Bones of the Buried (27 page)

‘You’re not going to lecture me again, are you? I don’t want to be lectured.’

‘I remember Gerald saying,’ he went on regardless, ‘that it was the civilians – particularly the women – who hated the Boche most fiercely in the war. The men in
the trenches were too busy surviving to hate the enemy. They tended to feel that Jerry, a few hundred yards away in trenches as insanitary as their own, was very much in the same boat as they were.
Of course, all private soldiers hate their officers – or rather not the young captains and majors who were being killed with them but the generals sitting in chateaux far behind the lines. It
was probably unfair – old General Craig would have said so – but there it is.’

‘Yes,’ said Verity earnestly, ‘that’s the purest example of class war. It’s precisely what destroyed the Romanovs, and it accounts for the mutinies in the French
army . . .’

‘But . . .’

‘Don’t “but” me, please, Edward. The trouble with you is you’re afraid of ideas. You consider yourself a pragmatist but all that means is you can’t stand back
and see the whole picture. You don’t deny the social order is changing . . . perilously slowly in this country, I grant you. Look at women, for instance. Women found freedom to live their own
lives and earn their own bread in the munitions factories during the war and they’ll never give that up. Mrs Pankhurst, much as I revere her, could never achieve what economics
has.’

‘Of course! I welcome change . . .’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, but as I’ve had occasion to say to you before, what I do not welcome is revolution. Change, at least in Britain, has always been gradual . . .’

‘Very comforting . . .’ Verity expostulated, the champagne loosening her tongue. ‘Generations have to live and die in poverty so your feathers aren’t ruffled by something
as distasteful as naughty old revolution. I don’t think so. You honestly believe it’s possible in a world without honour, in a country like ours – morally defeated, ready and even
willing to do deals with murderers and worse – to have change without bloodshed? We have had to suffer a world war even to get your “gradual” change. The miners – when they
reached the trenches – discovered conditions to be much better than in the mines. The food was better, the chances of being killed were only a little greater . . .’

‘Yes, and all those coal owners living the life of luxury in London comfortably unaware of what they were inflicting on the people who made them wealthy . . . I agree . . . I agree: things
had to change.’

‘Shaw said and I agree,’ Verity continued, unstoppable now in her indignation, ‘that even good solid folk, the middle class, with their investments in companies owning coal or
slum property, are accessories to murder . . .’

‘Murder! That’s going it a bit, Verity.’

They looked at each other, surprised at the vehemence of their exchange. Verity wondered at how quickly a moment of happiness, in which Edward could wipe away the champagne from her lips without
her objecting, had changed to violent argument. Edward sighed. It was the temper of the times; politics were extreme. Verity was right: one had to stand up and be counted. Gentle liberalism was no
longer enough.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said gruffly. ‘I told you not to get me drunk. I remember now, I get quarrelsome when drunk. That’s before I get maudlin.’

Edward accepted the olive branch gratefully. ‘Don’t be silly, V, it was my fault. So much of what you say is right. One gets on one’s high horse when one is in the wrong.
Henceforth, discussion of politics will be banned at table. I don’t know how we got on to it, anyway. Let’s go back to Thayer’s murder.’

Verity grimaced. ‘I’ve seen things in Spain that . . . that frightened me,’ she said suddenly, still a little drunk. ‘I sometimes think . . . I sometimes think politics
are going to tear us all apart.’

They were silent for a few moments and then Edward said, ‘Well, show me what you’ve found.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Here we are.’ She pulled a sheaf of press cuttings from a brown envelope and passed them over to him. ‘It seems your friend Thayer was a naughty boy at
school.’ She watched him in silence as he scanned the papers with increasing amazement.

‘This is absolutely extraordinary. I just can’t understand how I never knew anything about it. Look at this headline: “Actress siren threat to Eton morals”.’

‘From what I can gather, the powers-that-be quickly stamped on the press. They didn’t want this sort of thing being read by the “common people”,’ she said
ironically. ‘Actually, I think ordinary people like reading about the aristocracy behaving badly. It confirms their prejudices.’

‘Yes, but I saw newspapers even when I was at school.’

‘I doubt they would have let you see these. My schools – note my use of the plural – all had one thing in common: they censored the newspapers. I remember seeing one of my
headmistresses solemnly cutting out stories she didn’t approve of and then handing us something which looked like the paper streamers we hung up at Christmas. And I don’t suppose your
father would have . . .’

‘No, you’re right,’ Edward said, continuing to read, ‘he wouldn’t. I say, none of the papers mention Stephen by name.’

‘Yes, but I happen to know it was him. Look at this one from the
New Gazette
. It’s one of the most detailed. It’s dated July 15th 1917.’

Edward read the article aloud with furrowed brow. ‘ “. . . Inspector George Yarrow told our reporter that, in the course of two Sundays’ observation, he noted well over a
hundred expensive motor cars bringing weekend revellers to dance to bands from fashionable London night-spots such as the Kit-Cat club. He says that among these were the actress Miss Dora Pale with
theatrical friends and three or four young men whom he was able to identify later as boys at nearby Eton College. The Hotel de Paris in Bray is a favourite meeting place for the ‘fast
set’. The hotel lets suites for three guineas a night and Miss Pale is thought to have been ‘a habitual visitor’.” ’

‘Look, here’s an article in the
News Chronicle
a few days later: “Eton boys ordered to leave – punished for an unauthorised night out – three ringleaders . .
. indecent and unnatural acts at a riverside hotel.” Pretty strong stuff.’

‘But we can’t be absolutely sure this was about Stephen,’ Edward said, reluctant to believe what he was reading.

‘Yes we can. I tried to find out if the policeman . . . what was he called?’

‘Yarrow.’

‘Yes, I tried to discover if Yarrow was still alive but unfortunately he died last year. However, I found out that the
New Gazette
reporter, retired of course – a man called
Mike Nadall –
is
alive. I got a telephone number from the file and bingo – there I was!’

‘Gosh, that’s brilliant!’

‘Yes, it is rather,’ said Verity modestly. ‘But that’s not all. Nadall was quite happy to talk about the scandal. He said that when he read Thayer had been murdered, he
got out his notes to refresh his memory. He was quite definite; it was Thayer who was sacked from Eton on account of the brouhaha. But what is more . . .’ Verity looked at Edward with
undisguised triumph, ‘he gave me the names of the two other boys expelled with him . . .’

‘Makepeace Hoden and Godfrey Tilney?’

‘You got it, pal. Oh yes, and I also talked to Peter Weiss who is covering the story for the paper. He says Pride is certain Thayer was murdered by someone he crossed while doing business.
The bank was teetering on the brink, apparently, and Thayer needed to pull off one of three or four deals he was doing if it was to survive.’

‘Well,’ said Edward at last, ‘we may be barking up quite the wrong tree. Pride’s no fool. We had better go and see this Mike Nadall and find out if he knows anything
which might help us. Where does he live?’

‘Seventeen Riverside Drive, Putney, and he’s expecting us for tea.’

Edward looked at Verity with frank admiration. ‘Sherlock Holmes, you’re a genius.’

‘Elementary, elementary, my dear class enemy. Now, let’s finish the champagne. I want to be in the right mood to discuss high jinks among the upper classes.’

‘I’m beginning to think Pride may be right,’ Edward said as he negotiated Hyde Park Corner. ‘I really don’t see how schoolboy escapades could
possibly end in murder years later. I probably ought to be in Germany talking to Thayer’s business partner – what’s his name? – Heinrich Hoffmann.’ He swung the
Lagonda in front of a tram, to the driver’s fury.

‘But the fact that the three boys who were expelled . . .’

‘We say “sacked”,’ Edward interjected.

‘Sacked then, as if I care about your jargon. It’s just another way in which you can make yourself special and feel superior to us lesser mortals.’

‘What is?’

‘A secret language. Instead of tuck you say “sock”, and your “halves” instead of terms, and “dames” and “beaks”. Please don’t try and
make me feel small.’

‘But you are small,’ said Edward unwisely. Verity punched him so hard he almost drove the car into a roundsman’s cart and was sworn at once again.

‘Joke, Verity, just a joke.’

‘Yes, well, remember Napoleon was small.’

‘I know, that’s so interesting. Dr Freud says . . .’

‘I don’t care what Dr Freud says. The point is the three boys sacked from Eton nineteen years ago have all died within a few months of each other. When was it Hoden died?’

‘At the beginning of January. I have to find out much more about that. But I agree, all our instincts say there is a connection and maybe Mr Nadall can spell it out for us.’

Edward eventually pulled up the Lagonda in front of a black Ford Prefect which, if it belonged to Mr Nadall, suggested that he was not without means. It was parked directly in front of number
17, a small house separated from its neighbours by shrubberies and from the road by a privet hedge. This was what estate agents described as a cottage or – Edward had seen the phrase
somewhere – a bijou residence. A wicket gate opened on to a gravel path which led up to a front door painted green and boasting a brass knocker. Before he could raise it, the door swung open
and a cheerful, red-faced man in his late sixties or early seventies appeared before them.

Ford Prefect which, if it belonged to Mr Nadall, suggested that he was not without means. It was parked directly in front of number 17, a small house separated from its neighbours by shrubberies
and from the road by a privet hedge. This was what estate agents described as a cottage or – Edward had seen the phrase somewhere – a bijou residence. A wicket gate opened on to a
gravel path which led up to a front door painted green and boasting a brass knocker. Before he could raise it, the door swung open and a cheerful, red-faced man in his late sixties or early
seventies appeared before them.

‘Lord Edward? Come in, come in. This is a great honour. And Miss Browne – I have read your articles on Spain in the
New Gazette
– most absorbing.’

There was still a hint of cockney but, over the years as a reporter, Nadall had taken on that neutral ‘London’ accent designed to put duchesses and serving girls equally at their
ease.

‘Now what may I offer you?’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘I have some very acceptable elderberry wine, or bottled beer.’

‘Oh, no thank you. A cup of tea – if that’s possible . . .?’

‘Of course, of course. And you, dear lady?’

‘Tea please, Mr Nadall. Driving in an open car dries out the vocal cords.’

Verity wasn’t quite sure why she had said this except that there was something so arch about his way of speaking that it invited imitation.

‘What a beautiful motor car, Lord Edward . . .’ Nadall began, and Verity blushed as she saw that she might legitimately be accused of having drawn attention to the Lagonda in order
to ‘show off’.

‘It is splendid, isn’t it, Mr Nadall,’ Edward said.

‘Mike, please; everyone calls me Mike.’

‘Mike, then, but your Ford – it is yours?’

‘Oh yes. I wouldn’t be without it for the world. The wife and I take a spin in it most Sundays – she has a sister in Clapham – or else we go out to Hampton Court . .
.’

Edward called the meeting to order. They were standing in the tiny front room, as clean as if it had never been used, which he thought was probably the case. ‘It is so kind of you to be so
helpful about Mr Thayer. May we ask you a few questions about that business at Eton?’

‘Oh, but I’m delighted to help, my lord. The fact of the matter is that now I’m retired I get a little bored and I welcome the chance of reliving old days. I’ve kept all
my notebooks, you know.’

‘Very wise. May we sit down?’

‘Of course! I don’t know what I’m thinking of. Make yourself comfortable. Ethel,’ he shouted, ‘tea for our guests.’

A large woman, as red in the face as her husband, put her head round the door. ‘The wife,’ Nadall said apologetically.

Edward rose politely but Ethel was too shy to acknowledge his presence and Nadall seemed unwilling to introduce her into the conversation. ‘It’s the maid’s afternoon
off,’ he said as he packed her off to the kitchen to make the tea.

Edward rather doubted that there ever was a maid.

‘You see, the thing is, Mr Nadall – Mike – we have a hunch there might be a connection between Mr Thayer’s murder and that affair at Eton. I know it must seem unlikely
but . . .’

‘Not at all. It crossed my mind it might have something to do with the boy.’

‘You mean Stephen Thayer?’

‘No, the boy who was killed.’

‘The boy who was killed? I’m sorry, Mike, but I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘Well, fancy that,’ Nadall said, and a sly look came into his eyes. ‘May I ask, my lord, why you want to know about all this? The police . . .’

‘Yes, it must seem a bit odd,’ Verity said. ‘The fact is, we don’t think the police quite know where to look and so we thought we’d give them a bit of help,’
she ended lamely.

Edward decided he had better tell the truth. ‘Stephen Thayer was a friend of mine at Eton; older than me by about three years so I was never told the reasons behind his being
expelled.’