Bones of the Buried (21 page)

No one had ever attempted to bribe him before and it took his breath away. He wanted to stretch across the desk, take the fellow by the throat and throttle him. This man, with a job of trust and
responsibility in one of the great departments of state at a critical time in British history, was prepared to lie, bribe and blackmail to preserve his worthless hide. His influence in the Foreign
Office would be directed at keeping his financial dealings with a potential enemy secret and safe. Regardless of the national interest, Thoroughgood had only one aim: to keep Britain on good terms
with Germany.

Edward got up carefully, holding back the anger which threatened to overwhelm him.

‘Let me tell you something, Thoroughgood. I didn’t like you at school and I don’t like you now. There is nothing you can offer me which I would take with a pair of fire tongs.
As it happens, I have my reasons for wanting to get to the bottom of this killing, otherwise I would tell you to go to hell.’

‘Steady on, old chap. Don’t take that tone with me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not a rich man, you understand, and this was a way of putting aside something for my
retirement. I’ve done nothing illegal.’

‘Listen carefully, Basil my boy,’ Edward said with studied contempt. ‘You will send me, to Albany, a letter of introduction to Mr Heinrich Hoffmann requesting him to answer any
question I might put to him. As soon as I have left this office, you will telephone Chief Inspector Pride and ask him to give me any information I may require and, if he makes a fuss, get on to
your pal, the Commissioner. Savvy?’

‘Yes, of course, Corinth, just as you say.’

‘But I warn you that if, in the course of my investigations, I uncover any dealings between the bank and your Nazi friends which affect the case, I will not hesitate to inform the police.
I shall try and forget what you have said to me today but, if at any time I have reason to believe that you are annoying any of my friends or putting obstacles in my way, I will not hesitate to
speak to Sir Robert about you. Vansittart ought to know the value of the advice given him by his officials.’

‘But, Corinth, we were at school together,’ bleated Thoroughgood.

‘And I am ashamed of it,’ said Edward rising.

Without another word, he left, closing the door behind him as quietly as if he were leaving a sick room. As he passed Thoroughgood’s secretary, she looked up with a startled smile which
faded as she saw his face. When he reached the street, he gulped down mouthfuls of the smog which had settled on London like a dirty blanket, despite a persistent drizzling rain. At that moment,
after what he had had to listen to inside, it tasted sweeter than the air on his beloved hills above Mersham.

Edward found Pride at the Yard but, as he had feared, the Chief Inspector was not willing to co-operate. His mention of Thoroughgood’s name merely made the policeman curl his lip and raise
an eyebrow, and he saw he had made a tactical error. Pride made it quite clear – with icy politeness – that the last thing he needed on the investigation was some meddling aristocrat
asking questions of him or his officers.

‘I was a friend of the dead man, Chief Inspector. We were at school together and his son is a close friend of my nephew’s. I’m naturally keen to do anything I can to help you
find his killer.’

‘Very good of you to have come forward,’ said Pride, with a smile of wolfish insincerity, ‘but it’s best to leave these things to the experts, no offence mind. If we need
to ask you any questions you can be certain we will be in touch with you . . . my lord.’ He added ‘my lord’ with studied irony.

Edward knew it was hopeless but he tried one more time. ‘I am aware that you don’t like me, Chief Inspector, but I hope you won’t let that prejudice you. There may be something
. . . some enemy in his past . . .’

‘I don’t know where you got the impression I don’t like you,’ said the policeman, grinning, ‘but I assure you that is not the case. However, I am confident we shall
quickly find Mr Thayer’s murderer. He had enemies in the world of banking but I don’t think you are able to help us with that side of things.’

‘No, but . . .’

‘Please, Lord Edward, as you can appreciate I am very busy right now. Don’t hesitate to ring my sergeant if there is any information you wish to pass on.’ A thickset,
amiable-looking man, with a face badly scarred by acne, came into the room. ‘Sergeant Willis, this is Lord Edward Corinth . . . a friend of the late Mr Thayer’s. I have asked him to
tell you if he picks up any interesting titbits. Perhaps you would be kind enough to see Lord Edward out. Goodbye, sir. I am sorry we seem always to meet in circumstances like these.’

As Sergeant Willis led Edward through to his office, which adjoined Pride’s, he said, ‘I was explaining to the Chief Inspector that the murdered man was a friend of mine – an
old school friend, in fact. If there’s anything you need to know about his background, please feel free to ask me. Here’s my card.’

‘Very good, my lord,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’m sure we’re very grateful.’

‘Oh, by the way,’ Edward said casually, ‘might I see the Buddha – the murder weapon?’

‘I’m afraid not, my lord. It’s still in the lab. They’re running all sorts of clever scientific tests,’ he added patronisingly.

‘Of course. Have you a photograph?’ The sergeant hesitated and glanced towards Pride’s office. ‘Please, Sergeant. I can’t see what objection there could be to me
looking at a few photographs.’

The sergeant glanced once more at the door behind which his superior laboured and then took a decision. ‘These only arrived an hour ago.’ He passed Edward a brown file tied up with
ribbon. Edward fumbled with the tie, almost tipping the sheaf of glossy photographs on to the floor. When he had them in his hand, the first image was so horrific he had to check the exclamation
that came to his lips. Even in a black-and-white photograph, the brutality of the scene shocked him. His friend was lying on his face, his head a pulp of blood and brain. The frenzy of the attack
was unmistakable. This was not a cold, planned killing but someone giving way to ungovernable rage.

‘Not a pretty sight,’ the sergeant said.

‘No indeed, Sergeant. This was a savage attack.’ He put the photograph on the bottom of the pile and looked at the second. This showed the Buddha clearly. It had rolled a few feet
from the body and lay against the fireguard. He judged it must be about eight or nine inches high and five wide – it would easily have fitted in the murderer’s hand and the heavy jade
had smashed Thayer’s skull as if it were eggshell.

‘It must have been a man,’ he said, thinking aloud.

‘Or a strong, tall woman. If you get a good swing with a heavy object, it will act like a hammer head. The force of the blow is concentrated. It looks as if the killer hit much harder than
he – or she – needed to.’

‘Yes, it was rage all right.’

‘There’s one odd thing, my lord. Do you see here?’ The sergeant stabbed a chubby finger at the photograph.

‘What is it? It looks like a fountain pen.’

‘That’s just what it is. See, this next photograph – it’s a closeup.’

Edward studied it carefully. ‘It’s one of those fountain pens clerks use, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s a Waterman. You can get them at any stationer.’

‘There’s no cap on it.’

‘No, we haven’t found that yet. It seems as though either the murderer or Mr Thayer was going to write something and it got knocked on to the floor.’

‘It doesn’t – it didn’t – belong to Mr Thayer?’

‘No, the servants are adamant that it was not his. In any case, his Parker was still in his jacket pocket. We’ve looked at cheques and letters Mr Thayer wrote recently and they were
all written with his Parker.’

‘So this is an important clue?’

The sergeant sighed. ‘Yes, but there are thousands of people with pens like this.’

‘No fingerprints, I suppose?’

‘None we have been able to make out.’

Edward continued leafing through the photographs. ‘The time of death?’

‘Well, as you can see, Mr Thayer was in his dinner jacket – the servants said he dined alone and then dismissed them before going into his study. That was about eleven or eleven
fifteen. Apparently, he often worked in his study after dinner. There’s a half-smoked cigar in the ashtray on his desk – one of the Monte Cristos from the box you can see in that
photograph. He normally went to bed about one in the morning so it looks like he was killed between, say, eleven thirty and maybe one or thereabouts. The medical evidence supports that.’

‘No glasses? I mean – he didn’t take a glass of brandy in with him?’

‘There was brandy in the study with one glass on the tray, but he hadn’t touched it so, if he expected a visitor, he made no obvious preparations we can see.’

‘Was he working on anything special when he was killed?’

‘No. It looks as if he had been sitting in his chair smoking his cigar and thinking.’

‘Or waiting.’

‘Or waiting, yes, my lord.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant. You have been most kind to satisfy my curiosity.’

‘No bother, my lord.’

‘I suppose I can’t keep this photograph . . .’

‘Oh no, sir, that would be more than my life’s worth.’

Before Edward could say anything more, the communicating door opened and Pride appeared. ‘Ah, Lord Edward, not gone yet? Willis, will you come in here.’

With an apologetic smile, Sergeant Willis left him alone. On an impulse, Edward took the photograph he had been examining, slid it into an empty envelope from a pile on the sergeant’s desk
and left hurriedly. Damn it, he thought, I’m reduced to thieving now. What would Verity say!

As it happened, he had an opportunity of asking her because, on returning to his rooms in Albany, Fenton informed him that she had visited while he had been out.

‘Good Lord, Fenton, I didn’t even know she was in England.’

‘No, sir. The young lady asked me to convey to you her disappointment at having missed you and inquired whether you might be free to take her for dinner this evening.’

Edward had no difficulty in interpreting this as: ‘I’m hopping mad not to find you in and I demand you meet me tonight.’

‘Very good, Fenton. Did she leave a telephone number?’

‘Yes, my lord. She said to tell you she is at the
New Gazette
.’

Edward looked at his hunter. It was two o’clock. ‘Get her on the blower for me, please, Fenton.’

Edward was both pleased and alarmed to hear that Verity was in town and wanted to see him. Was the little termagant going to tear him limb from limb for having abandoned her in Madrid or was she
going to forgive and forget? Hardly the latter, he decided.

‘My lord . . .’ Fenton passed the telephone receiver over to him.

‘Verity, is that you?’

‘Of course it’s me! You’ve just rung me, haven’t you!’

‘I mean, it’s very good to hear your voice again.’

‘Hmf,’ she said. ‘I don’t know whether you will say that after dinner tonight. I assume that’s why you’re ringing – to invite me to dinner.’ She
went on without letting him get a word in: ‘I suppose I must accept, even though my father doesn’t approve of you . . .’

‘Your father?’ said Edward puzzled.

‘Yes, he’s been in Madrid helping get David off the hook. He thinks you abandoned me without just cause . . .’

‘I thought you never listened to your father . . .’

‘Don’t be smart with me. Your wicket is a sticky one and don’t you forget it.’

Verity’s father was a distinguished left-wing lawyer called Donald Browne. As D. F. Browne, he was known on committees up and down the country as the respectable face of the Communist
Party. He had defended in the courts many well-known figures on the left of the political spectrum: union leaders, Party members and, notoriously, an MP accused of passing state secrets to a
foreign power. He was respected and execrated in equal measure.

‘Sorry! As it happens, I have got things to discuss with you . . .’

‘About Tilney?’

‘Sort of, but I’ll tell you tonight. Where do you want to go – the Ritz?’

‘No, idiot, why not Gennaro’s – for old times’ sake.’

‘Gennaro’s at eight then.’

Gennaro’s was the Soho restaurant where Edward had first taken Verity when they had decided to join forces to discover who had murdered General Craig. He thought he knew
Verity quite well by now but he was never sure how she would react to anything. She had no respect for him as a male, as the brother of a duke or even for being rich – and he wouldn’t
have had it any other way. If Verity stopped treating him like a precocious but rather irritating child of seven, he would know their relationship – and he could never be sure they even
had
a relationship – was dead.

As Edward rose from his seat to kiss Verity on the cheek, almost knocking over his champagne glass as he did so, he thought she looked even thinner and paler than when he had last seen her.
However, he knew better than to comment on her appearance.

‘Verity, how good to see you. Damn difficult to get under the brim of that hat though. When did you get into London? Have you forgiven me for deserting you?’

‘Oh gosh, yes. I didn’t really need you after all,’ she said, smiling at the head waiter who was pouring her champagne. ‘Thanks, Freddy. How are you?’

‘Most well, thank you, Signora Browne, an’ you are well I ’ope?’

Freddy was as English as bully beef but liked to pretend he was Italian. Once they had ordered and Freddy had made himself scarce, Verity said breezily, ‘Yes, your absence was not remarked
upon. I’m afraid I was a bit unreasonable when you jumped ship without warning.’

Edward was nettled. ‘The Spanish police – they didn’t make a fuss?’

‘No, not with me. Why should they?’

‘Rosalía?’

‘She did say she always thought you might prove unreliable, but we didn’t discuss you. Oh, by the way, how is your brother? I wasn’t very sympathetic when you told me about his
accident.’

Verity had reason to be wary of the Duke. He distrusted all journalists and her behaviour, when she had been at Mersham the year before, had confirmed his prejudices.