Bones of the Buried (11 page)

‘Can I come and see you before we leave?’ she inquired meekly.

‘Of course.’ He signalled to the guard who was standing outside the cell to escort Verity back to the governor’s office and, when she had gone, motioned Edward to sit in the
chair.

‘I’ll sit on the bed. No, really,’ he said, seeing Edward about to refuse. ‘I’m quite comfortable on the bed. In any case, if you don’t mind, I might pace
around a bit. I have exercise periods but it’s never enough. In fact it’s what I miss most about this place. But, of course, it won’t be for long.’

Edward thought it wisest not to offer conventional protestations. ‘Look, David – I hope I may call you David?’

‘Be my guest,’ the other said ironically. ‘There is an intimacy engendered in meeting in a condemned cell which it would be idiotic to deny.’

‘First of all, I apologise for coming here. I knew you would not want to see me and I told Verity so but, as you said, she won’t take no for an answer. She knows we don’t get
on, for obvious reasons, and I told her you might think I had come to . . .’

‘To gloat? No, oddly enough, I didn’t think you would come for that reason but I’m almost certain there is nothing you can do . . . in the time available.’

‘You think there
is
something I could do.’

‘There might be,’ Griffiths-Jones said grudgingly.

‘Well, tell me, for God’s sake!’

‘You see, Corinth, the thing is, I didn’t kill Tilney.’

‘I didn’t think you . . .’

‘No, hold on a moment. I’m sure you do think I did it and maybe I could have. I certainly feel like doing it now!’ He hit his fist against the wall. ‘I didn’t kill
Tilney because no one did.’

‘No one did? His death was an accident?’ Edward said, already disbelieving what he was being told.

‘Oh, no. What I mean is when I left him he was very much alive.’

‘But you identified the body . . .’

‘Yes, well, that was what we agreed.’

‘I’m sorry, David, but I’m not following this at all. Can you start from the beginning?’

Griffiths-Jones hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘To make you understand, I’ve got to explain a little about the political situation here. It’s anything but cut and dried.
Anything might happen. We expect opposition from the army to what we are trying to do. The new government has sent away to the provinces – North Africa mostly – some of the generals
they most distrust, like Mola and Francisco Franco, but that may not be far enough. Added to which the Popular Front is by no means united. We have to deal with weak-as-water socialists,
Trotskyists, anarchists and Catalonian separatists so getting anything done is a battle.’

‘You talk about “we” all the time like my friend Basil Thoroughgood. He means the Foreign Office but I suspect your “we” is the Communist Party as directed by
Moscow. Is that right?’

‘Look, Corinth, you know I have no time for your sort of “English gentleman” politics. The fight against Fascism is too serious to be left to people like you and in any case
– you mentioned Basil Thoroughgood – I happen to know he is a Fascist sympathiser and there are many more like him at the heart of government. Britain is riddled with snobbery,
corruption and anti-Semitism. You can’t fight evil – by which I mean Fascism – with a broken sword.’

‘But you’re not Spanish. Is this really your fight? Aren’t you interfering in someone else’s quarrel and making it worse?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Corinth, this isn’t a Spanish quarrel – or not
just
a Spanish quarrel. It’s a fight against the evil of Fascism. This is the first battle
in a long and bloody war. Each time we don’t stand up to it, it grows like some monster which feeds on blood and treachery. I don’t suppose you’ve ever read Lenin’s
What
is to be Done?
’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘Well, you should. It might appeal to you. I read it first at Cambridge, at the Gramophone Society.’

‘The what?’

David smiled. ‘It’s what we called our communist gatherings. We caught “conspiracy” like we caught chickenpox when we were children.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Why should you? Communism could have no appeal for you.’ There was a sneer in his voice. ‘But you ought to understand what is going to be the fate of you and your
class.’ He waved a hand at the copy of
Das Kapital
. ‘As long ago as 1844 – almost a century ago – Karl Marx described communism as “the riddle of history
solved, and knowing itself to be the solution”. And to get back to Lenin – ’ David was pacing up and down the cell in his eagerness to preach the word – ‘he wrote
What is to be Done?
a full fifteen years before the revolution but it is so farsighted, so brilliantly focused. He stresses the absolute necessity of discipline and he talks about the need
for terror – “truly terrifying terror”, he says, “is magnificent.” ’

‘Like Robespierre.’

‘Yes, like Robespierre, Lenin sees the value of what he calls “
mass
terror” and he emphasises the need for
konspirativnost
– underground political activity.
That’s what particularly appealed to us in the Gramophone Society. I have said this to Verity but I don’t think she understands what I mean – perhaps no woman can: Lenin says
there can be “no freedom of criticism” in the Party and those who are unwilling to operate actively under the direction of one of its officials should have membership denied them. Lenin
called for miracles, for dreams, but to make them come true one must first have discipline.’

Edward was fascinated by the passion with which Griffiths-Jones spoke. It was almost as though he had forgotten to whom he was talking and was rehearsing in his own mind the faith that sustained
him. Certainly, no one listening to him could doubt his sincerity, and the idea that he might accept help from Basil Thoroughgood, in exchange for betrayal of his principles, was frankly ludicrous.
Edward was glad that he had not even touched on the subject. Griffiths-Jones might not like him – he certainly saw him as a class enemy – but at least, he fancied, thought him
honest.

‘And was that why Tilney had to die? Was he undisciplined?’

David ceased pacing and looked at Edward in surprise, as if a child had said something unexpectedly precocious.

‘I didn’t say that. I told you, I didn’t kill him.’

‘No, but you said you could have.’

‘I was joking.’

‘Are you able to tell me what you were doing with Godfrey Tilney on the day he was, or perhaps was not, killed? You said nothing at your trial, I understand.’

‘No, I had my reasons for that.’ He thought for a few moments, pacing about his cell like an animal in a zoo. Edward waited, curious to see if the man would confide in him. At last
Griffiths-Jones sat on his bed and put his head in his hands. ‘Can I trust you, Corinth?’ he said simply.

‘Anything you tell me in confidence now, I will keep absolutely secret unless I think it might damage British interests and then I would tell you what I proposed to do before doing
it.’

‘Fair enough,’ Griffiths-Jones replied. ‘I don’t believe even you will consider anything Tilney and I were doing to be treasonous.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Anyway,
it looks as though I am going to die unless I get help from someone. I don’t want to die now because there is so much to do. Believe me, I have no fear of dying but it has to be at the right
time. I’m too useful to the cause to be wasted.’

Edward was filled with revulsion. This man had horribly inflated ideas about himself and his importance. But, like all fanatics, he was in some sinister way impressive.

‘Couldn’t you have trusted Verity?’ Edward said.

‘I could but I was afraid she might get hurt. She’s a good girl but I don’t think she could have coped with . . . with what I was involved in.’

Verity would have been furious – or at least Edward knew she would have been furious with
him
if he had patronised her in this way – but maybe, he reflected, she
wouldn’t have minded Griffiths-Jones saying she could not cope. She seemed to lose all her critical faculties as far as he was concerned. However, it was something that David did care about
her. He was such a cold fish, he could use anyone if he felt it to be in his interests.

‘You don’t want her hurt because you love her?’ Edward blurted out. He didn’t know why he said it – why he
had
to say it.

Griffiths-Jones looked at him curiously, his troubles momentarily forgotten. ‘I do love her, yes, but I told her, when I brought her out to Spain, that there was no room for personal
feelings and that we had a job to do which was too important to be put in jeopardy by bourgeois emotions like love.’

‘How did she take it?’

‘I don’t know. That was not important. She may have been . . . upset.’ He meditated for a minute. ‘Still, I wish she hadn’t fallen into the clutches of that
man.’

‘Which man?’

‘Belasco, the novelist. I can’t bear him and when I see him putting his paws on her . . .’

Edward was dumbfounded. ‘You mean Verity’s . . . Belasco’s lover?’

‘Yes, didn’t she tell you? Naughty girl.’ He laughed grimly. ‘I suppose she didn’t dare. She wanted you to “save” me because that’s the sort of
bloody fool you are – to save the lover of the girl you’re in love with. Lancelot – or was he the one who slept with his master’s wife?’

Edward wanted desperately to hit him but knew he couldn’t. ‘No, I didn’t know,’ he said, making a great effort to sound calm. ‘It wouldn’t have made any
difference anyhow. I said I thought you would not want me anywhere near you but that, if I could help and you were prepared to trust me, then I would. There was nothing said about my feeling for
her or for you.’

‘Nothing
said
!’ Griffiths-Jones repeated bitterly. ‘Spare us the good manners!’

‘So are you going to tell me what happened to Tilney?’ Edward said, ignoring the jibe.

‘I suppose I might as well, but remember, what I have to say to you is in complete confidence.’

Edward thought this rather rich coming from someone whose whole life was predicated on the premise that the ends justified the means. If Griffiths-Jones were told something in confidence, he
would keep that confidence as long as it suited him and not a second longer. Yet here he was appealing to Edward’s sense of honour – precisely what he had been sneering at a minute
before.

‘You must know, Corinth, that the Republic is desperately short of arms and if, as seems likely, it has to face down the army it will have to do it with bare fists and
pitchforks.’

‘But I thought you said General Franco and – what’s his name? – Mola have been exiled to the provinces.’

‘Yes, but that was not wise. They ought to have been shot. If you remember your medieval history, the French and English kings liked to keep their “over-mighty subjects” at
court where they could keep an eye on them. Back on their own estates, they could more easily plot rebellion and rally their retainers to their flag.’

‘You mean you think Franco and his friends are gathering support from the regiments they command in North Africa?’

‘Of course! A child can see it, but our good people just want them out of sight so they can be out of mind.’

‘How does this relate to what you were doing with Tilney?’

‘I’m just coming to that. There are in fact people high up in government who do see the danger and they instructed us – Tilney and me – to buy arms – particularly
aeroplanes – from whoever will sell them to us.’

‘Why use you – foreigners?’

‘Just because we are foreigners, of course. If things went wrong, the Republic could repudiate us. Also,’ he added with evident satisfaction, ‘as members of the Communist Party
we are above suspicion. Spain is riddled with corruption but, if there is honesty to be found, it is from comrades in the Party.’

‘I see,’ said Edward. ‘You were authorised to buy arms using gold . . .’

‘. . . from the Bank of Spain. I promise you, Corinth, if any of this leaks out neither your life nor mine will be worth a peseta – another reason I have not involved
Verity.’

‘But surely,’ said Edward, remembering what Hester had said, ‘these sort of deals are made in offices and hotel rooms – not on the side of mountains.’

‘True enough but delivery . . . that has to be done with the utmost secrecy as close to us here as possible.’

‘But how were these arms delivered? Not by train or motor vehicle – there are hardly any roads up in the mountains, are there?’

‘No, that’s why it was so safe. The arms came by air along with the aeroplanes. We have no aeroplanes, at least not until recently.’

‘The stuff comes by air?’

‘Yes, since I’m telling you all this I will have to trust you completely,’ he said with obvious reluctance. ‘My life may hang on you not revealing what I’m going to
tell you – not to anyone.’

‘I promise to be discreet. Didn’t Lenin have a phrase he used when someone asked how he knew something: “A swallow brought it to me on its tail”?’

‘Yes! Wherever did you read that? But I mean it: I must have your word as . . .’

‘As a gentleman?’ said Edward ironically. ‘Look, David, I will keep as silent as the grave.’

‘Silent as the grave?’ he mused. ‘Graves can shout loud enough sometimes. However, I must trust you.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There’s an airfield right up in
the mountains in a sort of basin – perhaps it was a volcano once. Anyway, an aeroplane looks as though it’s flying over and behind the hills when actually it drops down on to this
landing field. The crates are unloaded and taken to a warehouse near Barajas – the airport – where they can be distributed as the government sees fit. The aeroplanes have their markings
changed and are flown on to Barajas separately.’

‘And is this a regular thing?’

‘This was the third delivery.’

‘But something went wrong?’ Edward hazarded.

‘Yes, one of the team got nervy – didn’t like something about the job and refused to go on with it. There was the devil of a row and the man got killed.’

Edward guessed this was a partial version of what actually happened.

‘So you dressed him in Tilney’s clothes and left him to be found by . . .’