The Quality of Mercy Page 8

  ‘From all I have heard of you and learnt from your reports, which I have read in the New Gazette since the beginning of the war in Spain, I know you speak the truth as you see it. However, in my opinion, you shut your eyes to the faults of your comrades when to recognize them might seem to undermine the good fight. I understand that and I fully expect to have to do the same if, as I hope, the Soviet Union joins the coming fight against Nazi Germany, but we should not let that blind us to what we know is the truth behind the façade.

  ‘When you return to Vienna – or perhaps, as I gather from Lord Weaver is now more likely, you go to Prague – I would ask you to write to me when you have time and give me your appreciation of events as they unfold. Hitler knows that whoever is master of Bohemia is master of Europe.’

  Verity was flattered to be asked to help form the opinions of this opinionated man and unable, sleepy as she was and under the influence of Churchill’s over-powering personality, to defend the Soviet Union as she might later wish she had done, said, ‘There is a young Austrian Jew – Georg Dreiser – whom we have managed to bring over to England. He should be in London tomorrow. I think you would find him interesting. His friends are not just Jews but all sorts of Austrians. He claims to have information about new bombs . . . I don’t really know if he is fantasizing but you might be interested.’

  Churchill rolled down the car window and threw out his cigar end. ‘Accurate information is my greatest weapon. I believe Hitler only listens to those who agree with him. I like listening to you, Miss Browne, just because you don’t.’

  The following morning, in stark contrast to Eaton Place, she wended her way to Covent Garden for a meeting with a senior figure in the Party, Owen Coombs. The head office of the CPGB was at 16 King Street – an ironic address, she had always thought – and, although she had often been there for meetings and rallies of one kind or another, on this occasion her heart was troubled. It was all so different now from those heady days in 1936 when young men had flocked to King Street to enrol in the International Brigade. Alone among political parties, the CP had declared unequivocally for the Republicans and, for anti-Fascists, there could be no alternative to joining the Party.

  But Verity’s experience in Spain had left her disillusioned. She would never have admitted it to Edward, let alone to Churchill, but she now realized that the Party always had to give the impression that Communists were the only ones who really fought when, in reality, Party leaders were interested solely in expanding its sphere of influence at the expense of all other left-wing groups. It was not simply that the war in Spain was all but lost and Franco would soon march into Madrid at the head of his army – that was bitter indeed – but much more bitter was the knowledge that she, and many like her, had been manipulated – quite cynically – by the Soviet Union. Stalin used the Party – and the civil war – to undermine the democracies. She had to acknowledge that Stalin had as much interest in restoring the Spanish Republic as the arch-enemy, Franco. It hurt her to have to admit it but, in this respect at least, Churchill had the right of it.

  Verity had been very reluctant to accept the reality even when Edward and other observers she respected pointed it out to her. It was only with the horror of Guernica – whose destruction at the hands of the Luftwaffe she had witnessed – and its aftermath that she had begun to see what was happening. She, and many others fighting in Spain, had unwittingly participated in a giant publicity stunt for a Communist Party totally under the control of Moscow. She strongly suspected that the Party had had warning that Guernica – the undefended capital of the Basque region – was to be razed to the ground but had quite deliberately passed the city no warning in order to maximize the horror. The Party was not interested in any of the shibboleths to which it paid lip service – freedom, equality, independent thought. It asked just one thing of its members – obedience – and it was unquestioning obedience that Verity had never been able to give to anyone.

  As she entered the warren of rooms and staircases which almost seemed to reflect the tortuous thinking of the people who occupied them, she permitted herself to think the unthinkable: how different was the CPGB from the Nazi Party? They both used terror to achieve their ends. Both were indifferent to personal aspiration and individual suffering. Alarming rumours had reached her of the terror in the Soviet Union where loyal Party members disappeared without explanation and were never seen again or were summoned to appear before courts to recite ‘confessions’ obtained by blackmail and torture.

  As she knocked on the door of Coombs’ office, she was still wrestling with her conscience. Should she resign? Could she resign? She had a feeling that resigning might not be an option and, in any case, how could she face Edward and tell him that he had been right all along?

  She had met Coombs only once before and had not known quite what to make of him. He was not one of the hectoring sort she might have found it easier to stand up to. He did not bully. He sounded perfectly reasonable, even understanding. But what was he thinking? After the last interview – almost a year before – she had told herself he had no idea what he wanted or what he thought of her.

  At her knock, he called for her to come in and she found she had forgotten his boyish smile and untidy shock of brown hair. His eyes were brown and nondescript and his hand – when he rose from his desk to grasp hers – was firm and dry. It was only then that she remembered how tall he was. He seemed to uncoil himself from behind his desk and re-coil as he sat down. Verity was not quite sure of his position in the Party but she had a feeling that he was a senior figure.

  ‘Comrade – Miss Browne – Verity!’ he intoned. ‘May I call you Verity? I feel we know each other well – both of us having been Party members for so long.’ The implicit appeal to her loyalty drew from her a nod of recognition.

  ‘We have all – all of us here – been very pleased with your work for the cause. Your reports in the Daily Worker and the New Gazette show how right we have been to oppose the Fascist threat here and in Austria. We have been pleased with the way you have – what shall I say? – insinuated yourself into circles in which you can meet our enemies. We will of course require a full report on your dinner last night in Eaton Place and what Mr Churchill said with reference to the world situation and the Soviet Union in particular.’

  Verity was no longer surprised that Coombs knew precisely whom she had seen and when. She hated the thought of being spied on but had grown to accept it as inevitable. The gentle inquisition continued, taking her through everything she had done in the past year. It was thorough and Verity, who was not good at dissembling, hid nothing, aware that – had she tried to – Coombs would have known. There was no hint of criticism unless it was of her relationship with Edward. It was odd, she thought, that the Party applauded her affair with the German aristocrat, Adam von Trott, and sympathized with her that he had dropped her so precipitately, but found Lord Edward Corinth sinister – a threat to her loyalty to the Party. Of course, if she were honest about it, the Party was quite right to be disturbed. Edward had indeed under-mined her faith – not in Communism but in the Communist Party.

  ‘Just so long as you always bear in mind Lenin’s famous question: “Who? Whom?” You must ask yourself who is doing what to whom. Social justice and capitalism are incompatible. But why am I telling you what you already know?’ Coombs smiled and Verity tried to smile back but failed.

  When the questioning came to an end, Coombs sat in silence, watching her for several minutes. Fortunately, she was familiar with the technique and remained silent herself. Any interrogator worth his salt knows that silent expectation is hard for an interviewee to deal with. The urge to break the silence with an unintended confession, or at least an admission, is very difficult to resist.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you want to know what the Party requires of you.’ Verity was not sure that she did but . . . ‘It is our belief that Mr Churchill will, at the outbreak of war, become Prime Minister. He will be rewarded for having seen the Fa
scist menace for what it is when most of his colleagues closed their eyes to it. We do not object to this in principle but it is important we know exactly what he is planning and, most particularly, what his attitude is to the Soviet Union. We know he distrusts it, of course, but will he see reason?’

  ‘I’m not a spy,’ Verity said sharply. ‘I’m a newspaper correspondent.’

  ‘We know that,’ Coombs said soothingly. ‘We have spies. What we need from you is exactly what you pride yourself on – honest reporting. Not too much to ask, surely?’

  Verity nodded dubiously. It seemed very like spying to her. But was she being naive? Edward would say so. She had to choose sides and in this dirty, dishonest decade there were no Queensberry rules. The end justified the means.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Coombs said as he uncoiled himself to say goodbye, ‘that young Jew of yours – Georg Dreiser – has something we would like.’

  ‘What is that?’ Verity asked, surprised.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ he inquired with gentle irony. ‘He has access to people – scientists – working on Germany’s new bomb. We want him to bring them over to us. It is very important, you understand?’

  ‘To us?’

  ‘To the Party, to Moscow,’ Coombs clarified. ‘I under-stand you are taking him to Mersham Castle at the weekend. One of our people will ask you for an introduction. That is all. You will facilitate this. Not too much to ask, I think.’

  ‘A Comrade will be at Mersham . . .?’ Verity asked in surprise bordering on alarm.

  ‘There or in the neighbourhood. Someone will be in touch. No need for you to do anything. You will get your instructions.’

  ‘How will I know him?’

  ‘He will mention my name.’

  As Verity left King Street, she did not notice a man at the corner writing in his little notebook but Coombs, looking out of his window, did and smiled. He was aware that Special Branch kept constant watch on the comings and goings at Party Headquarters. Cat and mouse – it was a game two could play.

  Verity went from King Street to have lunch with Adrian Hassel, one of her oldest friends who had seen her through bad times in the past and whom she knew she could trust absolutely. They were to meet at the Slade in Gower Street and walk to Bertorelli in Charlotte Street. Adrian always ate there when he was working at the Slade because it was quick and cheap. The bill never came to more than two and sixpence with lamb cutlets and peas at a shilling and Spaghetti à l’Italienne eightpence.

  Adrian took her into the Slade’s cavernous interior and showed her the picture he was working on, a vivid – Verity was inclined to think lurid – study of Waterloo Bridge at sunset – bright reds and yellows, a homage perhaps to Whistler. She said the right things but Adrian knew she hated it and laughed wryly.

  ‘Don’t pretend, Verity. You’re not a good liar. You’ll be surprised to hear,’ he added defensively, ‘that I have begun to sell. I’ve got an exhibition coming up – at the Goupil, no less – in October. You must come.’

  ‘I will if I can, Adrian, but I expect to be in Vienna or perhaps Prague.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said suddenly serious. ‘You must think we are all ostriches – unable to see what’s right in front of our noses. The fact of the matter is that we know a war is coming but each day which passes without war being declared leaves us profoundly grateful.’

  ‘You don’t worry about what compromises are made in your name to delay the war, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. We are just happy to be able to go about our normal lives.’

  Verity pursed her lips and would have said something had Adrian not pointed to an elderly man walking towards them in the company of a young woman. ‘Look, there’s Professor Schwabe. He’s talking to Vera Gray. I’d like you to meet her. Her uncle was a very good painter, you know – much better than me. When I was a student here just after the war I got to know him quite well. He could have been a great painter but the war did for him. I thank God I missed it by a couple of years. He had one of those breakdowns, like so many who saw and suffered so much carnage.’

  Before Verity could protest, Adrian had taken her arm and introduced her as ‘the famous war correspondent’, which made her squirm with embarrassment. Vera Gray was, she guessed, in her mid-twenties. She wasn’t pretty but she had a strong face and a pleasant smile. She wore not a scrap of make-up. Her hair, which was thick and brown, was untidy and spattered with paint, as were her overalls. She recognized the look in Vera’s eyes – the look of someone recently bereaved – vulnerable and naked.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your uncle, Miss Gray,’ Adrian said. ‘I was proud to know him. We were students together here at the Slade after the war though of course he was five or six years my senior. I feel badly that we rather lost touch. I don’t know when I last saw him. Two years ago, perhaps – yes, at least that,’ he continued, thinking aloud.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, a trifle breathlessly. ‘I know who you are, of course, although for some reason I don’t think we have ever met, but my uncle talked of you. He wasn’t very sociable, particularly recently.’ She hurried on. ‘Are you able to come to the memorial meeting on Friday? It’s down near Romsey, where he died. Tarn Hill was a favourite place of his –– do you know it? It’s a well-known beauty spot. He painted it – and the view from it – time after time but never got tired of it. I’m glad that, if he had to die, he died there, not in some London hospital.’

  ‘I remember it from his pictures. I don’t think I have ever been there. He’s not being buried . . .?’ Adrian inquired.

  ‘No, no. He was an atheist, I’m afraid. There’s a cremation at Putney on Wednesday, after the inquest, and then we are going to scatter his ashes on Friday where he was happiest.’

  ‘I see. There has to be an inquest?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just a formality but the way he died . . .’

  ‘It was ergot poisoning, wasn’t it?’ Verity chipped in.

  ‘How did you know?’ Vera Gray looked rather put out.

  ‘The fact is my friend, Lord Edward Corinth, was there when his body was discovered . . . I’m so sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have . . .’

  ‘No, please don’t worry. Lord Edward’s a friend of yours, is he? I have heard of him, of course. I gather it was his nephew and a friend who actually stumbled on . . . It must have been a terrible shock for them.’

  ‘Do you know why your uncle was on the Broadlands estate?’

  ‘I told you, he liked to paint . . .’

  ‘He was two or three miles from Tarn Hill, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He liked to walk . . .’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘But in his state of health?’

  ‘That was the odd thing. He had been feeling so much better in the last year or two. He had – at least I thought he had – quite given up taking ergot. His depressions had become so infrequent . . . That was why I thought it safe to move out and get my own flat. I have one of those “cabins” in that new, modern block – you know the one I mean? It’s built like an ocean liner in Lawn Road in Hampstead. It’s only two or three stops on the Under-ground from Mornington Crescent. I used to look in on him almost every day.’

  She sounded, Verity thought, as if she were defending herself against unspoken charges of neglect.

  ‘Painting is very therapeutic,’ Adrian said, trying to be soothing.

  ‘Yes, it is, but it was simpler than that. I think, as time passed, he began to forget. He was beginning to forget everything.’ She laughed nervously. ‘I mean,’ she seemed to correct herself, ‘he began to forget the past. That was good, of course. To tell the truth, I’d heard enough of his war memories.’

  Verity looked at her curiously and, catching her glance, saw that she thought she had revealed rather too much.

  ‘I was very glad for him, of course. The horrors of the war, which had almost unhinged him, faded. He stopped having nightmares. There were so many nights when I heard him screaming. When I was younger, I put my finger
s in my ears and hid under the bedclothes but later on I used to go into his room and try to soothe him.’ She shuddered. ‘The sight of him writhing in a tangle of sheets, sweating like a . . . It almost broke my heart.’

  ‘It must have been awful,’ Verity said with feeling. ‘Adrian said you were an orphan . . .?’

  ‘Yes. It was very Victorian. Bleak House is a favourite of mine. I can so easily identify with the Jarndyce children. You remember the wards of court who went to live with their cousin?’

  Verity had not read Bleak House and looked puzzled. Seeing she had to explain a little more, Vera continued, ‘My parents died in a railway accident when I was a baby. My uncle and aunt, who had no children of their own, took me in.’

  ‘I see, but your aunt . . .’

  ‘She died a year or two after. I don’t remember her. I wish I did.’

  ‘So your uncle had to look after you alone? That was brave of him.’

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it? He ought to have put me in orphanage. For a time, he had an old woman to look after me – a cousin of his – but we didn’t really get on. I must have been a very tiresome child.’

  ‘But you repaid the debt to your uncle a hundred times,’ Adrian said. ‘You were the light of his life. You looked after him and kept him sane.’

  Vera looked surprised at his vehemence and he started to apologize. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that but he told me so himself.’

  ‘Did he really? I wish he had told me,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘But you must have known?’