Something Wicked Read online

  Edward groaned inwardly but all he could say was that he would enjoy meeting Harry’s neighbours. He comforted himself with the thought that he might pick up some gossip about the three ‘local worthies’ who had met such peculiar deaths.

  Tomlinson wanted Verity to stay in hospital for two or three more days so he could complete his tests and, as Edward had some business to clear up in London, he arranged with Harry that he would drive down at the weekend, settle Verity in at Dr Bladon’s and then come on to Turton House. He told himself he would stay with Harry for a day or two and see how it went. He could always make some excuse to return to London if it didn’t work out.

  Whether it was knowing what ailed her, Edward’s support and encouragement or her instinctive determination not to be defeated by the ‘bloody thing’, as she called it, but Verity very quickly recovered her spirits. In a couple of days, she was out of bed and pacing around her room like a caged animal saying she was better and wanted to go back to work. Tomlinson lectured her but he was already beginning to think that Dr Bladon might find it hard to keep her on the ‘straight and narrow’ as he called the regime he had prescribed.

  Superficially, Verity had indeed recovered quickly. She started smoking again and boredom made her irritable and ungrateful. When Edward arrived to take her to Henley, she refused and insisted on going to the New Gazette to see Lord Weaver. Striding out of the hospital, she promptly collapsed before reaching Charlotte Street. Passers-by ran to her aid and helped Edward half-carry her back to the Middlesex where Matron – the only person in the hospital of whom Verity was genuinely afraid – greeted her with a frown of concern and annoyance. The experience shook her and she was compelled to accept how low were her reserves of strength. She was put to bed and the move to Dr Bladon’s sanatorium was delayed for twenty-four hours.

  On the drive down to Henley in Edward’s Lagonda – Verity had indignantly refused to travel in an ambulance – Edward tried to interest her in the investigation into the savage killing of his dentist. He had asked Tomlinson if he could discuss it with her and the doctor had conceded that anything which took her mind off her condition and gave her something to think about was probably to the good.

  ‘And Pride is happy for you to look into the deaths of Mr Silver’s patients – the three he believed had been murdered?’ she inquired after hearing him out.

  ‘Yes. He thinks it might be easier for me – on an informal basis – to talk through the circumstances surrounding the deaths with Inspector Treacher, the local man, than for him to get involved. Pride doesn’t want to look as though he is casting doubt on Treacher’s investigative skills.’

  ‘It’s not like Pride to be worried about upsetting people,’ Verity commented acidly. When they had come up against Pride before, he had shown near contempt for Edward as a bumbling amateur and undisguised suspicion of Verity as a Communist and a woman in a man’s world.

  ‘He seems to have mellowed. He knows us better and, in any case, I suspect my old friend Major Ferguson may have had a word with him.’

  ‘The man from Special Branch?’

  ‘Yes, I know you don’t like him . . .’

  ‘I don’t know him and I don’t want to,’ Verity broke in. ‘But I do know Special Branch has waged a war against the Party for as long as I can remember when it would have been much better employed investigating Mosley’s thugs.’

  ‘That’s unfair, V! He has taken strong measures against British Fascists and infiltrated the BUF so successfully that he knows what Mosley is planning almost before he does himself.’

  ‘Well,’ Verity grunted, ‘I’ll take your word for it but my old friend, Claud Cockburn, who was with me in Spain and writes for the Daily Worker, begs to differ. He was saying to me not so long ago that Special Branch reads all his letters and, he believes, listens in to his telephone calls.’

  Edward wanted to say that, in his view, such precautions were entirely justified but thought he had better keep the comment to himself. Cockburn was an amusing but unscrupulous journalist and a strong supporter of the Communist Party. Verity had once managed to drag him to hear the man speak at a public meeting in Wandsworth Town Hall and Edward had been shocked by his cynicism. According to Cockburn, all journalism was propaganda and there was no such thing as objective truth. Facts were just part of a pattern to be made into a story, as a novelist would. It was – he had to admit – an accusation he had made from time to time about Verity’s dispatches from Spain but he knew she was too honest ever consciously to select her facts in order to make the case for the Republican cause. It was just that, for her, her view of events was the true story.

  ‘And what’s more he says Mosley is being funded directly from Germany. He has evidence but of course the police won’t act.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. Mosley wouldn’t be so stupid.’

  ‘He’s stupid and arrogant,’ Verity riposted angrily. Then she laughed but without much humour. ‘But why should I expect you to believe me?’

  ‘V!’ Edward protested. ‘I believe you but I don’t necessarily believe Cockburn. Or rather he’ll give us the facts he wants us to have – arrange them for a particular purpose. Isn’t that what he says he does?’

  Thinking about it later, Edward had to admit that in a murder investigation that was just what did happen more often than not. The available facts were arranged into a pattern that made sense to the detective, but that was not always the same as arriving at the truth. What he had not confessed to Verity was that Ferguson had asked him to do a little job for him. It was hardly more than acting as an escort, but he knew she would not approve if he told her and, in any case, he had made Ferguson a promise that she should hear nothing about it.

  Edward had met Major Ferguson a year or two back and now found himself – informally and unpaid – a member of Special Branch, the small section of the police force charged with protecting the state against political extremists and ill-intentioned foreign nationals. It was all rather nebulous but Ferguson’s remit had taken on greater urgency with the increasing likelihood of war. He had had to increase his staff and that occasionally meant using odd characters like Edward whom, in normal times, he would have neither wanted nor needed to use. Edward had the advantage of being able to go where an ordinary policeman could not without causing comment and had shown he could be sensitive and flexible in his approach to problems with a political edge to them. On the other hand, he was difficult to control and not subject to discipline.

  Edward had gone to see Ferguson, at the latter’s request, in his office over a shabby public house near Trafalgar Square after spending the afternoon with Verity in hospital. When not actually in his presence, he always found it difficult to summon up a clear image of Ferguson. It was as though he made a great effort to be forgettable. He was a small man with thick-lensed glasses which failed to hide the scar above his right eye. He wore a military moustache as most men did who had been in the war. He would immediately be labelled by a casual observer as one of the thousands of ex-army officers who jealously guarded the rank of major or colonel, despite having been relieved of the authority that went with it. However, Edward knew Ferguson should not be underestimated. He had the tenacity of a bulldog and the sharp brain of a man who spent his life weighing up the danger posed by extremists at both ends of the political spectrum.

  ‘I wondered if you would be prepared to undertake a simple but delicate task for me, Lord Edward,’ he said, motioning him to take the hard chair in front of his desk from which Edward could just see part of Nelson’s cocked hat. ‘We have been warned that we are to be visited by one of the leaders of the German opposition to Hitler.’ He saw Edward’s look of surprise. ‘Oh yes, there is an opposition but we don’t know what it amounts to – probably not very much. He’ll spend about forty-eight hours in this country and has asked to meet Vansittart and Mr Churchill and maybe – if Vansittart advises it – Lord Halifax. Of course, the Foreign Secretary will not see him in any official capacity but if
he can be smuggled in the back door, so to speak . . .’

  ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘Ewald von Kleist-Schmenzin. He owns a large estate in Pomerania. He’s a conservative Christian and is almost certainly on a fool’s errand.’

  ‘But why me? Why not get one of your men to escort him around? I’m not a professional bodyguard.’

  ‘I appreciate that but this is very sensitive. He needs someone to tell him what to do and say if the newspapers get wind of his being here or anyone else for that matter. And you know Vansittart and Churchill and von Trott . . .’

  ‘Von Trott? Is he one of them?’

  Adam von Trott was the young German aristocrat with whom Verity had believed herself to be in love the previous summer. He had been kidnapped in Vienna on Himmler’s orders and the next time Verity had heard from him he had been studying philosophy in the East. In other words, he was too well known and from too distinguished a family to be shut away in a prison camp so he had been sent to the other side of the world out of harm’s way.

  ‘Yes, he’s involved with Kleist-Schmenzin but how I’m not sure. I thought you would like to have news of him,’ Ferguson said disingenuously, knowing perfectly well that von Trott was – or at least had been – a rival for Verity’s heart.

  ‘Well, I’ll do it but on condition that Miss Browne hears nothing about it.’

  ‘Of course. I was going to say the same thing! By the way, I was sorry to hear of her illness. How is she?’

  The days were long gone when Edward would have been surprised by how much of his private life was known to Ferguson or to the even more shadowy figure of Guy Liddell, the head of MI5, but it still annoyed him. He bit back a sarcastic remark. ‘She’s got TB. Not too bad, the doctor says, but she needs at least three months’ rest and recuperation. I don’t want her worried.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Ferguson repeated.

  ‘Is Kleist-Schmenzin the first contact we have had with those who oppose Hitler?’

  ‘Pretty well. A man called Carl Goerdeler, a former mayor of Leipzig, travelled to Paris in March but the French didn’t know what to make of him. They saw him as a traitor to his country and more or less refused to deal with him.’

  ‘But are we supposed to see him as a patriot?’

  ‘You can make up your own mind,’ Ferguson said shortly. ‘We’ve got to look at anything which might destabilize Hitler.’

  ‘When’s he due?’

  ‘In ten days. I’ll give you details when I know them.’

  ***

  To Edward’s relief, Dr Bladon and Verity took to each other at first sight. Bladon was Edward’s age, good-looking with a twisted smile which made him appear younger than his thirty-eight years. His hair, though prematurely grey, was thick and wavy, his eyes black and large. It suddenly crossed Edward’s mind that Verity, in her weakened condition and bored by having nothing to get her adrenalin pumping, might fall for him but he suppressed the thought.

  Very ill patients had their own rooms but those, like Verity, who were not too badly affected were encouraged to share rooms. She was put in with two girls younger than herself who had obviously been briefed as to who she was and that she might be difficult. In fact, Verity was at her most gracious. Jill Torrance was a student nurse who had worked at the Middlesex for a time and knew Dr Tomlinson. The other girl, Mary Black, was the daughter of a backbench Conservative MP – rather spoilt-looking, Edward thought, but pretty in a conventional way. They were both dressed because it was Bladon’s policy to keep all but the very ill patients up and about, taking as much fresh air as possible in the clinic’s extensive gardens.

  Right up until the moment Edward got up to go, Verity was her normal self but, as she went to the front door with him, she suddenly fell weeping into his arms.

  ‘I’m never going to leave this place, am I?’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, Edward, we’ll never get married. I’ll never have children. I’ll just waste away here until I become a skeleton like the boy we saw in the garden.’

  ‘Hey, chin up,’ Edward said, taken aback by the power of her sobs. ‘You’ll be out of here in three months and back at your post by the new year. In any case, you don’t want children.’

  ‘No, I know, but I just feel I’m going to disappear – vanish off the face of the earth – and leave nothing behind. I’ll be forgotten and you’ll marry someone else . . .’

  ‘V! Where does all this self-pity come from?’ he said gently, holding her in his arms. ‘It’s not like you to give way. I know you hate being ill. So do I. I’d be much less brave than you. You’d tell me to buck up. You’re not dying and you won’t be forgotten.’ He released her but still kept hold of her hands. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow about ten. All your friends will visit you. You won’t have time to be bored let alone forgotten.’

  He kissed her forehead but, when she lifted her face for him to kiss her, he hesitated.

  ‘Why won’t you kiss me?’ she demanded.

  ‘I . . . the doctors say I mustn’t . . . not till they give you the all clear.’

  Verity looked puzzled and then it dawned on her. ‘They think I’ll infect you?’

  ‘Well, I . . . It’s possible, yes.’

  ‘Please go now,’ she said, pulling away from him. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. No!’ She backed away as he tried to embrace her once more. ‘I’ve just got to get used to being a pariah.’

  It was with a heavy heart that Edward got into the Lagonda and drove the three or four miles to Turton House. Harry welcomed him warmly, led him into the drawing-room and thrust a large whisky and soda into his hand.

  ‘You look as though you need this,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right, I do. It’s not much fun watching the girl you love laid low with what could be a fatal disease.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as that, surely? I mean I know it’s TB but nowadays . . .’

  ‘There’s still no cure for the bloody thing,’ Edward replied, unconsciously using Verity’s phrase for it. ‘They prescribe colloidal silver but God knows if it does any good. It all depends on the body and Verity has lived such a rackety life, not eating properly, not sleeping enough, living off her nerves – well, she’s not nearly as strong as she thinks she is.’

  ‘Poor Edward,’ Harry said. ‘And you’re going to marry this girl?’

  ‘God willing, yes. As soon as she’s better . . .’

  ‘You’re cut up, I can see. I’m so pleased I’m able to help. I’ve not met Dr Bladon – in fact, as I told you, I haven’t met anyone much since I got back from Africa.’

  Edward eyed his host and noted the thinning hair and the thickening waist. He was still handsome but not quite the heart-throb he had once been. Heavy drinking had left its mark – burst blood vessels and a high colour. He hoped he had worn better.

  ‘You’ve got no woman, then?’ Edward felt permitted to ask the question since Harry had been so direct with him.

  ‘No. To be frank with you, these English women seem rather milk and water compared to the ones in Happy Valley.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s true. No one could call Verity milk and water. Tell me, Harry, when I got your letter I was puzzled. You always said England was too small for you. Shouldn’t you be exploring the Mountains of the Moon rather than being holed up here?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I’ve only been in England for a few months and I confess I’m bored. I think I’ll have one summer here and then sell up and go back to Africa. Get myself eaten by a lion or something. Mind you, since the slump, it’s not been the same in Kenya. The glory days are over. There’s no money to be made out of agriculture – flax, coffee and all the rest of it aren’t worth the effort. You remember Algy Robertson? When the crops failed three years on the trot – it was locusts the last time – he shot himself.’

  ‘No! I’m so sorry, but surely there’s still money to be made out of the visitors? Don’t you still take tourists out on safari?’ Edward heard himself sounding almost contemptuous but Harry didn’t see
m to mind.

  ‘I’ve more or less given that up. To tell the truth, I got a bad mauling some months back. All my own fault. I was sleeping off too good a lunch and woke to find this mangy old lion breathing down my neck. In fact, it was his stinking breath which woke me up. Talk about a hangover, that old beast needed his teeth seeing to, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You didn’t have your gun?’

  ‘No, idiot that I was.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘We looked each other in the eye for a rather long minute, then I got up and made a run for it shouting for help. Fortunately, I was only just outside the camp or I wouldn’t be around to tell you the story. Jake Gore – do you remember him or was he after your time . . .?’

  ‘After my time.’

  ‘Well, he heard me shouting and came with his gun and shot him dead. Though not before . . .’ Harry rolled up his sleeve and Edward saw the scars of three long claw marks running from elbow to wrist. ‘I was lucky not to lose my arm. I suppose that was the moment I began to wonder if I wasn’t a bit too old for the game.’

  His rakish grin – the same one with which he had described every prank at school – sent Edward back to the days when they had been as David and Jonathan. He found himself smiling in response.

  ‘Then you heard you had inherited a title?’

  ‘Yes, it means nothing really but I was curious to see the place I’d been lumbered with, so here I am.’

  He gestured with his good arm. Edward idly picked up a book from a pile lying on the table beside Harry’s armchair.

  ‘Walt Whitman? I didn’t know you liked poetry?’