Hollow Crown (20 page)

The faint West Country burr in the Inspector’s voice was rather more pronounced than usual and Edward guessed that, despite his cool exterior, the Inspector was under considerable
strain.

Verity had not been invited to hear the Inspector address the household and she had not been at breakfast – Scannon said she had ‘gone out walking’ – and Edward had to
assume he was still
persona non grata
. However, the Inspector’s announcement was so unexpected he decided he had to talk it over with her. Pickering said she was in the garden and he
found her examining the rhododendrons with exaggerated interest.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said as he came up to her.

‘Were you expecting someone else?’ he inquired. ‘Perhaps
anyone
else?’

‘Look, Edward, you made an utter fool of me last night and, I am tempted to think, deliberately.’

‘Verity, really! I just forgot to pass on the message. Anyway, you looked . . . spiffing.’

‘Spiffing!’ she sneered. ‘Do grow up. You’re not at your preparatory school now.’

‘You looked stunning,’ he amended. ‘Don’t you want to hear what Inspector Lampfrey said?’

‘I suppose he accused you of murder. It would be perfectly reasonable.’

‘No, he said she had died by accident. I ask you! The man’s been got at. That’s the only possible explanation.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Lampfrey knows Molly wasn’t in any mood to kill herself so he says it was an accidental overdose.’

‘It could have been, and we both know there’s not an atom of evidence to show she was murdered.’

Edward refused to be deflated. ‘I had a few words with him after his announcement and he more or less admitted he had had orders from the Chief Constable to give up the case.’

‘What did he say exactly?’

‘There was a lot going on and he was needed to investigate an attempted rape and the Chief Constable had told him he could not afford to let him spend more time on this.’

‘It may all be true.’

‘Yes, but I’m sure the Inspector knows he hasn’t got to the bottom of the case. No, Verity, he’s been shut up. Someone’s afraid the inquiry might throw something up
– bad publicity for the King. We’ve seen it all before. The powers-that-be don’t like anyone rocking the boat. The public must not see their rulers with their trousers
down.’

‘So there’s nothing much left to do? We can all go back to London? I must do some work on my book, in any case.’

Verity sounded cold, unsympathetic, and Edward wondered what, if anything, Dannie had said to her.

‘Yes, you go back and get on with your book,’ he said nastily. ‘I’m going to find out why Molly was killed. I know she was. She was pregnant, she had stolen incriminating
letters which could only make a delicate situation more delicate. Molly was a nuisance. Of course she was killed.’

‘You’re just going to make a fool of yourself. Talk to Joe. See what he says, though I can tell you what he will say: “Shut up and take your nose out of other people’s
business.” ’

‘Well,’ said Edward haughtily, ‘I’m disappointed in you. You do what you like. Molly was my friend . . . ’

‘She was your lover; Dannie was telling me – one of your other lovers.’

‘Molly was my friend,’ he repeated, ‘and I’m not going to be shut up.’

‘I thought you said you were hoping to get some sort of job with the Foreign Office. I can’t think you’ll improve your chances of employment by making a stink about
this.’

‘Verity! I’m ashamed of you. Have you no principles?’

‘Damn you!’ She turned on him fiercely and Edward, angry as he was, recoiled at her fury. ‘Don’t you dare say anything to me about principles. You’re a rat and I
never want to see you again.’

Verity stormed off towards the house and Edward strode in the other direction, furious with her, with the Inspector and, most of all, with himself. He walked off his irritation in half an hour
but when he got back to the house – as the gong was going for luncheon – his host informed him that Verity had asked Carstairs to take her to the station as she had remembered an
important engagement in London, ‘which she was anxious to miss’.

Edward looked at Scannon, for a moment not understanding.

‘I was joking. I suppose you two had a row?’

‘Not at all. By the way, Leo, now that we have the Inspector’s leave to depart I think I, too, ought to get back to town.’

‘As you wish,’ Scannon said airily. ‘Perhaps you can give Harbin a lift. He is also anxious to be in town tonight. I feel rather insulted. It seems none of you can wait to
leave Haling – I can’t think why.’

The Lagonda cut through the gathering dusk, the throb of its six-cylinder engine discouraging conversation. Savernake Forest encroached on the road and roe deer peered at them
from behind the trees, their eyes yellow in the headlights. Edward liked this sort of driving. The roads were almost empty and he sped through Newbury and reached Reading in record time. His
passenger was almost invisible under a heap of travelling rugs and a heavy ulster he had borrowed off his host. Edward had left Fenton at Haling to take the luggage on the train.

He glanced at Harbin and said conversationally, ‘Looks like rain. I think I’ll stop and put up the hood. No sense in getting soaked.’

Harbin grunted, which Edward took for assent. When they started again, Harbin suddenly said, ‘You’ll forgive me for speaking my mind, Lord Edward, but when I first met you last week,
I didn’t rate you.’

It was odd, Edward thought, how the man suddenly sounded more American than he had at Haling. Here, he thought, was the true Harbin, the self-made millionaire, tough as they come but veneered,
as it were, with the manners of an English gentleman. Physically desiccated he might be, but there was a toughness of spirit which made him formidable.

‘I have seen a little of your aristocracy,’ he went on, ‘and while there are men I admire, such as Lord Halifax whom I am proud to call a friend, for the most part the English
aristocrat does not impress me as a type. He appears to me, as an American, to presume on his position in society. In short, the English aristocrat seems to believe the system owes him a living.
It’s not the way it works in Baltimore. But I pride myself on being a judge of character and I’m not afraid to admit a mistake. I’m inclined to think I misjudged you. I think you
are a lot smarter than you look. Would I be right in thinking, for instance, that you smell a stinking fish in this business of Mrs Harkness’s death?’

Edward grinned to himself. He liked bluntness and he realized the American was paying him an honest compliment.

‘I do indeed, Mr Harbin,’ he said. ‘I can’t prove anything but I am pretty sure Molly was murdered and I believe Inspector Lampfrey thinks so too.’

‘So why has he said the investigation is closed? He struck me as an honest man.’

‘I agree, Lampfrey is honest – I’m sure of it – but I’m equally certain he has had instructions to drop the case.’

‘Instructions from whom?’

‘Well, that’s the question. It could be any number of people who don’t want to see anything in the press which might reflect badly on the King and Mrs Simpson.’

‘You’ve met Mrs Simpson, I believe, Lord Edward. Tell me frankly. What did you make of her?’

‘I liked her. She’s on the make but so are most of us. She’s certainly not the monster some people would have you believe. She’s intelligent, genuinely concerned for the
King’s welfare but – and who could blame her – she would enjoy being queen.’

‘And will she be?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine but I don’t think the people – the ordinary English – would stand for it. Did you see in
The Times
today the Bishop of Bradford
sounding off against divorce? He said remarrying after divorce is bigamy. Of course, he did not mention Mrs Simpson and most of the people reading his views will never have heard of her but if
– or rather when – they do, they will be shocked. The middle class here in England, Mr Harbin, is very “moral”. “Moral” may be a synonym for
“hypocritical” but they expect and demand that their betters set them a good example.’

‘Mmm. In Baltimore, too, I guess. The President, for many ordinary Americans, is above criticism. He personifies America so to talk ill of him is unpatriotic – and yet we know that
Warren Harding, for one, was more corrupt than the sachems of Tammany Hall. We all want our leaders to be above reproach but know them to be mortal men like ourselves. I guess that’s the way
you think of your king.’

‘Yes, Queen Victoria set us an example of probity and rectitude and our middle-class Englishman – and his wife – are Victorian. But you come from Mrs Simpson’s part of
the world – what do you think of her?’

‘My feelings for Mrs Simpson are ambiguous, Lord Edward. I know a great deal about her past life and it don’t make pretty reading but, on the other hand, she is, as you say, from my
home town and I would hate to see her humiliated.’

‘You said you don’t think much of our aristocracy, Mr Harbin. If I may say so, I think you ought to understand the effect the war had on my generation. Those of us who were too young
to fight – some of us at any rate – felt almost unmanned by the sacrifice our elders made for us. My eldest brother was one of the first officers to be killed in France in 1914. That
was over twenty years ago but I confess I am still wrestling with the idea of how I can live up to that example. And, what’s more, we feel – I feel – the sacrifice may have been
futile. They promised us that it was to be the war to end all wars but another even more beastly one looms. We’ve had economic depression – my friend Miss Browne is joining the march
from Jarrow protesting at the poverty and unemployment which has sucked the life out of the place – and the politicians are powerless, or too inept, to do anything about it. Can you wonder
that our young men feel their lives to be futile? I feel it myself – what can I do to serve my country? I’m still trying to find out. A friend of mine who was in the war and came out
physically unscathed said to me: “I have a coffin in the back of my head.” It may sound melodramatic but I know what he meant.’

The American was silent for a minute or two, hunched down in his seat. At last he said, ‘I stand rebuked, Lord Edward. I have seen this sense of futility you speak about in France and in
Germany and it is just what Herr Hitler has used to gain power. America came out of the war economically stronger. We had flexed our muscles and found them stronger than we thought but, more
significantly, we gained a new confidence in ourselves. Then came the Wall Street Crash and the Depression but we do not have a coffin at the back of our heads. Some of our confidence comes from
having a great man at the helm – I mean President Roosevelt whom I am proud to call my friend. He took us off the gold standard against the advice of all the economists and now they claim it
was their idea. He introduced fifteen major pieces of legislation in just three months and his New Deal has given hope to the unemployed and the dispossessed.’

Edward was impressed that a man as cool as Harbin could be inspired to such devotion. Clearly, Roosevelt was no ordinary man. ‘You like him as a man – the President?’

‘I most certainly do, Lord Edward. He is serene when all about him are reduced to inaction by anxiety. He’s a cripple but you forget about it when you’re in his presence.
He’s confident when there’s nothing to be confident about. Sure I like him. He smokes two packets of Camels a day in an ivory cigarette holder he waves in front of him like a
conductor’s baton; that I don’t like but hell, if it’s all there is to dislike about him, I ain’t complaining. He’s a new broom – and I mean almost literally. I
was in his office on the first day of his presidency. He opened a drawer in his desk and a huge cockroach jumped out. Turned out the whole place was infested. He had the White House cleaned right
through. No more cockroaches, no more crooks, no more corruption.’

‘But he doesn’t want anything to do with us on this side of the Atlantic?’

‘We feel – the President feels . . . and call it arrogance if you want to – that Europe is finished and that the new century will be ours. It may not be altogether healthy but
that’s the way it is with us and it’s why we are so determined to keep out of the next European war.’

‘But what about Hitler? Surely you can’t stand back and let him turn Europe into one of the prison camps we read about in the press.’

‘That ain’t nothing to do with us. He can do what he wants in his own back yard, I guess. If a skunk is loose in Europe, why should we be expected to clear up the mess? Or, to put it
another way, if you see a car wreck is inevitable you make damn sure you’re not in either automobile.’

Edward dropped his passenger at the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair and, when Harbin had struggled out of the car and the porter had taken his bags, he shook Edward warmly by the hand.
‘Let’s keep in touch, young man. Maybe I can help find you the work you say you are looking for. And if you felt like taking the investigation into Mrs Harkness’s death any
further – on an informal basis, of course – I will do what I can to help. I don’t like to see the truth muzzled. You might begin with our host. I don’t say for one moment
he’s a murderer – but he has got something to hide. When we went into Mrs Harkness’s bedroom and you went to see if she were ill, or dead as it turned out, I saw him pick
something up from the lady’s dressing table and slip it in his pocket.’

‘Did you see what it was?’ Edward asked sharply.

‘No, but it might have been an envelope – something white anyway. And there’s another thing: Leo was wearing a dressing gown but underneath he still had on the trousers and the
shoes he had been wearing at dinner.’

‘You mean he hadn’t been to bed?’

‘Maybe, maybe not, but it might be worth you asking him. Goodbye, Lord Edward. Thank you for the lift and for the instructive conversation. I look forward to meeting you again. Here is my
card. If I am not there, they will always know where you can get in touch with me.’

Edward lay fully clothed on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He had told Scannon he needed to be in London urgently but, now he was here, he couldn’t think what it was
he wanted to do. His heart was racing and there was sweat on his brow. He wondered if he was going to be ill but decided it was anxiety. He put it into words and felt better: ‘I’m
having a nervous attack.’ It was odd the way labelling something made it easier to cope with. So how was Molly’s death to be labelled? Accident, suicide or murder?