Bones of the Buried (47 page)

‘The Party welcomes the revolution. You think this is a fight for freedom, but it’s not. It is a manifestation of the class struggle. The revolution will be ruthless in its
class-based discrimination until the upper and middle classes cease to be a threat. Violence is the midwife to change.’

‘Is that why you had to get rid of Tilney?’ Edward broke in.

David, who was leaning against a packing case in what had been the Ministry of Defence, looked puzzled for a moment and Edward realised that Tilney’s death had been forgotten. It had been
merely a necessary act of cleansing.

‘Tilney? Surely you’re not still thinking about that? I thought you had decided Tom Sutton had done the deed.’ He smiled wolfishly.

‘I had, David, but I was wrong – as I have been wrong about most things.’

‘Yes, you are rather absurd, aren’t you? So easy to use. When I sent Verity over to get you, I never thought you would come. But there we are, “a gentil parfait
knight”.’

The contempt in his voice was palpable.

‘Did Verity know it was just a ruse?’

‘No, I thought she might not be convincing if she had to pretend to be concerned about me. Do you think I was right?’

‘David, you are the most utter bastard.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette on a metal filing cabinet, and Edward thought he probably didn’t. ‘Tilney was a typical product of
the corrupt British class system. He pretended he wanted the revolution but he had “reservations”, as he quaintly put it, about the Party’s methods. He didn’t understand why
it was necessary to bring down the Popular Front and incite a Fascist rebellion . . .’

‘You admit you wanted . . . this?’ Edward waved his hand towards the chaos outside.

‘Of course. Revolution is a necessary first step. Don’t you ever listen to what I say? Tilney didn’t understand either and he didn’t understand why the Party had no
qualms about buying arms from the Nazis. He was a fool and, what is more important, a danger to the Party. If he had started sounding off to the press . . . well, it couldn’t be allowed. I
had my orders from the highest quarters.’

‘Can’t you achieve your ends without . . . without murder and mayhem?’

‘My ends? What do I matter? It’s the Party. My wishes, my desires, my “conscience” are immaterial . . . of no importance in the scheme of things. Party workers are just
agents of change – inevitable change – history working through us.’

He punched his chest and his voice carried a messianic note of hysteria which turned Edward’s blood cold. Tired though he was, David lit another cigarette, smiled wryly at Edward and went
out into the streets once more. The ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’! Edward’s heart pounded. What was that but an invitation to people like David to indulge in licensed terror?
Capitalism might be all the socialists said of it – the landlords, the bankers, the politicians – he had no illusions, they were no doubt greedy and corrupt – but what did this
state terrorism promise but hatred and misery continuing from generation to generation? What was that proverb Rosalía had taught him?
Por la calle de luego, se va a la casa de ahora
.
By the street of
then
, the house of
now
is reached. It was at that moment he knew he must get out of Spain. He was proud to have taken up arms for the Republic but now the Republic he
had fought to preserve was gone for ever, regardless of who won the war.

‘Well, you go then, Edward,’ Verity said that evening. She was exhausted but there was a light in her eye which made her look more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She had been
transformed from an innocent, middle-class, English girl into a revolutionary – a soldier in the fight against Fascism. She could now look any Party member in the face and say with pride that
she had made her mark. David had refused to give her any official position: she had to remain nominally independent. Her job was to excite the conscience of the French, American and English
proletariat through her reports of the Republic’s struggle for survival. Already her stories filed for the
New Gazette
had been reprinted in the
Washington Post
, the
New York
Times
and in the Canadian newspapers owned by Lord Weaver.

She had another role too. There had been very few foreign journalists in Madrid when the rebellion had been proclaimed by the generals. Now, dozens were arriving from all over Europe but, for
the most part, they did not speak Spanish and had no idea how to report the conflict. David ordered Verity to make sure they had their stories – stories of course dictated by the Party,
telling the tale the Party wanted the world to hear: Fascist atrocities – and there was no shortage of them to report – but, more importantly, reports on the small band of almost
unarmed freedom fighters dying for the Republic – angels of light at war with the forces of darkness.

‘Don’t you feel used?’ Edward had dared to ask her.

‘Used?’ she spat the word back at him. ‘Can’t you understand? We are fighting for our life, for liberty, and we have to use every weapon at our disposal.’

He knew that men like David Griffiths-Jones did not understand the meaning of the word ‘liberty’ but it was more than his life was worth – perhaps literally – to say
so.

‘But V, should truth be twisted into a weapon? Can you touch pitch and not be defiled? You seem to have no compunction about replacing truth with propaganda.’ He was suddenly very
angry and, not for the first time, wondered if he really knew Verity Browne.

‘Look, Edward,’ she said, suddenly gentle. ‘Go back home, go back to England. You mean well, I understand that. Your heart’s in the right place; I admired the way you
volunteered to help us . . .’

‘ “Us”? What do you mean “us”? You’re not one of these people. You’re not Spanish, you’re not working class . . . And I certainly hope by
“us” you don’t mean the Party.’

‘You know I do.’

‘You are proud to identify yourself with those who kill without reason, without hesitation, like that SIM thug who interrogated me yesterday? Believe me, Verity, these are not the people
you think they are, and they are not fighting for freedom or liberty . . . they just want naked power.’

They looked at each other – full of anger and sadness – and there was nothing left to say. They were in the flat Verity shared with Hester. Verity was packing a small bag. She was to
go to Barcelona to report the struggle from there. At last she said, ‘Edward, don’t let’s quarrel. We have different ways of looking at things, that’s all. You go with
Hester in the car tonight. You’ll be in France tomorrow. Ben and I are going to Barcelona.’ She saw his look. ‘As comrades – nothing more.’

‘On David’s orders? When will I see you again?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Not for a year perhaps. Who knows.’

‘But I love . . .’

‘Shh!’ she said, putting a finger on his lips. ‘This isn’t the time for love. Surely you can see that? There are things I’ve got to do before . . . before I can
think of love.’

He took her hand in his and squeezed it and suddenly she was in his arms and he was kissing her. After a moment she pulled herself away. ‘Bourgeois self-indulgence,’ she said with an
effort at a joke. ‘For a class enemy you have your attractions,’ she said with an effort to smile. ‘Maybe you’re too nice for this world.’

‘Too nice! Oh God, what a damning thing to say. You mean too weak, or too stupid.’

‘No I don’t,’ she said, ‘and don’t fish for compliments. I have to go now. Please Edward, don’t make a scene. Let’s remember this as a good
parting.’

Edward pursed his lips. ‘Go then, Verity, but . . . but . . .’

He wanted to say that she was going at the behest of a murderer – a murderer whom at one moment she had been enthusiastically pursuing to bring to justice . . . but what would be the
point? She would not believe him – or worse, she would believe him and it wouldn’t make any difference. He couldn’t risk finding that out.

Verity blew him a kiss and opened the door of the flat. Without turning, she lifted her hand in a gesture of leave-taking. It was a wave of dismissal with which he was achingly familiar.

At that moment, Hester appeared as if on cue and, for a second, he wondered if Verity had asked her to come to ease their parting – to give him comfort of a sort.

‘You’re off, honey?’

‘Yep. Look after that booby there for me.’

‘I will.’

When the door had closed behind Verity, Hester, without apology or permission, took Edward in her arms and said, ‘Ben’s going too. I guess we can comfort ourselves the only way we
know how?’

They had dinner at Chicote’s that night. It was another leave-taking – this time of the city itself. For probably the last time, they sat at their usual table and
saw themselves reflected in the wall of mirrors. Despite the chaos in the city, Chicote’s remained very much as it had always been: a news exchange, a meeting place in which one could gossip
for hours over a beer or a small cup of black and bitter coffee. Perhaps if anything the gossip was more intense, more feverish. Rumour was elaborate, absurd, extravagant and all-pervading. This
atrocity had been carried out by General Mola, this by Franco’s Moorish troops – ‘little better than savages’, it was said again and again.

The only other people at their table were Maurice and one of his boys – a dark-faced youth Edward had not seen before. Agustín was no longer playing the piano but fighting
‘somewhere down south’ as Maurice put it. They had just ordered their food when, to Edward’s amazement, Tom Sutton arrived.

‘Surprised?’ he said to Edward, sitting down. ‘I don’t know why you should be. Did you think I would be “behind bars”? If so, you were optimistic. I went to
see Chief Inspector Pride. I had no trouble convincing him I was nowhere near Stephen Thayer when he was murdered. By the way, why does that man Pride dislike you so much? I tried to stick up for
you – I really did. Perhaps he felt you had led him up the garden path. I did tell you I had never even met Thayer but you wouldn’t believe me. In fact, I had what I believe is called
in detective novels “an unbreakable alibi”. I was with General Mola on the night Thayer died. He was good enough to offer me a bed . . . Not one of my favourite men I have to say but as
an alibi . . . well, as I say, “unbreakable”. You really should do your research, Edward, if you want to be a real detective.’ He smiled annoyingly.

‘Oh,’ said Edward, ‘I’m not a real detective. I just wanted to get justice for my friend and for his son. Absurd, I know. As it happens, though, I did know where you were
when Stephen died. I asked Basil if you were in London that night and he told me you were in Spain. I got him to check exactly where you were with the ambassador. Still, I thought the FO might not
like your loyalties being so obviously with the Communist Party.’

‘Oh, the old dears don’t want any publicity. No “show trials” for them. In any case, when it came down to it, there was no proof of anything. They knew I was a member of
the Communist Party, but that’s not a crime – at least not yet.’

‘But you’re not still working for. . .?’

‘No, no – amicable parting and all that. I’ve got other fish to fry. I’m recruiting a “foreign legion” – volunteers from all over the world to fight for
the Republic.’

Hester, who had been listening, said, ‘Why did you think Tom murdered Thayer? I thought everyone knew who . . .’

Edward looked at her and her voice died away. Maurice, who had been whispering to his boyfriend, now joined the conversation. ‘If we are all in the confessional mood, I suppose I had
better come clean – but why do I get the feeling you already know?’

Edward said slowly, ‘I did suspect Tom, but when I knew it couldn’t have been him, then of course it had to be you. You were the only one of our little party who was in London on the
night Thayer was murdered. You managed to leave your pen at the scene and one of these.’ He picked up a matchbox from the table. ‘But I haven’t really discovered why. Money, I
suppose?’

‘Yes, money. I have . . . I’ve not been fair with you. I know Thayer was your friend but . . . but he was a crook. Even so, it was all a mistake. I didn’t mean to kill him.
I’m not a
man
– not like David or Ben – I mean, what they call “a real man”. I don’t kill and yet . . . and yet I did.’ He looked momentarily
puzzled, as if he did not quite believe it himself. ‘It was my mother. She went quite senile and I had to put her in a home – a wretched place, near Godalming. But I had a bit of money.
I’d saved a few hundred pounds – though not from the pittance the British Council pay me. Or rather paid me – I’ve been sacked, did you know? The cheek of it! No, you
can’t make any money working for the British Council. I did a bit of smuggling. I was quite good at it.’

He sounded surprised and rather proud of himself. ‘I got together enough to pay Maggie’s school fees, which were – are – frightening, but I wanted to move my mother into
a better place. When I was back in England on leave two years ago, I looked for a way of investing the money so I could make enough to get Mother into a good home I had my eye on. Of course, I
couldn’t invest it in anything the income tax people might notice because they would wonder where the money came from. Anyway, banks don’t provide the income I needed unless you rob
them. Someone – I won’t say who – introduced me to Thayer. I knew it was all a bit dodgy. You may say it was all my own fault for being dishonest, but lots of people are dishonest
and get made peers of the realm or Prime Minister. Well, I gave the whole thing – my little nest egg, to him – to Thayer. Then, when I was in London a few months ago to see my mother
– they said she was dying – I found out it was all gone – the money – vanished – into thin air. I went wild.

‘Thayer tried to tell me it was all right. He said there was some big deal brewing. I didn’t believe him. As he was sitting in a leather chair in his beautiful Belgravia house
– a house I could never have afforded in my wildest dreams – giving me rhubarb about what a financial genius he was – smoking Havanas, talking about his Nazi banker friends
– I don’t know, I suddenly snapped. It was a madness, I know it now, but I’m still not sure I regret it. As he turned his back on me, I got up from my chair, picked up a
heavy-looking ornament and smashed him on the head. It wasn’t me who did it – not the real me. I’m not violent. I don’t do that sort of thing. I deserved to lose my money
because of the way I had got it and for then giving it to a man like Thayer. I didn’t know about the son – Charles – he’s at Eton, isn’t he? Of course, I’m sorry
for him but I expect his rich friends will look after him, won’t they? Somehow these people always seem to have rich friends.’