Bones of the Buried (36 page)

By midnight, Verity felt tired and drained of energy so she said her goodnights and walked back to the flat alone. Outside in the soft Spanish night, not yet heavy with the heat of full summer,
she felt better. Instead of going straight home, she let her feet take her towards the Puerta del Sol which had once been at the edge of the city but was now its hub and from which most of the main
thoroughfares radiated. Restaurants were still open and the occasipnal tram rattled by but there were not many pedestrians – a few single men looking for female company and two or three pairs
of lovers who had found privacy among the trees which lined the square. Deep in thought, Verity was surprised to be addressed. She looked up to see the anxious face of a working man in his fifties.
He was speaking to her but so fast that she could not understand him. At first, the man was annoyed but, when Verity was able to pull herself together sufficiently to explain that she was a
foreigner, he looked shocked, lifted his hat and passed on hurriedly.

It took Verity a minute or two to realise she had been mistaken for a prostitute. What other single woman would be wandering alone in Madrid at this time of night? She blushed at her own
foolishness and turned towards home. She thought she might catch a tram but her apartment wasn’t far and she decided it was quicker to walk. She prided herself on how well she knew the city
so it was absurd to lose her way, but she did. One moment she was in familiar streets illuminated by the occasional street lamp or bright window and the next she was walking in darkness. After
twenty or possibly thirty minutes – she could not tell – she came not to the Gran Vía as she had planned but to the Buen Retiro, two hundred acres of unkempt woodland. She kicked
herself for being so stupid and losing her sense of direction. She knew this area could be dangerous at night and a dozen stories of murders and robberies crowded into her mind as she made a great
effort not to panic.

She made herself stand still and take stock of exactly where she was. At last, she realised she was quite near the Prado and felt easier in her mind. However, it was still a full hour of fast
walking before she found herself at her apartment. She was feeling exhausted and angry with herself but mightily relieved to be safely home. She wondered if Hester was back from Chicote’s
but, as she could see no light, she had either not returned or had gone straight to bed. She tried to unlock the door quietly and did not turn on the light. She did not feel like explaining to
Hester how foolish she had been. She was just about to open her bedroom door when she caught a glimpse of a figure with a raised arm beside her – she could not tell whether it was a man or a
woman. She opened her mouth to cry out and lifted her own arm to protect herself but, before she could utter a sound, she felt her arm break as she fended off a heavy blow from a stick or club.
Then she did let out a cry of pain but a second blow, this time undeflected, made her feel her skull was exploding as she subsided through red into blackness.

‘Isn’t it all rather primitive?’ Edward whispered, as he sat down beside the simple iron bedstead.

‘No, they’ve looked after me so well. Apart from setting my poor broken arm, they just needed to let me rest.’

‘You must have a thick skull.’

‘Thanks,’ Verity said, and tried to smile. She was still feeling weak and woozy.

‘No, I mean, I should think it’s a great asset for a foreign correspondent. I expect they’re always dodging bullets and falling downstairs – that sort of thing,
what?’

‘Ass,’ said Verity, affectionately. ‘It was good of you to come. My father says he’s coming sometime but he’s frightfully busy at the moment.’

‘Of course I came,’ said Edward, shocked, ‘as soon as I got Joe Weaver’s message.’

‘Have you seen Hester?’

‘Yes, she said she found you just a few moments after it happened.’

‘I don’t remember anything of course . . . just the raised arm . . .’ She shuddered. ‘Hetty thinks my attacker may even have heard her coming and that was why he
didn’t finish me off.’

‘But he took the ring.’

‘Yes, ouch! Sorry, I still get shooting pains in my head but the doctor seems to think they’ll go soon.’

‘Forgive me. I shouldn’t be asking questions. I don’t want to tire you.’

‘No, it’s lovely to see you.’ She saw Edward look disbelieving. ‘I mean it.’ She smiled and slid a hand from under the blanket. He took it and squeezed it. ‘You make me feel safe.’

Edward tried to conceal his pleasure. ‘You saw absolutely nothing which might identify your . . . your assailant?’

‘No, I’m afraid not, except he looked tall, but even that might have been an illusion given that I was cowering below him.’

‘Not cowering. I think you were very brave. You realise this alters everything?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘In the first place, no one can attempt to murder someone I love and get away with it.’

‘You dope,’ said Verity, feeling tearful and not wanting to admit she had heard the word ‘love’. ‘And in the second place?’

‘It wasn’t, obviously, a robbery because your bag wasn’t stolen – just the ring.’

‘So whoever left the ring in the cave wanted it back?’

‘Yes, but why? A simple, plain ring like the one you described could never be traced back to the owner. It couldn’t be evidence of anything.’

‘But someone recognised it and wanted it back badly enough to . . .’

‘Yes, it was probably rather foolish of you to wave it round the table at Chicote’s. Did you say where you’d found it?’

‘No one asked. No one mentioned it but I had told everyone where I was going.’ She closed her eyes. ‘You think my attacker was at Chicote’s?’ Verity shuddered and
looked even paler.

‘I’m sorry, Verity,’ Edward said, squeezing her hand again. ‘I know it’s horrible to think one of your friends could have done this but I can’t see how it
could be anyone else.’

‘But why should they? As you say, it’s not evidence of anything,’ she said weakly.

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Edward said, sitting back on the upright chair, which was uncomfortable enough to discourage long visits. ‘I think – and of course
it’s just a hunch – someone was infuriated to see that ring on your finger. It was a special ring they had left as some sort of offering.’

‘Offering?’ Verity murmured.

‘Yes, as one might leave flowers at a graveside.’

‘Oh dear!’ Great tears began to roll down her cheeks and Edward was immediately furious with himself. He had upset her when she should be resting peacefully. He looked up and saw a
nurse. He tried to find the Spanish for explaining he needed help, but could not. The nurse, a sweet-faced woman in a uniform as clean as any at Guy’s or the Middlesex, gently pushed him to
one side to stroke Verity’s forehead.

‘She must rest now,’ she said in English. ‘Come back tomorrow. She needs to sleep.’

Edward wanted to kiss Verity, felt he couldn’t with the nurse present but then did so on the forehead. ‘You’re the dope,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll come back
tomorrow. I’ve got one or two people to see. I think I’m beginning to get an idea of . . .’

He stopped speaking. Verity had closed her eyes and seemed to be sleeping. It made him angry to see her like this, very angry. His angular face seemed to sharpen – his eyes narrowed and
hooded, his lips thinned and his beak of a nose twitched as if it scented blood. His features took on a startling resemblance to the falcon in the Mersham coat of arms.

For fifteen days, Edward took turns with Hester to sit by Verity’s bed, often holding her hand. She liked to have her head stroked too. She said it soothed her. Belasco came once while
Edward was there; he said hospitals gave him the creeps and it was proof of what he felt for her that he had made himself come at all. Tom Sutton appeared but looked so harassed that Verity found
herself comforting him. He had dark circles under his eyes and said the political situation was getting ever more dangerous. The armed forces were reported to be planning violent protests in the
streets of Barcelona and Madrid but the government seemed incapable of decisive action.

The hospital did its best to look after the foreign girl: she had a room to herself so she could rest undisturbed by the continual noise of the long tiled wards which echoed with footsteps, talk
and cries of pain. The doctor, young and ridiculously overworked, was brisk but efficient. The nurses were experienced and sympathetic and two of them spoke some English, but there were few
medicines – even aspirin was in short supply and the food was uneatable. In any case, Verity insisted that she did not take food away from poor sick people with no friends to minister to
them. Whenever a visitor brought her fruit or chocolates, she asked the nurses to distribute them in the wards as soon as they had left. She had very little appetite and both Hester and Edward were
worried that she was losing too much weight.

Maurice came once with his two Spanish boys, who now seemed content to share his favours. He brought books but Verity wasn’t up to reading. Her eyes were still hurting and she had
difficulty focusing. Although the pain in her head was easing, she felt deathly tired. She slept a lot, which the doctor said was the only medicine worth taking, but when she was awake she liked
being read to and Hester brought along Ben’s story based on Hoden’s death in Kenya. Edward was delighted to see that dissecting the story between them seemed to animate her and help
slough off her lethargy. Tom Sutton had offered to have her shipped back to London but she would not hear of it.

‘And miss all the excitement!’ she exclaimed indignantly. ‘I’m feeling better every day. The doctor says I can go home the day after tomorrow so long as I promise to stay
in bed and rest.’

A pleasant police captain, who spoke very good English, came to talk to her about what she remembered of the attack but she could tell him no more than what she had told Edward: that a tall dark
figure had loomed over her just as she was opening her bedroom door.

The policeman confirmed what Edward had already established for himself – that there was no sign of a forced entry to the apartment but that meant little. The simple lock to the front door
could have been picked by a child of ten. Hester and Verity had nothing worth stealing except for Hester’s camera and a little money, so they had never worried much about security. If you
weren’t a political activist, Madrid was one of the safest cities in Europe. Rape was almost unheard of and murder was rare and usually the result of a husband finding his wife in bed with a
lover. It was clear to Edward that the Spanish police, though curious as to why Verity had been attacked, had no idea how to go about investigating it.

By the middle of May Edward confessed to Verity that he was now reasonably sure who the murderer was. He thought she had been attacked because the murderer was frightened she knew, or almost
knew, his or her identity and was enraged to see her wearing the ring which had some special significance.

‘The list you drew up – where everyone was at the time of the three deaths – was useful. I’m not quite sure about motive yet but I am pretty sure the answer lies back in
England, at Eton in fact.’

‘At Eton?’ Verity asked in surprise. ‘But . . . but none of our suspects went to Eton.’

‘No,’ Edward agreed cheerfully, ‘but nevertheless that’s where all this terrible violence has its source. So you see, V, I need to go back.’ He saw her face fall.
‘Not for long – probably just a couple of weeks – but I want to get this whole horrible business cleared up.’

‘But . . . who do you . . .’

‘I’m almost certain you have nothing to fear,’ he carried on, disregarding her half-asked question. ‘The attack on you has put you out of action, so the murderer
won’t feel he has anything to fear from you, but you must be very careful. As you know, I’ve had the locks on your doors changed and strengthened but you must discourage visitors, and
what’s more, you must pretend to be iller than you really are.’

‘That won’t be difficult!’

‘It would be too suspicious to lock you away in isolation but you need to keep the lowest of low profiles for as long as I’m away. Sorry to be so damn mysterious but . . .’

‘But what about you, Edward?’ Verity said, grasping his hand. ‘Are you safe?’

‘I can look after myself,’ he said with more confidence than he actually felt. ‘You see, I know who to look out for.’

‘But you won’t tell me?’

‘Not for the moment. I think it’s safer you don’t know. That way, you can’t give anything away by look or word which might rouse our man – or woman – to do
something silly.’

‘You think it could be a woman?’

‘I have to ask just a few more questions before I answer that.’

‘Such as?’

‘I need to ask Hester about being a Jew in Denver for one thing.’

‘Hester! But . . .’

‘Don’t worry, V. You know I wouldn’t leave you alone with someone I suspected of being a murderer.’

‘No . . . I know Hester would never want to hurt me but, please Edward, hurry back.’

Edward asked his questions of Maurice, Tom Sutton and Hester who told him what he wanted to know with a laugh and a shrug of her shoulders. She drove him to the airport in the morning. Harry
Bragg was waiting for him or rather he was munching his way through a substantial cooked breakfast. He had made quite a few friends at the airport owing to the frequency of his visits, most
particularly Ferdinando Diego – Hester’s friend Ferdy – who was in charge of passport control and customs. It was a powerful position and he owed it to having a cousin in the
government. Ferdy ought to have become rich on bribes and no doubt his cousin had counted on it but, in fact, he was too honourable – or, as he said, too lazy, to take advantage of the
opportunities he had for ‘doing favours’.

Shortly after take-off, Harry started complaining of stomach cramps. ‘Sorry, old man,’ he shouted over the engine noise. ‘Ferdy insisted on my having the mushrooms even though
I said they tasted funny. They must have been poisonous or something. I’m a damn fool. I say, I think I’m going to have to find a field to land in.’