The Quality of Mercy Page 16

  Verity laughed hollowly when Edward reported on his unfruitful interview. ‘I don’t doubt Inspector Beeston would arrest me for murdering Georg if he could find a shred of evidence. After all, we were first on the scene.’

  ‘Yes, and I was also there when Gray’s body was found. Very suspicious!’

  Verity had been unsure of the welcome she would receive when she visited Sunita but the girl had quickly put her at her ease and assured her she did not blame her for the accident.

  ‘It’s a dangerous game – polo. That’s what makes it so much fun. We live such a safe life – not like you – so we have to make our own danger. Silly really, I suppose.’

  Sunita had broken an arm and cracked a rib but it could have been worse. Her concussion had not been severe and the ache in her head was beginning to fade.

  ‘She says she doesn’t blame me or Basil,’ she told Edward as they drove away from the hospital, ‘but, of course, I blame myself.’

  ‘Was Frank there?’ he asked.

  ‘No, he’s in London with Stuart Rose but he’s rung up several times and he’ll be in to see her as soon as he returns. I really believe they must be in love. Sunita certainly is. It was so touching seeing her blush every time his name came up – and that was every five minutes!’

  ‘A beautiful girl languishing in bed, ill but not so ill that she can’t smile at her admirer. I know what it’s like,’ Edward said smugly.

  ‘You do, do you? Well, I’d just like to remind you how I nursed you when you were shot saving the Duke of Windsor.’

  ‘Come on, V! I don’t recall much nursing. You were too busy writing your story for the New Gazette and . . .’

  ‘You don’t know what I did. I was kicking various backsides so you got the best treatment.’

  ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. So, Frank is in London with Rose? I really can’t bear that man. There’s something very sinister about him.’

  ‘You’re just prejudiced because he’s a homosexual.’

  ‘It’s not that. I must say I was hurt to hear that Frank has asked Rose to accompany him to his interview for the navy. I would have been only too pleased . . .’

  ‘I don’t expect you have to worry about whether Frank gets into the navy or not,’ Verity said sourly. ‘I mean, I bet Lord Louis has a word with the powers that be. Isn’t that the way the world works? I don’t suppose the navy is any different from the City or the Law. In any case,’ she continued, relenting, ‘surely Frank is just the sort of young man the navy’s going to need if there is a war. By the way, I got the impression HMS President is a ship on dry land. Can that be right?’

  ‘I believe she never moves from her mooring on the Embankment, certainly.’ He changed the subject. ‘Where are Sunny and Ayesha staying? Mountbatten must be getting a bit fed up with them hanging about at Broadlands.’

  ‘He has been very kind, Sunita says, and they are to stay as long as they want but I don’t think it will be more than a few days. Sunita hopes to be out of hospital in the next day or two. Her arm’s in plaster, of course, and her ribs still hurt but basically she’s on the mend.’

  ‘Talking of Mountbatten,’ Edward said as he roared across Romsey’s only pedestrian crossing, its Belisha beacon flashing in protest, ‘I’m going to ask him if he will let me talk to his grooms. Beeston obviously won’t oblige and I am convinced they’ve still something more to say.’

  On the drive back to London, Verity could only think about one thing – Georg’s death. She had left Mersham after the briefest of goodbyes to her hosts. On a whim, and taking no notice of Edward’s objections, she had decided to take Basil back to town with her. They were both in disgrace and it was time she and her dog made themselves scarce. She had smuggled Basil in to see Sunita and he had licked her hand in puzzled apology.

  Uncharacteristically silent as the Lagonda sped on its way, Verity suddenly found her eyes fill with tears. With an angry shake of her head she told herself not to be sentimental. There was work to be done. She took out her vanity mirror and repaired her smudged mascara. Edward had noticed nothing, she saw. He was deep in his own thoughts, seemingly unaware she was even beside him. As the fields gave way to London’s suburbs, grief for Georg gave way to anger – anger at fate, anger at herself. She wore her guilt like a cilice, her conscience rubbed raw by her penitential hair shirt. Georg was dead when he should have been safe. Sunita was in hospital with concussion and a broken arm and Edward was preparing to depart on a mission she felt she ought to undertake. How much Edward must love her, she thought, if he was prepared to cross Europe on her behalf to give Georg’s father and mother the worst news any parent could be asked to hear. She glanced across at him, stern and determined, driving hard and fast like an automaton. She rested her hand on Basil’s head for comfort and he nuzzled her.

  There was to be an inquest, of course, but, according to Edward, the police had already decided that Georg’s death was a tragic accident. Inspector Beeston had not even asked to interview her. It was a relief in some ways but she was outraged that, because Georg was a Jewish refugee, his death was not thought worth a thorough investigation. Beeston’s priority, Verity decided, was to keep Mountbatten and his family out of the newspapers. Whatever happened, they must not be soiled by scandal.

  Well, she for one and – she knew – Edward for another were not going to let sleeping dogs lie. Georg had been lured down to the stables by someone. It was the last place he would choose to visit in the normal course of events so he must have had a good reason to go there. In her mind Putzi was the chief suspect but how could anything be proved against him? If the police were not prepared to question him, she certainly could not. That meant Edward had to and surely this must be his first task when he returned from Vienna. In the meantime, as he had suggested, she would try to discover what lay behind Peter Gray’s death. Just because it did not matter to her as Georg’s death mattered, she could approach the problem coolly and rationally.

  Edward dropped her off in Sloane Avenue and they parted with hardly a word and a peck on the cheek.

  9

  As Deutsche Lufthansa wafted him towards Munich from where he would take the train to Vienna, Edward closed his book and contemplated the swastika painted on the wing. It disgusted him to have to fly in such a plane but he had no option. The cotton wool handed out to passengers by the stewardess did little to lessen the noise of the engines which made reading tiring. He had bought a copy of Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man at the aerodrome’s bookstall in an effort to look like a tourist but somehow he found he wasn’t in the mood for American high jinks. He refused the proffered luncheon basket, preferring the sandwiches Fenton had prepared for him. He shivered slightly despite his coat and gloves and wondered if he was coming down with a cold. He hoped Fenton had packed his Beecham powders.

  Liddell had not been helpful or encouraging. He had grudgingly acknowledged that Georg’s information about the work being carried out in Germany on developing an atomic bomb might be of interest to government scientists but seemed to imply that Edward should have done more to keep him alive, at least until he, Liddell, had had a chance to interview him. He asked how far he had got ingratiating himself with Putzi and Edward had to confess that he had not got very far.

  Liddell shook his head mournfully and dismissed him. ‘Don’t let me down, Corinth,’ he said as they shook hands outside Brooks’s. ‘Ferguson said you were a good man but still an amateur. Prove to me he’s wrong about that last bit, will you?’

  He marched off down St James’s Street straight of back, head held high, very much the retired army officer, leaving Edward discomfited. Was he an amateur? It was true he guarded his independence but he was serious about the jobs he undertook. Anyway, what did it mean to be a professional in the game he was playing? After all, he wasn’t some American ‘private eye’.

  When he reached Vienna, he was bone weary. The whole journey had taken almost twenty-four hours and though – with German efficiency �
�� the plane and the train had been on time and, in the case of the train, comfortable and clean, he had not slept well. The Imperial, however, was more a palace than a hotel and his room was vast and the bed reminiscent of the Great Bed of Ware. He was only sorry that this was not a holiday jaunt with Verity. She loved luxurious hotels, despite her egalitarian principles, and would have shrieked with excitement at the bathroom. He relaxed in the great iron bath, sighing with pleasure as he squeezed the sponge over his head and let the hot water wash away the fatigue. Then he permitted himself an hour’s nap before dressing for dinner.

  He always felt renewed when he saw himself in the mirror in white tie and tails. He wasn’t a vain man but he had a firm belief – never to be put into words – in the superiority of the English gentleman and this was one of his uniforms. In the African jungle or an Indian provincial town, the English gentleman would dress as he was dressed now to partake of his evening meal. It was absurd, even ridiculous, but for a century it had helped preserve the illusion that the British brought civilization to the furthest corner of the Empire.

  And now, when the Empire faced danger on every side, it was all the more important to keep up appearances. When he presented his passport in Munich he had been ushered through with a salute while some poor devil jabbering away in a tongue he did not recognize was made to grovel. He hated what the Nazis were doing to decent people with the wrong papers or the wrong accent. Georg Dreiser had escaped this evil regime only to die in England. It made him angry and determined to find his killer but first he had to do what he could to rescue his parents.

  He had no particular plan except to go to the Dreisers’ apartment and escort them to the British Embassy to get the visa they needed. Liddell had given him the name of his man in the Embassy – Major Ruthven-Stuart – who was designated Honorary Attaché. The ambassador, Sir Michael Palairet, had been withdrawn in protest at the creation of what was now being called Grossdeutschland and it seemed likely that the Embassy would be downgraded to a consulate.

  The Dreisers lived close to Beethoven’s house in the Döblinger Haupt-Strasse. It was a typical Viennese apartment occupying the top two storeys of what had once been a large family house. It was spacious but dark and gloomy. As Edward gave his name and was shown into the drawing-room the following morning by a maid in uniform, his heart failed him. He had a strong desire to turn tail and flee the city while he still had the chance. For some reason, it had never occurred to him that one or both of the Dreisers might be out but, as it happened, both were at home. Frau Dreiser was a petite sparrow of a woman in her late fifties, Edward guessed. Her hair was quite white and she had in her eyes the look of someone who expected the worst. Her husband was stick-like but the loose flesh about his face suggested that he had once been as fleshy as his son. He, too, looked apprehensive and Edward began to appreciate what it must mean to dread every knock on the door.

  He began in halting German to explain who he was but Frau Dreiser interrupted him. ‘Lord Edward,’ she said in good though heavily accented English, ‘please, we have many English friends and indeed I used to teach English. Have you come to give us news of Georg? He mentioned your name and we are very grateful for the help you gave him.’

  Edward’s heart lurched and for a moment he felt unable to breathe. ‘I am afraid I have some very bad news . . .’

  ‘Georg reached England safely. He wrote to us. It made us so happy. He said how warmly he had been welcomed by you and Miss Browne.’ Frau Dreiser was nervous but had not yet allowed herself to be alarmed. She offered him a glass of Sekt as though they were to drink Georg’s health.

  ‘No, thank you, Frau Dreiser. I’m afraid . . . Georg was staying with my brother at Mersham Castle when the accident . . .’

  Herr Dreiser lifted his right hand as though he would stop him and spoke for the first time and his voice was anguished. ‘Georg is dead . . . ?’

  ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have to tell you but, yes, he is dead.’

  Dreiser took his wife’s arm and led her to an uncomfortable-looking gilt sofa. He waved to Edward to be seated. ‘Please, Lord Edward, tell us how this could have happened. We thought if he reached England he would be safe.’

  ‘He was at the stables in Lord Louis Mountbatten’s house and one of the horses went wild and . . . and I am afraid he was kicked in the head.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Frau Dreiser said. ‘Georg did not like animals. He had never ridden a horse. He was a city boy . . .’

  ‘We think he may have been meeting someone . . .’

  ‘Please, Lord Edward, I realize how hard this must be for you but we must know the truth. Are you telling us that the man our son went to meet killed him?’

  ‘It is possible but we do not know yet. Perhaps it was an accident.’

  The Dreisers remained silent. Edward wished Frau Dreiser would weep but it seemed her grief was too deep for tears. At last Herr Dreiser spoke again. ‘He had enemies. He wrote to us . . . he mentioned . . .’

  ‘He mentioned enemies . . .?’ Edward was alert.

  ‘He mentioned that some people he had known in Vienna were staying nearby at the house of Lord Mountbatten. Hedwig Kiesler, the actress – she calls herself Joan Miller – and her husband, the arms dealer . . .’

  ‘Yes, he told me he knew Joan before she was married.’ Edward did not feel able to ask if they knew their son had been Joan’s lover. ‘Who else might have wanted to . . . to harm him?’ Herr Dreiser gave a helpless shrug. ‘Excuse me, Herr Dreiser, but if it was not an accident . . . if Georg was killed . . . then we must bring the murderer to justice.’

  ‘To justice . . .?’ Frau Dreiser said, her voice sharp with pain. ‘There is no justice in this world. My son escapes the Nazis and dies in England where he should have been most safe.’

  ‘Hush, Gretel, meine Liebe, we must not give way to our grief. It is the will of God that we must suffer as our people have always suffered.’

  ‘May I see Georg’s letter?’ Edward asked.

  Without a word, Herr Dreiser walked over to a desk, opened a drawer and took out an envelope and handed it over. Edward thought he had visibly aged since he had arrived at the apartment. He took out two thin sheets of paper covered in a spidery hand.

  ‘Is your German good enough to read it?’ Herr Dreiser asked with studied courtesy. ‘Here, let me translate.’

  Taking back the letter he read, ‘“Dear Mother – I have arrived safely in England and I am staying at the apartment of my friend Miss Browne. Everyone is being most kind but I feel worried about you and Papa and I am homesick. Is Papa now with you as you hoped? Lord Edward Corinth, who I told you about, has arranged for his brother to offer you a job and a little money to work at Mersham Castle. A letter will follow. This should be enough for you to get a visa to follow me here. At least I pray it is so.

  ‘“I saw in London someone I did not expect to be here and whom I fear. I shall not say who it was in case this letter gets you into trouble. I am to meet Lord Louis Mountbatten who, Lord Edward tells me, is a member of the British Royal Family. His house is near that of Lord Edward’s brother, the Duke of Mersham, and I understand my friend Hedwig and her odious husband are staying there. Still, it will be good to see her after so long.

  ‘“I wait anxiously to hear that you are on your way to England. Leave while you have the chance. What you gave me is safe. My kind friends here are looking after me and I do not starve! You may not have long. Your loving son, Gorgi.”

  ‘Gorgi is his family nickname,’ Herr Dreiser said and his face fell as he remembered that he should have said ‘was’ instead of ‘is’. ‘We were so proud that our son should be mingling with the English aristocracy,’ he added with touching naivety.

  ‘I am very sorry, Herr Dreiser. Sorrier than I can ever say that your son should have died while he was a guest of my brother but this letter seems to prove that he knew he had enemies in England – one, at least. Perhaps Frau Mandl will be able to help identify wh
o Georg was referring to?’ Edward hesitated. ‘May I ask what it was that you gave him? If it is valuable it ought to be returned to you.’

  ‘You have not found it? It is a small picture – a woman’s face sketched by a great master . . . by Albrecht Dürer. We gave it to him because we could not give him money.’

  ‘Ah, yes! He showed it to Miss Browne but we have not found it yet.’

  ‘Do you think it has been stolen? Is that why my son was killed?’

  ‘I don’t know, Herr Dreiser, but I intend to find out and return the drawing to you.’

  ‘We thought it would be safe with Georg and he could sell it if he needed to,’ Herr Dreiser said sadly. ‘If you should find it, do not return it to us. It would only be stolen by the Nazis or, worse still, destroyed. Sell it and use what it fetches to help other Jews more fortunate than our Georg.’

  Edward bowed his head in acceptance.

  ‘Forgive me, Lord Edward, but we should like to be alone now.’ Herr Dreiser spoke with quiet dignity. ‘Perhaps you could come back tomorrow or are you returning to London immediately? It was good of you to come yourself to tell us this terrible news.’

  ‘I have a letter from my brother offering you employment and I will come tomorrow to take you to the British Embassy. As soon as you have a visa, I will help you leave the country. Georg was right: you have no time to lose.’

  ‘Please? You do not think we are leaving?’

  ‘You must leave,’ Edward said urgently. ‘You have no alternative.’

  ‘There is an alternative,’ Herr Dreiser said gravely. ‘We are part of an organization helping Jewish children to safety. In two weeks, we are escorting a train to the Swiss border and several more are planned.’