Bones of the Buried (30 page)

‘I don’t think I can . . .’

‘Bye then,’ Verity said breezily.

‘Bye. Oh gosh, I’m really sorry about this evening because actually there is something I have been meaning to say . . . Verity, are you there?’

But she had hung up and the line was dead.

‘Fenton! Fenton! Damn it, man, where’s that whisky?’

‘At your elbow, my lord.’

‘Oh, I see. My bath . . .’

‘I have drawn it, my lord, and I have laid out your evening clothes on the bed.’

Even after his whisky and bath, Edward was still in a bad temper.

‘This shirt has been starched to blazes, Fenton.’

‘My lord? I will speak to the laundry tomorrow.’

‘Yes do, and where’s my tie . . . oh, there it is. Blast it, why can’t . . . Yes, thank you, Fenton. I don’t know what the matter is. I’m all fingers and
thumbs.’

Fenton dextrously completed tying his master’s tie and sighed inwardly. He wanted this evening to be a success. He knew exactly what was biting his employer: it was that girl Verity
Browne. What right had she to go and upset his lordship? He had never liked her, or rather he had a grudging respect for her courage and grit, but he thought no well-bred young lady should be
rampaging around Europe pretending to be a journalist. In Fenton’s view, girls ought to know their place. They ought to be mothers and wives, not whatever it was Verity Browne thought she
was. He had been very glad when that charming young lady who had nursed his Grace had seemed to . . . like his lordship. Now
there
was someone who knew how to behave to servants. She was
polite, gracious even, but not condescending. One knew where one was with Miss Bury and you never knew where you were with Miss Browne. It was the difference between tranquillity and turbulence. He
sighed again – more deeply this time.

Elizabeth had an aunt with a small flat in Pimlico and it was from there that Edward picked her up in a cab. He had booked a table at Claridge’s but, when the taxi stopped at the large
shabby house now divided into flats, he wondered if he had made a mistake. Perhaps she had not got the clothes for the evening he had planned and would be embarrassed or even humiliated. He guessed
she rarely came to London. In fact, he thought he remembered her telling him so when, on an impulse, he had invited her to dine with him and perhaps go on to a night-club.

He rang the bell and, as he waited, nervously reached into his breast pocket for his cigarette case. Before he had time to extract a cigarette, the door opened and he gazed with admiration
verging on astonishment at the apparition before him. Elizabeth was dressed in a white silk-organdie sleeveless dress revealing long, graceful milky-white arms, lightly freckled. Over her shoulders
she wore a black fur cape and on her head, quite failing to cover her flaming red hair, a pillbox hat covered with tiny black organdie flowers. In her hand she was grasping a little net evening
bag.

‘Lord Edward,’ she said. ‘Do I look too awful?’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, was I staring? How incredibly rude of me. I was just thinking how . . . how splendid you looked.’

Elizabeth lifted her head and laughed aloud, showing her white teeth and letting a few auburn strands escape from under her hat. ‘I think that must be a compliment.’

‘Please,’ Edward said, gathering his wits, ‘it’s cold.’ He held open the taxi door and took her arm, quite unnecessarily, as she got in.

Geiger’s Hungarian Orchestra was playing in the foyer as they entered the hotel and guests were sipping cocktails before going in to dinner. He saw several women look at Elizabeth
speculatively and he was irritated to think that they would be the subject of gossip at luncheon the following day in many fashionable London houses. Edward left his hat and Elizabeth her cape with
the cloakroom attendant, a pretty young thing who smiled at Edward. For a second, he thought she might be going to wink. In a bad mood, he took Elizabeth by the arm and guided her towards the
restaurant.

‘Shall we go straight to our table?’ he said, and then feared that this might look as though he did not wish to be seen with her. Before she had time to answer, he said, ‘No,
come to think of it, I don’t know about you but I could do with a cocktail.’

‘Whatever you wish, Lord Edward.’

‘You’re not going to call me “Lord Edward” all evening, are you?’ Edward felt he was being rather boorish and told himself to relax. Here he was with a beautiful
woman about to eat in one of the best hotels in the world before going on to dance with that same beautiful girl in a night-club. To be cross about this was frankly ridiculous. They ordered
Manhattans and Charles Malandra, the maître d’hôtel, brought them menus.

‘Elizabeth, I’ve . . . I’ve so much looked forward to . . . to seeing you. You have been so kind to Gerald.’

‘It’s only my job, but I have become so fond of him and of . . . The Duchess asked me to call her Constance.’

‘Connie, yes, she’s wonderful. Much too good for Gerald, I sometimes think.’

‘Oh no, he’s a duck.’

‘A duck! I don’t think I’ve ever thought of him as that.’

‘You know, when he came out of his coma but still had difficulty speaking, he used to want me to sit beside him and hold his hand.’

‘He always did have an eye for a beautiful woman,’ said Edward without thinking, and once again felt he had been guilty of boorishness. ‘No, but seriously, you have worked
miracles.’

‘Is that the only reason you asked me out?’ she said, gazing at him with wide eyes. ‘I mean, it’s going to be jolly dull for you if all we can talk about is your
brother’s health.’

‘Dull – it’s not going to be dull for me, I promise you, and I won’t mention Gerald or Connie or anything else about my family until you tell me it’s safe to do
so.’

Elizabeth chuckled. ‘That’s good then. Now tell me, what should I eat? I’ve only once been to Claridge’s before and that turned out to have been a mistake.’

‘Whose mistake?’

‘Mine, and probably his, but it’s much too early to tell you things like that about myself.’

Monsieur Malandra directed them towards caviar. The oysters he did not recommend. He suggested the
Consommé Yvette
, which he said was turtle, and
Filet de sole
Cambacérès, Becasse au fumet
with
salade Coeurs de Laitues
. ‘Ze sole is finished with lobster and mushroom, madame, and the woodcock is done with brandy and served on
toast adorned with its own liver.’

‘My goodness,’ said Elizabeth when the head waiter had gone, ‘I think I know how the woodcock must be feeling.’

‘Adorned with its own liver? Surely not.’

‘No, but I do feel a little like mutton dressed as lamb. I have to confess, when you asked me to go out with you I almost refused, not having anything suitable to wear, but the Duchess . .
. Constance . . . persuaded me.’

‘But you look beautiful,’ Edward said sincerely.

‘Well, if I do, it’s thanks to her. She took me shopping and she lent me this dress. She said she never went out any more and it was criminal letting her evening clothes go to rack
and ruin and so . . . here I am.’

‘Well, God bless Connie! But I thought we said we would not mention my family.’

‘Yes, that’s right, I had forgotten. Tell me about your investigation. You said you were going to see if you could discover anything about why your friend was murdered.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t call it an investigation. I thought I had discovered something but Chief Inspector Pride didn’t want to know.’

‘Tell me,’ she ordered.

They were still discussing what he had learnt when they were tucking into the woodcock. ‘Verity thinks . . .’ Edward was saying.

‘Verity Browne. Constance has told me about her. She sounds . . . intrepid. I wish I had the guts to go and be a foreign correspondent.’

‘Intrepid, yes, that about describes Verity,’ and he went on to expatiate at some length on Verity’s virtues, ending by saying, ‘Actually, I was supposed to be having
dinner with her tonight . . .’

‘I’m so sorry,’ broke in Elizabeth coldly. ‘Here am I taking up your time when you wanted to be with Verity Browne. You should have told me.’

‘No, no . . . I didn’t mean that at all. I . . . wanted to see you, Elizabeth. There’s nothing between me and Verity, I promise you. I’ve told you, she has a . . . a
friend in Madrid.’

‘The communist or the American novelist?’ inquired Elizabeth, unappeased.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, feeling that he was in some way betraying Verity and insulting Elizabeth at the same time. ‘Please, Elizabeth, I must have sounded like the
most awful cad but really, I do want to be with you. Nothing to do with Gerald or anything. I thought we seemed to get along so well at Mersham, I wanted to know you better. Please forgive me if I
have been saying idiotic things. It’s just that it’s so easy to talk to you that I didn’t think.’

At that moment, a friend of Edward’s who was dining with his wife came up to their table. ‘Edward, how are you, my dear boy. I haven’t . . .’

The introductions were made and it was a full five minutes before they were left alone again. They were silent for a moment or two. Then Edward said, ‘Forgiven?’ and put out his hand
across the table.

‘Forgiven,’ Elizabeth said, putting her hand in his before quickly withdrawing it. ‘Not that there was anything to forgive.’

‘Shall we go on somewhere?’

‘I’d like that,’ she said, smiling at him.

They ended up at the Four Hundred in Leicester Square. In the dim religious light, the sound deadened by walls and ceiling swathed in red and beige silk, they danced scarcely exchanging a word.
She wore a scent Edward did not recognise but, as he held her closer and she inclined her head against his shoulder, he breathed it in and forgot about the murder, about Mersham and about Verity
Browne.

It was past three in the morning before they got into a cab and directed the driver to take them to Pimlico. ‘Your aunt won’t be waiting up for you?’ he inquired anxiously.

‘No, she gave me a key.’

Edward tried to turn her head towards him so he could kiss her, but she twisted away.

‘Edward, that was a wonderful evening but, before we say goodnight, there is something I have to say to you which perhaps I ought to have told you before – in fact, I
know
I
ought to have told you before.’

‘What is it, Elizabeth?’ he said, taking her hand in his. ‘You can tell me anything.’

‘No, I’m serious. Let go of my hand. I don’t think you will want to touch me after I’ve told you.’

‘For goodness’ sake, what are you talking about?’ Edward said, now irritated and suddenly feeling slightly drunk and very tired. Perhaps he was too old for these late nights.
It crossed his mind that he might not sleep well despite being so weary.

‘I was married to Makepeace Hoden.’

Edward’s fuddled brain took some time to register this. ‘But Hoden’s dead.’

‘I know he’s dead but I was married to him . . . and then I . . . I left him.’

‘But you’re not called Hoden. Your name’s Bury – Elizabeth Bury.’

‘Bury’s my mother’s maiden name and, when the marriage failed, I decided to use it. I didn’t want anyone to know I had been married.’

‘Hoden? But what made you leave him?’

‘I didn’t actually leave him. I found out something . . . discreditable about him. I can’t tell you what. It made it impossible to live with him, that’s all.’

‘So you were still married to him when he was killed?’

‘Yes, technically.’

‘But you didn’t go out to Africa with him?’

‘Yes, I did. I was there when he was killed.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘No, but I was thinking about it.’

‘Do you know who did?’

‘It was probably one of his native bearers,’ she said, as if it was a matter of no importance. ‘They hated him. Or it might have been Captain Gates. He was the white hunter. It
wasn’t any of the other people on the safari, I’m almost sure.’

‘And . . .?’

‘What do you mean . . . “and”?’

‘And you knew Stephen Thayer?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘You admit it, then?’

‘Am I in the dock?’

‘Elizabeth! It was you who suddenly sprang this on me . . . that you were married to Hoden. I don’t want to have this conversation. It’s three – no four – in the
morning and my head is buzzing like a wasps’ nest. Can we talk about this tomorrow?’

‘You’re going to Frankfurt tomorrow.’

‘Yes, of course, so I am. Well then, when I get back.’

‘Yes, when you get back.’

The taxi drew up in front of the house in Pimlico. Elizabeth opened the door and made to get out, but Edward stopped her.

‘Look, I don’t understand any of this but then I know I’m stupid. But I want you to know that anything you tell me is in complete confidence and, more important than that,
nothing you tell me will change the way I feel about you.’

‘How do you feel about me?’ The light from a street lamp illuminated her face, which was as pale as the moon.

‘I . . . I think I love you,’ he blurted out, and then wished he had not said it.

She smiled, leant toward him and kissed him on the lips. He closed his eyes and the scent of her made him dizzy. ‘Don’t get out,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want to
wake the neighbours. I’ll see you at Mersham when you get back from Frankfurt. And Edward . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I think I love you too, but nothing said after midnight in the back of a taxi means anything, so don’t worry about it in the morning.’

‘But I mean it,’ said Edward, not knowing if he meant it at all.

‘And so do I, Edward dear, but there’s still a lot you have to learn about me. But thank you for . . . a memorable night out.’

She got out quickly and lightly, closing the door of the taxi behind her. Edward fumbled with the catch but his fingers seemed unwilling to obey him. She had said something to the driver as she
got out and, no sooner had she shut the door, than the taxi shot off tossing him on to the floor. With some difficulty, he got himself back on the seat and turned to look out of the small
rectangular window at the back. For a moment he could see a pale form standing in a doorway and then the taxi turned the corner.