Bones of the Buried (38 page)

He sighed and knocked once more on the door, disturbing a flake of paint. He stood there for a minute hoping that Elizabeth might be away from home. It was not quiet there on the doorstep. The
songs of many birds, most of which he could not hope to identify, assailed his ears but he did recognise the ‘pink-pink’ of the chaffinch and the almost devilish scream of the swift.
But louder than birdsong, he heard the beat of his own heart and the sound of his own breath. He could not forget that he had told Elizabeth he loved her and she had answered . . . how? By telling
him that she had once been married to Makepeace Hoden. Then, there had been no time for questions to be asked or answered. Now there was time but, on Edward’s part, very little
inclination.

‘I’m so sorry, were you looking for me? Oh Edward, it’s you. I heard you were back and I wondered if you would come and see me.’

He started at the sound of the cool, clear voice behind him. She had not been inside the cottage but out walking. While he had been away in Madrid he had almost forgotten why he had thought he
was in love with her but now it all came back. She had the serenity of an old-fashioned English rose – a cool, clean beauty which relied on a clear eye, a faultless complexion and a grace of
movement which had captivated him before and which did so again now. She was wearing a straw hat with a white rose attached to the brim, a long white dress, flat-heeled ‘sensible’ shoes
and carried a trug on one arm.

‘Elizabeth! I didn’t think you were in and I was just about to depart in sorrow . . . Here, let me take that from you,’ he said, reaching for the trug. ‘It looks heavy.
You’ve been stocking up, I see.’

‘Yes, I’ve been over to Mersham.’

‘To the castle?’

‘No, to the village. I needed a few things from the shop. And you were just passing, I suppose?’ she inquired with a smile.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I came over to talk if you have the time. We never got round to finishing that conversation we were having about . . . about your husband.’

‘About Makepeace?’ she said vaguely. ‘Oh,’ she said, putting a hand on his arm and looking at him earnestly, ‘I meant to ask: how is Verity? Is she better? I do
hope so. Did you find out who attacked her?’

She seemed disinclined to pursue the subject of her marriage.

‘I’ve got a good idea who it was.’

‘The same person who killed Stephen Thayer?’

‘Perhaps, but I rather think not. That’s why I’m here, to make sure.’

‘I don’t understand. What can I tell you? I would like to help if I could but I don’t see how I can.’

‘But I think you can, Elizabeth. You can start by telling me what you meant about Makepeace.’

‘Yes, of course, but I don’t see what it’s got to do with . . . but don’t let’s stand here. Come through to the garden and I’ll get you a drink. I’m
afraid it has to be either water or lime juice.’

‘Lime juice, please.’

Instead of opening the front door Elizabeth led him round the outside of the cottage to a small patch of grass upon which two ancient deck-chairs rested wearily. Gingerly, he sat himself down,
half-expecting the canvas to tear under his weight. Elizabeth opened the back door, which was unlocked, and he heard her filling a jug. When she returned and had poured two glasses, she sat down
beside him. ‘This is such a peaceful place, isn’t it?’

‘And so beautiful,’ he answered her, looking out over the flower beds to the fields and a streak of water in the distance which was the River Mersham. ‘You know,’ he said
seriously, ‘whenever I think of England, I think not of London, nor even of Mersham Castle, but of this. I have a favourite walk on the hills behind us and, looking down from there, this is
what I see. I believe this is what my elder brother Frank went to fight for in France.’ He sipped his juice, which was sour but refreshing.

‘And shall we have to fight for it again?’ Elizabeth asked gently.

‘I pray not but I fear . . . I fear we may have to.’

She looked at him wide-eyed. ‘But not yet,’ she said falteringly.

‘No, not yet. Perhaps never. You mustn’t let me frighten you. I suppose I’m just a little depressed.’

‘Because of what happened to Verity?’

‘Yes, and I feel surrounded by evil somehow. Oh God! There I go again. I’m being absurdly melodramatic’

‘I suppose, as a nurse, I ought to be used to pain and suffering but I’m not.’

‘Is that why you haven’t gone back to the hospital?’

‘I don’t know. I ought to have gone back but somehow I didn’t think I could face it . . . not just yet.’

‘I know so little about you, Elizabeth. Your father was a clergyman?’

‘Yes, but he died when I was very young and my mother married again.’

‘A wicked stepfather?’

‘Oh no! Certainly not. I loved him and he . . . loved me. But he too died.’

‘I’m so sorry. You don’t seem to have had much luck.’

‘I’ve nothing to complain about. Many people have had much worse a time.’

‘You mean because of the war?’

‘In the war . . . yes,’ she said looking into the distance. Then, visibly taking a grip on herself she added, ‘You said you thought . . . I could tell you something which would
help you . . . My husband’s death – might that be connected with Stephen Thayer’s?’

‘Yes, it might, and also Godfrey Tilney’s in Spain.’

‘But how could anyone have possibly been involved in all three deaths?’

‘That’s what I want you to help me find out. Maybe I’m wrong but I think the deaths are linked.’

He glanced at Elizabeth. She looked ‘the picture of innocence’, as his nanny used to say. ‘You didn’t come here by accident, did you Elizabeth?’

‘To Mersham?’ she prevaricated, but there was a quiver in her voice.

‘To Mersham, to look after my brother. You see, I’m not easily convinced by coincidences. When you look at a coincidence carefully, it usually begins to resemble something
else.’

She hesitated. ‘I knew you would say that, Edward, and I was determined to lie to you but . . . I can’t.’

She turned away her head and took a sip of lime juice as if to steady herself.

‘I wish you would tell me the truth. So many horrid thoughts cross my mind which I would like to banish.’

‘I did come to work here at the hospital on purpose so I might get to meet you, but nursing your brother was . . . accidental.’

‘You mean it was a happy coincidence he had his fall?’ Edward inquired sarcastically.

‘No, of course not. I did everything I could to help him get better. I’m a nurse . . .’

‘So why did you want to meet me?’

‘It was something my husband told me, the day before he was killed.’

‘So you are sure he was killed? It wasn’t an accident or . . . suicide.’

‘No, I’m sure of it. He had been very nervous for about a week but I hadn’t taken much notice of it. He was very secretive. I thought . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I thought he might be being blackmailed.’

‘Blackmailed! What about?’

‘Oh God, do you really want to hear about it? It’s . . . it’s so awful . . . I can hardly bear to think about it. It was just so . . . such a relief when he . . . when he
wasn’t there any more. A weight was lifted off me – off my heart. That’s a wicked thing to say, I know.’

Edward saw that she was crying. He put down his glass and took her hand. If she were acting, then she was a consummate actress. ‘Tell me,’ he said firmly.

‘It’s so horrible,’ she repeated in a low voice. ‘I believe it was Eton.’

‘Eton?’

‘Yes, it made him what he was – and his parents, of course. I think they call it a pederast. I looked it up in the dictionary.’

Edward blanched. Whatever he had imagined, he had never thought of this. It was . . . disgusting. ‘He liked boys?’

‘Yes.’ She still had hold of his hand but would not look at him.

‘You were married – how long?’

‘Long enough . . . two years.’

‘And did he . . .? You didn’t have any children.’

‘That wasn’t the reason,’ she said breathlessly. ‘He made love to me. I thought it was all normal . . . but he was away a lot. Then things happened . . . I found some
photographs . . . of some Venetian boys – naked – taken by a German a long time ago, fifty years ago, Makepeace said. He told me they were art, and I tried to believe him.’

‘How do you know they were Venetian boys?’ asked Edward fatuously.

‘They were gondoliers – they were photographed against famous views of Venice,’ she answered, without seeming to mind.

‘What else?’

‘Oh, I don’t know . . . little things. After a bit, it was as if he didn’t care.’

‘Didn’t care?’

‘He didn’t really mind if I knew. I found . . . I found other photographs . . . horrible things. Then he started telling me things.’

‘Telling you things?’

‘About what he did when he was away . . . abroad. I told him I didn’t want to know . . . that he disgusted me. That was when he began to hit me.’

‘He hit you? Once?’

‘Often . . . mainly when he was drunk but, worst of all, when he wasn’t. That was when he seemed evil. It was as if he liked making me suffer. He said he should have been like
Tolstoy and given me his diaries to read before we got married. I said I didn’t know what he meant so he explained. Apparently, Tolstoy had disgusting habits . . . about sex, I mean, and he
made his fiancée read his diary so she would forgive him and they could begin their married life with a clean slate. But she was disgusted by him . . .’

‘But you went to Africa with him . . . on safari?’

‘Yes, it was supposed to be a fresh start. I had threatened to divorce him but he begged me not to. He said he would commit suicide if I did.’

‘I don’t understand. Do you think he still loved you?’

‘In a way I think he did, but it wasn’t that. It was his reputation. The scandal . . . he couldn’t have faced people.’

Edward thought for a moment. That certainly rang true. If what Elizabeth hinted at had become public knowledge, no one respectable would have had anything to do with him. He might even have gone
to prison.

‘Also, as I told you, I think he was being blackmailed and I was . . .’

‘Cover?’

‘Protection. I think he thought I could protect him.’

‘And you think he
was
being blackmailed?’

‘Yes. Of course, I didn’t have much idea about money but he always seemed to have plenty.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Of course, I’d forgotten for a moment that you were at Eton together . . . His father was a wastrel. He hated his father. He said he beat him and he beat his mother. Do you think
violence is hereditary?’

‘Perhaps. If as a child you learn that bullying weaker members of the family is “normal”, it must affect you. But you were saying – about the money.’

‘Oh yes, the money. When we were first married we seemed to be very rich and, after his parents died, he inherited a lot from them. I don’t know how much. He would never discuss
money with me. He said it wasn’t women’s business.’

‘But later there seemed to be less money?’ Edward prompted.

‘We always had money, I don’t think it was that which worried him. As I say, it was his reputation. He didn’t want to be “drummed out of his club”.’ Elizabeth
smiled wryly. ‘His behaviour changed. He got nervy and . . . and he took it out on me.’

‘I see. But you have no idea who was blackmailing him?’

‘No, but the day before he was killed he said if anything happened to him I was to try and find you.’

‘Me? Why should he suddenly think of me, I wonder?’

‘Makepeace said a friend – he didn’t tell me his name – had said you had helped him and had been good at getting to the bottom of . . . of problems – something like
that. I can’t remember his exact words. Didn’t you investigate a murder at the castle last year?’

‘Yes . . . I wonder who he meant.’

‘He said the friend had killed himself in the end but that you had tried to help him.’

Edward was silent. He knew now who Hoden’s friend had been. It was a young Member of Parliament who had been at that fateful dinner at Mersham Castle when old General Craig had been
poisoned. He had been destined for a cabinet post but money troubles and women had put paid to it all. He sighed.

‘Yes, I do know who he was talking about. So your husband . . . what did he say? Try and remember his words as closely as you can.’

‘He said that if anything happened, there was money enough for revenge. He didn’t want to “die like a pig” . . .’

‘That’s what he said?’

‘Those were his words, yes. He didn’t want to die like a pig and if he did he wanted justice . . .’

‘Revenge or justice?’

‘Revenge, he said revenge. And you might get it for him. It was I who wanted justice,’ she added.

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘Yes. He said you were an Etonian so you would understand. Do you know what he meant?’

‘Maybe. Look, will you come with me to Eton for the Fourth of June? Connie’s very keen on it.’

‘The Fourth of June? The Eton holiday, you mean. I remember Makepeace talking about it but he never went back – at least not with me.’

‘Yes. I think it’s important.’

‘Why?’

‘Trust me.’

‘Of course I trust you but . . . but won’t it be embarrassing? People would wonder why I was there.’

‘They would think it was because I invited you; simple as that.’

‘Not quite, Edward. You see, don’t think I’m being . . . silly, but I get the feeling Connie thinks you and I . . . well, you know. I don’t want to give her any false
hopes.’ She smiled at him.

‘Would she be so wrong . . . in her hopes, I mean?’

‘Edward, I . . . I think we ought to clear all this up first before we talk about anything else.’ She spoke seriously and obviously meant what she said but left her hand in his.
‘Anyway, what about Verity?’

‘What do you mean: “what about Verity?” ’Edward said crossly, removing his hand. ‘I wish people didn’t jump to conclusions all the time. I like Verity, I
respect her but we’re not . . . we’re not that way. She’s in love with an American novelist – a man called Belasco. But then, you know Belasco, don’t you? Wasn’t
he in Kenya when your husband died?’