Bones of the Buried (7 page)

They took off into a gun-metal sky. Verity was awake now but, as Bragg had warned them, the de Havilland Dragon Rapide was too noisy to make conversation possible. At first they flew low over
green fields and Edward could see farm workers stare up at them in surprise. Aeroplanes were still objects of wonder when most people never travelled faster than a horse could gallop or went
further than their local market town in a lifetime. They gained height over the grey, cold Channel and once again Verity seemed to sleep but Edward was now wide-awake, his brain racing with
questions only time could answer. Always, he was aware of the irony: Verity was depending on him to save her lover from a death he probably richly deserved and whose presence in her life he
deplored.

They refuelled in Bordeaux and again, just before they crossed the border, at Saint Jean de Luz. The moment they flew into Spain the weather worsened. As they crept over the harsh terrain
– almost a desert – Verity began to feel excited and rather scared and wondered what she would do if she
had
to pee. Unlike Edward, she had not flown in an aeroplane before and
it satisfied her yearning for urgent action even if in the long run it was fruitless. It was bringing her back quickly to where she wanted most in the world to be but, though she would never admit
it to Edward or anyone else, she felt that flying was an unnatural way to travel. Perhaps if she learned to fly herself, she thought, she would feel differently.

Soon they were over the Sierra de la Demanda and the little aeroplane seemed to chug and shuffle over the snow-peaked mountain tops as if some immense magnet was drawing them earthward, to be
spiked like an unwanted document on one of the razor-sharp pinnacles of rock. At Burgos, they landed again and refuelled the ‘old gel’, as Bragg called his steed, for the last time. As
Edward and Verity stuffed themselves with sugary buns washed down by scalding black coffee, they exchanged small talk, somehow not wanting to consider the real business of their flight across
Europe. The final hop to Madrid’s splendid new Barajas airport was made in bright sunlight but to Edward’s disappointment it was still very cold. He had been longing to bask in Spanish
warmth but apparently Madrid in February could be as cold as England. As they circled the two steel-and-glass control buildings, Verity gripped Edward’s hand. Her courage had all but left her
during the long, exhausting flight. They were here at last but what could they hope to achieve? David was doomed and Edward had as much as told her so. But oddly enough, as Verity’s spirits
had sunk, Edward’s had risen. As they landed, they could see beyond a huge hangar the solitary figure of a tall woman, standing immobile beside a motor car. Only the long silk scarf round her
neck fluttering behind her in the wind gave any life to the picture.

‘Who’s that?’ he shouted to Verity over the roar of the engines.

‘That’s Hester, Hester Lengstrum. We share an apartment. She’s a Swedish baroness.’

This was the first Edward had heard of Hester Lengstrum but there was no time to ask further questions. They landed with a bump, rolling across the grass right up to the stationary automobile.
Harry helped them down. It was good to feel solid earth beneath their feet but they were both very stiff and Verity stumbled. She felt light-headed from spinning through the ether but she got out
her ‘thank you’ to Harry Bragg before turning to greet her friend.

As Edward said goodbye to Harry, he watched Verity’s friend out of the corner of his eye. She was a striking girl, about twenty-five he guessed, with long black hair flowing down her back
which she shrugged now and again almost as if she wanted to be sure it was still there. She was tall, tall as himself, and he was six foot. Verity had to stand on tiptoe to kiss her. It had often
amused him how much Verity hated being small; to her annoyance, she was just five foot three or, as he said, five-four when angry. Edward liked the way Hester held herself: straight as a guardsman,
as if she scorned trying to disguise her height by leaning forward, as he had seen many tall people do. She was cool responding to Verity’s puppy-ish embraces, a calm smile and a toss of her
hair saying as much as she wanted about her pleasure in having her back. He guessed she was naturally economical with her smiles and grinned inwardly. She might add interest to his investigations,
he thought.

‘I’ll wait to hear from you,’ said Harry, smeared with oil and grease. He had taken off his goggles which had left him with owlish white rings round his eyes. ‘I have to
go back to London as you know but I can be here or wherever else you command in twenty-four hours. The boss said you only had to telegraph him and he would rub his Aladdin’s lamp and, hey
presto, I would appear to do your bidding.’

It cheered Edward to know that the aviator would be able to pluck them out of danger if it became necessary. He was not in his element here. His Spanish was rudimentary, though he could speak
French fluently so supposed he ought, fairly quickly, to be able to learn enough Spanish to get by. He knew no one in Madrid and did not know how the authorities would react to a foreigner without
any official status trying to interfere with the course of justice – or rather he could guess: they would either ignore him, which was the most likely, or push him out of the country if he
was too annoying. And then there was the politics: he knew himself to be as innocent as a babe as far as Spanish politics were concerned and, if Tilney’s proved to be a political murder, as
he suspected it was, he might very well put Verity and himself in danger by some ignorant remark or false assumption.

Carrying their bags, Edward walked over to Hester Lengstrum who held out her hand to him. ‘So, I guess you must be Captain Marvel,’ she said out of the corner of
her mouth. Verity, Edward saw, was blushing prettily.

‘Don’t take any notice of Hester, Edward, she likes to shock. She wants to see if you mind.’

‘No offence, honey, but you have gone on so about
Lord
Edward,’ she emphasised the ‘Lord’ ironically, ‘it’s quite a relief to see he’s a human
being after all.’

‘And you’re American,’ said Edward, deliberately sounding disappointed. He dropped his bag and took Hester’s hand. ‘You were supposed to be a Swedish baroness.
I’d rather hoped for a Viking.’

‘Oh, I’m afraid I’m no Garbo. I was married to a Swedish baron, I guess I still am, and it’s certainly useful to be a baroness in Spain – even Republican Spain. But
I’m as American as stars and bars, Lord Edward, as I guess you can hear – from Denver, Colorado.’

‘How is he?’ Verity asked, impatient of badinage.

‘David? He’s OK, I guess, that is, considering his situation.’

‘Did he have any message for me?’

‘No. He seemed to think you were wasting your time though – bringing over Captain Marvel. I don’t know what you did to him,’ she said turning to Edward, ‘but he
doesn’t seem to rate you highly. I’ve gotten the impression he thinks you’ve got the hots for his girl.’

Verity blushed. ‘Oh, that’s nonsense, Hester. I can’t think what gave you that idea.’

‘OK, hon. But it’s not my idea, it’s David’s. Maybe it’s just he’s given up hope, but when I said you were bringing your friend to see him tomorrow morning,
he didn’t seem to be particularly interested.’

Verity looked vexed and Edward bit his lip. He doubted very much if there was anything he could do for David Griffiths-Jones in his terrible predicament and he feared it might look as though he
had come to Madrid to gloat. Whatever Verity might choose to believe, Edward had no illusions: he and David were oil and water. They had disliked each other at Cambridge and, when Verity had
brought them together last year, their mutual antipathy had hardened into settled enmity. David saw him, he knew, as a playboy, a drone, a member of a caste he was dedicated to destroying. Edward
saw him as the worst kind of bigot, and Verity complicated the whole thing.

Verity’s feelings for both men were confused, inchoate. Her instinctive affection for Edward and respect for what she recognised to be his innate decency went against all her political
beliefs. She had committed herself to communism as the only political creed a self-respecting libertarian could subscribe to and the only effective opposition to Fascism. David was, in her eyes,
the living example of this – Mr Valiant for Truth – though he sometimes frightened her with his seeming indifference to petty human emotions such as – well, such as love between a
man and a woman. She told herself this was only to be expected of a knight in pursuit of his holy grail and, in principle, she approved of not letting trivial emotions get in the way of the
important work they had to do, but in practice she knew herself to be someone who craved affection of which she had been starved as a child. Had she been silly in persuading Edward to come to
Spain? He had been so reluctant; perhaps rightly. He had told her plainly he wasn’t going to be able to help and she was beginning to think he was right. But then, she had only turned to him
as a last resort, when all other hopes had been dashed. Strangely enough it had been David himself who had suggested it.

‘You know, V,’ he had said, ‘the only man who could do me any good is your pet lord.’

“Edward, you mean?’ she said in surprise.

He held up his hands in surrender: ‘I was joking,’ he had said, but the idea lodged in her mind. She did not quite understand it herself but, despite Edward’s deplorable
flippancy, she believed there was a vein of seriousness beneath it all which was worthy of respect – a firmness of purpose, to put it at its lowest, which she could recognise in herself. And
he was intelligent: everyone admitted that and she had herself had evidence of it six months earlier when he had nosed out the truth behind General Craig’s murder. She just wished he
wouldn’t make those soupy eyes at her.

They strolled towards the white Hispano-Suiza standing haughtily at the edge of the airfield.

‘Don’t we have to show our passports to anyone?’ said Edward, bewildered by the ease with which they were entering a foreign country.

‘Sure, Ferdinando will take care of everything. That’s him over there.’ Hester pointed to a uniformed official who had appeared from behind a hangar and was bustling towards
them. ‘Ferdy’s a pal of mine.’

With much saluting on Ferdinando’s part, the formalities were quickly despatched and Hester threw herself into the driving seat of the Hispano-Suiza. ‘Get in, both of you. It’s
a bit of a squeeze but I don’t suppose you mind and anyway there’s nothing to be done about it.’

Edward, who had a passion for fast cars, stroked the green-painted bonnet lovingly.

‘Mmm, how on earth did you get hold of this? It’s an Alfonso, isn’t it? A bit of an antique but a real beauty.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hester in her heavy drawl, ‘I guess it is something special. The man who sold it me said, when the King abdicated, he left behind thirty Hispanos and this was one
of them.’

‘Is that why it’s called an Alfonso?’ asked Verity.

‘Yes, after the King,’ Edward said. ‘It was really the first sports car you could drive on the road.’

‘Well, for Christ’s sake, stop salivating and get in,’ Hester commanded them. ‘It’s after six and it will take us the best part of an hour to reach the city even
with me at the wheel.’

Edward’s assumption that Madrid would be warmer than London was naive. He had overlooked the fact that the city was two thousand feet above sea level on a vast, windswept plain. It was a
bitterly cold evening to be speeding across the campagna in an open car and Verity was glad she was so tightly squeezed between Edward and Hester. It might be a grand car in its parentage but it
was not designed for three and was such a tight fit Verity had almost to sit on Edward’s lap, but neither seemed to mind this much.

They started with a violent jerk and Hester swore. ‘Fucking clutch.’ It was the first time Edward had heard a woman use a sexual swear word and he was shocked but rather excited.
After all, he reminded himself, she was American. He had instinctively grabbed hold of Verity to stop her being thrown through the windscreen and now, instead of releasing her, he held her so
tightly she complained.

‘Edward, I can’t breathe!’ she laughed, and clung on to him as they bumped over some grass towards the airport gates. Clearly, the Alfonso’s suspension was not what it
had once been. In a few moments they were bouncing merrily across bare, rust-brown earth. The
mesa
or plain across which they journeyed was something of a dream landscape, red rough scrub
for the most part, and Edward thought fancifully that it was as if he had landed on Mars. The roar of the engine and the whistle of the wind, which seemed to sing through every crack and crevice of
the car, made conversation difficult. Verity, who had a cat’s ability to doze whenever she had an opportunity, fell into a half-sleep, comforted by Edward’s arm around her. He hoped the
drive would be a long one. He watched the landscape gradually change from barren countryside enlivened by clumps of straggly umbrella pines encircling little country houses to a richer, more
fertile country. Hester asked for a cigarette and with difficulty he managed to extract one without waking Verity.

‘Be a honey and light it for me, would you,’ Hester said and it was true the road was rough enough and the car’s steering awkward enough to make it desirable she keep both
hands on the wheel. With difficulty he dug out his lighter and then faced having to light the cigarette. In the end he had to put it in his own mouth before he could flick his lighter. When it was
glowing he stretched across the sleeping girl and put it between Hester’s lips. Nothing was said but an erotic charge – like an electric current – passed between them and he
immediately felt guilty of some small betrayal.

At last, they found themselves driving past substantial estates – red-tiled houses set in large uncultivated gardens which in turn gave way, on the outskirts of the city, to groups of
houses and then streets.

‘We’re on the Gran Vía and over there is the Plaza Mayor,’ said Hester, gesturing to the left. It was dark now and the car’s great gas headlamps probed the city,
illuminating the occasional tram. There were very few automobiles, whether because of the hour or because they were rich men’s toys Edward did not know. Verity and Hester shared an apartment
near the university and, instead of booking Edward into one of the smart hotels on the Gran Vía, they had found him a room in a small hotel, confusingly called The Palace, just around the
corner from them.