.’

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed Johnson. ‘No one ought to have gone in with Button. He had his oats ready for the game and then went lame. Till he’s exercised he’ll be . . . Oh, Christ!’ he repeated, covering his mouth with his hands as he saw what Edward had seen.

  ‘Can you get the pony out without touching the body?’

  Johnson nodded. ‘Come on, Jim. Stop looking like you’re going to be sick and help me get Button out into the yard.’

  As the grooms entered the stable, the pony lashed out even more frenziedly and their efforts to calm him seemed to make the animal more violent. Finally, Johnson got hold of his head but it wasn’t until the second groom had administered a sedative that the beast quietened and he was able to lead him out past the body.

  ‘There you go, Button,’ Jim crooned, stroking his head. ‘All right now. There’s a good boy. Walk on. Nothing to worry about.’

  Once in the courtyard, the pony became docile, whether because he was clear of the corpse and the smell of blood or because of the sedative, Edward could not tell. He closed the stable door and turned back to the pony. As far as he could see, Button was no longer lame. ‘Don’t wash his hooves,’ he ordered the grooms. ‘The police may need to examine the blood on them. Where’s the telephone?’

  ‘At the other end of the stable block,’ Johnson told him, pointing across the yard. As Edward turned to go, he added, ‘See here, my lord. It looks as though Button’s been drugged. You see the eyes? They’re bulging and the pupils . . . that don’t look right. And the foam round his mouth . . . I’ve never seen the like.’